The Spy Who - The Spy Who Betrayed Bin Laden (Encore) | Twin Towers | 3

Episode Date: January 14, 2025

Dean is working undercover, posing as a loyal jihadi in Afghanistan, while actually spying for British intelligence. He knows that one mistake is all it will take to wind up dead. But that’s not his only worry because the sense is growing that al-Qaeda has a major plot in the works.Have you got a spy story you’d like us to tell? Email your ideas to [e-mail] Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge full seasons of The Spy Who early and ad free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app. A note to listeners. This episode of The Spy Who contains depictions of animal cruelty and violence and may not be suitable for everyone. November 1999, Afghanistan. In the kitchen of the Jihadi training camp a few miles outside Jalalabad, Ayman Deen is peeling potatoes for tonight's dinner of Afghani fries. It's been five months since he returned to Afghanistan's terrorist camps. And this time, he's here to spy on al-Qaeda for British intelligence. He finishes peeling another potato and reaches for another,

only to notice that the chatting in the rooms turn to silence. Before he can turn around, he feels something hard and metallic push into the base of his spine. It's over. Dean freezes. He realises the object pressed into his spine is the barrel of a gun. We know who you are and who you're working for. Dean's training kicks in. Attack when attacked. Dean spins round to face his accuser. Lower your weapon immediately!

The jihadi with the gun steps back, surprised by the ferocity of Dean's response. The man's made no specific allegations against him, so Dean's betting that this is just a test, a ploy to draw out a confession if there's one to be drawn. It is forbidden, strictly forbidden to point a gun at a brother. If this is a joke, you will regret it. Aye, aye. It is my duty. Your name, it is on a list. What list?

Do you know how much danger I put myself in for the cause? Were you in Bosnia? Have you set up networks across London? Do you know how much danger I put myself in for the cause? Were you in Bosnia? Have you set up networks across London? Do you know who I am? What I've risked? It was just a precaution. You must understand. We need to be sure.

Well, now you are sure. Get out of my sight. The fighter stows his weapon and hurries from the kitchen. Outside, the temperature is close to freezing. The fighter stows his weapon and hurries from the kitchen. Outside, the temperature is close to freezing. Snow is forming drifts on the huts, but inside Dean feels sweat running down his back. He steadies himself against the kitchen counter and takes a deep, hungry breath.

He just hopes his furious response to being questioned won't attract more attention. From Wondery, I'm Raza Jafri, and this is The Spy Who. In the last episode, Ayman Deen left Afghanistan to escape the jihadi movement and agreed to help MI5 spy on the Islamist groups planning to unleash terror on the streets of London. But now, Britain's foreign intelligence service, MI6, has asked him to go back into Afghanistan and report on what Al-Qaeda and its allies are plotting. You're listening to The Spy Who Betrayed Bin Laden, Episode 3, Twin Towers. January 2000, Darunta Camp, Afghanistan. Move back a little, we're gonna feel this one. Jihadi bomb maker Abu Khabab waves his arm to shoo Dean and the other spectators further away from the lakeside.

He is about to test his latest creation and he doesn't want to risk any casualties. But one spectator refuses to move. Don't worry about me. I'm sure I've had shits that have made a bigger impact than whatever you've cooked up here. Dean looks at the man. He's new at the camp and something of a VIP. His name is Abu Musab al-Zaghawi.

He's a short, heavy-set Jordanian, and he's just got out of prison after serving five years for plotting to attack an Israeli border post. And for Deen, he's a priority. Before he left London, MI6 told him to look out for Jordanians recently released from prison. Abu Khabab smiles at Al-Zakawi. Better safe than sorry, especially when it comes to our most honored guest.

I see how you got so far. Fine, where do you want me? There's one ton of ammonium nitrate in this thing. Ideally, we'd watch it go off from Kabul. That should be fine, though. Would you like to pull the trigger? Always shoot first. Abu Karbub hands al-Zarqawi a radio-controlled detonator.

Al-Zarqawi lifts it up and examines its back and sides, grinning widely. Fingers in your ears, nerds! Al Zakawi stams at the detonator with a fat finger. A shockwave shakes the valley like an earthquake. Dean and Abu Khabib crouch on the floor, their arms protecting their heads. But Al Zakawi stands motionless,

watching the smoke clear, proudly examining the massive crater left by the explosion. Manhattan in ruins! I can see it now, you brilliant, brilliant boys! The following morning, Tehran to camp, Afghanistan. Dean has just finished giving a dawn prayer lesson to his fellow Islamists in the camp. As he leaves the canopy to return to his quarters, he sees Al-Zakawi approaching through the early morning mist.

