The Spy Who - The Spy Who Dressed the Queen | Rat Week | 2

Episode Date: April 29, 2025

Armed with a new secret weapon, Amies compiles a kill list to deal with Nazi collaborators, including the traitor taking down his agents one by one. Will the Belgians back his scheme? Some gun sound effects courtesy of Mike Burns & Fabien Compos of youtube.com/@BlokeontheRangeSee 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. In a dimly lit office at SOE headquarters, Hardy Amis sits at a large table with the agency's other section heads. Together, they direct sabotage operations behind enemy lines, from Nazi-occupied Europe to the jungles of South East Asia. Cigarette smoke hangs in the air, and an atmosphere of suppressed excitement pervades the room. For all the section heads to have been gathered at once, something important must be afoot. But no one knows what. The chatter hushes as Brigadier Erich Moclaferriman enters the room. He's the SOE's new Director of Operations

in Northwest Europe. He strides to the front of the room and turns to the assembled section heads. Gentlemen, the agents you are sending into Europe are brave men. There are few things as courageous as volunteering to fight behind enemy lines. But unfortunately, we have been failing them. The enemy have infiltrated too many of our

networks and far too many of our agents are getting caught. We have failed to protect them. Amis looks at the distressed faces of his fellow section heads. They may be chafing under this harsh criticism, but Amis knows it is true. Especially in his own patch, Belgium. The guilt of sending agents to their deaths without any way to protect them weighs heavy upon him. The brigadier tries to regain control of the room.

But that stops now. We're going to send a message. We're going to eliminate every single Nazi collaborator we can lay our hands on and we're going to do it all at once. One of the section heads raises a hand. Sir, when you say eliminate, you mean yes, we're going to kill them. This is a war. Gentlemen, this is our new mission. Operation Ratweek. Each of you is to draw up a kill list of the most dangerous infiltrators and collaborators in your section. Then, come October, we're going to assassinate each and every one of them.

We'll shatter the enemy's networks all at once and send a warning to any future collaborators. Anyone who harms our operatives will live in fear. Gentlemen, this is where we turn the tide. A wave of excited anticipation sweep through the room at the thought of this audacious new operation. Once again, another section chief pipes up. Sir, how are we meant to go about this operation?

A grim smile breaks out over the brigadier's face as he answers. Well, the clever lads over at the lab at station nine are working on a new weapon just for this. A gun that makes no sound. Perfect for assassination. But if your agents prefer, they can use standard pistols, knives, or cricket bats for all I care, as long as the bastards who are catching our agents are eliminated. The same section chief leans forward once more. And will Sakarin be part of this effort, sir?

The Brigadier pauses momentarily at the mention of the SOE code word for poisons and chemical weapons. Sakarin will be approved on a case-by-case basis. But right now, what we need from each of you is a kill list. If you know who is killing your agents, now is your chance to have them taken out of the game. Gentlemen, this is our top priority. Get me those lists.

Amys almost smiles to himself as he feels the mood shift in the room. Finally, it feels like the SOE is fighting back against the infiltrators killing their agents. And he already knows exactly who will be at the very top of his list. Prosper Dezita. The shadowy criminal with the missing finger who's already lured so many agents, downed airmen and resistance members into German hands. Revenge is finally coming. Business Insurance quote in minutes at zensurance.com slash podcast and receive a $20 gift card. Zensurance policies starting at $19 a month.

Be protected. Be Zen. From Wondery, I'm Indra Varma and this is The Spy Who. In the last episode, Hardy Amies joined the Special Operations Executive and became the acting head of T-Section, responsible for sending covert agents into Nazi-occupied Belgium. But Belgium is riddled with Nazi collaborators who have infiltrated the resistance, including the criminal Prosper de Zieta, the man with the missing finger, who is helping German intelligence catch SOE agents,

resistance fighters and downed Allied airmen. But now, with Operation Ratweek in the works, Ames finally has a chance to settle the score. This is episode 2 of The Spy Who Dressed the Queen, Rat Week. July 1943. Three weeks after Hardy Ames was instructed to draw up a hit list for the SOE's Rat Week. Jean-Philippe Janssens walks nervously through the warren of small streets near Gare du Midi station in central Brussels. Janssens is a 21-year-old Belgian SOE agent operating under the code name CAAF.

under the code name, Calf. He parachuted into Belgium with another agent, Edmond Maréchal, code name Labrador, earlier in the year. Their mission is to establish arms cachets for the Belgian resistance around the country. But today, Janssens has a different objective in mind. Janssens steps around groups of children playing in the sunshine as he tries to evade German patrols by sticking to side streets and back alleys.

