The Hornet's Sting (44 page)

After a week, the interrogators, sensing that he might be at his most vulnerable, finally took Tommy to a larger cell, where he was reunited with Arne Helvard. As soon as they were left alone with coffee and cigarettes, both men began to look for a microphone. ‘I found one up in a grille in the corner and smashed it,’ Tommy admitted. It was time to let off some steam about their incarceration, and they insulted the British in every way they knew. Tommy revealed later: ‘We talked about what big shits the British were, how we had risked our lives for them and how they had treated us like criminals in return. I said that the Germans might never have gone into France if the British had adopted a stronger stance towards them in the first place.’

What neither man knew was that the British had refined their interrogation techniques, and the microphone had been placed in such an obvious position because the prisoners had been meant to find it. A popular MI5 technique was to lull prisoners into a false sense of security so that a second, more ingeniously hidden microphone could pick up their conversation, once they had dropped their guard.

The atmosphere became even more hostile when Tommy and Arne were separated again and the interrogations started afresh. ‘They didn’t rough us up, but it was difficult just the same,’ Tommy admitted. ‘It was constant pressure, talk, talk, they never gave me time to think.’

Ten more agonizing days passed before the questioning came to an abrupt end. By then Sneum had concluded: ‘The British didn’t like me because I was too independent, I argued with them, and I knew too much about the scientific war.’

When Tommy was told to prepare for a change of scenery, he asked if he was to be released. His optimism brought scornful laughter from the guards. He was simply to be taken to a new cell, in a block that had been set aside especially for foreigners. He recalled: ‘Christophersen was in a ground-floor cell just two away from mine. I saw him sometimes but I didn’t have anything to say to him, and it was too late to do anything. I would have been hanged as a murderer.’

Most of Sneum’s new neighbors, it turned out, were Hungarians, but the route to ‘Little Budapest’ took him down corridors which ran through the central artery of the close-knit prison community. Here the majority of inmates were British, and Tommy encountered a problem. ‘The rumours had already spread among the other prisoners that I was a very dangerous spy,’ he remembered. As he was escorted through the prison, cells on all floors suddenly came alive with banging and chanting. ‘They shouted at me, “You fucking spy,” and all that nonsense.’ The prison warders just smiled, and did nothing to silence the inmates. Perhaps the screws had even orchestrated it all for their own amusement. Realizing there would be no punishment for their unruly behavior, the prisoners intensified their campaign. Sneum had to face this abuse on a daily basis, whenever he was taken out of his cell, and there was no one to share the burden of being a hate figure. Judging by the more neutral reaction of their fellow inmates, Helvard and Christophersen appeared to be under less suspicion.

The half-hour Tommy was given in the exercise yard each morning or afternoon should have been the highlight of his prison day. Instead, it provided the platform for some of the most intense verbal abuse. The occupants of the cells overlooking the tiny yard were quick to spread news of the foreign spy’s arrival. ‘Nazi traitor,’ they yelled incessantly. Eventually their insults began to hit home, and Tommy withdrew into himself. Apart from the Hungarians, with whom he could at least share the dubious status of distrusted foreigner, he was surrounded by black-market spivs and violent criminals. These men were seeing out the war in the relative safety of a London prison, while they called for the head of a man who had risked his life for the Allied cause. Every day the abuse from the British inmates echoed louder inside Tommy’s head.

‘German spy!’

‘Scum!’

‘Hang the bastard!’

‘What are you waiting for?’

‘Traitor, you’re going to die!’

The prison governor, Mr Benke, who had taken up his post only the previous year, was appalled when news of the victimization reached him. He ordered the guards to put a stop to it, and for a few merciful days, the cells fell silent when Tommy walked past. He felt relief and hoped for acceptance. Then, inexplicably, the chanting started again with fresh venom.

As the days turned into weeks, life no longer felt worth living. All Tommy’s senses were under assault. The stench of prison life in high summer, with hundreds of sweaty men crammed into tiny spaces, was stomach-churning. One day the prisoners were ordered to tidy and prepare their cells for inspection. Seeking to restore order in his own mind, Sneum complied until his tiny living space was sparkling perfection. Before long a large, red-haired prison officer by the name of Griffith entered Tommy’s cell on his tour of inspection. He seemed to have taken even more of a dislike to Sneum than the other inmates and glared contemptuously around the cell as he searched for fault. When he could find none, he became visibly agitated.

‘Your bed, Sneum. Look at it! What a bloody shambles.’

‘I’ve just made it,’ said Tommy defiantly.

‘It’s a mess.’

‘I don’t think so, sir.’

Griffith marched over, pushed Sneum against the wall and pulled apart the bed. ‘Well, it’s a mess now, isn’t it? Make it again, you slob.’

Sneum’s icy blue eyes drilled Griffith with such intense aggression that, for all his own sadistic tendencies, the officer was taken aback. Then he called Sneum’s bluff. ‘Go on, son, I know what you’re thinking. Why don’t you have a go? Throw a punch and see what happens to you.’

Tommy was confident he could floor the overweight warder without a problem. He also knew how deeply satisfying that punch would be. But for how long? He would be playing into Griffith’s hands—enjoying a short-term victory but a lasting defeat. If he knocked out a warder, they would have an excuse to lock him up for ever. Griffith would have all the time in the world to plan and exact his revenge.

Smiling, Griffith seemed to read his mind again. ‘Don’t worry about the consequences, Sneum. You couldn’t get into more shit than you’re in already, even if you killed me. It’s all over for you, boy.’ Tommy said nothing but wondered why Griffith suddenly seemed so sure of himself. ‘That’s right, Sneum. The rope’s waiting for you. Haven’t you been told? You’re due to swing in five weeks.’

