The Spy Who - The Spy Who Defused the Missile Crisis | Code Nuclear | 4

Episode Date: July 30, 2024

It’s 1962 and Oleg Penkovsky has gone to ground after spotting a KGB surveillance team tracking his MI6 contact Janet Chisholm. But when the British Embassy in Moscow invites him to a cocktail party, he sees a chance to reconnect with Western intelligence.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. It's March 1962, and in Moscow, Soviet military intelligence officer Oleg Penkovsky is attending a cocktail party at the apartment of the British Embassy's scientific attaché. It's several weeks since he spotted the KGB tailing his MI6 contact, Janet Chisholm. Since then, he's been laying low and living in fear

that the KGB are also monitoring his every move. He's also cut off all contact with Chisong. But now, this party has given him a legitimate reason to meet her and let her know the KGB are watching them. Not just for her safety and his own, but so MI6 and the CIA understand why he's gone dark. He just needs to make sure he gets the warning to her without arousing suspicion. Penkovsky huddles with the other Soviet guests. He subtly checks the faces across the room,

noting who is and isn't present, while maintaining his cool by cracking jokes with his countrymen, any one of whom could be working for the KGB. Comrade, you're Manhattan. Spasiba. Wait. I said no ice. Penkovsky stares at his colleague, enjoying holding power over a subordinate,

while the rest of the group watches on. Then his face creases into a smile. Your face, lighten up, Alexei. It's not the end of the world. Not today, at least. As he laughs, Penkovsky watches Chisholm. He's been supplying her with top secret documents for months, but officially he's only met her with top-secret documents for months, but officially he's only met her once at another party thrown by the British Embassy. He knows he must choose the right moment to approach her and avoid doing anything that would suggest anything more than a passing acquaintance. Ah, excuse me, I must mingle.

Penkovsky nods and smiles at the other partygoers as he slips between them, finally arrives at the group of British diplomats and their wives. Ladies, gentlemen, a splendid party, although a little light on the vodka, perhaps. Penkovsky addresses Chisholm. Mrs. Chisholm, isn't it? You are more radiant than ever. Ah, Colonel, you flatter me. But as you can see, I am in fact a whale.

Chisholm gently pats her stomach. She is visibly pregnant. Nonsense. But you must be tired from listening to these bores. Why not rest your feet a while? Chisholm takes the hint. I could use a moment's lie down. I will catch up with you later, I'm sure.

With a polite nod, Chisholm retires to the host's bedroom. Penkovsky turns to address the attaché's wife. Madam, this is a lovely apartment. Would you care to show me around? The hostess agrees and leads Penkovsky from room to room, showing off the decor she has chosen. Eventually they reach the bedroom to which Chisholm has retired. Penkovsky subtly pulls a packet of cigarettes from his pocket.

Inside are several rolls of Minok's film, including a photograph of a letter warning MI6 about the suspected tale. The hostess opens the door for Penkovsky. He steps inside and winks at Chisholm as she rises to her feet from the bed. Good God, I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to disturb you. No, no need to apologize. I was about to return to the fray anyway. Penkovsky turns on his heel. He positions the cigarettes behind his back and waggles the packet.

A moment later, he feels Chisholm take it from his hand. As the hostess leads Penkovsky away, Chisholm heads into the bathroom with the cigarette packet and locks the door. She crouches down and pulls a towel over her head to hide from any hidden cameras in the room. She opens the cigarette packet. Inside, among the rolls of film, there's a piece of folded scrap paper. She gingerly unfolds the document

and holds it close to her face. In tiny lettering, she makes out a message. You are being followed. Act normally. No more street meetings. Chisholm feels a chill run down her spine. Penkovsky's cutting off of contact makes sense now. The KGB have picked up their scent.

She could be deported and Penkovsky executed. All she can do now is keep a low profile and hope the KGB doesn't know the truth. From Wondery, I'm Indra Varma, and this is The Spy Who. On the last episode, the Berlin Wall cut the German city in two and pushed the world closer to nuclear conflict. The CIA and MI6 armed Penkovsky with the distant protocol so he could alert them of any urgent nuclear threats to the West.

And Penkovsky discovered the KGB is following his MI6 contact, Janet Chisholm, which means they're probably watching him too. Now, with the Soviet secret police on their tails, Penkovsky and Chisholm must choose their next move carefully, even as the nuclear tension between the US and USSR builds. This is The Spy Who Diffused the Missile Crisis. Episode 4. Code Nuclear. July 1962, Moscow.