Eventually, Janssen stops at a door, checks no one's watching, then does a coded knock. After a moment, the door swings open and Janssen slips inside. As his eyes adjust to the darkness, the face of Madame Le Grand comes into focus, framed by her short brunette hair. Le Grand is a lynchpin of the Belgian resistance with a reputation for fearlessly helping British spies and allowing them to use her apartment as a safe house.

She immediately notices the worry on his face. Are you all right? Is there some news from London? Everything's fine. The weapons are all in place, but there's another matter I need your help with. Le Grand nods for him to continue while lighting a cigarette. Le Grand says,

I've been contacted by two RAF officers. Their plane was shot down near Yent, but they've made it to Brussels and need to find a way out of the country and back to England. Is there anyone you know who could help? Le Grand takes a drag of her cigarette and nods thoughtfully. Yes, of course. There's a man I know from my time in France. He organizes things like this.

Can he be trusted? Le Grand pauses thoughtfully for another drag before replying. I think so. My friends from the Great War, they vouched for him. I can arrange a meeting for you, and you can judge for yourself." Janssen nods in thanks and mentally readies himself for the nerve-racking walk back through the city's occupied streets. One week later, Amy strides through the fields behind the SOE's training center at Beaulieu Abbey, Hampshire. It's a glorious English summer's day, with the sun glinting on the water of a nearby

stream. But Amy doesn't stop to admire the beauty that surrounds the house in the woods. He's here for a much more sinister purpose. In the field ahead of him is Major Hugh Reeves, the head of Station 9, the SOE's engineering and research unit. Reeves has the mild manners of a research scientist. But Ames knows that behind this veneer hides a most devious and inventive weapons researcher. Reeves is shielding his eyes from the sun with one hand, while holding a small metal case in the other. Ames also notices that several life-size mannequins have been set up in the field. He flashes Reeves a smile.

Afternoon, Hugh. What have you got for me today? Ooh, I think you'll like this one. Reeves drops to his knees and snaps open the metal case he's been holding. He withdraws what looks like a black metal tube just over 12 inches long. Reeves holds it up, grinning in satisfaction.

The boys down at the lab call it the bicycle pump, but its actual name is the well-rod pistol. It delivers a.32 caliber round but has a built-in noise suppressor, so the shot is almost completely silent. Reeves then reaches back into the metal case and withdraws a magazine, which he slides into a slot in the metal tube. Amy's eyes widen as suddenly the contraption does look like a handgun, but with a much longer barrel than any he's ever encountered.

Seeing Amy's reaction, Reeves seems even more impressed at his own creation. Yes, the magazine is the handle. Quite clever really if I do say so myself. Here, have a go. Reeves pulls a bolt at the back of the tube to cock the pistol, then offers it to Amy's to try out. Amy's aims at one of the mannequins and fires. Ames is amazed. The pistol makes almost no sound at all, but the bullet thuds into the ground well short of the mannequin he was aiming at.

He looks over at Reeves, who gives a bashful smile. Well, that's the thing about the noise suppressor. It does decrease the effective range. About 10 yards should do it. Have another go. Amis cocks the gun as he's just seen Reeves do. Then he takes several rapid steps forward and raises the pistol once more.

As he eyeballs the mannequin, the name Prosper De Zeta flashes through his mind. He squeezes the trigger. The mannequin, the name Prosper De Zeta flashes through his mind. He squeezes the trigger. The mannequin's head splits clean in half. Amy stops and examines the well-rod pistol once more in wonder. This silent gun is the perfect weapon for covert assassinations. And Amy's mind is already racing with the wild possibilities this new invention might open in the field of clandestine warfare.

A few days later, Belgium. Janssen's pushes open the door of the Café Wilmotte in Brussels and steps into the bar. In the dim light, his eyes scan the clientele, until a man sitting at a table catches his eye and motions him over. As he approaches and sits, the man leans forward. You are from Madame Le Grand? Janssens feels a wave of relief that he has found his contact and nods. The man continues. I understand you need an escape route for a couple of airmen.