Nerd, you slept well after our little experiment? Morning, yes, thank you. Come, I have something for you. Sit with me. In his hands, Al-Zakawi holds two glasses of freshly brewed green tea. He passes one to Dean. Thank you. It was quite a spectacle, wasn't it?

Yes. Can I ask you a question? Anything. Abukhabab tells me that you interpret dreams. Is this so? Dean pauses. Could this be a trap? He nods tentatively. I am no expert, but I know some of the old methods, techniques from the ancient texts. As Azar Karwi opens his mouth to respond, an explosion rings out. Ha! No rest for the righteous. I thought we'd finish the tests. We have some Pakistani visitors

today. They want to see our work with triacetone triperoxide. Abu Karbab found a way to create it on an industrial scale. The Pakistanis plan to use it in suicide vests. Good. So, back to my dream. It featured a friend of mine. A good friend. I was going to meet him at his home. But when I arrived, I found him dead. Tell me, is he in danger? Or am I? A second explosion buys Dean a few seconds to consider his reply. He's wary about offering spiritual advice that upsets a man as unpredictable as Al-Zaghawi, or that fails to come true.

I can't be certain, but our forefathers believed this kind of dream suggests that death is near. I am to die? Not necessarily. It might not even be a friend or acquaintance. It is important to be ready, however, and that... P.A. P.A.

P.A. What the? That was close. Ears ringing, Dean catches the eggy scent of sulphur in the air. The two men spring to their feet and run towards the bomb testing zone near the lake. Al Zakawi points to a pair of shredded bodies on a blackened patch of ground. The volatile explosive they were testing must have detonated before they could reach safety. It's a miracle! What? They're dead!

Al-Zakawi grips Dean's shoulder. My dream. What you said is true. Death was close, and I am at peace. You must speak of this at their funeral. Others must know the prophet himself awaits their arrival in paradise. Dean feels relief that his dream reading

has won him Al-Zarqawi's trust. Now he needs to find a way to turn trust into intelligence he can feed back to MI6. Two weeks later, Islamabad, Pakistan. On a darkened street, Dean enters a phone booth. He dials the number MI6 gave him in London and gives his code name. It's Lawrence here calling from Islamabad. I need a meeting. On the other end of the line, Dean hears only distant clicking. Hello? Anyone there?

A voice comes on the line. Ah yes, hello, it's Lawrence calling from Islamabad. No, I'm alone. 500 meters south? Okay. Wait, what then? Hello? Dean leaves the phone booth and heads south through quiet streets. As he walks, he checks the reflections in the shop windows to see if he's being followed. He told his al-Haidah colleagues that he had to go to Islamabad to arrange a deal for the honey business he founded to give himself an excuse to leave Afghanistan. He's certain they believe him, but he wants to be sure he's safe.

But he wants to be sure he's safe. From behind Dean, a van approaches at speed, then breaks hard just ahead of him. The rear doors fling open and two Pakistani men jump into the road. They run at Dean, grab his arms and pull him towards the open doors. Hey, let go of me! Help! Help! Ah, get off me! Get off me! Get off me! As the van pulls away, Dean tries to get a look at the men who are attempting to restrain him. A bright torchlight flares in his face, blinding him.

Who is it? What do you want? The light swivels around to reveal the plump face of Dean's MI6 handler, grinning benignly. Richard? Hello, old chap. Sorry to startle you. Allah have mercy on you. You could have just asked. I would have gotten your van willingly. And risked blowing your cover. What if someone was watching? I just handed you an alibi. Anyway, sorry for the rough housing, but I think you'll find it was in the job description. Check the small print. What job description?

Hush now, you're in shock old boy. Here. Richard reaches into the deep pocket of his beige Macintosh coat. Have a coke. I expect you've been having withdrawals. Richard hands Dean a cold can of Coca-Cola. Dean slumps back, shaking his head in disbelief. A few hours later, an MI6 safe house in suburban Islamabad. Dean opens another Coca-Cola and continues briefing Richard.

The Jordanian. I've met him. Al-Zakawi. I suspected he'd wind up in Afghanistan. Is he as vulgar as they say he is? He's not bright, but he is canny. A thug, first and foremost. He's in it for the violence, not the dogma. What did he make of your chemistry set? It's no joke. The bombs are getting bigger and deadlier. Abul Khabib is the real deal.

