Chapter 12
Adler’s suspicion began with what he first thought was coincidence.
It started with the warships, which he caught through binoculars that afternoon, far off.
That same afternoon, a British auxiliary patrol altered course unexpectedly and ran closer to the outer mouth of the loch than any patrol had yet done, near enough to observe.
Kapit?nleutnant Heinrich Adler stood on the bridge with his glass trained westward. “Strange,” he muttered.
Oskar did not answer. He stood half a pace behind, outwardly calm. Adler lowered the glass slowly. “They have not come so near before.”
“Correct, Herr Kapit?n.”
“And yet today they do.”
“It may be routine variation.”
Adler’s mouth twitched slightly. “Routine is what navies abandon in wartime.” He handed the binoculars back to the signalman. The patrol vessel eventually sheered off, leaving only a faint wake in the grey water. Nothing had happened, but something was off.
An hour later, the Freja received a coded, wireless message from Germany, instructing the crew to verify the anchorage depth along the inner shelf, an area Oskar had charted twice already.
The radio operator passed it to Oskar, who read the message once, then again, frowning, and took it to Adler.
“These soundings have already been taken.”
Adler nodded. “Yes.” There was a pause. “Take them again.”
“Of course,” Oskar nodded, puzzled. He lowered the boat at dusk, a crewman rowing, the lead line coiled at his feet. They hooded the lantern, working methodically, measuring and recording. When they returned, the captain reviewed the notebook carefully. “Very thorough,” Adler said.
“Thank you,” Oskar replied. “I’m glad you find them once again accurate.”
“Indeed,” Adler said, his tone neutral. Heinrich Adler was not a dramatic man, and would neither prematurely rage nor accuse, preferring to first observe instead.
He had commanded long enough to know that betrayal emerged in small steps – a strange, unnecessary check on an anchor chain taking longer than normal, a small rowing boat, ostensibly trapping lobster and crab, lingering too close for comfort, warships making a distant statement, and the change in the British patrol, subtly tightening its coastal vigilance.
Individually, each was meaningless, but together on the same day, more than coincidence. Adler had noticed that Oskar
volunteered frequently for shore verification with a readiness that, in retrospect, might now be read differently. He said nothing, but he began to watch more closely.
Early the following morning, a new wireless message arrived from Germany, containing revised instructions: the Freja was to chart a secondary inlet north of their present position.
Adler read it, then folded it and placed it in his pocket.
That evening, he summoned Oskar privately.
“We have updated instructions,” he said.
“We are to prepare for movement to a northern inlet within forty-eight hours.”
Oskar nodded. “Very good.”
Adler studied him. “No need to confirm soundings here again.”
“Understood,” Oskar replied, then paused. “Shall I prepare a departure chart?”
“Yes. There was another pause, longer. “You speak English fluently, yes?” Adler asked suddenly then.
“I do,” Oskar replied calmly, yet puzzled by the question.
“How did you learn?”
“At school in Germany, as we all did. Reading and writing, mainly. Then when I moved to Glasgow to work, I attended night classes.”
“I see.”
“And how long did you live in Scotland?”
“Twenty-eight years, from eighteen eighty-six until the start of the war.”
“You’ve stayed on these shores, have you not?”
“That’s correct. For work.”
“Where, exactly?”
“Many places, from the southern tip of the Mull of Kintyre all the way up to Scourie,” Oskar lied, his well-rehearsed reply slipping easily from his tongue.
“I see. Return to your duties, Leutnant.”
Oskar left, and Adler waited. He, too, had lied – the wireless transmission from Germany had contained no such relocation order.
He had wanted to see if Oskar would object to leaving the safety of the loch, and was surprised when he had offered no resistance.
If he’s guilty, he’s excellent, Adler thought.
Two hours later, a Royal Navy trawler appeared, close to the Freja’s anchorage.
Adler’s jaw clenched, but, feeling Oskar behind him on the bridge, he did not turn to him.
The trawler did not challenge or signal, but passed slowly, observing.
Adler lowered the binoculars, his thoughts whirling.
That night, he changed the watch schedule, without informing Oskar.
Instead, he assigned the younger, ambitious Leutnant Krüger to the late watch, and reassigned Petersen, who usually accompanied Oskar on soundings, to engine inspection.
At half past midnight, Oskar approached the bridge. “I intend to verify tidal drift along the eastern shelf,” he said calmly.
Krüger nodded. “I’ll accompany you.”
Oskar did not hesitate. “As you wish.” They lowered the boat together, and Adler watched from the darkened bridge.
The boat moved methodically along the shelf, the lead line dropping.
Notes were taken, but Adler’s eyes were not on the soundings; he wanted to see how close the boat approached the shore, at least as far as he could make out.
After forty minutes, it returned. Krüger climbed aboard first. “Nothing unusual, Herr Kapit?n,” he reported.
Adler looked at Oskar. “And the tide?”
“Stronger than yesterday,” Oskar replied evenly.
At two in the morning, the Freja transmitted routine reconnaissance data to Germany – her position, the crew’s coastal observations, and patrol timings.
Adler then ordered wireless silence for twenty-four hours, telling only the radio operator.
As per the bogus wireless message, the Freja upped anchor, moving out of the loch and northwards to the secondary inlet.
The next morning, just after dawn, a British destroyer appeared at the outer mouth of the sea loch, coming closer than any vessel yet.
Adler watched through binoculars, his fingers tightening on the rail.
There had been no transmission, no interceptable signal - so how?
A cold sensation settled behind his ribs - coincidence seemed to be thinning, yet Krüger had been with Bauer that night – Bauer could not have had the opportunity to tell anyone.