British businessman and MI6 agent Greville Wynne heads down the corridor of the Ukraina Hotel towards his room with Oleg Penkovsky by his side. Officially, Wynne is in Moscow for a trade meeting, but he's also here to resupply Penkovsky with film for his Minox spy camera. They reach the hotel room and step inside. Wynne drops his suitcase onto the bed, then, for the first time, notices the grave look on Penkovsky's face.

Goodness, what's got into you, old fellow? Penkovsky holds a chubby finger to his lips and stares daggers at Wynne. He turns on the radio, then he strides into the bathroom and opens the cold water tap. Next, he marches up to Wynne. How are you still so bad at this? There's no one here. Wrong. The KGB are everywhere, even before they were onto us.

Onto us? Since when? Since Christmas. At least. My father, they reopened the investigation into him. It's to keep me here. I won't be going to Cyprus. For a moment, Wynne looks troubled. Then he shrugs off his

concern. It'll blow over. No, Grev. No, it won't blow over. Wynne is surprised to see tears gather in Penkovsky's eyes. In the months they have known one another, he has never seen his friend upset like this before. The die is cast. I must abandon my family. Steady on? How else can I protect them? If I am arrested and tried, they will destroy everything. My children. You know what they do to the families of traitors like me. I must disappear and somehow escape to the West. Wynne places a hand on Penkovsky's shoulders as they begin to heave. Watching his friend's strength and resolve fail, Wynne feels a ball of panic tighten in his stomach. If the Colonel is right and the KGB are onto him,

Wynne is also in grave danger. The world shifts on its axis. Wynne is also in grave danger. The world shifts on its axis. Wynne feels nauseous. Oleg, you should go. We'll hatch a plan. We'll think of something. You always do. Until tonight.

An hour later. Wynne steps into the warm summer air in Moscow. It's an hour since Penkovsky left his hotel room in a state of high anxiety. In that time, Wynne has considered his situation and his options. He can't decide whether Penkovsky's just being paranoid or his fears are well-founded. Wynne scans the street to see if he is being watched. There is nobody around. He starts to walk to clear his head.

A car passes. Another Gus Volga. Wynne turns his head to get a look at the driver. He wonders if it's the same one that passed by earlier. Wynne picks up his pace, his heart pounding. Moscow seems transformed. It is no longer an exotic city. Wynne no longer feels like he is a part of some Hollywood spy drama

with its long-legged blondes and sophisticated cocktails. The alluring clichés have melted away. These streets feel suddenly intimidating. Threatening. Oppressively Soviet. Wind startles as a flock of pigeons take wing. He reaches for a cigarette to steady his nerves. Shit. He's left them in his room.

He turns to head back to the hotel, cautioning himself to not worry. Penkovsky is being paranoid. Besides, when presented with a high-ranking colonel from the GRU and a middle-aged businessman from Shropshire, it's obvious who the KGB would choose to tail. The receptionist looks alarmed at his return. Oh, Mr. Wynne, you are back. Your room is due to be cleaned. I won't be long. I just left

something in my room. My key, please. Your key? Yes. You hung it on the wall when I left. Is it not there? Wynne checks the row of hooks on the wall behind the receptionist. There is no key by his room number. Without checking, the receptionist crouches down and begins to rifle through a drawer behind the counter. Seriously, I saw you hang it there. Where has it gone? One moment, please, Mr Wyn. I must have mislaid it. Wyn feels a surge of concern flood his body. Is someone in his room? It must be in the back. Give me a moment.

The receptionist disappears into the back office, closing the door behind her. After nearly ten minutes waiting, she returns to the counter, her cheeks flushed red. Your key, Mr. Wynn. Wynn snatches it from the countertop and heads to the second floor. He scans his room for signs of an intruder. His bed remains made. His suitcase sits by the desk against which he propped it earlier that morning. He exhales.

He walks across the room, picks up his suitcase and places it on the desktop. Wind freezes. Something is different. He always folds his shirts with the collars turned inwards to keep them clean, but it appears his shirts have been refolded with the collars turned outwards. The room has been searched. That evening, Peking Hotel, Moscow. In Moscow's only Chinese restaurant,

Wynne sits alone at a table trying to remain calm. He is due to meet Penkovsky here, ostensibly to discuss trade matters. But the day's events have transformed a meal Wynne was looking forward to into an ordeal. His eyes flit from table to table, checking the faces of the guests struggling with their chopsticks. Is she KGB? What about him? Just as he lights a cigarette, Wynne sees Penkovsky enter the restaurant. Before he can beckon him over, Wynne sees his friend clock two men sitting at a table close by.

