About a quarter mile to the south, a dark form rose from the sea—the conning tower of a U-boat.
Cilla raced toward it, waving as if she were a true spy.
Water sluiced off the gray hull, and two men emerged from the top hatch, including Hauptmann Kraus.
Cilla pulled as close as she could to the lower platform of the conning tower, and she turned off the engine. She grinned up at her handler and switched to German. “It is good to see you, Herr Hauptmann. It has been too long.”
“You came.” His voice chilled.
“Why would I not come?”
“Some in the Abwehr say you’ve turned.”
Cilla let out an indignant huff. “What did Jericho tell you before the English captured him? He’s a stupid man and can’t be trusted.”
Kraus let out a noncommittal mutter.
If the mine exploded before Cilla boarded, the U-boat would only be damaged—and they might broadcast her family’s death warrant to Hamburg. She had to get on board.
Cilla worked up her most charming smile. “Come now, Herr Hauptmann. If I’d turned, why in the world would I return to Germany and risk interrogation?”
“True.” Kraus nodded to the naval officer by his side. The two men climbed down a ladder to the lower platform of the conning tower, and the naval officer tossed her a rope.
Cilla tied the rope to a cleat on the deck, and the officer tugged the boat closer to the U-boat. If only someone would findMar na Creagadrift tomorrow and bring her back to Mr. and Mrs. Mackenzie. They didn’t deserve to lose their lovely boat because of her.
The railing around the conning tower rose a bit higher than the motorboat’s deck, and Kraus reached over. “Give me your luggage.”
Cilla hesitated, but if she dropped the limpet mine in the ocean when boarding, all was lost. She hefted the first suitcase to him.
“It is heavy,” he said.
“My wireless set and my pistol.” She gave him a breezy smile. “I couldn’t leave those behind, could I?”
“Smart girl.”
Cilla handed her other suitcase to Kraus, a superfluous piece of luggage, but if she truly planned to return to Germany, she would have brought it.
Trying not to look at the dark water slapping the two vessels, Cilla leaned over and grasped the top railing and stretched one foot toward the deck. Her foot landed, she kicked off from the motorboat’s deck, and the men manhandled her up over the railing.
With her feet soundly on the deck, Cilla straightened her coat, picked up her suitcases, and beamed at the man she’d never wanted to see again, no matter how kind she’d once thought him. “Let me get my luggage out of the way before tonight’s show—and the English would say it’ll be a jolly good show. Do I have the same cot as before, in the aft torpedo room?”
“Ja.” Kraus led her up to the top platform of the conning tower and to the hatch.
She could only carry one suitcase at a time down the vertical ladder, an awkward and immodest process, so she made quick work of it. Then she returned for the second suitcase.
She emerged in the U-boat’s control room, rank with the odor of diesel oil and unwashed bodies and packed with equipment and gauges and men. Bearded sailors grinned at her.
Cilla ducked her head as if shy, as if signaling she wasn’t available for flirtation.
In reality, she couldn’t bear to see their faces.
Her actions tonight might condemn them to death, injury, or capture by the British. If only they could all survive and be rescued.
What ifshesurvived the explosion?
Her breath caught. Better to die tonight than face Yardley and the MI5 officers who had put their faith in her—and who would have her executed.
“Excuse me.” Cilla squeezed past two smiling sailors andthrough a round hatch into the diesel engine room, loud and smelly.
