Yardley chuckled. “Because Kraus and the Krauts have realized they can never invade England. But they do hope to starve us into submission by sinking ships bound for our shores.”
“He’s asked many questions about the separatists in the past week or so. Do they exist here? Are they a problem?”
“They exist.” Yardley leaned back against the window. “MI5 considers them subversive and has ordered a few raids and arrests. But honestly, they’re on the fringe and have little influence.”
“Only on morale,” Mackenzie said with a rumble in his throat.
Was he sharing a true weakness in the British Isles? “That sounds like something to include in my messages, but I’d need more details.”
“I might be able to provide those.” The lieutenant’s lips ground into a line.
“Not necessary,” Yardley said. “MI5 has decided to direct German attention elsewhere. Also, Mackenzie, as a source for Cilla, you—as Samson—are a naval officer at Scapa. To add knowledge of Scottish nationalism stretches credibility.”
“Even if it’s true?” He frowned over his shoulder at the commander. “You read my file.”
Cilla stretched taller in her seat. How intriguing.
“Even if it’s true.” Yardley crossed his arms. “The Germans need to believe it’s true. It’s already remarkable that our little lightkeeper romanced a naval officer who knows so much about base security.”
“And such a handsome one at that.” She batted her eyelashes at him.
He only arched an eyebrow at her.
Cilla laughed. “Oh, just wait. Someday you’ll like me. Everyone does.”
Mackenzie neatened the papers in his portfolio. “Every rule has an exception. I am proud to be that exception.”
For a moment, caught up in the fun of working together, she’d forgotten the old rules of life no longer applied.
****
Dits and dahs tapped on Cilla’s eardrum as she held one earpiece of the headphones to her ear.
Sitting close beside her, Gwen Reese listened through the other earpiece and watched every slash of Cilla’s pen to make sure she transcribed Hauptmann Kraus’s message accurately.
In the top apartment in the lighthouse tower, Imogene St. Clair sat in an armchair, watching Cilla, her revolver holster visible beneath her navy-blue uniform jacket.
Above them in the lightroom, Terrance Hall stood watch, ready to sound the foghorn or to turn on the beam if requested by the Admiralty.
Kraus’s message stretched long. Even if someone in Britain had a crystal tuned to the right frequency, they’d find the message enciphered. And even if they deciphered it and realized it was from the Abwehr, they wouldn’t know to whom it was being sent.
At last, Kraus signed off, and Cilla wrote down the last letter of his message. In the morning, she’d decipher it.
Gwen checked her wristwatch. “Thirty seconds until midnight.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Cilla unplugged her headphones from the receiver and plugged her Morse key into the base of the transmitter. She stroked the smooth brown Bakelite of the contraption the Germans called “mouse” and positioned her finger on the half-moon-shaped button protruding from the front.
“Ten seconds.”
Cilla set her notepad where both she and Gwen could see it. At midnight sharp, Cilla would transmit as quickly as possible.If she were a real spy, she’d have to worry about MI5 tracking her down by detecting her transmissions. Speed would be of the essence.
As commander of the Admiralty station at Dunnet Head, Yardley arranged a change of shifts at midnight. At those times, no one monitored the station’s wireless, so he wouldn’t have to answer awkward questions in case they intercepted her messages.
“Three, two, one.”
Cilla tapped the black half-moon button over and over. She had to be quick, yes, but more importantly, she had to be accurate. Skipping or adding or changing a letter earned her a lengthy review as Yardley tried to discern whether she’d erred—or deceived. Three reviews, and Cilla never wanted another one.
Gwen was too good and too smart to let mistakes pass.
