Cilla went to the table, picked up a piece of newsprint—and blanched. Then she raised a smile so stiff it almost creaked. “Thank you, Officer St. Clair. I’ll add it to my scrapbook, along with the article you tucked into my pocket last Sunday.”
“I knew you’d appreciate it.” St. Clair’s tone fairly rotted Lachlan’s teeth.
He edged past Cilla to reach his seat and glanced over her shoulder. The headline of the article screamed, “Nazi Spy Hanged!”
He pinned his gaze on the Wren. “Was that necessary?”
“Pardon?” Her blue eyes stretched wide. “I’d think you, of all people, would approve.”
Lachlan set down his satchel, opened it, and drew out his portfolio. “She already knows the fate she escaped. She knows the penalty if she betrays us. That was most unnecessary.”
St. Clair hefted her chin high, spun on her heel, and departed.
The muscles under Cilla’s chin worked, and her forehead bunched up.
Lachlan tapped the article and lowered his voice. “Someone you know?”
She gave her head one sharp shake. “No.” She wouldn’t meet his eye.
He plucked the article from her hand and balled it up. “I dinnae like bullies either.”
Her gaze flicked up to him—vulnerable, grateful, embarrassed—then away.
Lachlan sorted through his portfolio, seeing nothing before him. When had he started to feel compassion—for a spy? And why did it seem right, not wrong?
Soon Commander Yardley arrived to break the tense silence. Lachlan compared his shipping timetable to Cilla’s log and to MI5’s approved list, and he marked up Cilla’s log. She continued to observe well enough to provide convincing reports—but inaccurately enough to soothe his conscience somewhat.
One set of entries made him frown, and he pointed it out to Yardley. “She didnae observe the Dervish Convoy—but she did observe the Gauntlet Force.”
Yardley consulted his own papers. “She won’t report on either.”
“Good.” Dervish was the first Arctic convoy to the Soviet Union, with cargos of wool, rubber, tin, and Hurricane fighter aircraft. The ships wouldn’t arrive in Russia for another week, and the longer their presence could remain undetected, the better.
Operation Gauntlet was even more daring. A force, including HMSAntelope, was heading to the Norwegian island of Spitsbergen, which hadn’t been occupied by the Germans. The Gauntlet Force planned to evacuate Norwegian and Soviet coal miners and to destroy mining facilities and radio towers. The plan depended on strict secrecy.
“We have enough innocuous shipping reports to fill her transmission tonight,” Yardley said. “Why don’t you tell her how the labor shortage is affecting the Churchill Barriers?”
“What are the Churchill Barriers?” Cilla’s eyes shone bright and curious.
With his finger, Lachlan drew an invisible circle on the table. “The harbor of Scapa Flow is ringed by islands. The channels on the east are narrow, but wide enough for a U-boat to traverse.”
“Is that how that U-boat sank that battleship?” She leaned her forearms on the table and clucked her tongue. “Simply dreadful.”
“Aye.” Lachlan poked at spots on his invisible circle. Since German reconnaissance aircraft could observe the construction activity, disclosing the information wouldn’t compromise security. “We’re building barriers to block the channels.”
“And protect the fleet. How clever. But oh, you can’t build them with a labor shortage, can you?”
“No.”
He went on to describe the construction and the difficulties,whilst Cilla listened, nodding with sympathy, asking questions and making comments to encourage him to tell her more.
Dining alone with her wouldn’t be painful, but pleasant.
Heat rose in his cheeks. The only protection from a selkie was to resist her charms.
And to never let down his guard.
19