Oh, never mind. I can see that you're full tonight. Penkovsky spins around and heads quickly out of the door, leaving the maitre d' looking bemused. The restaurant is, at most, half full. Wynne stands to his feet, pulls his napkin out of his shirt collar and throws it onto the table. He makes for the door. The two men sitting close by watch him carefully. Wynne hurries down the street following Penkovsky. After a couple of hundred yards, Penkovsky ducks into a narrow alley.

Wynne follows. As he enters the darkened alleyway, the two men almost collide. Idiot! Why are you following me? Can't you see we are being watched? What do you want me to do? You got me into this. Help me get out of it. Penkovsky looks momentarily taken aback. Wynne has never spoken to him like this before. Suddenly his face hardens. Do I have to spell this out to you? It is over. Get out of Moscow. Run. Don't come back.

Penkovsky pushes past the Englishman, who stares at him, his mouth agape. Wynne looks towards the far end of the alleyway and sees the outline of two men wearing trilby hats, looking right at them. Good God. Wynne runs in the opposite direction towards the main road. Taxi! Taxi! The Ukraina Hotel. Now! As the taxi wends through the twilight streets of Moscow, Wynne stares out of the back window to see if he's being followed. All he wants to do now

is get on the first flight out of Moscow and never come back. October 1962, Washington, D.C. In the White House residence, U.S. President John F. Kennedy is in his dressing gown reading the New York Times over his breakfast coffee. On the carpet beside him, his five-year-old daughter Caroline plays with a die-cast toy car. Yes? The president's national security advisor, McGeorge Bundy, enters the room.

He goes to say something, then notices the girl playing on the floor. Sir, can we have the room? A light frown forms on Kennedy's brow. Then, seeing Bundy's serious expression, he folds his newspaper. Caroline, can you go play with mom for a bit? Thank you, sir. What is it?

Bundy pulls a series of black and white photographs out of a manila envelope and places them on the table. What am I looking at here? Cuba. One of our U2 pilots took these photos less than 24 hours ago. Bundy points to a cluster of dark objects shaped like cigars. They seem large, whatever they are. They are medium-range ballistic missiles, sir. Offensive, not defensive. How can you be sure? Agent Hero, sir. The R-12 manuals he photographed in Moscow. It's a match. What's the range? 1,100 nautical miles, so enough to reach Caroline's bedroom, I'm afraid. And as far west as Dallas. The president rests his elbows on the table and places his head in his hands.

Shit. What's the payload on these things? One megaton. Or 70 Hiroshima's. Is it a bluff? What about Hero? What can he tell us about Khrushchev's intentions here? Sir, Agent Hero's gone dark. We've not heard from him in months. He may be compromised, under arrest, or dead.

And if he does resurface, we'll have to assume he has been turned. Are they ready to fire? We don't think so. Our planes haven't spotted anything that suggests the Soviets have delivered nuclear warheads to Cuba. Yet. How quick can these things fire once the warheads are delivered? Two to three hours. Kennedy falls silent as the news sinks in. The Soviet Union is about to put nuclear missiles on America's doorstep and gain the ability to wipe major cities off the map within hours. He can't let this happen. It's time to heed Penkovsky's advice and call Khrushchev's bluff by demanding the Soviets dismantle their missile bases in Cuba. But if Khrushchev's bluff by demanding the Soviets dismantle their missile bases in Cuba. But if Khrushchev doesn't blink, Kennedy could be about to start World War III. November 2nd, 1962. The British Embassy, Moscow.

MI6 Station Chief Gervais Cowell puts down his newspaper. The headline reads, Soviets back down over Cuba. After two weeks of brinkmanship, Khrushchev has finally agreed to remove the Soviet missiles from the USA's backyard. The Cuban Missile Crisis seems over. Cowell picks up the phone.

Yes? The caller blows into the phone three times and hangs up. Cal's eyes narrow. He's been trained to recognize the signal. The first step of DISTANT. The protocol given to Penkovsky to warn the West of impending nuclear threat. Cowell takes a breath.

