She’d asked the Abwehr to send more secret ink crystals and batteries for her German wireless set, since such batteriescouldn’t be obtained in Britain. Running low on either would end her case too.
A cylindrical canister dangled beneath the parachute as it descended. Kraus had also promised to send explosives and funds for Free Caledonia.
If the Abwehr kept its promise, Cilla would have to keep hers and commit sabotage.
She hit a depression in the boggy soil, and her ankle turned, but she suppressed her cry. Sabotage made her nervous, but not nearly as nervous as the thought of extraction and torture.
The canister thumped to the ground, and the parachute deflated. Philo rolled up the parachute, then grabbed one end of the canister as Cilla lifted the other.
They lumbered back to the darkened staff car as quickly as they could over the lumpy ground.
In the distance, Imogene opened the boot of the car, returned to the driver’s seat, and started the engine.
To the west, a popping sound rose. The German bomber was strafing—probably at the RAF field at Castletown near Dunnet Bay—and Philo cussed.
Cilla restrained her desire to shush the man as he’d shushed her, because she didn’t blame him. The Luftwaffe had violated Abwehr orders not to bomb or strafe, to avoid stirring up British defenses.
Cilla and Philo hefted the canister into the boot and slid into the car. Imogene drove away slowly, headlamps off.
“The bomber strafed,” Cilla said.
“RAF fighters will scramble.” Philo cussed again, then apologized to Imogene.
Not to Cilla.
At the main road, Imogene turned on the headlamps—shielded in compliance with the blackout.
Cilla composed the message she would send to Kraus atthree o’clock in the morning, an emergency message for which he’d be standing by.
Mission successful and thank you for the supplies.
Then she’d express her outrage at the strafing. If the RAF shot down the Ju 88, the bomber’s crew might divulge their mission—and Cilla’s identity. If she were a real spy, she could be captured and killed. As a double agent, she would land in prison.
She slammed her eyes shut. Perhaps she deserved it.
28
Lyness
Sunday, January 25, 1942
“Not the best Burns Night,” Lachlan called to Arthur as the men struggled to lash down an accommodations hut at Lyness Naval Base—a hut bucking under a force 10 southeasterly wind and driving snow.
“I thought you Scots preferred such weather.” Arthur turned his head a wee bit too far, and the wind ripped off his hood. He wrestled it back up.
“Aye, we do.” With his sea boots braced in the snow, Lachlan forced his chilled, gloved hands to work. “That’s why we’re such fierce warriors.”
“Barbarians.”
“Aye, and proud of it.”
The roaring gale meant no sabotage would occur tonight. Scotland herself had forbidden it. Rescheduling would take time. Not only did they need proper weather and a moonlit night, but Yardley needed to orchestrate every detail, including how and when the police and the press would be notified.
“Ready?” Arthur’s words tumbled in the drifting snow.
“Aye.” The men guided a hawser over the rounded roof of the steel Nissen hut, as the wind threatened to seize the line and whip the officers who dared defy the storm.
On the far side, the hut sheltered them somewhat.
