Cilla crossed the room to a tall window overlooking the garden. With her back turned, the men couldn’t see her smile. They hadn’t seen Kraus’s fatherly care for her. He’d believed every word she said.
“In this stage of the game, we’re merely setting up the board,” Tar said. “What Kraus doesn’t know is we’re spying on him.”
“On Kraus?” Cilla spun back to face the MI5 officers.
Tar tapped the chessboard. “Our double agents tell us about the Abwehr and how it functions, and the questions your handlers send to you reveal a great deal about German plans.”
In a bookcase to Cilla’s right, books graced the shelves, their covers closed, concealing the stories inside. “We send the information they want, so they send more questions.”
“I’ll say this.” Yardley’s voice rumbled. “She isn’t as stupid as most of the agents the Germans send.”
Cilla had seen for herself the poor quality of Abwehr recruitment and training, but she let sarcasm shimmer in her voice. “Why, thank you, Commander.”
He lifted one eyebrow in acknowledgment, then shot a glance to Tar. “Her concern for English sailors is touching, yes?”
“My concern is genuine.” She tamped down her frustration. How many times had Moeder said lies destroy trust? Over the past few months, Cilla had told great heaping piles of lies. All for a good cause, but how could the MI5 officers know that? How could they sift her truths from her lies?
Cilla drew a steadying breath. “I understand it will take time for you to trust me.”
Yardley chuckled. “I will never trust you, but if you behave yourself, I can use you. If you’re truly on the Allied side, that alone should satisfy you. If not, remember you’re still alive.”
Her hand leapt to her throat, and she dragged it down.
Yardley fingered his own collar. “Remember that if you’re ever tempted to misbehave.”
“I won’t, sir.” She’d been informed that if MI5 even suspected a triple cross, she’d land back in prison—or on the gallows.
Someone rapped on the door.
“Our Wrens.” Tar stood. “Come on through, ladies.”
Two Wrens, members of the Women’s Royal Naval Service, entered the room in their dark blue uniforms.
One stood tall and slim, pretty and dark-haired, with a lively expression. The second was shorter and softer, with a more padded figure and wavy light brown hair.
“Ladies, may I introduce Cilla van der Zee? Cilla, this is Third Officer Imogene St. Clair.” Tar gestured to the taller lady, then the shorter. “And Third Officer Gwen Reese.”
Cilla liked them both instantly, and she dashed forward with a big smile and an extended hand. “What a pleasure to—”
Gwen startled and shrank behind her comrade.
“Let’s make things clear,” Imogene said in a crisp, boarding-schoolaccent, and she lifted her pretty chin high. “We are not your friends, Miss van der Zee. You are a Nazi spy. Our duty is to guard you and ensure that you follow orders. Need I remind you, we will both be armed.”
Cilla’s hand and her smile drifted down. All her life she’d made friends with ease, but she seemed to have left that skill back in Amsterdam. Yet in these circumstances, how could she blame the women? Friendship required trust.
She lifted a sad smile. “I understand, Officer. But if you expect me to treat you with anything but kindness and respect, you’ll be sorely disappointed.”
“Please have a seat, ladies.” Tar gestured to armchairs circling the room. “You’ve been briefed on Cilla’s case, but we wanted to review the details before we travel north.”
Imogene and Gwen took seats, and Cilla returned to the writing desk.
Sitting in his armchair, Yardley shuffled papers in a portfolio. “Say, Tar, in this report, the officer who captured Cilla refers to her as a selkie. You’re Scottish, do you—”
“How appropriate.” Tar chuckled and crossed those tartan-clad legs. “The selkie lives at sea, appearing as a seal. When she comes ashore, she sheds her sealskin, revealing a beautiful young woman. Men who chance on her can’t help but fall in love, but the selkie loves only the sea. To trap the selkie on land, the man must hide her sealskin. But if she should ever find it, she’ll abandon that unlucky man and flit away to sea.”
Cilla could still see the fierce Scotsman calling her a selkie, calling her deflated raft a sealskin. Now she understood, and she wrapped her arms around her stomach.
“That is rather appropriate.” Yardley gave Cilla a tight-lipped smile. “We’ve stolen your sealskin. But we know—weknow—that if we gave you the slightest chance, you would betray us and flit away to the sea, to your Nazi handlers.”
