The Spy Who - The Spy Who Betrayed Bin Laden | Holy War | 1

Episode Date: June 3, 2024

It’s 1994 and 16-year-old Aimen Dean wants to die. He’s heading to war-torn Bosnia to join the Mujahideen and save fellow Muslims. He hopes to become a martyr so that he can be reunited with his dead parents in paradise. Instead, he’s about to be confronted by a bloody reality.Listen to The Spy Who ad-free on Wondery+ in the Wondery App, Apple Podcasts or Spotify. Start your free trial by visiting wondery.com/links/the-spy-who now. See 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 violence and may not be suitable for everyone. December 2008. High Street, Kensington Underground Station, London. Eamon Dean stands on the platform, waiting for the tube train.

He's a 38-year-old Bahraini man, wearing stubble, glasses and a backpack. He looks around nervously as a security message plays over the public address system. If you see something that doesn't look right, speak to staff or text the British Transport Police. Dean's eyes flit side to side, checking the exits, scanning faces. Al-Qaeda know he's betrayed them

to British intelligence. Now they want him dead. So he's shaved off his beard and changed up his travel routes to reduce the risk of being spotted. As the train nods to a standstill, Dean ducks out of line and walks at a fast pace to a door farther up the platform, checking in his peripheral vision to see if anyone follows.

Satisfied he's in the clear, Dean squeezes onto the train. Excuse me. The carriage is heaving with tourists and Christmas shoppers. Dean moves into the well at the door and grasps one of the handrails. Instinctively, his eyes pass up and down the rows of passengers. A mum with two children clutching toys from the Disney store.

A businessman tapping at his BlackBerry. A teenager glaring at the floor from beneath her hoodie. Dean's gaze freezes. Standing farther down the carriage is a Pakistani man with a thick beard. Dean recognizes him as an Al-Qaeda member. They met several years earlier. Dean turns away, hoping he wasn't spotted. The train driver's voice fills the carriage.

Ladies and gentlemen, we're very packed today. Please move down well inside the carriages. Dean steals another glance at the man. This time, the pair lock eyes. He feels a jolt of adrenaline. The two men hold their stare for a second. Then, a surge of panic as the man's expression switches from puzzlement to anger. And he begins barging through commuters towards Dean.

Dean pushes to get off the carriage. Move. Sorry, but I have to get off. Dean bursts from the carriage, just as the doors start to close and starts to run for the stairs. Dean races up the stairs, two steps at a time. At the top, he glances back. The man also made it off the train and is now in close pursuit. Dean bolts towards the ticket barriers,

his hand fumbling in the back pocket of his jeans for his travel card. He inserts the paper ticket into the slit on the gate. The words SEEK ASSISTANCE flash in red on the barrier's LCD screen. Someone's bounding up the stairs behind him. Dean inserts his ticket again. The machine spits it out. No, no, no. From Wondery, I'm Raza Jafri, and this is The Spy Who.

Beneath the veneer of the everyday lurks the realm of the spy. It's a dank, murky world full of dark corners, sinister motives, and corroded morals. A place of paranoia and infiltration, sabotage and manipulation. In this season, we tell the story of Eamon Dean, a former jihadi who turned his back on terrorism and became the West's top spy inside Al-Qaeda. And during his journey into the heart of the terror group, he crossed paths with some of the world's most high-profile terrorists. From shoe-bomb plotter Sajid Badat

and 9-11 architect Khalid Sheikh Mohammed to the infamous Finsbury Park mosque preacher Abu Hamza and even Osama bin Laden himself. What you're about to hear are dramatized reconstructions based on real events and information that's been made public. But remember, in the shadowy world of The Spy, the full story isn't always clear. You're listening to The Spy Who Betrayed Bin Laden. Episode 1. Holy War. October 1994, 14 years before the fatwa against Dean.

In a McDonald's restaurant in Vienna, Austria, a 16-year-old Dean waits at a table as his friend Khalid returns with their meals. Dean looks disappointed as Khalid puts down the tray in front of him. Filet-O-Fish. I wanted a Big Mac. Eamon, it's the only thing that's halal here. So eat up. We have a long journey ahead of us tomorrow. Dean and Khalid have just arrived in Vienna from Saudi Arabia. They're on their way to Bosnia, where a war of independence is raging.

