“The next morning, I had a wire on my desk from Rear-Adm. John Godfrey himself.”
The Director of Naval Intelligence?
Blake lifted his narrow nose. “The admiral informed me you had acted under his direct orders, and you had been expressly ordered not to inform your superior officers for security reasons.”
“Aye, sir.” Lachlan had indeed been ordered not to inform Blake.
The commander’s mouth tightened. “I don’t appreciate having an officer under my command under the command of another officer as well.”
“Aye, sir. I dinnae appreciate serving under two commanding officers either.”
Blake’s mouth relaxed again. “The DNI was pleased with your work, and the Admiralty issued a statement that the explosion was caused by a test of explosives on a blockship far removed from population and navigation. The press was satisfied, so no harm done.”
Lachlan’s vision and thoughts swam. MI5 had wanted rumors of sabotage in the newspapers, but if the Germans had received a direct report of sabotage, such rumors were no longer necessary—especially with Cilla presumed dead.
A small smile twitched on Blake’s lips. “Although I imagined many various forms of punishment for you that evening, none will be coming. You followed orders and performed your duty. And no good would come of disciplining an officer being commended for heroism.”
Lachlan’s jaw dangled. No fury? No demotion? Not even a pithy reprimand?
Blake’s smile turned rueful. “I must admit, if the Admiralty should transfer you, this command shall miss you. You’ve been a credit to the Orkneys and Shetlands Command.”
“Thank you, sir.” His voice came out husky.
“I beg your pardon, sirs.” A sick berth attendant stood at the foot of Lachlan’s bed. “Lieutenant Mackenzie is needed in the X-ray room.”
“Very good.” Blake stood, shook Lachlan’s hand, and departed.
The sick berth attendant transferred Lachlan to a wheelchair and raised the footrest to elevate his knee, a painful process, and Lachlan gritted his teeth against a rush of dizziness.
As the sick berth attendant wheeled him out of the ward and down the hallway of the wood-framed hospital building, Lachlan inhaled and exhaled deeply and slowly, blowing off the worst of the pain.
The sick berth attendant pushed Lachlan’s wheelchair into the X-ray room.
Commander Yardley stood inside in his naval uniform.
“Commander!” Lachlan sat taller, bubbling with questions.
Yardley put a finger to his lips, then nodded to the sick berth attendant. “Thank you. Please shut the door behind you.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
After the door shut, Yardley pulled a chair close to the wheelchair. “Speak low.”
“How’s Cilla? Is she all right?”
“She had minor wounds, which have been treated. She has been moved somewhere safe—not a prison—and is receiving a new identity.”
Lachlan’s eyes drifted shut. Thank goodness. She was alive, safe—and free.
“Closing her case was necessary,” Yardley murmured. “We intercepted and decoded the U-boat’s message to Hamburg.They reported taking their agent on board and observing the explosion, which they credited to Cilla as sabotage.”
“The Abwehr believes she was a loyal spy—and that she’s dead.”
“Yes. Her family is in no danger, and the Double Cross program remains secret.” One corner of Yardley’s mouth puckered. “And your work at Dunnet Head has come to an end.”
Lachlan gave him a wry smile. “Just when I was beginning to enjoy counterespionage.”
“You have a knack.”
