The Spy Who - The Czech Spy Who Stole a Son | The Kidnap | 1

Episode Date: May 26, 2026

When a teenager is made to give up her baby, Czechoslovak secret police service the StB spot a chance to create a rock-solid fake identity for one of its deep-cover 'illegal' spies. But its spy is about to end up on a collision course with a mother seeking her long-lost son.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Audible subscribers can listen to all episodes of The Spy Who, add free right now. Join Audible today by downloading the Audible app. A note to listeners. This episode contains a depiction of sexual assault and isn't suitable for everyone. Please be advised. May 1987, communist Czechoslovakia. A man sits in a blue van parked on a side street in a residential area of Prague. His earpiece crackles to life.

Target is out of way. The man man maneuvers the rearview mirror so he can see himself clearly. He studies his own wrinkled face, trying on a softer expression, smoothing down his moustache. Then he pulls on an old corduroy jacket. It's frayed at the elbows and heavily patched. He grabs the walking stick resting on the passenger seat. and opens the door. He leaves the van and closes the door, taking care to not make too much sound. He walks with a slight limp.

Rounding the corner, he sees a brunette woman in late middle age. She is glancing between the building she stands in front of and the scrap of paper in her hand, as if checking the address. The man hobbles towards her, wearing a kind smile. Hello. Are you lost? Oh, no, not lost. I'm looking for an apartment,

but I can't seem to find it. Are you local? The man peers down at the note she is holding. Oh, I'm sorry. You're about 20 years too late. They pulled that whole row down when they dug the metro. Rather than look despondent, the woman's eyes twinkle. You know the place?

I've been searching for this address for four decades. Did you know them? The people who lived there. The man squints his eyes and looks up at the clouds as if trying to recall names and faces. Yes, I think I do. A nice couple took in foster children. Even a foreign boy, if I remember rightly.

He pauses for dramatic effect. A lovely child. Helmut, was it? Or Erwin, perhaps. The woman's eyes widen. Irwin. Yes, I think you're right. Oh, thank you.

You don't know what this means. The man smiles, bids his farewell, and pretending to have remembered something he ought to have done, turns back on himself. He turns the corner, straightens his back and tucks the walking stick under his arm. The man throws the stick on the passenger seat and removes his uncomfortable jacket. He presses the signal button on his earpiece. Contact successful.

She bought it? Completely. Roger that. We'll take it from here. This man is no good Samaritan. He's an officer in Czechoslovakia's secret police force, better known as the STB. For the past week, he and his colleagues have watched that Dutch woman's every move, following through cafes and churches, museums and ministries.

Her name is Johanna van Halen, and she's visiting Prague to learn about the son she gave up for adoption. They want her to leave, convinced that she's learned the truth, because if she's she discovers what really happened, the identity of the man she thinks is Irwin Van Harlem collapses. And with it, the cover story of one of Czechoslovakia's most valuable spies. Alison Matt here from British Scandal. Matt's some news for you. British Scandal is going to Broadway.

What? Sorry, not literally. I just mean we're taking it to the stage. Is this your festival crossed wires? We're all the UK's biggest podcast do live shows across iconic venues in Sheffield. Between the 2nd and 5th of July. That was a beautiful read. Matt and I cordially invite you to our British Scandal live show on Sunday, July the 5th.

And if we're doing the story, I think we are, it is potentially one of the most ridiculous scandals we've ever told. So grab a ticket at crossedwires.org. That's C-R-O-S-E-D wires. live. I'm Amelia Fox, and this is The Spy Who, an audible original. Beneath the veneer of the everyday lugs the realm of the spy. It's a dank, murky world full of dark corners, sinister motives and corrupted morals, a place of paranoia and infiltration, sabotage and manipulation. This season, we access the case file of Vatslav Yeleneck,

the Czechoslovak deep cover spy who lived for years in Britain posing as a Dutchman named Erwin van Halum. But this spy didn't just infiltrate organizations to steal secrets for his superiors in Prague and Moscow. He infiltrated a family by convincing a mother he was her long-lost son. What you're about to hear at dramatized reconstructions of events

based on the information that's been made public. But remember, in the shadow realm of the spy, the full story is rarely. clear. You're listening to The Spy Who Stole a Son. This is episode one, the Kidnap. December 1943, the Hague, Holland. 19-year-old Johanna Van Halum smiles as she dances. Her brown curls pinned carefully for the evening. Her partner is Gregor Kulig. He's a 21-year-old Polish soldier serving in the German army, stationed at the nearby military base in Vassanar. Johanna's father is a collaborator who has been supporting the Nazis since they invaded the Netherlands

and reaping the financial benefits of his support. He has encouraged his daughters to be friendly with the occupying forces, and Johanna has been happy to spend time with the handsome young soldier she met on a train last month. Kulik speaks tenderly into Johanna's ear. You dance beautifully. Well, you're the one leading. In a few days, Kulik will return to the eastern front. Tonight, he pulls her into his body, squeezing her a fraction too tightly and toward the edge of the dance floor.