He knows that if the caller is Penkovsky, then the world could be on the brink of nuclear war. But Penkovsky's not been heard from since the summer. It's possible the KGB has him and has now forced the details of the protocol out of him But Kowals struggles to understand why they'd risk using it just as the Cuban Missile Crisis dies down Kowals decides to make himself a cup of tea To complete the signal, Penkovsky is supposed to call back 60 seconds later

He checks his watch. Cowell's mind is numb. He feels the weight of the world's fate pressing onto his shoulders. Cowell checks his watch again. It's been three minutes His shoulders relax A false alarm Hello?

That's Penkovsky's emergency signal, alright And yet That's Penkovsky's emergency signal, all right. And yet... The gap between the calls was supposed to be one minute, not three. Why the delay? Has he deliberately fumbled the protocol as a way to signal he has been captured? Or did he simply make a mistake? Cowell considers what might happen if he runs this up the chain. A few days earlier, the Americans and Soviets pulled back from the brink of nuclear war, but people are still on

edge. Many fear the Soviets' withdrawal of missiles from Cuba could be a trick. Kowal stares out of the window at the streets of Moscow. This could be the beginning of the end. But the signal... The signal was wrong. Cal takes a sip of his tea and makes his decision. He's not going to let London know about this. He's going to pretend the call... never happened.

A few minutes later, CIA headquarters Langley. In a secure room, Joe Bulik, the head of Soviet operations and his bosses, are debating the distant call the CIA station chief in Moscow just received. Gentlemen, please. Let's focus. We have a decision to make. The code came in, albeit with an error. What are we dealing with here?

Penkovsky's long gone. We can't trust the signal. He could still be sending us a message, even if the KGB have him. Or maybe the KGB's got him and he's trying to bring the whole goddamn world down with him. Maybe. Maybe not. Bulik looks at the grave faces of the men sitting around the table. Personally, I am not a gambling man.

At least, not when it comes to the apocalypse. It's not your decision to make, Bulik. We get the best information. We pass it up the chain. It's what we do. But do we have the best information? Who else do we have in Moscow? We need a second source before it leaves this room. Dick Jacobs in town. He could check the dead drop. If it really is Penkovsky and he's followed the protocol, there will be a confirmation there. Good. Make it happen. It's a few hours later, and in Moscow, CIA officer Dick Jacob walks through the streets in a winter blizzard. Jacob has been walking for some time. He has taken a

circuitous route through the city, entering stores through one entrance and immediately exiting through another. It's a technique called dry cleaning, and it aims to help spies lose, or expose, anyone who's following them. Jacob observes the pedestrian traffic on both sides of Pushkin's Skye Street. It's busy, but fluid. No loiterers. Three Volgas are parked at the curbside. In one of them, a man sits in the driver's seat, smoking. Jacob steals a closer glance. The man is elderly, with a book open on his lap. Not a threat.

Reassured, Jacob makes his move. He approaches the door to the apartment block, where the dead drop is located, confident that he has not been followed. Inside the dimly lit area in the stairwell, Jacob notices a middle-aged woman with a shopping bag coming down the staircase. He places his foot atop the radiator, pretending to tie his shoelace. He subtly sweeps his hand behind the radiator. His fingers touch a matchbox. As he gingerly scoops up the matchbox, four men burst through the door. Hey!

One man seizes Jacob's arm, ripping his coat down the side while attempting to grab his fist. But Jacob has already released the matchbox, allowing it to fall to the floor. This way, he can deny he ever had it. Within 15 seconds, the men have pinned his arms behind him. The men are powerful, but work quietly, and Jacob does not resist. He's in Moscow working under diplomatic cover, giving him immunity. So long as he says nothing, he'll be fine. The ruse has been worthwhile. Now the CIA knows the truth. Penkovsky is caught. That evening, Varus Liget Park, Budapest, Hungary.

Greville Wynne struggles to uncork a bottle of wine. It's been a long day of trade negotiations. Now, at a party in a tent outside the conference venue, he's looking forward to relaxing with his new business contacts. He turns his back to them as he battles with the cork. Out, you bastard. Wynne looks around expectantly. He had expected some cheers or a spattering of applause, but he now sees the tent has emptied. Curious? He goes to the entrance and peers into the street outside.

