“A week, Lachlan?” She gave him a sympathetic smile. “Promise me you’ll think about it for a week?”
“Aye.” The word spilled into a big puddle on the floor.
Cilla leaned her arms on the table. “Even if you think of asolution at Scapa, we have a problem at this end. Fergus and his friends live here in Caithness. They’d need to travel to Orkney, but with their history in Free Caledonia, the government would never grant them passes—and even if they did, it would take months.”
“It’s impossible.” Lachlan returned to his chair, and his face relaxed. “They cannae travel to Orkney.”
“Figure it out.” Yardley jabbed a finger at them. “Both of you. MI5 orders. You have one week.”
Cilla met Lachlan’s gaze across the table, and she nodded. “We’ll do our best.”
A rebellious little flip of his chin, but Lachlan sighed. “Aye. We’ll do our best.”
34
Dunnet Head
Saturday, March 28, 1942
Lachlan climbed the spiral staircase in the lighthouse. Cilla was right. All he’d needed was a week to grapple with logistics and wrestle the impossible into the possible.
How had she managed to calm him down without discounting the legitimacy of his objections? She understood how he thought, how he worked. She teased him but respected him. What a remarkable woman.
Cloud-muted light shone through a window as he passed. Spring and summer would tear down the wall of stormy weather that had kept him away from Cilla. He dreaded seeing her more often, yet eagerness surged inside. His heart lay exposed and open, and she’d set up camp inside without realizing it.
In the lightroom, Yardley sat talking to Cilla, and Lachlan tamped down disappointment in not having time alone with her before the meeting.
Yardley stood and eyed Lachlan. “Do you have a plan?”
Lachlan didn’t mind going straight to business, but Cilla would, so he smiled at her. “Good morning.”
“Good morning.” Her smile seemed dimmer than usual, and it fluttered.
What was wrong? He frowned at her and took his seat.
“Do you?” Yardley said.
“Aye.” Lachlan set his portfolio on the table. “I think it’s a solid plan, but watch for holes.”
“I knew you would,” Cilla said in a soft voice.
“Thanks to you.” He pulled notes from his portfolio. “Last week you mentioned the blockships. It reminded me of a conversation I had with Commander Blake recently. When the Churchill Barriers are completed, what shall we do with the blockships? Have them salvaged? Blow them up? We decided they’re a low priority, since they dinnae impede navigation.”
Standing by the table, Yardley spread his hands wide as if waiting to receive the plan.
Lachlan ran a finger down the page. “If we can convince the Germans to send the type of explosives needed to sink a ship, similar to our limpet mines, I could tell Commander Blake my contact with the Director of Naval Intelligence obtained a new type of German explosive and wants me to test it on a blockship. I’d choose a blockship in Weddel Sound. It has the most complete barrier.”
Yardley closed his eyes, smiled, and murmured his approval.
“Given my experience with explosives and salvage work before the war,” Lachlan said, “it’s entirely plausible.”
A twitch stole Yardley’s smile, and he shook his head. “If you were to conduct such a test, Blake would inform the other commands at Scapa. The explosion would be expected, and no one would suspect sabotage.”
“Not if I, as an overeager lieutenant, fail to submit my plan. Blake will approve in principle—I’m certain he will—but he willnae have approved the final details, the timing. I’ll plant the explosives myself, and when the blockship blows up—”
“Yes.” A smile burst onto Yardley’s face. “They’ll want heads to roll.”
“I’ll take full responsibility and explain my eagerness, explain how no harm was done since the region is sparsely inhabited. Blake will discipline me.”