Follow me. Johanna looks at Kulik quizzically as he turns the latch. Her smile falters. Gregor, we shouldn't be in here alone. He steps closer. Let go of my arm. She feels the gentleness drain from him. He clamps a hand over her mouth.

Outside, the party goes on. Nine months later, August 24, 1944, Amsterdam. Johanna lays alone on a small bed on a maternity ward. The Allied advance is closing in on the Netherlands. The city shudders under bombing raids. It's all right. I'm here. Breathe. Here. With me?

It's a boy. The midwife swaddles the infant and presses him into Johanna's arms. You'll have to manage, dear. I'm needed elsewhere. Johanna stares at the child in her arms and feels a new friend. Sporic warmth spread through her body. It doesn't matter that he was conceived in violence, or that the baby's father has returned to the front with no promise to return, or even that her own father has cast her out because of him.

He is her child, and she will protect him with her life, no matter what happens. She strokes the baby's head and tightens her hold. I will call you, Irwin. Six days later, the Hague. Johanna walks slowly down her parent street. Baby Irwin bundled tightly against her chest. She has nowhere else to go. No money, no work, no roof to provide shelter, but this one.

Her father told her not to return here with the child. Her only hope is to change his mind. Her father stands framed in the doorway. He looks at his daughter, then at the bundle. of blankets in her arms. His face hardens. Johanna does not move. She lifts her eyes to the upstairs window. The curtains shift slightly. Johanna sees her mother peeking through the glass, her eyes wet with tears. Then the curtain flicks closed. Three weeks after her father slammed the door on her, Johanna stands on a crowded train platform beside her elder sister, Henrietta.

The waiting train is not supposed to carry civilians. It is filled with injured German troops being sent back east to Germany and beyond. Johanna's father has not completely abandoned her, however. He has used his Nazi connections to secure her a one-way ticket out of Holland. Inside a third-class carriage, Johanna cradles her baby tightly, as though someone might price him from her arms at any moment. I can't give him up, Henrietta. I won't.

How can they ask me to? I'm his mother. You heard what father said. He will not let you back into the house while you have that child. That child? Your nephew, you mean? Forget it. I'll just find somewhere else.

Where? Johanna, you're 19. You have no money, no work, no husband, and Europe is at war. How will you feed him? Johanna looks down at her son. Her father's instructions are clear. Travel to Czechoslovakia and leave the child somewhere respectable but unrecoverable. Don't worry, Erwin. I won't let you go. What? I don't care what you or father say. say, I won't give him up. November 1944, Rumbourke, German-occupied Czechoslovakia. Johanna sits on a hard wooden chair in the hallway of a provincial orphanage. Erwin is now three months old. She travelled as far east as she could on that hospital train, across the collapsing

Third Reich, through towns busy with soldiers and refugees. Finally, she reached the borderlands of Czechoslovakia. She found clerical work and a room with a single bed, just enough to survive, but not enough to manage both work and a child. Soviet troops are advancing from the east. Foreign nationals are being told to leave. Miss, it's time. Johanna doesn't move.

She studies the baby's face, his blue eyes, the pale. taut of his hair. She takes him in, memorizing every detail. The nurse places her hand on Johanna's shoulder. We will take good care of him. I know. Johanna stands as if to take her baby back, but her arms stay by her side. There is no other choice. The nurse turns away. Johanna remains rooted to the spot, numb with pain. She stared at her. She stared at a little bit. She stared at at the doors through which her baby has been taken, hoping they might open again, and return her child to her arms. Three years later, January 1947, the Hague. Johanna opens the front door of her childhood home. Her father has allowed her to move back in now that Erwin's gone. Two officials

stand on the step, their collars turned up against the cold. Sven home? Yes? We're from the orphanage in Rumburg. Johanna's breath catches. We wrote to you several times through the Red Cross as well. What? I never saw any letters. The fees are overdue. You must either settle your bill and reclaim the child or consent to his adoption. If you do this, the orphanage will waive the money owed.