For 18 months, they've watched news footage of Serbian forces destroying towns and killing Bosnian Muslims in a campaign to ethnically cleanse the breakaway republic's Muslim population. Before the teenagers continue their onward journey, they have sat down their rucksacks laden with supplies and tens of thousands of dollars in cash to eat some food. How are you feeling after the flight? Could have used a bit more legroom.

You'll have all the legroom a person could need where we are headed. Paradise is all business class, my friend. You better not be having second thoughts. You knew this was a one-way trip. Yes, I know. Self-preservation isn't what's tempting me right now. Can we swap seats? Khalid follows Dean's glance towards a young woman in a dress. She's sitting at an adjacent table, directly in Dean's line of sight. In Saudi Arabia, women are required to be fully covered in public,

but her face is uncovered. Khalid quickly looks away. No, I won't swap seats and avert your eyes. Dean turns his body away from the woman and tries to focus on his meal. Khalid drains the last of his Fanta and smiles. Cheer up. We'll be martyrs soon. How do you hope to go? I want to be blown apart. That way I would leave no trace on Earth.

I don't care. I just want to be in Paradise and see my parents again. It's been hard without them, I know. God willing you'll be with them soon. What higher calling could there be than to defend our brothers

from evil? Dean dips the last of his fries in some ketchup. Then the two boys hoist their heavy rucksacks onto their backs

ready to make their way to the battlefields. As they leave the restaurant Dean glances back at the families sat eating together. He imagines that this will be his last McDonald's, for soon he and Khalid will be in Bosnia,

no longer as children, but as soldiers. Five months later, a hill range 100 miles from Bosnia's capital, Sarajevo. Dean, get over here. Dean hurries to his commanding officer. It's Dean's first week fighting Serbs with the Mujahideen Brigade, the volunteer army of foreign Muslims who've come to fight for Bosnia. After three months of gruelling training, alongside soldiers from across the world, Deen is eager to defend other Muslims. And if he dies a martyr for the cause, he believes he will enter paradise, where he'd be able to ask Allah To grant his dead mother and father eternal life

So that he could be reunited with them The commander hands him a note Sir, our spotters have picked out an enemy position Behind the hills a mile away Here, take this map and head to the mortar position I can trust you with the calculations, yes? Yes, sir behind the hills a mile away. Here, take this map and head to the mortar position. I can trust you with the calculations, yes? Yes, sir.

Good. Radio when ready. Dean takes the map and scurries to the nearest mortar gun along a narrow trench. Weeks of sleeping in waterlogged tents and eating tinned tuna have made him tired and irritable. But now, with the promise of real action and purpose, Dean feels rejuvenated. As he sprints, his glasses fog in the cold spring air. Dean bounds towards the British fighter manning the mortar. Steady.

What's the rush then? Orders. We have a position. Ready a 120-mil shell. Yeah? Dean hands the mortar man the map. I have the coordinates here. Well, okay, then. Where you from, kiddo?

Bahrain. But I live... Lived in Saudi. You? London. Focus. Do you have your aim point? Established and recorded at two kilometers. The mortarman checks the dial for angle. Then levels the bubble in the sight.

When the man stops fussing with the mechanism, Dean barks into his walkie-talkie. Sir, we're ready. Fire for effect. You're short, 70 meters or so. Raise elevation 20 degrees. Hold at charge three. Direct hit. The mortarman notices Dean's grave look. Don't spare him a thought, mate. They certainly didn't when they were massacring our lot. Oh, no, I just... I wish I was closer to the action. As he returns to the trench, Dean kicks a stone into the nearby trees.

He wonders how he will ever be martyred while fighting from such remote positions. Five months later. Ozrin Mountain, Bosnia. Stay low! Dean lowers his body as commanded and advances towards the Serbian positions. Dean's left mortar duty behind.

