Page 9 of Midnight on the Scottish Shore

9

Camp 020 Friday, May 23, 1941

“Dearest August,” Cilla wrote in secret ink between the lines of the letter she’d written in regular ink to her “cousin” in Lisbon.

On the desk in the cozy sitting room in the manor at Camp 020, she checked the copy of the letter she was to transcribe and the enciphered version directly beneath it. With her MI5 case officer, Commander Ernest Yardley, watching every stroke of her pen, she couldn’t make a single error.

Cilla reviewed the next sentence—“I apologize for the long delay since my first letter, but you’ll soon agree it’s for an excellent reason.” She transcribed the enciphered version, including her security key.

After she wiped the brass nib of her pen, she dipped it in the pot of ink. This letter would be mailed to a cover address in Lisbon in neutral Portugal, where an Abwehr agent would retrieve it and send it to Hamburg. As Hauptmann Kraus had trained her, she could speak openly and at length in her secret- ink letters, whilst her wireless transmissions would be short and concise.

Cilla set her pen to paper, with the required light touch. “I found a job as a barmaid, but my lodging was unsuitable for transmitting, which is why you haven’t heard from me.”

Actually, she couldn’t transmit by wireless until she returned to Scotland. The Abwehr could detect the direction of transmissions and might realize she was in London.

“Despite our hopes,” she wrote, “I learned nothing from the pub customers to answer the many questions you sent with me. However, I learned something smashing—they need another keeper at a lighthouse not far from where I landed. In fact, it’s close to the military post you warned me about.”

Cilla studied her notes. “You know how easily I make friends, dear August, and even though they’re loathe to hire women, they hired me as an apprentice due to the war emergency. I’m afraid I embellished my cover story and invented a lightkeeper grandfather, but I know you won’t mind. From that location, I’ll be able to answer all your questions and to transmit freely. Isn’t that wonderful? You’ll have an endless flow of information. I’ll send my address soon so you can reply.”

She signed her name and sat back in her chair. “I’m finished.”

Yardley picked up her letter and inspected it. A man of medium height and build with wavy brown hair tipped silver over the temples, the MI5 officer wore a naval officer’s uniform and an air of authority. “Very good, Cilla.”

“Thank you.” She capped the bottle of secret ink to preserve it, since the Abwehr had sent a limited supply of crystals to make the fluid.

Yardley inserted the letter into the envelope Cilla had addressed. “I’ll post it tomorrow.”

“Good. A month has passed since my first letter.”

The officer took a seat in an upholstered armchair. “Yours is a complicated case, which has taken time to coordinate.”

Although Cilla spent her nights in her cell, during the day she wore her own clothes and worked in the pretty little sitting room where she felt less like a prisoner.

But a prisoner she was. And back in Hamburg, Kraus waited for news from her.

She gave Yardley an apologetic smile. “You do understand my concern for my family.”

“I do.” Yardley tapped the envelope on a marble-topped chess table. “The Abwehr understands its agents will have a slow start. It’s perfectly normal. Your family is in no danger.”

He’d never lived under Nazi rule, but she let a smile flicker in reply. As long as Kraus didn’t suspect she’d become a double agent, her family would indeed be safe.

“Tell me your cover story,” Yardley said.

Again? But she restrained a groan. Rehearsing would help her keep details straight if caught off guard, especially since she’d learned several competing cover stories. “My name is Cilla van der Zee.”

“Very good.” One corner of Yardley’s mouth raised. Quite sardonic.

Just as the Abwehr had decided not to issue her a fake identity, MI5 made the same decision for the same reason—Cilla had too many friends in Britain. If she saw one whilst using a fake name, her cover would be blown.

“I’m a Dutch refugee,” Cilla said. “I escaped to England by fishing boat in April. Since my aunt married an Englishman, I’ve visited England often and I was educated here. But my aunt and I are no longer close.”

The best cover stories resembled the truth as closely as possible, but Yardley had insisted on a fictional estrangement from Tante Margriet to explain why Cilla never visited her beloved aunt.

The door opened, and Thomas A. Robertson entered—the friendly face from when Cilla had faced “the board.” He served as director of MI5’s Double Cross program and oversaw the double agents and their case officers.

“Good afternoon, Tar,” Yardley said. “Cilla’s making progress. I’ll post her next letter in the morning.”

“Excellent.” Tar took an armchair beside Cilla’s case officer and crossed legs clad in his signature tartan trousers. “Good show, Cilla.”

“Thank you.” At least this tartan-wearing man liked her a great deal more than the last one she’d met.

“Another piece of this case is falling into place,” Tar said to Yardley. “I’ll tell you later. But it’s shaping up well.”

“I agree.” Yardley tugged down the sleeve of his navy-blue uniform jacket. “She’ll be well situated to report ship movements around Scapa Flow and—”

“Scapa Flow?” Cilla said. “The naval base? I wouldn’t transmit actual ship movements, would I?”

“You would.” Yardley leveled a hard gaze at her. “That’s what Kraus asked for.”

This couldn’t be happening, and she gave her head a series of tiny shakes and bolted to her feet. “I refuse. I will not send military secrets, endanger—”

“You will send what we tell you to send.”

“Now, Cilla.” Tar raised one hand in a soothing gesture. “Every bit of information you send will have been approved by representatives from all three services.”

“Why? Why would they approve such things?” Cilla ran her palms down the skirt of her emerald-green suit.

“Everything you send by wireless will be what we call ‘chicken feed’—trivial or harmless information. Anything more dangerous will be sent by post, timed to arrive too late for the Germans to respond.”

Yardley tapped her letter on the marble. “At this stage, everything you say must be true, and the Germans must be able to verify it’s true.”