Have you been in touch with London? What did they suggest? Suddenly, Janssen's relief feels tinged with a tiny spark of suspicion. He knows the city is filled with German collaborators. Could this man be trying to root out information about what he knows? He decides to remain as vague as possible. Apparently there's a line operating somewhere

in Porte de Namur. Oh yes, Madame Paulie's line on rue de Naples. So if you know of them, why come to me? Janssen's feels relief at the man's knowledge of the other escape route. He reasons that if this man was a German agent and he knew about that route's existence, surely they would have shut it down already. Janssen shrugs. London isn't on the ground here. They're out of touch. And there are so many rumors

of fake escape lines. I need people I can trust. Yes, you're right to worry. There are spies everywhere and you don't want to get caught. I'd never let them take me alive. If the krauts come for me, I'm taking a few of them out with me. The man almost smiles at Janssen's intensity, but raises his hand to calm him down and not attract attention. You're a fiery one, eh? Well, Madame Paulie's line is slow, anyway. They take weeks to set anything in motion.

Me, I can get your airmen out in two days' time. Janssen's is delighted. He knows the longer the RAF officers stay in Brussels, the more danger they'll expose themselves to. Two days? That's excellent. Just let us know where the safe house is and we'll make sure they're picked up. Janssen's automatically reaches out to shake his hand.

The man hesitates for a split second, then reaches his hand out in return. As Janssen shakes it, he can feel that one of the man's fingers is missing. Two weeks later, a resistant safe house in Dorine-Durnal, South East Belgium. Janssen frantically taps out a coded radio message to London. On the desk beside him are the notes he's jotted down while encoding his message to headquarters. He works feverishly, his head down. He knows the Gestapo operate detection vans all over Belgium. When you send a message, you have to work fast and finish

the job before they can hone in on your location. Janssens finishes the message, exhales and glances up through the window. Only to see two men running towards the house, their rifles raised. Germans. Janssens bolts upright and reaches for his pistol. For a split second he locks eyes with one of the men before a gunshot cracks through the air. The bullet shatters the window and whistles by inches from Janssens head. Janssens runs towards the door and freezes, remembering his notes are still lying on the desk. If the Germans get their hands on his workings, they might be able to work out the code he uses

to communicate with London. He darts back across the room and grabs the sheet of paper containing his notes. Another shot rings out and white hot pain rips through his shoulder. Janssens ignores the pain and fires off two shots at the men with his pistol before running into the front room of the house. He slams open the window and throws himself through.

Pain shoots through his injured shoulder once more, but he hauls himself up off the pavement, only to see more Germans advancing down the street. Hold, hold! Hold! Hold! Hold! Janssen squeezes off several rounds at the men, then moves to run.

But just as he turns, more shots ring out, and a bullet tears through his left hand, causing him to drop the notes he's carrying along with his spare ammunition clip. Janssen grits his teeth in agony but sprints away, crossing through an orchard, trying to get to a small patch of woods on the outskirts of town. He sees a small fence lined with barbed wire ahead of him and readies himself to jump.

But as he leaps over the fence, his foot catches on the barbed wire and he crashes to the ground. As he hauls himself up, a bullet slams into his leg, and everything goes dark. Janssens comes too with a feeling of weightlessness, as if he's floating. For a moment he thinks he must be dead. Then he realises he's actually being carried by Germans. They approach the window of the safe house he'd just tried to escape from, and roughly throw him headlong back through the window. As he lands, his body explodes in pain, and he passes out again. Janssen's head swims blearily into consciousness to find a doctor leaning over him, cutting

away his shirt near his shoulder wound. Through the haze of pain and adrenaline, the thought flashes through his mind that it's strange that the Germans should bring a doctor with them on a raid like this. It's almost as if they knew he wouldn't surrender without a fight. The doctor looks down at him. What's your name? Janssen's first instinct is to give a false identity.

But then he remembers his SOE partner, Maréchal, who parachuted into Belgium with him. Through the raging pain ripping through his body, Janssen's reasons that if he gives his real name, perhaps his father might hear of the arrest on the Resistance grapevine, and somehow word might reach Maréchal, they have been compromised. Janssen's. Jean-Philippe Janssen's. Having squeezed the words out through gritted teeth, Janssen's arrest. A Nazi intelligence safe house in the central Belgian countryside near the town of Lustin. Prosper de Zieter sits across from his spymaster

from the Abwehr, German military intelligence. The Abwehr officer regards Dezita with obvious distaste. Dezita doesn't care and meets his gaze testily. He's here for only one thing. You have my money? The Abwehr officer grimaces, but removes a large wad of notes from the desk drawer and slides it across the table. De Zieta shakes his head.

