The train pulled up to the platform, and black smoke billowed toward the clouds. Cilla scanned the windows as if looking for a loved one, and she clutched her book high on her chest.
Jericho wouldn’t be on the train, but he might be lingering nearby and hoping to blend in with the bustle of passengers.
How many trains had she met today?
All day she’d waited. In vain.
Doors opened, and dozens stepped out onto the platform, mainly sailors in blue carrying kit bags, bound for Scapa Flow, yawning and grumbling and grinning and jostling.
Cilla stepped back to let them pass.
A sailor brushed past her, apologized, looked her in the eye, grinned, and issued a longer apology.
She smiled and glanced away as if searching for a family member among the passengers.
Jericho was to approach her with a scarlet ribbon tied to the handle of his suitcase, and he was to ask if she knew when thenext train left for Aberdeen. Cilla was to reply that she didn’t know the schedule, but did he have a light?
Pulling a cigarette from her pocket would signal the MI5 officer. He would identify himself as an off-duty policeman, state he’d noticed their foreign accents, and ask to see their papers.
Cilla’s would pass muster, but Jericho’s wouldn’t. He would be arrested.
Unless he ran. Or pulled his pistol.
Cilla shuddered and stepped aside to allow an elderly couple to pass. If Jericho hadn’t been killed or gravely injured upon landing—or swept out to sea—he was out there somewhere, armed and able to communicate with Germany.
The platform emptied.
What if Jericho had already come—and left without contacting her? What if something had made him suspect her? Certainly the Abwehr would have given him orders to assassinate her.
Her hands shook, and her ribbon bookmark wavered.
The MI5 officer followed the passengers through the door to the ticketing area in his usual pattern of movement.
If only Lachlan were there in the officer’s place. Not only would he fight for her, but he’d calm her down as he always did when she was upset.
A tiny sad smile rose. Just as she calmed him down when he was upset.
But Lachlan wasn’t there, and the station felt alarmingly large and open, and she felt alarmingly small and alone and conspicuous.
The minister’s Scottish brogue murmured in her mind.“Jesus is your truest friend.”
On the previous Good Friday, Cilla had rowed her rubber boat on the large and open sea, feeling small and alone for the first time she could remember. She’d rejected the impulse to pray.
Now Good Friday had arrived again. Standing in the railwaystation, Cilla closed her eyes.Jesus, I need a friend. I need ... you.
Her eyes opened slowly. She was no less small or conspicuous or vulnerable. But she wasn’t alone. She never had been. She simply hadn’t acknowledged it.
Air filled her lungs, and she glanced at her wristwatch—five thirty. Time to leave so she could send her scheduled wireless message to Hauptmann Kraus at seven.
Cilla passed through the ticketing area, without a glance at the MI5 officer. Keeping her ribbon bookmark fluttering in front of her, she strolled up Princes Street as blackbirds scolded her from their nests high in the trees above.
Eyeing every man along the way, Cilla passed the Pentland Hotel and St. Peter’s and St. Andrew’s Church and the colorful gardens in Sir John’s Square.
Commander Yardley’s staff car was parked on the far side of the Claymore and Heath. Cilla would have to skip her usual Friday evening with the men of Free Caledonia. She climbed into the car, and Yardley drove away.
Cilla laid her book in her lap. “No sign of Jericho.”
Yardley muttered a curse. “I’ve rung all the hospitals and police stations and morgues in the area. No one has seen anyone who might be our man.”
