He’d never lived under Nazi rule, but she let a smile flicker in reply. As long as Kraus didn’t suspect she’d become a double agent, her family would indeed be safe.
“Tell me your cover story,” Yardley said.
Again? But she restrained a groan. Rehearsing would help her keep details straight if caught off guard, especially since she’d learned several competing cover stories. “My name is Cilla van der Zee.”
“Very good.” One corner of Yardley’s mouth raised. Quite sardonic.
Just as the Abwehr had decided not to issue her a fake identity, MI5 made the same decision for the same reason—Cilla had too many friends in Britain. If she saw one whilst using a fake name, her cover would be blown.
“I’m a Dutch refugee,” Cilla said. “I escaped to England by fishing boat in April. Since my aunt married an Englishman, I’ve visited England often and I was educated here. But my aunt and I are no longer close.”
The best cover stories resembled the truth as closely as possible, but Yardley had insisted on a fictional estrangement from Tante Margriet to explain why Cilla never visited her beloved aunt.
The door opened, and Thomas A. Robertson entered—the friendly face from when Cilla had faced “the board.” He servedas director of MI5’s Double Cross program and oversaw the double agents and their case officers.
“Good afternoon, Tar,” Yardley said. “Cilla’s making progress. I’ll post her next letter in the morning.”
“Excellent.” Tar took an armchair beside Cilla’s case officer and crossed legs clad in his signature tartan trousers. “Good show, Cilla.”
“Thank you.” At least this tartan-wearing man liked her a great deal more than the last one she’d met.
“Another piece of this case is falling into place,” Tar said to Yardley. “I’ll tell you later. But it’s shaping up well.”
“I agree.” Yardley tugged down the sleeve of his navy-blue uniform jacket. “She’ll be well situated to report ship movements around Scapa Flow and—”
“Scapa Flow?” Cilla said. “The naval base? I wouldn’t transmit actual ship movements, would I?”
“You would.” Yardley leveled a hard gaze at her. “That’s what Kraus asked for.”
This couldn’t be happening, and she gave her head a series of tiny shakes and bolted to her feet. “I refuse. I will not send military secrets, endanger—”
“You will send what we tell you to send.”
“Now, Cilla.” Tar raised one hand in a soothing gesture. “Every bit of information you send will have been approved by representatives from all three services.”
“Why? Why would they approve such things?” Cilla ran her palms down the skirt of her emerald-green suit.
“Everything you send by wireless will be what we call ‘chicken feed’—trivial or harmless information. Anything more dangerous will be sent by post, timed to arrive too late for the Germans to respond.”
Yardley tapped her letter on the marble. “At this stage, everything you say must be true, and the Germans must be able to verify it’s true.”
“Verify? How can they—”
“Reconnaissance aircraft.” Tar pointed to the ceiling. “U-boats, surface vessels. They may even have agents on the ground.”
“They do.” Cilla’s fingers splayed wide. “I gave you their names.”
Tar’s mouth buckled on one side, almost a smirk. “You did.”
“Don’t you see?” Yardley held up her letter. “If you lie to Kraus and an aerial photograph proves you lied, he’ll know you’ve turned.”
“Oh.” She clenched her hands before her waist. “But I don’t understand. How does it benefit England if I send Germany such information?”
“Double Cross is a game, Cilla.” Tar traced his finger over the alternating black and white marble squares on the chess table. “It’s the grandest of games. If we send Kraus what he wants, he’ll trust you as an agent.”
“He already trusts me.”
Tar’s smile dipped into condescension. “That’s what he wants you to think, but I guarantee he doesn’t.”
