“No, sir.” The coxswain laughed. “The boys would line the shores for a look-see.”
“Aye. I dinnae want anyone hurt.” He climbed the ladder into the motorboat.
In the sound, a wee rowboat drifted several hundred feet from the blockship. The fisherman wore a bright red cap—Lieutenant Dobbs, come to observe and protect.
It should have been Lachlan’s job, but he had a more important job tonight.
Protecting Cilla.
42
Dunnet Head
Friday, May 1, 1942
Cilla wiped the last of the dishes, her eyes on the clock, her ears partly tuned to the BBC’s “Books That Made History” program, and her stomach flopping.
She hadn’t eaten a bite of supper. Although she was at peace with her plan, if anything went awry, her family, her friends, and Double Cross would be in danger.
The BBC announcer described the next program, on the history of May Day.
Eight o’clock. It was time.
With a ratcheting breath, Cilla smoothed the skirt of her navy-blue shirtwaist dress and went into the sitting room, where Gwen and Imogene were knitting. “I’m going to have a rest in my room before our meeting at nine o’clock.”
Gwen raised the week’s issue ofRadio Times. “You’ll miss ‘It’s That Man Again.’”
Cilla would miss Gwen far more. Even Imogene. She gave them a casual smile. “Thank you, but not tonight.”
With great effort, she resisted the urge to give them a fondfarewell. She left the sitting room, closed the door, and went down the hallway to her room. After she slipped on her black hat, gloves, and overcoat, she grabbed her sewing basket and tiptoed down the hallway and out the door.
Outside, the burnished light of the just-set sun lay before her, darkening to deepest blue to the east. The last rays of sun she’d ever see.
A rush of grief, but Cilla clamped it off and crossed the courtyard to the lighthouse. As quietly as possible, she opened the door. She paused inside and listened, holding her breath. Mr. Hall was upstairs in the lightroom, and she mustn’t attract his attention.
Cilla pulled her seascape from the basket, spread it on the floor right inside the door, and set her letter on top.
“I’m so sorry, Lachlan,” she whispered. If any other way existed ... but none did.
Cilla slipped outside and hurried to the concrete hut, where her bicycle leaned out of sight against the far wall.
This afternoon, whilst taking a break to use the loo, she’d retrieved her suitcases from under her bed. On the far side of the hut, she’d set the fuse for the limpet mine, timed to detonate a half hour after the rendezvous and fifteen minutes after the blockship was set to blow up. She’d padded the mine with clothing and strapped the suitcase with the mine, as well as a suitcase with the rest of her clothing, to the back of her bicycle.
Cilla walked the bicycle to the road, then mounted and cycled away. With the blackout curtains drawn and the BBC on the wireless, the Wrens wouldn’t notice her departure.
She pedaled hard and fast. Commander Yardley planned to leave the RDF station at 2030 hours to pick up Lachlan at Brough and return for the meeting at 2100 hours. Cilla needed to hide behind the old storage shed on the beach at Brough long before either man arrived.
Tears tickled a sideways path across her cheeks, and her mouth crumpled.
For the good of her family, for the sake of the Double Cross program, and to protect Lachlan and Yardley and the Wrens, she had to abandon all she loved and return to the sea.
****
A full moon crested to the east, turning the lighthouse an eerie silvery green.
Lachlan drummed his fingers on his knees as Yardley’s staff car approached Dunnet Head. His holster weighed heavy around his waist.
He didn’t know what the night held—as if he ever did—but he’d do his best to protect Cilla, soothe her worries, and savor her company. Perhaps for the last time. In case of any danger, Yardley would whisk her away to safety. Away from Lachlan.