The sky is darkening. In the waning light, Wynne sees four men approach. They are stocky and muscled and wearing matching trilby hats. Gentlemen, can I pour you each a drink? Mr. Veen? Um, yes? In a smooth motion, one of the men places his foot in front of Wien's legs and pushes him forward so he trips. Another of the men catches Wien,

who notices the shadow of a car pull up beside the group. A Soviet-made Moscovich sedan. Steady on. What's all this about? Get off! The men shove Wien into the car. He collapses into the back seat, but quickly regains his composure and reaches out to open the far door. He spots his own driver on the other side of the street and calls out to him. Help! Help me! One of Wynne's kidnappers delivers a sturdy kick to his kidneys. Another slams the car door shut.

Something heavy and metallic strikes Wynne on the head. The world fades to black. November 1962. The Lubyanka, Moscow. In the prison within the KGB's headquarters, Greville Wynne is under interrogation. I told you already, I am a businessman. This is all a big misunderstanding.

The KGB interrogator ignores Wynne. He slides a photograph across the table. Wynne glances down and stifles a gasp. It's a photo of him outside the Peking restaurant, chasing after Penkovsky. The interrogator watches Wynne's face closely. So, we know you are friendly with Oleg Penkovsky. Wynne moves to interrupt, but the KGB interrogator holds up a finger to silence him. From your business dealings, of course.

And you have exchanged presents? Well, yes, of course. There's no business without a relationship. I always bring him something. Small things, mind you. Cigarette lighters, ballpoint pens, vinyl records, shampoo. So you admit you exchange packages? Hang on a minute. Presents, not packages. Presents fit for a hero? Wynne looks at the interrogator with concern in his eyes.

Before he can ask what he means, the KGB man leans across the table and switches on a tape player. It'll blow over. No breath. No, it won't blow over. The corners of the interrogator's lips curl into a smile. Wynne trembles with fear. But... Yes, I know. He took all of those precautions, didn't he? We treated the recording to remove the sound of the radio.

Wynne's mouth opens and closes, but no sound comes out. At your trial, we will play this recording to the judge, whose leniency in sentencing you will depend on what you tell us next. Not now, you understand. Tonight, you will sleep in the cells. And once your memory has been jogged, we will meet again tomorrow. Guard! Wyn is roughly pulled out of the interrogation room and led down the corridor back to his cell.

He glances into a cell to his left, the daughter which has been left ajar. Inside, he sees Penkovsky looking tired and defeated. Before he can call out to his friend, the guard shoves Wynne forwards. A few weeks later, MI6 headquarters, London. Inside MI6 headquarters, Joe Bulik, the head of the CIA's operations in the Soviet Union, is meeting with Penkovsky's MI6 case officer, Harold Shergold. Some within the CIA and MI6 want to wash their hands of Penkovsky and Wynne.

But Bulik won't let it go. We have to do something. They knew the risks. Penkovsky, yes. Wynne, I'm not so sure. Still, we must do something. Apart from anything else, who will ever come to us again if they see this is how we leave our people out in the cold? We should wait until after the trial. You think they're going to get justice? Do me a favor. No, but Her Majesty's government will never admit to spying. So we wait until they are convicted, then negotiate a prisoner exchange.

We have their man, Gordon Lonsdale. It will be a fair trade. How so? One of theirs for two of ours? No. Lonsdale. For Wynne. They will never give us Penkovsky.

They will make an example of him. But Wynne? Wynne has a chance. We us Penkovsky. They will make an example of him. But Wynne? Wynne has a chance. We owe Penkovsky. He has good as saved the world. Did he? Yes, he took some useful photographs, but the intelligence from other sources that corroborated his information was just as important.

The two men glare at one another, both riled by the stress of the situation. After a moment, Shergold's face softens. Look, I liked him too, but he was an intelligence officer. He was a part of our world. It's not a matter of what you or I might want. It's a matter of what you or I might want. It's a matter of what is feasible. It's May 1963, and in a Moscow courtroom, Penkovsky and Wynne have been on trial for four days, weathering dozens of accusations, all backed with a blend of genuine and invented evidence that's been created to show that the KGB

knows everything. The prosecution lawyer addresses Penkovsky. Colonel Penkovsky, please turn to exhibit F. Would you mind reading the highlighted line of the document for the court? In choosing caches, keep in mind they should be in places normally accessible to foreigners. Why, Colonel Penkovsky, might such a document, signed from a CIA... Colonel Penkovsky, please confirm the identity of the woman in the photograph to whom you are. I do not recognise this woman. If Janet Chisholm is not a close family friend... A matchbox wrapped in light blue...

