“Pardon?”
Her case officer’s mouth curved up on one side. “Your sealskin, Selkie.”
Cilla’s eyelids fluttered, and she wrenched her head to the side. Could she ever convince them she was on their side?
12
Lyness Naval Base, Hoy, Orkney Islands
Friday, June 6, 1941
“You have new orders.” Lt.-Cdr. Bennett Blake slapped a piece of paper onto his desk.
Lachlan paused halfway down to his seat in Blake’s office. He was already being transferred away? If so, why did Blake look cross rather than pleased?
He eased himself into the chair. “New orders, sir?”
“As our command’s liaison to the Admiralty Experimental Station at Dunnet Head.”
Lachlan relaxed into his seat. He hadn’t been transferred after all. “I’m familiar with Dunnet Head.”
In December, a radio direction finding station had opened near the lighthouse, one of a half dozen stations ringing Scapa Flow to warn of attacks. Whilst the RAF ran most of the RDF stations, the Admiralty ran Dunnet Head. The station’s special “Coast Defense U-boat” equipment could detect aircraft up to one hundred miles away and small vessels, including surfaced German U-boats, within a few miles. If only it had detected the U-boat that landed Cilla van der Zee.
Blake poked Lachlan’s orders with one finger. “Every Saturday morning, you will meet with the station commander.”
“Aye, sir.” How curious though. “Does our command send liaisons to the other RDF stations?”
“No.” Blake’s light eyes blazed. “This is an order from the Director of Naval Intelligence, specifically for you.”
“For me, sir? I dinnae understand.”
“Nor do I. This is not proper protocol. The DNI shouldn’t select the man—I should. Others with far more experience than you serve in this command, others far more suitable.”
The subtle reprimand stung. For three months at Scapa Flow, Lachlan had worked hard and well, to no avail. “I’ll do my best, sir.”
“The DNI said you have unique qualities for this assignment.”
At least someone seemed to appreciate him—but he’d never met the DNI.
“Those unique qualities have earned you unique privileges. Every Saturday morning, a motorboat will ferry you to Bruff.”
“Brough, sir. It rhymes withloch.”
“Broke, then.” Blake mangled the soft Scottishch. “The same motorboat shall ferry you back every Sunday evening. Your family lives nearby, I understand.”
“Aye, sir.”
Blake’s nostrils flared. “Will private transportation for a weekly visit home suit you, your Majesty?”
Lachlan’s chest caved in. “I apologize, sir. I have no idea what this is about.”
“Your orders.” Blake held out the slip of paper. “Your motorboat will be waiting at Lyness pier tomorrow morning.”
“Aye, sir.” With his orders in hand, Lachlan left the office.
Whatever special privileges the new assignment conferred were negated by falling even lower in his commanding officer’s regard.
****