“Verify? How can they—”

“Reconnaissance aircraft.” Tar pointed to the ceiling. “U-boats, surface vessels. They may even have agents on the ground.”

“They do.” Cilla’s fingers splayed wide. “I gave you their names.”

Tar’s mouth buckled on one side, almost a smirk. “You did.”

“Don’t you see?” Yardley held up her letter. “If you lie to Kraus and an aerial photograph proves you lied, he’ll know you’ve turned.”

“Oh.” She clenched her hands before her waist. “But I don’t understand. How does it benefit England if I send Germany such information?”

“Double Cross is a game, Cilla.” Tar traced his finger over the alternating black and white marble squares on the chess table. “It’s the grandest of games. If we send Kraus what he wants, he’ll trust you as an agent.”

“He already trusts me.”

Tar’s smile dipped into condescension. “That’s what he wants you to think, but I guarantee he doesn’t.”

Cilla crossed the room to a tall window overlooking the garden. With her back turned, the men couldn’t see her smile. They hadn’t seen Kraus’s fatherly care for her. He’d believed every word she said.

“In this stage of the game, we’re merely setting up the board,” Tar said. “What Kraus doesn’t know is we’re spying on him.”

“On Kraus?” Cilla spun back to face the MI5 officers.

Tar tapped the chessboard. “Our double agents tell us about the Abwehr and how it functions, and the questions your handlers send to you reveal a great deal about German plans.”

In a bookcase to Cilla’s right, books graced the shelves, their covers closed, concealing the stories inside. “We send the information they want, so they send more questions.”

“I’ll say this.” Yardley’s voice rumbled. “She isn’t as stupid as most of the agents the Germans send.”

Cilla had seen for herself the poor quality of Abwehr recruitment and training, but she let sarcasm shimmer in her voice. “Why, thank you, Commander.”

He lifted one eyebrow in acknowledgment, then shot a glance to Tar. “Her concern for English sailors is touching, yes?”

“My concern is genuine.” She tamped down her frustration. How many times had Moeder said lies destroy trust? Over the past few months, Cilla had told great heaping piles of lies. All for a good cause, but how could the MI5 officers know that? How could they sift her truths from her lies?

Cilla drew a steadying breath. “I understand it will take time for you to trust me.”

Yardley chuckled. “I will never trust you, but if you behave yourself, I can use you. If you’re truly on the Allied side, that alone should satisfy you. If not, remember you’re still alive.”

Her hand leapt to her throat, and she dragged it down.

Yardley fingered his own collar. “Remember that if you’re ever tempted to misbehave.”

“I won’t, sir.” She’d been informed that if MI5 even suspected a triple cross, she’d land back in prison—or on the gallows.

Someone rapped on the door.

“Our Wrens.” Tar stood. “Come on through, ladies.”

Two Wrens, members of the Women’s Royal Naval Service, entered the room in their dark blue uniforms.

One stood tall and slim, pretty and dark-haired, with a lively expression. The second was shorter and softer, with a more padded figure and wavy light brown hair.

“Ladies, may I introduce Cilla van der Zee? Cilla, this is Third Officer Imogene St. Clair.” Tar gestured to the taller lady, then the shorter. “And Third Officer Gwen Reese.”

Cilla liked them both instantly, and she dashed forward with a big smile and an extended hand. “What a pleasure to—”

Gwen startled and shrank behind her comrade.

“Let’s make things clear,” Imogene said in a crisp, boarding- school accent, and she lifted her pretty chin high. “We are not your friends, Miss van der Zee. You are a Nazi spy. Our duty is to guard you and ensure that you follow orders. Need I remind you, we will both be armed.”

Cilla’s hand and her smile drifted down. All her life she’d made friends with ease, but she seemed to have left that skill back in Amsterdam. Yet in these circumstances, how could she blame the women? Friendship required trust.

She lifted a sad smile. “I understand, Officer. But if you expect me to treat you with anything but kindness and respect, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

“Please have a seat, ladies.” Tar gestured to armchairs circling the room. “You’ve been briefed on Cilla’s case, but we wanted to review the details before we travel north.”

Imogene and Gwen took seats, and Cilla returned to the writing desk.

Sitting in his armchair, Yardley shuffled papers in a portfolio. “Say, Tar, in this report, the officer who captured Cilla refers to her as a selkie. You’re Scottish, do you—”

“How appropriate.” Tar chuckled and crossed those tartan-clad legs. “The selkie lives at sea, appearing as a seal. When she comes ashore, she sheds her sealskin, revealing a beautiful young woman. Men who chance on her can’t help but fall in love, but the selkie loves only the sea. To trap the selkie on land, the man must hide her sealskin. But if she should ever find it, she’ll abandon that unlucky man and flit away to sea.”

Cilla could still see the fierce Scotsman calling her a selkie, calling her deflated raft a sealskin. Now she understood, and she wrapped her arms around her stomach.

“That is rather appropriate.” Yardley gave Cilla a tight-lipped smile. “We’ve stolen your sealskin. But we know—we know —that if we gave you the slightest chance, you would betray us and flit away to the sea, to your Nazi handlers.”

“I—I wouldn’t.” Cilla’s voice came out hazy.

“Yes, Miss van der Zee,” Imogene said with an oily smile. “If you expect us to treat you as anything but a traitorous selkie, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”

Never once had the proper retort evaded Cilla—but even that skill had disappeared, and she lowered her gaze.

“Say, Yardley.” Tar grinned at his colleague. “You haven’t chosen her code name.”

Now Yardley grinned, a sight Cilla had never seen. “Code name Selkie it is.”

Cilla’s heart floated adrift. Even the name implied a lack of trust.