That evening, he summoned Oskar to his cabin. A lamp swung faintly overhead, bringing the two men’s faces in and out of shadow.
“Tell me,” Adler began, “what do you make of British vigilance in this sector?”
Oskar considered. “Increasing.”
“Also my own conclusion.”
“They may suspect general activity,” Oskar went on mildly.
“General?” Adler asked.
“Convoy routing through the Minch has intensified,” Oskar added. “It would be natural for them to increase patrol density.”
“And yet,” Adler said quietly, “their adjustments correlate rather neatly with our own movements.” There was a brief pause.
“I do not see the correlation, Herr Kapit?n.”
“No?”
“No. It’s purely coincidence.”
Adler studied him for a long moment. “You’re fond of independent verification,” he said then, lightly.
“I am. I like accuracy.”
Silence fell.
“Do you have family in Germany?” Adler asked suddenly.
“Yes, my parents, and siblings who’ve joined up,” Oskar replied, without flinching.
“And here? In Scotland?”
“Family here?” he asked, his eyes on the captain’s. “No.” It was a half-truth. “I’m separated, no children.”
“Your wife is German?”
“Yes.”
“But not here in Scotland?”
“No. She returned to Germany.”
Adler nodded, seemingly satisfied, but decided, from that moment onwards, that Oskar would never be ashore alone, that all soundings would require two witnesses, that the wireless codes would be changed, and that false data would be inserted into outgoing reports.
And, in one final measure, he composed a separate, sealed message to the German Naval Command: There are indications of possible information leakage correlating with coastal counter-movements.
Internal verification ongoing. Request instruction.
An hour later, German command replied. Continue operations. Conduct internal integrity assessment discreetly. Provide behavioural observations. Adler folded the message slowly. Internal integrity assessment - he had been given permission.
On the bridge, he watched the horizon through his field glasses. A second vessel appeared before dusk, smaller, and armed. It neither signalled, nor fully approached, but Adler knew that it was watching. He lowered the glasses. “This sector grows crowded,” he said quietly.
No one answered. He turned slowly. “Prepare for possible relocation.”
“Where to, sir?” Oskar asked.
Adler’s eyes rested on him a fraction too long.
“I will decide.” Later that evening, Adler informed Oskar that the Freja would conduct a midnight repositioning to a shallow anchorage within the inlet, closer to shore than advisable.
“Keep this to yourself,” he added. But his information was fictitious – there was to be no such movement, and at midnight, the ship remained still.
Adler waited on the bridge. An hour passed, then two.
At three in the morning, distant on the water, a shadow moved – a British patrol boat, heading towards the shallow anchorage Adler had mentioned only to Oskar.
It slowed and searched, but, finding nothing, turned away.
For several seconds, Adler did not move.
“Send for Leutnant Falk,” he said quietly to his second in command.
Falk arrived, tense and worried.
“You will assume responsibility for reconnaissance documentation, effective immediately,” Adler ordered.
Falk frowned, and gave a slight head shake. “Sir?”
“Effective immediately.”
“But…isn’t that Leutnant Bauer’s post?”
“He remains aboard. Under observation.”
Oskar understood before anyone spoke it aloud.
He felt the shift in tone, and caught the watchful glances, but no accusation came.
When Falk requested his notebooks for ‘review,’ when Krüger started to accompany him everywhere, when he realised the altered assignments, and when Adler ceased formal conversation entirely, he knew.
They have no proof, Oskar thought. No proof at all. But he knew that suspicion meant waiting, and that waiting in wartime could end in confinement, interrogation, transfer back to Germany under guard, or more sinister measures.
That morning, Adler called for him again. “This mission is compromised,” he said plainly.
“Compromised?” Oskar repeated, frowning. “Why compromised?”
“British patrol density has increased beyond an acceptable threshold. We’ll withdraw within forty-eight hours. Until then, you will remain aboard.”
Oskar’s frown deepened. “Remain aboard?” he repeated. “Am I confined, sir?” he asked, deliberately sounding puzzled.
Adler regarded him steadily. “Not yet.” Silence ensued as Oskar digested the information. “If there is something you wish to tell me,” Adler added, “this would be the moment.”
Oskar did not move. “Tell? There’s nothing to tell,” he replied calmly, careful to hold bewilderment in his blue eyes.
“And if I were to tell you that tonight I will send four armed crew to search every peasant cottage on the shore closest to where we anchored in the adjacent loch to the south, what would you say to that?”
“I would say search away,” Oskar replied smoothly, although his heart had missed a beat. “I would also add that it would be a waste of time, as most of those crofts are lying empty.”
“Chimney smoke will tell my men which are not,” Adler replied smugly.
“Then search away,” Oskar replied blithely.
Adler studied him. If the man was innocent, he was steady under pressure. If he was guilty, he was remarkable. Either way, he was highly suspect. “You’re dismissed,” he said at last.
Back in his cabin, Oskar stewed. If Adler had been calling his bluff, and indeed intended to carry out a search of the crofts, he was glad that he had removed every trace of his ever being at the cottage.
But his heart bled for Rachel, if Adler’s men turned up at her door in the middle of the night.
He swore that if any of them as much as touched her, he would not hesitate to exact revenge.
Out on the loch, British naval vessels had indeed shifted patterns, for the Gairloch harbour master had contacted Fort William, which, in turn, had alerted naval command.
The Germans suspected internal betrayal, the British suspected external threat, and the net was closing from both sides. And, now watched by both empires, Oskar stood in the narrowing space between them.