We, they, are close to solving the challenge of how to make a bomb spread poison gas. And it's built from parts you could find in any tool shed. Soon they'll be able to wipe out Kensington with a single blast. That'll affect house prices. The oligarchs won't be happy. How soon? Soon enough. They've given the thing a name. Mabdakar. The invention.

That's the best you could all come up with? I'll be sure to pass along your feedback. Richard takes a sip of hot tea. The two men share a moment's contemplation. Dean knows that Richard's quips mask genuine concern, but Dean's still irritated by the flippancy. Richard's not the one spending his days in a camp full of fighters who are willing to die for their cause. It's not easy, you know. I'm helping make bombs to murder innocents. Am I supposed to

pretend I'm okay with it, excited even? No. You can remain passive, respond to suggestions, but don't offer solutions to technical problems. Apart from the legal complexities involved, after all this is finished, you'll need to be at peace with the things you've done. At the same time, withdraw and you'll arouse suspicion.

You must maintain Abelkhabab's trust. Lives depend on it. Richard takes a long look at his agent. Dean is young, just 21, but looks exhausted. You should rest here a few days. I can't. Abelkhabab is already irritated that I left at such a crucial moment. He told me I have things to do there that are more important than buying saffron. Richard slams his hand onto the table. Dean jumps. You need to rest.

I won't have it on my conscience if exhaustion causes you to make a mistake. We have food. We have comfortable beds. We have television. Everton plays this weekend, how about we drop you at the border after the match? Okay. Dean nods glumly. He's concerned that too long away from the camp could arouse suspicion. But a week's break from working on the Mobtokar is attractive. Richard smiles and hands Dean the TV remote. February 2000, Daruntukamp, Afghanistan. At the lakeside, Dean watches Abu Khabab place a wooden cage on the ground.

The rabbit inside scratches at the bars. That's the last cage. Are all the test subjects alive and well? Dean looks around the bomb test range. Rabbits in wooden cages are dotted all around at varying distances. They don't look happy, but yes, they're alive. Abu Khabab smiles. He's spent months refining the Mubtaghir poison gas bomb.

And now he's eager to see how quickly it kills. He turns to Dean. Once I set the timer, we'll have 60 seconds to get to safety. We can watch what happens through these. Abu Khabab hands Dean a pair of binoculars. Then he sets the timer on his watch, crouches down, and sets the Mugtahar device. After a few moments, he rises quickly to his feet. Run! Dean, Abu Khabab and the others sprint up the snowy hillside to the viewpoint and pull out their binoculars.

Abu Khabab checks his watch. Five, four, three! Dean ducks, shocked by the scale of the explosion. Then he checks through his binoculars and sees a cloud of yellow gas rolling along the ground away from the centre of the blast. Dean focuses on the cage nearest the bomb. The rabbit inside flips onto its back and begins to shake violently. Within seconds, it falls still.

Dean flits between the remaining cages. In each one, the animals are writhing in agony. Abu Khabab smiles. Allah be praised. It works. The men hug. Abu Khabab has tears in his eyes. In a cinema or a subway, the effects would be historic. Dean says nothing, focusing on what he could see through the binoculars. In the cage furthest from the bomb, the rabbit hurls itself at the bars as poison gas fills its lungs. Abu Khabib notices his protégé's interest.

That one's a fighter. Perhaps we should have made it a little TATP vest and sent it to work. It takes 35 minutes for the rabbit in the father's cage to die. When it finally falls still, the men cheer. Dean cheers too. But inside he feels sick.

He's part of the team that brought the Mobtagh into the world. And now that it exists, it cannot be erased. And if Al-Qaeda succeeds in deploying it, any deaths will weigh on his conscience. will weigh on his conscience. February 2000, Kabul, Afghanistan. In a lavishly decorated community hall, Dean is at a party with dozens of senior figures from Al-Qaeda. They're here to celebrate the birth of the daughter of a wealthy Al-Qaeda member, a ceremony known as Aqeeka. The child's father is standing at the front of the hall,

and before him is a blindfolded lamb. In the name of Allah and with Allah, accept this Aqeeka. The child's father holds the animal's head still. Then with a quick, practiced motion, he slits his throat. In the name of God, its flesh is for the flesh of my daughter. Its blood is for her blood. Its bones for her bones. Its hairs for her hairs. And its skin is her skin.