He's now a battlefield medic. No longer a distant fighter, his role is to tend to the injured and dying, dragging their mangled bodies to safety. Dean approaches a wounded Yemeni fighter. Quieten down. You'll draw enemy fire. Dean tears open the man's uniform to expose his upper arm and injects him with morphine. The morphine does nothing to ease the soldier's pain. Give it time. From within one of the abandoned Serb bunkers nearby, Dean hears another fighter screaming for

help in Arabic. I'll be back soon. Someone needs my help. Dean scrambles towards the bunker. You're a traitor! You're a traitor! barbed wire. He strains against the wire, which causes it to drag four landmines out of the freshly turned earth. Each one is now yoked to his body. But he feels no fear. This is it. God be praised. Dean stands motionless in a half-crouch, waiting for death. Even if the mines don't explode, any moment now, he'll be downed by a sniper's bullet. Then he hears a shout. Don't move! I'm coming! A fellow fighter crawls towards Dean with a pair of wire cutters in his gloved hand. Hold still.

Just one more. With a careful squeeze, the soldier cuts the last of the wires. The bundle of landmines sags to the ground. The soldier smiles at Dean. Four mines, and still you live? God must be watching over you. Maybe God just doesn't want me. As he clambers back down the hill, Dean starts to cry.

After a year in Bosnia, he is yet to reach paradise and reunite with his parents. And when he returns to camp, he learns that of the five medics assigned that day, only two have survived. He feels like a loser among winners. One month later. Vozut, Bosnia. The battle for Vozut is over. The picturesque charm of the countryside village has been obliterated. Muddy tents fill the surrounding fields, while the embers of burned homes fill the air with acrid smoke. And the victorious Mujahideen are celebrating their victory by slaughtering the Serbs they've taken prisoner.

Cheers fill the air as one jihadi fighter kicks a severed head across the ground. Dean looks away. He feels sick. Death is a function of war, but this feels like something else. Butchery. No! No! Please, please leave me!

Dean's unit commander drags another Serbian prisoner into a clearing and shoves him to the ground. The prisoner's hands are tied behind his back and his eyes are wild with fear. No, please. I have a family. So do the Bosnians you killed. In one hand, the commander holds a long, serrated hunting knife.

He holds it high, and he surveys the crowd of fighters gathered around the prisoner. Who wants the honor? I do. Dean's friend Khalid steps forward. The commander nods and hands him the blade. From his position in the crowd, Dean sees the look of relish on Khalid's face as he approaches the kneeled prisoner. Close by, another fighter steadies a camcorder, ready to record what happens next. Dean turns and hurries toward his tent.

The fighter inside the tent looks up as Dean enters. Everything okay? You look like you're running from the devil himself. I'm fine. Dean settles himself on his ground sheet, reaches into his rucksack and pulls out the Quran. He desperately flicks through the pages. Dean winces as he hears cheering outside the Quran. He desperately flicks through the pages. Dean winces as he hears cheering outside the tent. The fighter in the tent looks at him. Allah is with us, you know.

This is a holy war. Yes, but the things we are doing. What if we have strayed from God's path? Defending Islam from aggressors is not incompatible with a virtuous life. It is part of our calling. The Prophet commands fight in the way of God with those who fight you. In the way of God. That is important.

If the Prophet was here, do you think he would endorse these executions? You have seen the mass graves outside the villages, yes? Mothers holding their babies even as they were killed. There must be justice. Only then can there be peace. Dean falls back on his bed. The Quran lays open beside him. He remains convinced of the righteousness of the war, yet uncertain of the way in which his fellow jihadis are torturing their enemies. He tells himself one thing is certain. If it weren't for the presence of the mujahideen in Bosnia, thousands more Muslims would be dead. You can get cash back from over 750 stores on electronics, holiday travel, home decor, and more.

It's super easy. And before you buy anything, always go to Rakuten first. Join free at Rakuten.ca. Start shopping and get your cash back sent to you by check or PayPal. Get the Rakuten app or join at Rakuten.ca. R-A-K-U-T-E-N dot C-A. It's December 1995, three months since the beheadings of Serbian prisoners in Vozut. And in the city of Zenica, in central Bosnia, Eam Deen attends the wedding of another Arab fighter. As he eats,

Deen notices a man approaching. Are you Ayman Deen? Yes? I thought so. I am Khalid Sheikh Mohammed. I have heard about you. Sit with me. Deen's heard of Mohammed. He's a Pakistani jihadi, nicknamed KSM, who was involved

in the 1993 World Trade Center bombings in New York, which killed six and injured thousands more. And word is, he's come to Bosnia to seek out the best and brightest fighters. How's it been, this war? I am not the same person I was when I arrived here. You have become a man. I'm not so sure. You heard what the Serbian troops did in Srebrenica. Thousands of Muslim men and boys massacred. Even those in the West are calling it a genocide.

