“Of course.” Cilla kept her demeanor pleasant as she followed Yardley into the lighthouse.
How could he call her Sundays free when she’d be under guard? She’d be isolated and locked up all day, with no friends, no dates, and no fun. What was free about that?
She firmed her chin and followed Yardley up the steep spiral staircase. At least she wasn’t in prison or on the gallows.
“Always carry your papers when you leave Dunnet Head,” Yardley said as he climbed. “As a foreigner, you need a permit to be in northern Scotland. Your accent will draw notice.”
“Yes, sir.” She watched her step up the staircase in her highheels. Thank goodness she had sturdy low-heeled shoes in her luggage.
Yardley came to the top of the stairs. “Ah, Mr. Hall. Good to see you.”
Cilla emerged into a wonder of color and light. Windows circled the giant egg-shaped lens, composed of angled rings of prismatic glass.
“Don’t touch it!”
Cilla retracted her hand—she hadn’t realized she’d reached for the lens—and she found the speaker, a middle-aged man with a thick head of gray hair and a mustache, wearing the dark blue naval-style uniform and white peaked cap of the Northern Lighthouse Board. “I’m sorry, sir. That’s the Fresnel lens, yes? It’s beautiful.”
He jabbed a finger in her direction. “Never touch it. I’ll clean it, not you.”
“Ladies.” Yardley raised half a smile. “May I introduce Mr. Terrance Hall? Don’t let his benign appearance fool you. Not only is he an MI5 officer, but he served as a principal lightkeeper before the war. His experience, as well as my experience with the equipment at the station, are why we can run this case as planned.”
“How do you do, Mr. Hall?” Cilla extended her hand.
Deep-set eyes of murky blue met hers, then he snapped his gaze and a smile to the Wrens. “How do you do, ladies?”
A sigh whispered past Cilla’s lips, and she studied the Fresnel lens.
To justify her cover as a supernumerary lightkeeper—an apprentice—MI5 had assigned her great piles of reading material and subjected her to multiple lectures. Although she’d enjoyed learning about the history and architecture of lighthouses and she’d endured the talks on lighthouse maintenance, the information on lenses strained her meager scientific knowledge.
Nothing she’d read or heard even hinted at the entrancing beauty of light dancing in all its colors.
“Too bad you’ll probably never see it lit.” Yardley stood beside her, his dark-eyed gaze fixed on the lens as well.
“That’s a shame.” Lighthouses in the United Kingdom had been blacked out for the duration, since they provided navigation to foe as well as friend. The keepers remained to maintain the equipment and property, to operate the foghorn, and to turn on the light only if ordered by the Admiralty to guide a passing convoy.
Yardley turned to the window overlooking Pentland Firth. Black framing crisscrossed the windows in a diamond pattern. “The assistant keeper will join us in a few days—William Palmer. The Northern Lighthouse Board requires two certified keepers. As a supernumerary keeper, you don’t qualify to wear the uniform or to fully perform a keeper’s duties—especially as a woman. We had to recruit a current lightkeeper, and he’s finishing MI5 training.”
“Yes, sir.” Under a partly cloudy sky, the waters stretched gray blue before her. In the distance, dark islands rose from the sea, the Orkneys.
Yardley pointed to a fishing boat plying the waves. “From here you will keep a log of ship and aircraft movements. And a far better log than Kraus expected from a barmaid. He’ll squeal with delight.”
Cilla could almost see the look on Kraus’s sweet face. But sweet or not, he was no friend.
“We’ll arrange other sources.” Yardley leaned his shoulder against the window. “Men and women your alter ego will meet around the area, telling her about life in Scotland, our station here, and Scapa Flow. All to answer the questionnaire the Abwehr sent with you.”
“Yes, sir.” Her alter ego would lead a far more interesting life than she would.
“As new questions arise, we’ll adjust your case accordingly.”
The idea of sending true military information still made her squirm inside. But if she didn’t send accurate information, Hauptmann Kraus would know she was working for the British. The Abwehr might send another agent to eliminate her—or worse, send the Gestapo after her parents and Hilde.
She puffed her cheeks with air. Then her gaze plummeted down sixty-six feet of whitewashed stone and three hundred feet of sheer cliff. Her heart plummeted too, and she braced one hand on the window frame.
Far below, the waves foamed white where they dashed themselves to bits on the rocky cliffs.
If she did wish to escape, she would lose all hope. But she didn’t. Although becoming a double agent had never been her plan, she’d make the best of it to help the Allied cause.
“It isn’t down there,” Yardley said.