A black mark on post... You would signal by calling either G. Postcard signed by security documents. Aminox. State secrets. When finally the judge delivers his sentence, neither Penkovsky nor Wynne can look at the other. Their fate has been predestined by the Soviet state.

Guilty until proven guilty. Greville Wynne, I sentence you to eight years' imprisonment and hard labour. Order! Colonel Oleg Penkovsky, I sentence you to death by firing squad. May 1963, East Sussex. Now, children, you need to stay at the table until you've finished your fish fingers. In her new home in a Sussex village,

Penkovsky's former MI6 contact, Janet Chisholm, tends to her children. She left Moscow a few months before Penkovsky's arrest to give birth to her fourth child. Now she's settled back into a quiet life in the English countryside, having received a generous check from the CIA for helping to run Penkovsky in Moscow. Mrs Chisholm, Mrs Chisholm, do you have any comment about the accusations that you received secret documents from Oleg Penkovsky in Moscow. I... I... Chisholm's eyes widen. How have they found her? How do they know all this?

But before she can respond... Janet, over here. What was inside the packets of sweets he gave you? Mrs. Chisholm, what's your reaction to news that Oleg Penkovsky was executed earlier this morning? Chisholm slams her front door to shut out the noise. She leans backwards against the door, her lips quivering. Mummy, can I have a drink? She thinks of Penkovsky's children, newly without a father,

and of how they will forever be associated with a spy and a traitor. She slumps to the floor, her eyes full with tears. 18 months later, April 1964, West Berlin. Through a pair of binoculars, an MI6 officer surveys the bridge leading across no man's land towards the checkpoint that bars the way to East Berlin. He sees a group of soldiers parked to allow a black car through. It nods to a standstill at the lip of the bridge.

It's him. Close by, Gordon Lonsdale, a Soviet spy caught posing as a Canadian businessman, stands expressionless beneath a large black umbrella. In the distance, a torch flashes three times. It's the signal to commence the prisoner exchange. The officer turns to Lonsdale. Do not stop. Do not talk to the other prisoner. Do not look back. Just keep walking. Off you go. The officer watches as Lonsdale walks away.

On the far side of the bridge, he sees a thin man approaching. The man wears a suit two sizes too big for him. The officer radios the sniper stationed on a nearby rooftop. Is it him? Confirmed, please. Confirmed. A few moments later, the man steps into West Berlin. His face is gaunt. He has deep bags under his eyes. But after 18 months in a Soviet prison, Greville Wynne is a free man.

The MI6 officer smiles warmly at him. Welcome home, sir. After his release, Greville Wynne returned to England. His marriage broke down and he suffered from depression and alcoholism until his death in 1990 at the age of 70. Oleg Penkovsky was executed on or around the 16th of May 1963, less than three years after he first approached the two American students in Moscow's Red Square. The KGB claimed they had been following Penkovsky for 18 months prior to his arrest. Shortly after his death, the CIA authored and published the Penkovsky Papers, a book that was purported to have been written by Penkovsky,

but was actually based on the transcripts of his many long interviews with Western intelligence officers. MI6 is yet to release any material about its involvement in the case While the CIA declared Penkovsky the single most valuable agent in its history debate over how important Penkovsky's information was to ending the Cuban Missile Crisis continues to this day On the next episode, we will be learning more about Penkovsky and question was he really the hero we think he was? Buy Who early and ad-free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app. From Wondery.

This is the fourth episode in our series, The Spy Who Diffused the Missile Crisis. 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 Dead Drop by Jeremy Duns and The Spy Who Saved the World by Gerald Schechter and Peter Deryabin. The Spy Who is hosted by me, Indra Varma. Our show is produced by Vespucci and written and story edited by Yellow Ant for Wondery.

For Yellow Ant, this episode was written by Simon Parkin, story edited by Karen Lowe and researched by Louise Byrne. Our managing producer is Jay Priest. For Vespucci, our senior producers are Natalia Rodriguez and Philippa Gearing. Our sound designer is Ivor Manley. Thomas Currie is the supervising producer. Music supervisor is Scott Velasquez for frisson sync 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 ch Chris Bourne, Morgan Jones and Marshall Louis.