As the lamb's blood drains into a bowl, Dean and the other guests retire upstairs. Dean finds an empty chair at a table laid with a thick tablecloth and fine silverware. Seated all around him are senior figures from Al-Qaeda and the Taliban. Including a man he's met before, the right-hand man of Osama bin Laden, Abu Hafs al-Masri. As a waiter brings over a platter of food and begins serving the guests,

al-Masri engages another al-Qaeda man in deep conversation. Our generation started the war. The next generation will fight the war. And the generation after that will win the war. The man next to al-Masri nods. God be praised. But it's a question of scale, isn't it? No more parochial fights.

This war must be global. Yes. Let them come to Iraq. Let them come to Afghanistan. Let them come to Somalia. Then the world will see their barbarism. I heard there's a group in America that wants to overthrow Saddam. If that's true, they might still invade Iraq, yet... Perhaps. invade Iraq yet? Perhaps. But the American people won't support war in Iraq without a major provocation. I see. It would require something on the scale of Pearl Harbor. Dean

leans forward slightly to better hear. But how are we to achieve that? What would be our target? Al-Masri smiles knowingly at his companion. There are many targets, my friend. Like the Japanese, we too have people willing to sacrifice themselves. And these days, there are thousands of cameras to capture it all. There are thousands of cameras to capture it all.

One year later, June 2001, Al Qaeda base camp near Kandahar, Afghanistan. Dean dries his sweaty hands on his shirt, then knocks on the office door as his heart pounds with fear. He's been summoned here by Bin Laden's deputy, Al-Masri. And he can't shake the feeling that this summons is a sign that his spying's been uncovered. Enter. Dean steps into Al-Masri's office. It's lined with books, from modern history to sacred texts.

Al-Masri is seated behind a long desk. Without looking up from his papers, he addresses Dean. When precisely are you traveling to London? Four days, I fly from Kandahar. Good. I want you to deliver a message to four of our brothers. Relief floods through Dean's body. It's just a message, not a confrontation. He listens carefully as al-Masri spells out the four names.

He knows he is expected to commit them to memory on the spot. You are to tell them to leave Britain immediately. They must be here in Afghanistan before the end of August. This is important. Before the end of August. This is important. Before the end of August. Al Masri catches Dean's look of confusion. We have something planned. Something big.

After this, the Americans will come to Afghanistan. These four brothers will be needed here. The Muptakhar? Al Masri ignores Dean's question. Do not be tempted to come back to fight alongside us. You are needed in England. Do not leave your post, but expect to hear from us. Dean leaves the office with his head swirling

with ideas of what Al-Qaeda might have planned. He knows this information is too thin to be of use on its own, but perhaps MI6 has other intelligence that will fill in the blanks. But Dean can't think of anything Al-Qaeda could do that would be big enough to bring American troops to Afghanistan. Four days later, an airport hotel conference room. Heathrow, London. Something big you see. Dean stares out at the runway while holding a polystyrene cup filled with scalding black coffee.

On the table, the face of Tony Blair grins out from a newspaper, fresh from winning a second term as British Prime Minister. In the seat opposite, his MI6 case officer, Richard, tries to contain his irritation. Something big? That's it? You couldn't have pressed him for more detail? He was being deliberately vague. I didn't want to ask too many questions. Look, it was a two-minute conversation. Anybody else in the camp mention anything to you? If this is as significant

an operation as you make it sound, I'll muster it won't be the only person in the know. I'm sorry I'm not a senior enough jihadi for you." Richard's face softens. He's aware of the risk Dean is putting himself in on these trips. I know, you're doing well. And other reports corroborate what you're saying. It's just... It's frustrating that we're missing the details. What should I do about the messages he gave me to deliver? Deliver them, of course. I'll be watching. Perhaps they'll lead us somewhere useful.

The two men fall silent, lost in their worries about whatever Al-Qaeda is working on. The September the 11th 2001 Oxford Street London Dean weaves through crowds of pedestrians laden with heavy bags in London's busy shopping district. The sun is high, the temperature warm, but not hot. It's a lovely day to be out in the British capital. Since returning from Afghanistan, he's reconnected with his jihadi contacts in London, hoping to hear anything about what al-Qaeda's got planned. But he's learnt nothing. He crosses the road and notices a small crowd gathered around the window of the electronics retailer Dixence. Dean walks over to see what they're looking at.

