Brough, Scotland
Saturday, June 7, 1941
A grey seal swam like a torpedo alongside the 35-foot fast motorboat and lifted his head to greet Lachlan.
“How’s the fishing this fine morn?” Lachlan said to the seal. “Be glad fish are not rationed.”
Whiskers twitched on the seal’s long Roman nose, and he dived.
A bonny cloudy day, and Lachlan inhaled the earthy scent of home as the motorboat neared the cove at Brough, where the cliffs softened to green slopes.
The motorboat puttered up to the stone boat ramp that had been built a century earlier to cart supplies during the construction of Dunnet Head Lighthouse. His family’s motorboat,Mar na Creag, painted green as summer heather, was moored at the pier.
At the top of the ramp, a man in a naval officer’s greatcoat stood next to a black Morris 8 staff car.
After the motorboat pulled close, Lachlan thanked the crew, climbed out of the vessel, and hopped down to the pier.
With his kit bag in hand, he met the officer halfway up the ramp and saluted.
“Lieutenant Mackenzie, I presume?” The commander returned Lachlan’s salute. He stood a few inches shorter than Lachlan with a strong military bearing and a prominent chin. “I’m Commander Ernest Yardley. May I see your orders?”
“Aye, sir.” Lachlan removed the slip of paper from his coat pocket.
Yardley perused the orders, sized up Lachlan from head to toe, and broke into a wide smile. “Come along, then.”
Lachlan put his kit bag in the boot of the staff car and climbed in, and Yardley drove up the road off the beach.
“I’m curious about this assignment, sir.” With the window rolled down, Lachlan rested one arm along the door rim and held on as the car bumped along the rough road. “My command doesnae send liaisons to the other RDF stations, although we communicate often.”
The corner of Yardley’s mouth twitched. “Your assignment is much more than serving as liaison, although you and I will indeed exchange weekly reports as part of your cover.”
“Cover? I dinnae understand.”
“For security reasons, I’ll wait to explain until we’re in my office.” Yardley glanced at Lachlan and chuckled. “I see I’ve confused you.”
He tried not to frown. “Aye, sir.”
At the crest of the bluff, they reached the main road. To the southeast, the road led home, but Yardley turned to the northwest, toward Dunnet Head.
“For now,” Yardley said, “I’ll explain why I chose you for this assignment. First, your familiarity with Scapa Flow and base security. Second, your experience in convoy escort. Third, you know the area and the people, which could prove useful. Fourth, your record shows you’re a man who follows orders and keeps his word, but also shows instances of great ingenuity.”
Lachlan’s mouth hung open. “You ... delved deep into my record.” Far deeper than an assignment as liaison warranted.
“I’d be remiss not to.” He sent Lachlan another glance and chuckle. “The last two reasons I selected you must wait until we reach my office. One is the reason you’re the only man for this assignment, and the other is my insurance policy.”
In almost two years in the Royal Navy and six years at the Royal Naval College, Lachlan had never found an assignment so perplexing. If Lachlan hadn’t read the orders with his own eyes and hadn’t received them from his own commanding officer, he’d think he’d fallen into the cloak-and-dagger world of espionage.
“All will be explained soon.” Yardley waved one hand to the side. “In the meantime, enjoy the scenery.”
“Aye, sir.” But in such circumstances, how could he enjoy even the patches of purple-pink Scottish primrose?
In a few minutes, Yardley drove past the RDF station, through the gate, and up to the lighthouse.
Dunnet Head Lighthouse had been built in 1831, designed by Scottish engineer Robert Stevenson, grandfather of the great author Robert Louis Stevenson.
Lachlan smiled at the chance to see the elegant white tower up close again.
After Yardley parked the car, he led Lachlan through a bright blue door in one of the keepers’ houses and into an office.