Her father looms in the doorway behind her. Johanna, it's done. time to let go father please you have no money no husband no house think about what is best for the child being with his mother is best for the child he ignores her and turns to the social workers she will sign the adoption papers pen please father please let him come home this was never his home and it never will be now sign As Johanna signs away her son in the doorway, the wind lifts the corner of the page. Just over two years later, April 1949, Prague, the offices of Czechoslovakia's secret police, the STB. Czechoslovakia is now under communist rule, its leaders answering to Moscow.

The secret police are building files, not only on enemies of the state, but also on the dead, the displaced, and the forgotten. An intelligence officer runs his finger down a list of names gathered from orphanages across the country. These are children whose names no longer belong to anyone. His finger stops at one. Ahwin van Halum. Dutch mother, Polish father, deceased, placed in care in 1944, adopted, name changed, no further claimants. Well, look at this. The officer sets the file aside. There's a birth certificate, a nationality, a ready-made life.

In the new Cold War with the West, identities are weapons, cover stories waiting to be deployed. And Erwin Van Halum has just been chosen. 16 years later, 1965, Schneerhova Street, Prague, Watslav Yeleneck is 22 years old. During his compulsory military service, he caught the attention of the Czechoslovak's secret police, the STB. His ambition and discipline marked him out as a potential recruit.

Now he's been ordered to report to an address in Prague. He has no idea what awaits him there. Comrade Yeleneck, a stranger is seated at the kitchen table, table in a clean and well-kept flat. He is wearing ordinary clothes, but has the manner and authority of a military officer. The man gestures for him to sit. You've done well, disciplined, intelligent, adaptable. So we would like to offer you an opportunity. An opportunity, you would become what we call in our department an illegal. Yellingek cannot hold back his curiosity. What department would that be, sir? The man's eyes narrow. I'm coming to that. First, let me explain what's at stake.

You would live abroad under a foreign identity for years at a time. No diplomatic cover, no embassy protection, espionage. Let's call it long-term surveillance. There would be training. Three years, languages, tradecraft, you will sever all contact with your family, no marriage either, no attachments that compromise the mission. If you're arrested, we deny all knowledge of you. Sounds like a dream posting. In return, you'll receive a promotion and a significant increase in pay. If things go well, medals, a comfortable pension, and the knowledge you served your country and the socialist cause. Where would I live and study? The handler smiles and gestures around the room. Yellinge's eyes flick around the flat. The furniture is clean and new. The floors are freshly polished.

In the corner, a refrigerator hums. This apartment will be yours, if you accept. You don't have to answer right away. Think it over. Consider the life we're offering you. But know this. Once you accept, there is no going back. Yelinek walks slowly through the apartment's rooms. He runs his hand across a smooth wooden table.

He opens a cupboard. It's stocked with food. In his parents' flat, the walls sweat with damp. The bathroom is shared with two other families. Here, everything gleams. I won't go back. Summer, 1967, Resch, north of Prague. After almost two years of training, Yeleneck is ready to test his abilities.

In front of him, beyond a tall barbed wire fence, sits one of Czechoslovakia's nuclear research facilities. His STB tutors want him to obtain intel from within it, without detection. He strips quickly and pulls on a pair of blue workmen's ovals. He crouches by the fence, wirecutters in hand. He waits. When the patrol passes, he slips through the gap he is made in the wire. Inside the guard post, two men are deep in conversation.

The barrel of a mounted machine gun hangs down over the concrete wall. It's unmanned. The guards don't look up. Yeleneck creeps past them. He enters a low concrete building and pulls a miniature camera from his pocket. Control panels, filing cabinets, wall charts. Yelinek is careful to capture images. of every piece of potentially useful information.

When he has what he needs, he moves to the next room. Inside, scientists are deep in their work. Yellen X spots the man he is supposed to contact in order to complete his training mission. He approaches quietly while removing a fresh radish from his back pocket. The scientist startles. He spins around. to see what has made the noise.

Yelinek cocks his head. You weren't expecting me? The scientist looks confused. Then a flash of understanding crosses his face. I thought you were due next week. What are you doing here so early? Yelinek grins broadly. It wouldn't count if you knew I was coming.

With an irritated expression, the scientist thrusts a folder into Yelinek's house. Heaven knows why we have to be involved in these stupid games. There, go. Yelinek nods once, then leaves the building the same way he entered. Unchallenged. Two days later, what the fuck are you playing at? Yelinek sits at a trestle table opposite his handler.