But they do nothing to intervene. The world is against us. A useful lesson. The two men spend a moment in quiet reflection. Dean breaks the silence. I thought by now I would be in paradise. There is more for me to do, it seems. Much more.

This war is ending. But a greater conflict is yet to come. America is the true enemy. We must take the fight to them. How? They are the greatest military force in history. They even have nukes. Come to Afghanistan and see for yourself.

We are building an army. We need thoughtful, committed men like you. For peace, for war. And then peace. Peace. Spring, 1996. A few months later. Dean sits up as the bus stops on the Pakistan side of the busy Torkham Gate border crossing. Afghanistan is now just a short walk away. He turns to the man sleeping in the

seat next to him. Dr. Hanif, wake up. We're here. It's been a bumpy ride from the city of Peshawar, but now they've reached their destination, Pakistan's busy border crossing with Afghanistan. He disembarks with his escort, the amiable Dr. Hanif. As the pair walk toward the crossing, Dean feels nervous. I don't have my passport. Our connection in Peshawar is holding it. How will we get through? You won't need that. Pashtuns are allowed to pass freely across the border. They only stop you if you look like a foreigner. And you look Pashtun enough. I am.

On my father's side, at least. Durrani Pashtun. The doctor stops walking and scowls. Never mention that again. This area is anti-Durrani. Also, take your glasses off. Why? There are no opticians where we're headed. If you're wearing glasses, they'll know you're a foreigner.

But I won't be able to see. Just stick close to me. The pair pass through the gate without being stopped. The well-stocked bazaars vanish. The tarmac turns into a rutted track. Cars give way to donkeys and carts. The clothes morph to rustic, dull fabrics. It's like time travel.

Not quite. This way of life, these traditions. I come here to feel connected to the past. We are part of the same tapestry, not separate from it. Our ride. Dean looks over the bus doubtfully. It's ancient and covered in grime. A cloud of black smoke belches out of his exhaust.

You sure it's going to make it? Just focus on getting us a seat. The bus bounces over the pitted, empty roads, through dusty plains towards Jalalabad. Dr. Hanif points out of the window towards a mountain range in the distance. That is Tora Bora. It's where the Mujahideen fought the Soviets in the 80s. Really?

There's room for 2,000 soldiers in those caves. It has its own power plant and a hospital. Best thing about it? The CIA paid for it all. The city of Jalalabad appears on the horizon. You see those hills beyond the city? Dean nods. The training camp. Welcome home. A few days later, Dean wanders through the Darunta training camp

towards the kitchens. Around him, fighters drawn from across the world train under fluttering black banners. He waves at his childhood friend, Khalid. He's also recently arrived here from Bosnia. In the kitchen, Dean sees a man in his mid-forties washing salad. He has a thick, greying beard dyed with flecks of henna. Dean greets him. Marhaba, brother. The man turns his head and smiles. Dean recognizes him as Abu Khabab, an Egyptian chemist famed within Islamist circles for his expertise in explosives. Are you the one they call the master bomb maker?

The man stops washing the salad and shuffles forward. He moves with a limp, the result of an old shrapnel injury from a mortar round. Young man, you can see for yourself, all I do around here is mix the salads.

Dean looks crestfallen. He had hoped he was in the presence of a terror celebrity. But then, Abu Khabib winks. Until we finish equipping the camp, that is. Dean smiles. Did you come here with Osama bin Laden?

No. I work independently. But I have nothing but respect for what he is trying to do with al-Qaeda. So, what talent brings you to Duranta? Are you a scientist? No, but I am good at closely following instructions. Sounds like you have the making of a chemist. Listen, my supplies should be here soon. When they arrive, stop by my laboratory. I could use an apprentice. Dean is delighted. His poor eyesight means that no matter how accomplished he becomes

at assembling an AK-47, he will likely never have the chance to use it in battle. Bomb-making, however, is something he can do. A way to make his presence known wherever Muslim people are oppressed. 18 months later, September 1997. Follow me. A guard ushers Dean through the Al-Qaeda complex in southern Afghanistan. The now familiar black flags flutter over mud brick and concrete buildings. They walk through an exercise area, where trainees dressed in flowing dark robes conduct drills on monkey bars.