De Zieta says, This time it's double. You've already been paid plenty. No, no, I gave you those two RAF men that that idiot Janssens delivered to me. But I also gave you Janssens. He's not some random airman or resistance fighter. He's a British spy. That's worth more.

De Zieter sees the upfare officer hesitate and presses his advantage. You think the people I employ work for free? Have you forgotten how the resistance tried to take me out a few months ago? I'm taking the risks here. Janssen's knew there was a compromised escape line, so London obviously does too. Besides, you know I'm worth it.

The officer begrudgingly reaches into the drawer again and hands over another large wad of cash, then tries to change the subject. What about this other British agent, Janssen's partner, this Maréchal? That fool? He still believes Captain Willie is his friend. I convinced him Janssen's got caught out by a Gestapo detection van. So when are you bringing him in? De Zieta leans back in his chair, completely nonontulant in the face of his handler's aggressive questioning. Oh, I will. But first I think I'll get him to give me some of those guns the British keep funneling to the resistance.

The Abwehr officer's face flickers with confusion. Why the hell would he do that? Because I'm going to convince him that we're going to use the guns to free his friend Janssen's. Even the Abwehr officer can't help but laugh at the sheer gall of Dezita's new plan. Dezita winks at him. See, I told you I was worth the money. Two months later, London. Hardy Ames strides down a corridor at the SOE headquarters on Baker Street. He arrives at the office of the new head of the SOE, Major General Colin Gubbins, and knocks loudly.

As he pushes the door open, Gubbins notices the look of fury on Amy's face. I say, Amy, what the devil's wrong? It's the blasted Belgian, sir. Their government in exile is refusing to authorize Operation Ratweek. What? Every other exiled government supports this operation. What in blazes is going on with them?

They say they're afraid of reprisal, sir. They don't want to be responsible for another Liditza. At this, Gabin softens lightly. Last year, the SOE organized the assassination of the high-ranking Nazi, Reinhard Hedrich, in Czechoslovakia. In response, the Germans eradicated the entire town of Lidice. Hmm, now that I can somewhat understand.

The Nazis are bloody animals. But if the Belgians won't allow it, there's nothing we can do. We can't just proceed with Operation Ratweek on their territory. Amis pauses for a moment, beside himself with the frustration of the situation. Then out of nowhere, the spark of an idea comes to him. He turns to Gobbins with a slight twinkle in his eye. Well, sir, the Belgians are still okay with us

arming the resistance. If, say, a few of the well-rods were to find their way there, and if, say, some Nazi collaborators happened to get killed around the same time as Ratweek, but by the Resistance instead of our own agents, surely that would merely be a surprising coincidence. A smile breaks on Gobbins' face. I say, Amys, you are a crafty one. Gobbins motions for Amys to sit so they can work out the details of the plan.

And top of Amys' mind is making sure that DeZita is on the hit list so that no more of his agents fall victim to his network of deception. Two weeks later, Amis opens the door of his flat on Cheshire Place, Belgravia. His lover, Alexis French, comes out from the living room to meet him. French is a married antiques dealer who Amis met before the war. He immediately notices the look of near despair on Amis' face.

Any momentary satisfaction that Amis might have felt at having found a way to get well-rod pistols into Belgium in time for Rat Week, has been completely erased. This afternoon, the SOE's code breakers informed him that his agent, Jean-Philippe Janssen's, has been captured. Even worse was the news that for months now, the messages they thought were coming from Janssen's have in fact probably been coming

from the Germans themselves. This means that not only is Janssens have in fact probably been coming from the Germans themselves. This means that not only is Janssens in the hands of the upfare, but the Germans must have the SOE's secret codes. The thought of the torture and almost certain execution that such a young, fearless agent must be enduring is tearing Amis up inside. French puts a hand on Amis' shoulder. Hardy, what's wrong? It's just the situation at work. Amis paces through into the living room and slumps into a chair.

French follows him with a look of concern. What's going on? Do you want to talk about it? Amis buries his head in his hands. You know I can't, Alex. These are top secret operations. Maybe it's just enough to say that men under my command keep dying. French pours Amis a drink and brings it over. Hardy, it's a war.

Amis drains the glass, but feels irritation rising at French's unintentionally flippant remark. They're my men. Saying it's a war isn't good enough. I'm the one sending them off. I'm sure you're doing your best. Or maybe my best isn't good enough either. Amis points to the insignia of his unit,

sewn into a patch on his uniform. You see the emblem of my corps? It's a bloody pansy. A pansy resting on its laurels. Fitting. French's face darkens at the obvious implication of Amy's words. Well, I can see you're going to be marvelous company tonight. Well, why don't you go back to your bloody wife then?

