His gut clenched. Whenever he tried to make peace with his MI5 work, something like this reminded him exactly what he was doing.
Blake tugged his cap lower on his forehead. “According to the forecast, weather conditions may improve enough in the morning for you to visit Dunnet Head.”
“Aye.” Guilt jabbed him in the gut again. Lately, he’d anticipated those visits far more than was wise.
“I must say, I appreciate that you haven’t allowed the assignment to interfere with your duties here. Your work has been ... satisfactory.”
The highest—the only—compliment Lachlan had received at Scapa. “Thank you, sir.”
The drifter crossed the waters of Scapa Flow, protected by the ring of islands, yet still tipped white by the driving wind.
At the anchorage near the island of Hoy, a dozen dark shapes hunkered in the rain, recently arrived from Archangelsk in the Soviet Union.
Convoy QP-1 included the seven British and Dutch cargo ships returning from the Dervish convoy, plus seven Soviet freighters loaded with precious timber.
They’d sailed through rough Arctic waters, out of range of RAF fighter cover—but in range of German bombers and warships and U-boats harbored in Nazi-occupied Norway.
Convoy QP-1, like Dervish, had arrived undetected by the Germans. Unmolested.
However, Cilla hadn’t notified the Abwehr of either convoy.
Lachlan grimaced and strode to the bow of the drifter. The Arctic convoys were vital. German troops were sweeping across Russia, capturing key cities and entire Soviet armies. The deliveries of tanks and weapons and aircraft would help—but only if the convoys arrived safely.
And the Home Fleet, including theAntelope, was escorting those convoys.
The bow struck a wave, and spray doused Lachlan’s face.
He didn’t wipe it away, only closed his eyes and prayed he was doing the right thing.
****
Dunnet Head
Saturday, October 11, 1941
In the lightroom, Cilla stood by the window with a smile far brighter than the day. The weather had improved, but crossing Pentland Firth had exacerbated the tumult in Lachlan’s stomach.
“I apologize for the chill. I’m thankful your mother knit me this jumper.” Cilla stroked the sleeve.
If only Mother had chosen yarn in dull brown or gray, not a brilliant greenish blue to match Cilla’s eyes.
“Your mother’s so kind,” she said.
An ordinary man would compliment her on the color or howthe chill brought a becoming shade of pink to her cheeks, but the correct words evaporated. “She’s happy to have someone new to knit woolies for.”
Cilla gave him a playful smile reminiscent of dinners on the Sabbath Day.
Lachlan spun to the window. Far below, waves of blue and green and white crashed against the cliffs.
Sabbath Day dinners were an illusion. Saturday mornings were reality, when he helped decide which British secrets to send to Nazi Germany.
His stomach frothed like the seas below. He’d barely slept all night.
“Good morning.” Commander Yardley entered the lightroom with a giant smile. “What do you have for me this morning, Mackenzie?”
Standing by Yardley’s side, Lachlan opened his portfolio and traced one finger over last night’s entry. He was required to report it, but he had to grind out the words. “Convoy QP-1 arrived yesterday without loss. I’ll check Cilla’s log to see if she observed the arrival.”
“Even if she did, she won’t report it. Without loss, you say? Have you heard whether the Germans spotted them?”