It's been 18 months since Dean arrived in Afghanistan. He is now ready to pledge allegiance to the man who is fast emerging as the leader of the global jihadist movement. Up until now, he's only seen bin Laden from a distance. Now he will meet him in person and alone. The guard leads Dean through the prayer hall and towards the door of a small room. As they approach the door, Dean feels a wave of anticipation and nerves. The Sheikh is ready for you. Dean walks through the door.

Inside, the Saudi millionaire, Osama bin Laden, is sitting barefoot and cross-legged on an Afghan rug. He is lit by a single naked lightbulb overhead. Bin Laden rises to his feet. Peace be upon you. And peace be upon you too. Please, sit. Dean is starstruck. Bin Laden is a wealthy man. He could have led a luxurious life in Saudi Arabia, but he gave that all up for the cause. Dean focuses on his breathing to help steady his nerves. He looks up and sees Bin Laden's soft, affectionate eyes looking back at him. To his surprise, Al-Qaeda's leader reminds him of a kindly headmaster. How is life in the camp?

Comfortable? Devout? We train, then we read the scriptures. Simple, good life. You were in Bosnia? Yes. Dean looks away. I understand.

Take my hand. Bin Laden extends his hand, palm facing upwards. Dean follows his example. You are about to enter into a sacred oath. You have been chosen as a Mujahid. The path will not be easy. There will be times when it will become difficult. So you must always pray to God. Dean nods solemnly. Bin Laden looks into his eyes. May God welcome you into the caravan of jihad. You are now a sworn fighter of Al-Qaeda. November 1997, the Rente camp, Afghanistan, in Abu Khabib's laboratory.

Safety gloves, please. Dean and the other bomb-making apprentices start pulling on their worn plastic kitchen gloves. The laboratory is basic and dangerous. It's built from mud and straw and set on a steep hill overlooking an artificial lake. By the water's edge sits a shipping container full of the dangerous chemicals they use to make the explosives. Scarves, too. The apprentices pull their scarves over their mouths. The scarves have been covered in charcoal and dipped in water.

It's the nearest they have to gas masks, but it's feeble protection. Abul-Khabib hunts through the chipped beakers and cracked jars that line the shelves. Pay attention at all times. I once had a student who lost both hands after he ignored my instructions. Abel Khabab picks up a jar of yellow-tinged white powder and a jar of acid. Anyone knows what you get if you mix these two? Dean's hand shoots up. Hydrogen cyanide?

I knew you were a chemist. It's what the Nazis used in the death camps. They called it Zyklon B. A historian, too. Impressive. Abu Khabab taps a measure of tiny purplish crystals out of a container onto a funnel of paper. Now, if you mix these three together, you'll produce a poison gas that cuts off the oxygen supply to your organs. Your lungs will flood. Your heart will stop. It's a terrible way to die which makes it an effective threat. Our challenge is to find a way to administer this poison effectively and at scale.

Dean interjects. What if we mixed it into a water supply? Good question. Someone fetch the rabbits. Let's find out. Dean becomes so absorbed in the practical work that at times he forgets the purpose of the experimentation. But when he witnesses the gruesome effects of their poison making on the rabbits, Eamon tells himself that the chemical weapons they're trying to make will only be used as deterrents or measures of last resort.

It's two weeks later and Dean's laying on a thin mattress on a concrete floor, staring up at Abu Khabab's worried face. Eamon! Eamon! Dean turns away. He feels not just ill, but close to death. Abu Khabab is concerned his star pupil may have fallen foul of the laboratory group's experiments. Can you see me?

Hopefully it's just malaria, but it might be typhoid too. Either way, we can't treat you here. We'll have to take you to Peshawar. Eamon! Eamon! Do you hear me? Dean blacks out. Dean comes to, in the back of a battered van. He smells the sweet scent of diesel and animal manure.

A driver calls to him. We're almost at the border. Hello? You still alive back there? Oh. Oh. Oh. Hmm.

I hope you made a will. Dean closes his eyes again. A hospital room. Morning, sleepyhead. Dean opens his eyes to see his eldest brother, Moadine, peering over his hospital bed. Where am I? Qatar. They flew you here from Pakistan. Someone wants you better.