The folder from the nuclear facility lies open on the desk between them, along with the developed photographs. Yelinek stares at his superior in an attitude of casual defiance. You told me to infiltrate the facility, so I infiltrated the facility. You were supposed to submit a plan to seek approvals.

Who do you think you are? James Bond, you broke into a secure facility without anyone knowing what you were doing. I made a plan. I knew what I was doing. I met the objectives. I showed initiative.

You showed insubordination. There were armed guards, machine guns. You could have been killed. What then? I would be dead. And what would I tell your parents? That I failed my training. The handler studies Yelinek.

This compulsive streak is concerning. But there is no denying his bold approach got results. and Moscow expects results from the STB. This is not a game, Yeleneck. We're not looking for action heroes. Where you're going, patience isn't just a virtue. It's what will keep you alive. A few weeks later, Prague.

Yeleneck walks through the city centre and turns a corner. As he heads down the street, he checks the reflection in the windows of a passing tram and sees he's still not shaken his tail. For the past week, he has been trying to shake an STB surveillance team. He's reached the final stage of his training. Now he must prove that he can evade surveillance.

But so far, he has failed to lose the unit following him. He turns a corner. They turn a corner. He stops suddenly. They stop. Feeling a sting of irritation, Yelinek makes a snap decision. He knows Prague. This is the city where, as a boy, he and his friends played hide-and-seek until it got dark.

It's time to bend the rules and win the game. Yelinek heads north, away from the city centre, toward a neighbourhood in the suburbs he knows well. He slips behind a small gardener's house. cottage and drops into the storm drains. The stench is immediate, but he grew up playing in these tunnels. He knows every turn. He moves quickly through the maze of tunnels, counting junctions in his head, left, right, straight on to the river outlet. He emerges several streets away at the pre-arranged rendezvous. He waits.

Nothing. No watchers, no mocking whistles. For the first time, Yelinek has lost them. He's free. Several months later, 1968, an STB safe house in Prague. Yelinek sits opposite his handler. Between them lies a thin file. Well, you passed your training.

Yellinek nods, neither surprised nor complacent. Now things become serious. You are, from this moment forth, Erwin Van Halem. Yeleneck opens the file and reads the details aloud. Birthplace, Amsterdam, August 1944. Mother, Dutch, Johanna van Halem, father, Polish, deceased, entered foster care in 1949, adopted 1951. Yeleneck pauses and tilts his head slightly.

The boy is still alive. The couple who adopted him changed his name. Irwin ceased to be, until now, of course. Yeleneck nods. His handler cuts in. Memorise everything in this file. Schools, streets, the names of your neighbours when you were eight years old. Your favourite teacher, the pet you buried, the year you got pubs.

What about the mother? The one who gave him up? She relinquished her rights. We have all the paperwork. Even if she wanted to find her son, there's no trail to follow. Here, original birth certificate, signed adoption consent. You can use these to apply for a Dutch passport. Yeleneck studies the signature at the bottom of the page,

Johanna van Halum. What about my papers? I mean, my real ones, they have been disposed of. Commiserations, but Vatslav Yeleneck no longer exists. And as far as anyone can prove, he never did. Yeleneck takes a breath. He knew this was coming, and yet it feels strange to have witnessed his own passing,

this way. May I say goodbye to my parents? No. We will inform them you are serving your country. You may see them again when your work is complete. The two men lock eyes. Yeleneck knows

his posting will last for years, possibly decades. There is no guarantee his parents will still be around for a reunion when the time comes. Yelinek closes the file and with it, the last chapter of his old life.

He is Erwin Van Harlam now. Seven years later, June 1975, Victoria Station, London. Vatslav Yeleneck steps off the train and onto the platform. He's 31 years old and handsome in a sharp double-breasted pinstripe suit, wearing polished shoes, his silk tie. perfectly knotted. He has spent years building his cover as a hotel worker in Austria. Now, at last, he has arrived in Britain to begin spying in earnest. He catches his reflection in a shop window and smiles. The tailor did a fantastic job. He looks every inch the English gentleman. Banquets

surely await. He strides out of the station and toward a waiting black tauts. taxi cab. Oh, you, get in line. Yeleneck freezes. He's only been in London five minutes and has already made a faux par. A lengthy line of passengers snakes along the pavement. Every one of them glaring at him, he glumly joins the back of the queue. When his turn finally comes, Yelanek climbs into the back seat. The cab pulls away. Yeleneck looks out of the back window. He sees his suitcase still on the pavement. Stop! Stop! The driver looks at him in the mirror.