Although he tried hard to hide his fear, Tommy was unnerved by this. A malevolent grin spread across Griffith’s face as he saw the news hit home, and he left the cell whistling cheerfully. Sneum slumped onto the mattress, which had been left in a heap on his cell floor, and wept as quietly as he could.

The next day, as he walked towards the exercise yard, Tommy experienced no abuse at all. There was mostly silence, although one or two prisoners shouted words of sympathy or encouragement from their cells. Sneum was convinced these e the same men who had been victimizing him previously. The kindness was chilling.

S
IS HAD BEEN BUSY REORGANIZING its A2 Section. Rabagliati’s successor overseeing operations in Holland and Denmark was the newly promoted Major Charles Seymour, his former number two, the man who had driven Sneum up to Ringway Airport for parachute training. With his resignation so surprisingly accepted, Rabagliati had asked Seymour to walk out too, as a gesture of solidarity. Seymour had refused, determined that there should be some continuity within the department, for the sake of any agents still in the field. He also failed to see why he should sacrifice his own career and prospects of promotion just because of Rabagliati’s personality clash with a colleague. As if to prove the point, he even took over the colonel’s old office, a particularly painful twist for Rabagliati as he stepped aside for a man half his age.

Since he had handled Tommy in the past, Seymour must have known about the Danish agent’s imprisonment in Brixton. However, he had only just got his feet under the table in Rabagliati’s office. To rock the boat so soon and campaign for Sneum’s release, especially as Tommy had threatened the lives of fellow agents, would have been a very risky career move. And Seymour was amiable, rather than a born risk-taker in the Rabagliati mould.

Office politics had therefore worked devastatingly against Tommy. Only the previous summer, Rabagliati and Seymour had shown so much faith in his ability that they had asked him to risk his life for them. Now, for very different reasons, neither man was anywhere to be seen when Tommy needed their help in return.

To make matters worse, Sigfred Christophersen was released by the authorities. For Sneum, living in the shadow of the noose, his former partner’s freedom was hard to swallow. It was even rumoured that Christophersen was to be offered a place in the RAF in recognition of his services. The chance to fly. It was all Tommy had ever wanted for himself.

One day Griffith entered Sneum’s cell wearing a sadistic smile and told him he would be executed in a few days’ time. In the meantime he would be moved to a cell nearer to the gallows. ‘They’re just making sure the mechanism is working smoothly,’ he said, taunting his prisoner. ‘You’ll be dropping through the trapdoor soon enough.’

Tommy later claimed: ‘They had this holding cell before execution in Brixton, and I was put in there. I thought: Fuck. Now they’re really going to kill me, the bastards. I was in this empty cell, which looked much like all the others, except that nobody contacted you.’

That changed when Sneum heard a strange squeaking as something heavyulled along the corridor outside. The contraption sounded as though it was running on wheels. As it came closer, however, he saw it was nothing more lethal than a trolley laden with reading material. ‘Books? Want anything?’ An elderly man was asking the question to everyone he passed. The prison librarian had reached Sneum’s cell on his weekly round.

‘Do you have any Somerset Maugham?’ Tommy asked, bringing mild astonishment to the librarian’s face. ‘I like most English writers—except Shakespeare.’

The librarian looked horrified. ‘What don’t you like about Shakespeare?’

‘I just think he’s overrated,’ Sneum replied. ‘But any Somerset Maugham would be fine.’

‘I’ll see what I can do for my next round,’ the librarian promised.

‘Let’s hope I’m still here when you do your next round,’ said Tommy in a brave attempt at black humour.

Soon he was told he was on the move again, and he began to brace himself for the noose. Instead, he was taken into the exercise yard. There he was greeted with a spontaneous round of applause. Then he heard a shout: ‘Back from the dead, you lucky bastard!’

Tommy looked up to see he was sharing the yard with a young man of about his own age. A wide, warm grin had spread all over the other man’s face. Sneum had seen him before, and remembered feeling a little jealous of his popularity, not to mention the privileges it appeared to have earned him. The regime in Brixton clearly didn’t consider this character a threat; it was as though he had been there a long time, behaved well, and now was just finishing his half-hour of exercise without an escort. Tommy, though, was confused by the man’s little quip, delivered in a thick cockney accent. The Londoner smiled at the warder who had brought out the Dane. With a nod of his head, the guard allowed Sneum to approach his fellow prisoner.

‘Bill’s the name,’ said the man. ‘Griffith said they were going to hang you. Either he was playing a cruel trick on you or someone high up must have changed their mind. Anyhow, even Griffith says it’s not going to happen now.’

Relief swept over Tommy, and it was all he could do to fight back the tears. Deep inside he also felt a burning anger. Bill smiled sympathetically as he watched his fellow inmate struggle with his emotions. Sneum managed to introduce himself, and Bill revealed that his buoyant mood was not down to Tommy’s reprieve, but because he had been given his own imminent release date.

‘I robbed a post office,’ he said, clearly feeling free to confess to his crime now that he was leaving.

‘Did you get anything better than stamps?’ asked Tommy with a smile.

‘Yes, a lot of money,’ claimed Bill. ‘Trouble was, they caught me.’

As they took a stroll and engaged in small-talk, Sneum’s mind was racing. ‘Could I give you a telephone number?’ The question was sudden and desperate considering they barely knew each other.

‘You can if she’s pretty,’ laughed Bill.

‘I mean for someone who might help get me out of here too.’

Sneum explained that the next time they saw each other, he would have the number of a man named Otto Gregory ready for Bill, scribbled on a small piece of paper. Somehow the number, for the RAC Club in London, had stuck in his mind since the previous summer.

Bill looked worried, so Tommy gave him an alternative—to pass the number to another Dane who was still in the prison but likely to get out soon—Arne Helvard.