Hamburg, Germany
Monday, March 24, 1941
Cilla tapped the Morse key at a quick pace, transmitting a message she’d enciphered herself.
Leutnant Fleischer sat close beside her at the desk at the Abwehr training school in Hamburg, so he could learn her “hand,” her unique style of transmitting. If the British captured an Abwehr agent’s wireless transmitter and used it, men like Fleischer would know. “Never forget to use your security key, Fräulein van der Zee.”
“Nein. I know how important it is.” She finished her message. She’d been instructed to insert the wordexcellentin every message. If she omitted it, the Abwehr would know she’d been captured and was transmitting under duress. Cilla faced Fleischer and widened her eyes. “The last thing I’d want to do is send false information.”
“Ja.” His handsome green eyes grew solemn. “That is worse than no information.”
Yet that’s what she planned to send them—no information at all.
“Be careful, Fräulein.” He set his hand on her forearm. “I’d hate for anything to happen to you.”
She thanked him with a slow bat of her eyelashes. His crush did help her get through training—although the program was ridiculously easy—but she didn’t want to build up false hope.
Fleischer showed off his disarming grin. If she gave him the chance, he would flatter and indulge her. She would have liked him if he weren’t a Nazi.
The door opened, and Hauptmann Kraus entered, the man who served as Cilla’s “handler.”
Kraus never trumpeted vile Nazi sayings, and Cilla almost hated to cross him by disappearing when she arrived in Britain.
Almost.
Kraus removed his Army officer’s cap, revealing his ring of brown hair threaded with silver. “How’s our star pupil?”
“The brightest of our stars,” Fleischer said.
“Oh, you two.” Cilla flapped her hand at the men.
Kraus gave her the twinkling smile that reminded her of her father.
Cilla’s chest clenched. No one back home knew her plans. Hilde, her parents, Gerrit, her friends—she’d told them her company had offered her a position in Paris, a thrilling opportunity. Soon they’d worry when letters failed to arrive, but it couldn’t be helped.
Now Hilde had no one to watch over her. Why hadn’t Cilla thought through that part of her plan?
“Come, see the letter she wrote.” Fleischer brought the letter in Cilla’s handwriting to the heat lamp, and Kraus hovered to watch the message in secret ink emerge.
Cilla rolled her shoulders to relax them. The past few weeks of training had been challenging. The easy part was learning to use ciphers and secret ink and the wireless and memorizingher cover story. The difficult part was acting as if she believed in their cause, as if she intended to spy for Germany. And she had no relief. At least in the Netherlands, she could speak freely at home and with her friends. With Dirk.
Her chin hardened. If she’d stayed in the Netherlands, she would have died too.
“Excellent. So clear and legible.” Kraus held up the letter and smiled at it. “Are her lessons finished for the day?”
“Yes, Herr Hauptmann.” Disappointment colored Fleischer’s words gray.
Kraus laid down the letter and gestured to the door with his cap. “Come, Fräulein. I’ll walk you to the canteen for your dinner.”
“Thank you, Herr Hauptmann. And thank you, Herr Leutnant.” Cilla smiled at her trainer and followed her handler.
“Your training is almost complete.” Kraus set a leisurely pace down the hallway. “I feel confident sending you across.”
“I feel confident too.”
A frown lengthened his round cheeks. “Don’t be too confident. That’s how agents get caught.”
Cilla shrugged. “I’ll have no trouble blending in as a Dutch refugee.”