French pauses for a moment in shock, before turning on his heels and grabbing his coat. I've sought this. I'm going to the pub. Three weeks later, November 1943, at a secret RAF air base in the British countryside, Amis walks SOE agent Andre Wendelin towards a waiting plane. It's a crisp, clear autumn night with a bright full moon, essential for spies parachuting

into enemy territory. Both men pull their coats close against the nighttime chill in the air. Wendelin is one of Am Amy's most experienced and trusted agents. After his first mission to Belgium, he spent almost a year making his way back to England via the escape lines run by resistance groups in occupied Europe. Now, as they walk to the plane, he

carries a large duffel bag slung over his shoulder. Inside are five well-rod pistols. Amis turns to him, repeating the mission brief one more time. So remember, Operation Ratweek is officially not happening in Belgium. But if you can deliver these weapons to the resistance and they take out our targets, we're not officially involved. Wendelin nods his head in acknowledgement. Amis pauses.

Wendelin is Belgian himself. Amis thinks he owes it to the man to be clear about the mission he's taking on. You understand that this is somewhat contradicting the wishes of the Belgian government in exile. Wendelin fixes Amys with a determined gaze. I understand. I want these collaborators dead. They are the ones who are betraying our agents and their country.

The two come to a stop in front of the plane that Wendelin is about to board. Suddenly Amys is seized with anxiety about the dangers he is asking Wendelin to face. This will be your third drop behind enemy lines. Are you sure you want to undertake this mission? No one can say you haven't given your fair share to the war effort. I am sure. We all have to do our part. And don't worry. We'll meet again, Hardy.

Either here or in a free Belgium. With that, the two men shake hands and Wendelin boards the plane. As he watches Wendelin go, Amy says a silent prayer for his safety and feels the now familiar wave of conflicting emotions at having to send other men to face danger and possible death. The The The The The The

The The The The The The The The Prosper De Zieter, in his guise as Captain Willy, pilots his car through the countryside roads outside the small town of Lustin in central Belgium.

In the passenger seat next to him sits the SOE agent Edmond Maréchal. As De Zieter stares out at the leafless trees silhouetted against the grey autumn skies, he almost can't help smiling to himself at what a desperate fool Maréchal must be to still trust him. And to still trust him enough that he's about to hand over the resistance's own guns. But instead he manages to maintain his blank expression. Maréchal turns to him.

Do you really think we can get Janssen's out? With how badly he's injured? Dezitte non slowly, trying not to appear too enthusiastic. It's a risk. Of course nothing is guaranteed. But we know the hospital where he's being held, and we can't leave him to be tortured by the Germans. There's only a couple of guards to deal with. All we need are the guns.

OK. Pull over here. Maréchal points to a small side road. Dezita guides the car to a stop, and Maréchal opens the door. Wait here. I'll be back in a few minutes. opens the door. Wait here.

I'll be back in a few minutes. Dezita nods, and Marichal disappears down a tiny path into the nearby woods. As he waits, Dezita lights a cigarette and contemplates the bonus he should receive from the up there for this piece of deception. Then he sees Marichal coming back down the path, carrying a large canvas bag in each hand.

Maréchal opens the car's trunk and places the bags carefully inside, then slides back into the passenger seat. De Zieta turns towards him. So what have we got? Sten guns. With ammo. London sent them over. Also some pistols and grenades. D'Zita nods, hardly believing that weapons specifically sent by British intelligence have just been willingly handed over to him by one of their own agents. He starts the car and pulls away.

Maréchal looks at the road ahead, then turns towards Dezita. Thank you for doing this. For trying to rescue Janssens. Dezita nods and smiles back at the obviously emotional Maréchal. I'd hope someone would do the same for me if the situation was reversed. We'll do our best. But for now, we have to assume that Janssen's may have already cracked under interrogation and given you away. We need to get you to the escape line and out of the country as quickly as possible."

Maréchal nods in silence and the two drive on, with Dezita's mind racing forward to how he is about to drop Maréchal off with the crew who operate his false escape line and will deliver him straight to the Nazis. A few days later, Ville Vauder, Belgium. A middle-aged woman sweeps the floor of her shop. But she's no ordinary shopkeeper. She's a Nazi collaborator who has reported many resistance members to the occupation authorities.

