“Especially to pretty girls.” The fatherly twinkle in his eyes faded. “But you must never drink yourself. You must keep your wits at all times. Tell me your cover story.”
For the last time, Cilla recited it. Never again. She had her own story and her own plan.
Kraus wiped his upper lip and pointed to Cilla’s gear on the bunk across from her. “Three cases—a suitcase with your clothes and personal items, a waterproof case with your radiotransmitter and receiver set, and a small waterproof case with your pistol. You have binoculars, and you have cash and your identity papers in your pocket, ja?”
“Ja.” Cilla patted the pocket of her black overcoat. “As soon as I land, I knife my raft and bury it. I find someplace to hide overnight. In the morning, I go to Thurso.”
“Very good. Yes, that’s the plan.”
That was Cilla’s plan too. But when she arrived in Thurso, she’d use the cash to buy a rail ticket. She’d given the Abwehr a false name and address for her aunt. When she disappeared from Hauptmann Kraus’s sight tonight, the other Abwehr agents would look for her in the wrong place.
Kraus’s forehead furrowed, and he wiped his upper lip again.
His concern for her was sweet, and she patted his forearm. “Please don’t worry. You’ve trained me well, and I’m a strong rower. I’ll be fine.”
His eyebrows bunched together. “After tonight, I’m sure you will be.”
What if tonight didn’t go well? What if she was lost at sea? Or captured whilst landing?
A shiver ran through her, but she shook it off.
On Easter Day, she’d celebrate with Tante Margriet and Uncle James in Buckinghamshire. In freedom.
****
Near Brough, Scotland
Lachlan buckled on his kilt in the Mackenzie tartan—deep blue and green with thin lines of white and red. Whilst serving in the Navy, he could wear a kilt only at home, so wear it he would.
Effie sat by his side, her pointed brown muzzle lifted to Lachlan.
He squatted, pressed his forehead to the collie’s, and threaded his fingers into her long white ruff. “Dinnae fash yourself. You’rethe only lass for me.” The double date with Arthur Goodwin had gone as expected. Arthur’s girlfriend, Irene Drever, had brought her effervescent friend, Annie, who had been taken by Lachlan—then bored by him within half an hour.
Effie bumped him with her nose as if reminding him of the time.
“Aye, lass.” Lachlan stood and slipped on his uniform jacket. Wearing the jacket with the kilt violated regulations, but regulations didn’t apply when home alone with family. And Lachlan took as much pride in his uniform as his tartan.
He knotted his necktie. The past week shepherding Hugh Collingwood had gone far better than the double date. Hugh seemed thrilled with the stories he’d recorded, including one from a merchant ship in a coastal convoy, which had been attacked by a Luftwaffe Fw 200. Thank goodness the naval armed guard had scared off the bomber.
When Lieutenant Commander Blake reviewed the recording discs, he’d praised Hugh. No censorship had been needed, and Scapa Flow shone. Fair praise for the BBC correspondent, well earned.
However, Blake hadn’t even glanced Lachlan’s way to acknowledge his role in illuminating the guidelines and in steering the reporter from forbidden topics and toward stories that showed the base at its best.
Lachlan was on probation. He always would be.
But this weekend he was home at Creag na Mara with his parents and Effie, and he’d celebrate Easter at Dunnet Parish Church and enjoy roast lamb and tatties.
“Come along, Effie.” Lachlan opened his bedroom door and followed his dog down the stairs.
The Mackenzies weren’t lairds but had earned their money. Father had bought the bonny estate when Lachlan was five years old.
Sounds arose from downstairs. Two sailors from the RDFstation at Dunnet Head were billeted at Creag na Mara, but Mother said they were on duty tonight. Had she been mistaken?
Inside the drawing room, a sandy-haired man in full kilt regalia stood pouring himself a whiskey.
Lachlan’s step halted. His heart. “Neil.”
His younger brother turned, scanned Lachlan from head to toe, and his upper lip curled in disgust.