What happened to me? Afghan flu. What? Typhoid and malaria. They say you almost died. I feel it too. Thanks for coming. Dean remembers that his brothers had a son while he's been away in Bosnia and Afghanistan.

How's my nephew, Ibrahim? He's walking now. Talking too. Talking mainly, actually. They need you back in Afghanistan. But I'll see if I can bring him to see you before you're carted off. I'd like that. The doctor said you're free to leave when you're feeling up to it, but he's worried about your liver, so he wants to see you again in 12 months. Dean closes his eyes. His body aches, but the change of scenery is welcome. As he drifts off, he finds himself hoping that everyone will somehow forget about him and he will be free to stay here in this soft bed.

January 1998. Farouk camp. Afghanistan. Dean is back in Afghanistan at a new camp on a barren ridge near the Tora Bora cave network. The malaria has left him physically weak, but his mind is sharp again. As he sits watching the winter sun dip over the snow-capped peaks of the Spingard, a fleet of SUVs roar into the camp. The camp's fighters emerge from the buildings and surround the vehicles. Dean moves to join them. As he does, a tall, bearded figure emerges from the middle car. A cheer goes up. Osama bin Laden's arrived.

He addresses his followers. Brothers, I bring glad tidings. We are unifying the Mujahideen in a new global front against the Zionists and the Crusaders. We will cut the head off the snake. America, the country which seeks dominion over our people and occupation of our lands.

Against this common enemy, Muslims will finally unite. We united in Afghanistan. We unite in the Ummah beyond We stand at the dawn of a new era An era in which we will triumph against our enemies Dean too is caught up in the moment The idea of a community and a common purpose

Stretching from these remote caves across the world, from Islamabad to London, Paris to New York, is somehow comforting. After the disappointment of missing out on martyrdom in Bosnia, it feels good to have purpose again. It's August 1998, and at Farouk camp, there's excitement in the air. A passing fighter beckons Dean to follow. Come, they have the footage. Dean hurries after the fighter into the prayer room, along with the rest of the camp. Every inch of space is occupied by fighters, all craning to see the television set at the front of the room. A fighter, his AK-47 hanging loosely from his shoulder, loads a cassette into the video player.

Dean turns to the fighter beside him. What are we watching here? It's footage from the bombing in Kenya. Al-Qaeda's first attack. On the screen, Dean sees grainy, fixed-angle footage of a concrete skyscraper in Nairobi. It's the U.S. Embassy building.

The cars and pedestrians pass in front of the building, going about their day. Abruptly, the camera shakes, and the screen fills with clouds of brown dust. As the dust clears, the footage reveals the ruined frontage of the building. Fire licks out of the dozens of blown-out windows. Dean stares at the footage. He sees a Kenyan businessman hobble into shot.

The man is holding a briefcase under one arm. He turns his body to reveal his other arm is missing. It's been blown clean off in the blast. Dean stares at the screen, paralysed. Memories of the horrors he witnessed in Bosnia flood his body. As the fighters around him cheer, he feels the cracks in his belief in the Al-Qaeda mission widening. The bombs, the beheadings, the barbarism, the glee at human suffering.

This terrorism does not represent the faith of his childhood. He looks at the bloodthirsty men around him and has a quiet epiphany he'd rather be anywhere else in the world than here but weakened by illness stranded on a remote afghan mountainside hundreds of miles from anywhere how could he possibly get out? This is the first 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 scene or conversation has been recreated for dramatic effect,

it's still based on biographical research. We've used various sources to make this series, including Nine 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. The Spy Who is hosted by me, Raza Jafri. Our show is produced by Vespucci, with writing and story editing by

Yellow Ant for Wondery. For Yellow Ant, this episode was written by Simon Parkin and researched by Marina Watson and Louise Byrne. Our managing producer is Jay Priest. For Vespucci, our senior producer is Natalia Rodriguez and our sound designer is Ivor Manley. Thomas Currie is the supervising producer. Music supervisor is Scott

Velasquez for Frist and Sink. Executive producers for Vespucci are Johnny Galvin and Daniel Turkin. Executive producer for Yellow Ant is Tristan Donovan. Our managing producer for Wondery is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Jessica Radburn and Marshall Louis.