Suddenly, a man appears on the street looking through the shop's windows. Before the woman can react, the man raises a revolver and shoots three times through the window. The glass shatters. And the collaborator falls in a pool of blood. Rat Week has begun. A man drives a car down a country road in the woods near Nivelles, just south of Brussels. The man is a member of REX, the Belgian Fascist Party,

who openly support the Nazi occupation. The REX member pulls over and gets out of his car and is immediately seized by three men. He tries to shout for help, but one of the men slams his hand over his mouth. The Rex member, still struggling, is bundled into the woods and forced to his knees. Please, I have money. I'll give you anything you want. One of his assailants hits him straight in his mouth.

Shut up, fascist scum. On hearing those words, the Rex man tenses in fear, realizing he must be in the hands of the Resistance. He feels hands roughly searching his pockets. They find a piece of paper and take it out. He's got a list. The Rex members frame sags as the Resistance fighters check the list of their comrades'

names. The list he was about to hand over to the Germans. Please, please, mercy, I beg you. Mercy? You betray your country and you want mercy? No. What you get is a quick death, which is more than your German friends ever give us. One of the resistance fighters takes out a pistol.

Even through his terror, the Rex member registers that this is like no handgun he's ever seen before. It's essentially a long tube, perhaps a little like a bicycle pump. Then the resistance fighter circles behind him. The next day, a uniformed member of the VNV, a Flemish nationalist group which helps the Nazis in their roundups of Belgian Jews, strides down a street near Bois de la Cambre on the outskirts of Brussels. The VNV man's military boots click as he walks and he looks down the street with an air of arrogant disdain. Then, out of nowhere, four figures burst through the gate of a nearby park and sprint towards

him, each of them holding metal poles. Help! Police! Help! park and sprint towards him, each of them holding metal poles. Help! Police! Help! The VNV man tries to run, but the four men are on him almost immediately. A blow on the shoulder sends him crashing to the ground. The resistance fighters surround him and rain blow after blow down upon him until his bleeding body lies still on the Brussels pavement. That night, the autumn weather has turned

and a vicious rain beats down on the streets of central Brussels. Two resistance members huddle in a back alley doorway and pull their raincoats close about them. And under his raincoat, one of them is grasping a well-rod pistol. They keep a close watch on the doorway of a nightclub across the street. The club is popular with German officers

and their favored collaborators. And the resistance has heard that their prime target often goes there to drink, womanise and gamble away the money he gets from working with the Abwehr. For the past week, rumours have been circulating on the underground networks of German collaborators being killed all across occupied Europe, including several in Belgium. But the two men know that if successful, this assassination will be the pièce de résistance, because tonight their target is Prosper de Zieta. The resistance fighter with the well rod turns to his comrade. You're sure this is the place?

It's already 11 o'clock. We've been here two hours. This is the one. He comes here almost every Friday. He'll show. Unless he's been tipped off. The first fighter's head snaps around. Tipped off? By who?

All I'm saying is De Zeta has informants everywhere. We don't know how many of our own people he might have turned. All I'm saying is Dezita has informants everywhere. We don't know how many of our own people he might have turned. And you know he usually travels with a bodyguard. This could be our last mission. The first fighter spits on the ground and grips his well rod tighter. I don't care. If it means we get this bastard, I'll die happy. I don't care. If it means we get this bastard, I'll die happy.

The second fighter grabs his friend's arm and points as a large black car pulls to a stop outside the nightclub. Well, this might be your chance. Get ready. The two resistance fighters cock their guns and tents as they get ready to rush the waiting car and eliminate their target. the Spy Who early and ad free on Apple podcasts or the Wondry app. Have you got a spy story you'd like us to tell? Email your ideas to the spy who at Wondry dot com. From Wondry, this is the second episode in our season. The spy whoressed the Queen. 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 used many sources in our research for this season, including From SOE Hero to Dressing the Queen by Linda Rowland and Still Here by Hardy Ames,

as well as material from the National Archives. The Spy Who is hosted by me, Indra Varma. Our show is produced by Vespucci with writing and story editing by Yellow Ant for Wondery. For Yellow Ant this episode was written by J.S. Raffaelli and researched by Louise Byrne with thanks to Ina Brous and Kat Whitehouse. Our managing producer is J. Priest. For Vespucci, our senior producers are Ashley Clivary and Philippa Gearing.

Our sound designer is Ivor Manley. Rachel Byrne 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 senior producer for Wondry is Theodora Louloudis, and our senior managing producer is Rachel Sibley.

Executive producers for Wondry are Estelle Doyle, Chris Bourne and Marshall Lewy.