What's going on? The man nearest to him nods at the bank of TV screens in the window. They're all showing the same thing. A passenger jet flying into the north tower of screens in the window. They're all showing the same thing. A passenger jet flying into the North Tower of the World Trade Center in New York. In unison the TVs cut to a live feed, showing clouds of black smoke billowing from the damaged skyscraper. Without averting his gaze from the screen,

the onlooker responds to Dean's question. Must be a computer fault. Send the pilot off course. Dean's sceptical. Why would a jet fly that deep into Manhattan? And why would it be low enough to crash into a building? As the camera lingers on the burning building, Dean sees another plane smash into the World Trade Center's south tower.

It explodes into a ball of smoke and flame. Debris arcs through the air and towards the streets below. Dean turns to the man beside him. That's no accident. In his gut, Dean knows this is related to the Pearl Harbor conversation he overheard at the Aqqika celebration last year, and his mission to tell four Al-Qaeda fighters to leave Britain. But that information wasn't enough.

He couldn't stop the Jihadi Pearl Harbor. And now, just as Bin Laden planned, America will surely declare war. It's a year later, and in his London apartment, Dean sits on the living room floor, stuffing clothes into a suitcase. On a nearby couch, a psychologist from MI5 watches on, a notebook closed on his lap. It's been a while since you last flew long haul, eh? More than a year. I hear security's more thorough these days. Immigration control too. It's an ordeal. Dean's grown tired of waiting around in London for instructions from Afghanistan. He's homesick too. It's an ordeal. Dean's grown tired of waiting around in London for instructions from Afghanistan. He's homesick too. So he's moving to Bahrain in

the hope of learning more about Al-Qaeda's plans. Perhaps he can even find some clues to the whereabouts of Osama bin Laden. It went into hiding after the US-led invasion of Afghanistan. The psychologist looks at Dean. And how are you feeling, Bord? It's been months of nothing. I need to do something. At least if I'm out there I can rekindle small contacts and start giving you something of use. The psychologist nods. I understand. Those instincts are what make you a good agent. But every passion has its weaknesses. Your family.

Could things be difficult with your brother? He is still sympathetic to the cause, is he not? It'll be fine. He's always been easily led. With a bit of care, I should be able to keep him out of prison. I just need a good reason to explain my return. There's been no order to leave Britain. We're working on that. Perhaps it's enough to say I just miss my return. There's been no order to leave Britain. We're working on that.

Perhaps it's enough to say I just miss my family. That has the benefit of being true too. My nephew Ibrahim, he's eight. All those birthdays I've missed. First word, first step, first day of school, first bicycle ride. Every month another milestone missed. I don't think homesickness will cut it. You'll need to pretend we are onto you, that it's a risk for you to remain here. But yes, it'll be good to be reminded of what you are fighting for. Ibrahim deserves peace as much as any child. Have you ever considered having children of your own? I spent my life training to die, not many women are looking to become widows. That was your old life.

Oh yes, that's right. Now I just pretend I want to die while I actually make bombs. Form an orderly queue, ladies. The psychologist leans forward. Amon, you are 24. The whole life ahead of you. This won't be forever. And when you do have children the world will

be safer and one day they will find out it is safer because of their father and the choices he made. Without looking up from his open suitcase Dean pauses for a moment with a shirt in his hand. Then he lays it on top of the pile of clothes and zips the case shut. October 2002, Paddington Green Police Station, London. In a police interview room, Dean sits beside an officer from MI5. Two telephones rest on the table in front of them. The MI5 officer runs through the plan one more time. Sound concerned rather than afraid.

We want him to believe you've been taken in for questioning, but that you're probably going to be let go soon. That way it makes sense when you turn up unexpectedly in the Middle East, okay? I don't enjoy lying to my family. It's a white lie. This way you'll be able to reunite with them without having to look over your shoulder the whole time, okay? Dean nods and lifts the receiver from one of the phones.

The MI5 officer does the same with the second phone. Dean dials his brother's mobile phone number. Omar, thank God. Beside him, the MI5 officer holds a second receiver to his ear, carefully listening in to the conversation. I'm in trouble. The police have called me in for questioning because of the people I know here in London.

No, I'm not under arrest yet. No, I don't have a lawyer. Hopefully I won't need one. But I am done with London. I'm coming back. Dean makes eye contact with the MI5 officer, who nods encouragingly. I'm sick of this country. Everywhere I go people look at me like I've got a bomb strapped to my chest. All my friends have been deported or put in jail.

