“Scapa Flow seems to be quite well defended.”
“Thank you. We do our best, but we can always do more.”
Mr. Collingwood buttoned his coat collar to the neck. “We certainly don’t need to worry about spies infiltrating the base. Even with our BBC credentials, Rob and I need chaperones.”
“Aye.” The Orkneys were restricted to locals and to men in the Forces. To receive a permit, civilians needed to fill out piles of paperwork, provide a compelling reason to visit, and undergo a rigorous screening from the War Office. Spies would never reach the Orkneys on the ferry. But what if a spy landed by parachute or a small vessel?
Mr. Collingwood’s breath whirled white before him. “I’m aware of how the British public perceives Scapa Flow. One of the purposes for my broadcasts this week is to rebuild trust, assure the nation of the security of the Home Fleet.”
“TheRoyal Oak, aye. A great tragedy. The Royal Navy has a black mark on its record.”
“I’m afraid so.” Mr. Collingwood’s tone dipped low.
Lachlan’s heart dipped even lower. “In my experience, black marks aren’t made with charcoal but with indelible ink.”
A silence grew, heavy and thick, and Mr. Collingwood sighed. “In my experience too.”
Only serious Lachlan Mackenzie could drag the ebullient Hugh Collingwood into melancholy.
“Well then.” Mr. Collingwood’s voice brightened, and henudged Lachlan with his elbow. “Shall I toss a little bleach on that mark this week?”
“Aye, that would be grand.”
If only it worked for Lachlan’s life as well. No matter what good he did, his black marks remained.
5
West of Scotland
Friday, April 11, 1941
Today was truly Good Friday, because today Cilla would be free.
She sat on a bunk in the aft torpedo room of the German U-boat, and she drummed her fingers on the frame. When she’d boarded the submarine in Hamburg, some of the crew had leered at her, but not for long. Throughout the journey, Hauptmann Kraus had watched over her like a kindly uncle.
Traveling under the sea had been quite the adventure, but an uneventful one. Only after the U-boat landed Cilla in the United Kingdom would they start hunting Allied ships. If only she could prevent that.
She had her own priority—freedom. If nothing else, freedom from the stink of diesel fuel and unwashed men. Freedom from the cramped quarters and the unnerving sensations of being underwater, hunted by British ships and aircraft, and sleeping with an unarmed torpedo only inches from her face.
Kraus stepped through the round hatch into the torpedo room. He smiled at Cilla, but his smile twitched. “We’vereached the coordinates. We’re waiting for full dark to surface. Are you ready?”
“Very much so, Herr Hauptmann.” More than he’d ever know.
He sat beside her and opened a map she knew well. “I want to review our plan one last time.”
Anything to reassure him. She tapped the map of Scotland. “I’m landing here at this pretty little beach.” A perfect place to escape.
“Yes. You’ll have a full moon, which will rise before the sun sets. It’s cloudy, but visibility is good. The winds are higher than we’d like, but the sea is slight. Conditions are expected to worsen in the next few days, so you must land tonight.”
“Good.” She smiled at her handler. “I can’t wait to start my work.”
He pursed his lips. “First, you must land safely. The winds should help push you to shore. Remember to aim for this beach. Do not go to the north around this knob of land.”
“Dunnet Head.” Cilla tapped the feature on the map. “You said a military post is there. I’ll avoid it.”
“Yes.” Kraus ran a stumpy finger along the waters to the north of Dunnet Head. “Pentland Firth is famous for its dangerous waters. You must land at Dunnet Beach. It’s close to the town of Thurso, where you’ll find a job as a barmaid.”
Cilla raised a conspiratorial smile. “Because drunken men talk.”