What's the problem? Yelly Neck gestures at the suitcase. The driver does not move. Well, go on then! Yelinek stares. Then, slowly, understanding dawns on him. The driver expects him to get the suitcase himself. Just as Yeleneck retrieves the suitcase, another passenger

slips into the back seat of his taxi. The driver pulls away. What the? Yellinek turns around to the long line of people waiting for taxis. The guy at the front nods toward the pavement. Back at the queue, mate. A few weeks later, South Kensington, London. Yeleneck lets himself into his small flat.

He has spent the day carrying plates at the Hilton Hotel on Park Lane, where he now works as a waiter. It's not the high life he dreamed of, but it provides workable cover. The days are long, and by the time he returns home, he is exhausted. But it's only now that the real work begins.

First thing this morning, at a pre-arranged hour, he received a radio transmission from Prague. Now he sits beneath a single desk lamp, pencil and hand, decoding the messages using a one-time cipher. The first message is brief. His parents have been visited.

They are well. The second message is longer. Yelinek's brow furrows as he translates. His eyes widen as the message forms. He is being instructed to explore ways of infiltrating the royal household. Moscow wants him to consider the placement of electronic listening devices inside Buckingham Palace. Oh, sure. Simple.

From the rooftop bar of the Hilton, he can see Buckingham Palace with its gates and its trooping guards. But his spymasters might as well be asking him to plant a bug on the moon. Yeleneck folds the paper neatly. His superiors must imagine his life is filled with flutes of champagne, Candlears and state banquets. Right now, the only Intel Yelinek has gathered is the hotel staff rotor. A few months later, Hilton Hotel Park Lane.

It's less than an hour before the hotel restaurant opens, and Yelinek is brushing down the white linen tables. His colleague, Gary, stands by the service station, staring into space. Didn't get it. Yeleneck looks up. What didn't you get? The palace job. Yelinek's stomach drops. Gary hoped to become a footman at Buckingham Palace, and Yeleneck hoped he could then use Gary to make a breakthrough in his mission to get close to the Royals. But now that hope is gone. I'm sorry, Gary. Did they say why? No. They wouldn't tell me.

You think it's because Yeleneck stops himself. What? Because I'm Jewish. Oh, they'd never say it, Irwin. But sure, why not? Yeleneck looks out of the tall window. In the distance, just visible beyond the trees, the roofline of Buckingham Palace, a stone's throw, and a universe away.

May 1977, South Kensington, London. Yeleneck drops his jacket over a chair, Another long day finished. Another day no closer to Buckingham Palace. He bends down to collect the post a sheaf of bills. Gas, electricity, a leaflet for double glazing. He flicks through them without looking. Then he stops.

The emblem in the corner is unmistakable. The Red Cross, the International Relief Organisation, and its address to Erwin Van Halem to this flat. How the hell? He tears open the envelope and unfolds the letter. Dear Mr. Irwin Van Harlem, his eyes move quickly down the page. The letter is from the Red Cross's International Tracing Service, which helps reunite families separated by war.

A woman named Johanna Van Halem, is searching for her son. They want his consent to give her his address. Yeleneck lowers the letter slowly, as the blood drains from his face. For nine years, he has carefully constructed the lie that he is Erwin Van Halem, from birth certificate to passport,

to a life in London. But now, the past he built his false identity on has caught up with him. What will he do? Follow the Spy Who on the Audible app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to all episodes of The Spy Who Add free by joining Audible.

You have been listening to The Spy Who, an Audible original. Have you got a spy story you'd like us to tell? Email your ideas to The Spy Who at audible.com. Quick note about our dialogue. We can't know everything that was said or done behind closed doors, particularly far back in history, but our scenes are written using

the best available sources. So even if a scene or conversation has been recreated for a dramatic effect, it's still based on biographical research. We used many sources in our research for this season, including the Czech spy by Yaroslav Kementa and A Spy in the Family by Paul Henderson and David Gardner. The Spy Who is hosted by me, Amelia Fox. It's a Yellow Ant production. This episode was written by Simon Parkin and researched by Louise Byrne, with thanks to Yaroslav Schfeld and Inabbruse. The senior producer was Jay Priest.

The sound designer was Joshua Morales. Music supervision by Scott Velasquez for Frisson Sink. For Yellow Ant, the story editor and executive producer was Tristan Donovan. For Audible, the executive producers were Estelle Doyle and Theodora LaLoudis.