The Hornet's Sting_ The Amazing Untold Story of World War II Spy Thomas Sneum - Mark Ryan [53]
When Britain entered hostilities, Rabagliati sent his third wife Beatrix and her two sons to South Africa for their own safety. Then he moved into a flat in St. James’s to be near his new office, with only his black Bentley and Hotchkiss sports car for company. Before long, though, he consoled himself with a new infatuation—an SIS secretary called Joan Duff. She was twenty years his junior, over six feet tall and determined to wear high heels. When they walked into London’s top restaurants together Joan looked almost twice Euan’s height, but he didn’t seem to care, displaying a confidence that could never be diminished by his physical limitations.
Back at 54 Broadway he soon became the SIS liaison officer for Holland and Denmark, a strange appointment since he spoke neither Danish nor Dutch. The chief of SIS, Stewart Menzies, and his experienced deputy, Claude Dansey, must have seen other exceptional qualities in Rabagliati, however, for he now ran both departments, which were known collectively as ‘A2.’
Without an effective Danish agent, Rabagliati had been waiting for suitable candidates to arrive from the occupied country. So when Flight Lieutenant Gregory called in late June with news of two interesting possibilities, Rabagliati ordered them to be sent directly to his flat at 5 St. James’s Street, above a hat shop. Next he requested the assistance of a man who passed as Broadway’s linguist, a certain Major Thornton, who seemed to have no defined position in the SIS hierarchy, nor even much flare for languages. His job was to assess the linguistic ability of potential new agents and to translate for chiefs of section like Rabagliati. However, since he spoke only very poor German, he was scarcely up to either task.
When Sneum and Pedersen arrived at the address they had been given, both were both struck immediately by the natural charisma of the man who introduced himself as Colonel Ramsden. They followed him up a flight of stairs and met Thornton, who was waiting in a lounge on the first floor. Since Rabagliati spoke no Danish, he instructed Thornton to ask their guests a general question about the situation in Denmark. Tommy recalled: ‘Thornton spoke no Danish either, so he phrased the question in broken German. I just put him out of his misery by answering in fluent English.’
From that moment Thornton’s role in the meeting was redundant. Before long he excused himself, clearly relieved that his ordeal was over, though somewhat embarrassed that his linguistic limitations had been so quickly exposed.
Rabagliati, who had not lost his air of self-assurance for a moment, quizzed the pair a little more about conditions in Denmark, then came to the point: ‘What do you think about going back there for us?’ The question was direct and shocking.
‘Too dangerous.’ Kjeld was adamant. ‘We’d be marked men. They’ll already know who took the plane.’
Never imagining they would be asked to return to Denmark as spies, they had left plenty of incriminating documentation in the barn in order to deflect any blame away from Poul Andersen. If they did go back, the AS (Special Affairs) Department of the Danish police in Copenhagen would probably be on to them in no time. The Germans would be informed too, and then there was the risk of a full-scale Abwehr manhunt. No, insisted Pedersen, the best way forward was for the British to let them join the RAF.
‘Look, I’m sure you’re both damn good pilots, you must be to have come this far, and we do appreciate your offer,’ acknowledged Rabagliati rather ominously. ‘But we’re not short of pilots. We’ve got twenty-five thousand in training already. What we’re short of is agents. Your intelligence work so far has been nothing short of brilliant. That’s where you can really help us. What do you say?’
Pedersen was shaking his head again.
But Sneum heard himself reply: ‘I’d be prepared to think about it. If you really think we can be more