I miss you too, brother. No. No need to do anything just yet. I'll call back tonight. Hopefully with a plane ticket in my hand. Dean hangs up. The MI5 officer beside him follows suit. You did well. I believed you. Thanks.

He has no reason to doubt the story. And I suppose if anyone else tracks the call, at least the number leads back to this police station. That's the idea. Leave it four hours, then call him back. This time from home. Say the police let you go. That's all the cover you'll need.

I hope so. It's a few weeks later and Dean's in a restaurant in Bahrain. His story about being targeted by the British authorities has held up and he's already being contacted by local al-Qaeda members. And tonight he's dining with one of them, a balding chemistry teacher called Akhil. But now, the main courses are finished and the time for small talks over. Akhil waits for the waiter to clear the plates, then leans forward. Am I correct in thinking that you are the one they call Abu Abbas al-Bareni. Dean isn't surprised.

Akhil knows his jihadi name. He knew there was more to Akhil's eagerness to get to know him. Where did you hear that name? I believe we have mutual friends in Afghanistan. Dean watches Akhil carefully, weighing the risk. He makes a snap decision. Yes, I'm also known by that name. I knew it. Does this mean you worked with Abu Khabab on certain programs?

He is an accomplished teacher. Akhil smiles with glee. So you know of the Muptakhar? The hairs on the back of Dean's neck rise. Word of Abu Khabab's chemical bomb has spread. Yes. Then I have an urgent message from a mutual friend. You know him well.

Khalid Al-Hai. Dean sits up. He hasn't heard his childhood friend's name for some time, and it brings back unpleasant memories of Khalid in Bosnia, ready to cut off a man's head. Khalid? What is he doing now? He's building a new network in Saudi Arabia. We have your notes on the Mubtakar, but we cannot make out the handwriting. Dean stifles a laugh at the idea of a terrorist plot foiled by his illegible handwriting.

Akhil reaches across the table and hands him a sheaf of papers. Have we got this right? Alarmed at Akhil's lack of caution, Dean snatches the papers from him and shields them from prying eyes. He scans the drawings and equations. It's clear Akhil knows his chemistry. There will be no fooling him on the science. Dean hands the papers back and smiles. Congratulations. 100% score on your test. What are you and Khalid planning to do with it? It's forbidden to use the Mubtakhar in a Muslim country that came from the highest levels. We know. and don't worry, it's not for Saudi Arabia. But I have an important question.

The gas. Cyanogen chloride is much heavier than air. Is it really the best choice? What if we wanted to spread it via the ventilation of a subway system? Dean plays for time, pretending to ponder the question but he's really thinking about the word Akhil used. Subway. Not Metro, not underground. Subway. He looks at Akhil. Subway as in New York? Akhil smiles and Dean's blood runs cold. These people have the mubtakar, a bomb he helped create.

They plan to use it to kill thousands of people in New York City. And time is running out to stop them. Have you got a spy story you'd like us to tell? Email your ideas to thespywho at wondery.com From Wandery, this is the third episode in our series, The Spy Who Betrayed Bin Laden. A 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 conversation or scene has been recreated for dramatic effect, it's still based on biographical research. We've used various sources to make this series, including 9 Lives, My Time as MI6's Top Spy in Al-Qaeda by Eamon Dean.

Throughout his life, Dean has used other names, including his birth name and the name he used while a member of Al-Qaeda. Eamon Dean is the name he adopted after finishing his spy career, and we've used it throughout this series for clarity. used it throughout this series for clarity. The Spy Who is hosted by me, Raza Jafri. Our show is produced by Vespucci with writing and story editing by Yellow Ant for Wandery. For Yellow Ant, this episode was written by Simon Parkin and researched by Marina Watson and Louise Byrne. Our managing producer Producer is Jay Priest. For Vespucci our Senior Producer is Natalia Rodriguez and our Sound Designer is Ivor Manley. Thomas Curry is the Supervising Producer. Music Supervisor is Scott Velasquez for

Frison Sync. Executive Producers for Vespucci are Johnny Galvin and Daniel Turkin. Executive Producer for Yellow Ant is Tr Johnny Galvin and Daniel Turkin. Executive producer for Yellow Ant is Tristan Donovan. Our Managing Producer for Wanderi is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wanderi are Estelle Doyle, Jessica Radburn and Marshall Lewy. Music