The Spy Who - The Spy Who Duped Hitler | From Zero to Hero | 1

Episode Date: March 25, 2025

The story of Operation Mincemeat. It’s 1943 and World War 2 hangs on a knife-edge. Everybody knows the obvious next move for the Allies is to invade Sicily. So Winston Churchill gives his spy chiefs a daunting task: create a lie so good it will fool Adolf Hitler and get Nazi Germany to move its troops elsewhere.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. January 24th, 1943. King's Cross, London. 34-year-old Glendore Michael forces the door of an abandoned canal-side warehouse. Inside, he sees rats scurry across the stone floor. Bloody hell. Michael waits by the door as his eyes adjust to the dark. He's cold and hungry.

But in the gloom, he spots some wooden crates. Maybe they contain food. He searches the crates, but finds nothing. Michael pulls the crate to the wall and sits on it. He can sleep for a bit like this. Another rat scurries out of the darkness. Michael feels it brush against the bare skin exposed by the holes in his boots. He makes a half-hearted attempt to shoo it away, but the rat starts nibbling his boot.

God help me. Michael remains still. His life's not been much better than a rat's, a poverty-stricken childhood in a Welsh mining town with no coal left to mine, and all his immediate family now dead. He came to London in search of something better, but even the army rejected him. He's homeless, destitute, and starting to feel

detached from reality. Now what's the point? No one would notice if I died. He speaks to the rat. Go on then. You might as well have a bit of leather for dinner. At least one of us won't go hungry. What's that? In the corner of the warehouse, Michael sees a soft, luminous glow. Take no notice. He thinks his mind's playing tricks, but the rat seems to have noticed it too. Michael goes to investigate. Behind the door of the warehouse, several crusts of bread appear to be glowing, almost as if they are calling out to him.

He moves quickly, scooping up the crusts before the rat can move in, and begins stuffing them gratefully into his mouth. Four days later, St Pancras Morgue, London. Coroner Bentley Purchase looks up from his desk as the morgue's doors open. A hospital porter wheels in a trolley covered by a telltale white sheet. Another one for you, sir. Thank you. The war is in its fourth year. Purchess is used to the flow of dead bodies. He gets up from his desk, lifts the sheet, looks at the face of the dead man on the trolley, and starts his habitual mental calculations.

Mid-thirties, unshaven. Not in work then. Signs of jaundice on his face but hard to tell. Do you have a name? Glendor Michael, a vagrant, found in a warehouse by the canal. Appears to have eaten rat poison. The nurses think he was suicide. Poor beggar. Poor beggar indeed. God rest his soul. Perchus knows that if Michael ate rat poison, he probably died of phosphorus poisoning. It's a painful and drawn out way to go.

First nausea and vomiting, then delirium, convulsions, and finally major organ failure. But the damage is mainly internal. It's impossible to tell just by looking at him. And that piques Purchase's interest. Have the family been informed? Apparently has none, sir. Well, well. Strange that so many seem to come to London to end their lives. I often think they are trying to spare their families, but if this man has none...

Bentley's mind is racing ahead. The porter stands waiting. Oh, sorry. I'm keeping you. We must both get on with our jobs. Thank you for bringing him in. The minute the porter is out of earshot, Purchase picks up the phone. He dials the number he was given by the man from Military Intelligence Service. Hello?

This is Bentley Purchase. It's in Pancras Hospital. I believe I might have the man you were looking for. Phone call finished. Purchase returns to Glyndor Michael and recovers his face with the sheet. From what he's gleaned, this man didn't have much of a life. Under normal circumstances, his death might pass unnoticed. But life in war-torn Britain is far from normal. You just realized your business needed to hire someone like yesterday.

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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 corrupted morals. A place of paranoia and infiltration, sabotage and manipulation. In this season, we access the file on Operation Mcemeat, possibly the most outlandish double-cross in espionage history. This World War II deception mission paved the way for the Allies' successful invasion of Italy, saving thousands of lives and shattering the Axis powers' grip on continental Europe. What you're about to hear are dramatized reconstructions of events, based on the information that's been made public.

But remember, in the shadowy realm of the spy, the full story is rarely clear. This is episode one of The Spy Who Duped Hitler. From Zero to Hero. From zero to a hero. Three months earlier, October 31st, 1942, London. The offices of MI5. RAF intelligence officer Charles Chumley sits at a large table with several other members of the Double Cross Committee. The

committee oversees Britain's covert war of deception. It's remit to find ways to mislead Germany and the other Axis powers by feeding them false information. The Allies are about to invade French North Africa but there are concerns that the Germans already know of their plans. Chalmney removes his thick pebble-rimmed spectacles and rubs his elaborate moustache, as another committee member explains the situation. Among the crew of the RAF seaplane that recently crashed near the Spanish coast was a Royal Navy courier. That courier was carrying a letter confirming the date of the planned invasion. Officially, Spain is neutral, but its government favours the Axis powers,

and many Spanish officials are friendly with German intelligence. The Spanish Navy returned the letter to us, and as far as we can tell, it was not examined or shared with the Germans. But if it had been, our efforts to mislead the Germans about our plans to invade North Africa may well have ended in failure. Chalmney shifts uncomfortably in his seat and replaces his glasses.

His poor eyesight makes him unfit for active service, and at 6'3", his long legs would be hard to squash into the cockpit of an airplane. But he's got a very vivid imagination and the double cross committee needs creative minds. I have an idea for our next deception operation. He stands up. It's more comfortable and a more commanding position to speak from. It's safe to assume that even if the documents never got into the hands of the Germans, they would have got wind that the airman was a courier

and would have been desperate to read whatever he was carrying. Of course. So, next time the body of a British officer washes up on Spanish shores, they will put more pressure on the authorities to give them access to any documents on their person. Cholney spots committee member Ewan Montague watching him with interest through the smoke from his pipe. Montague's a barrister turned naval intelligence officer, and Cholney knows from previous encounters

that Montague has an intimidatingly forensic mind. John Lee suspects he's preparing to interrogate him. Montague puts his pipe down. Please, go on. What if we plant fake intelligence on a corpse dressed up as a military officer and find a way of making sure it does get into enemy hands? Is that off the list of ridiculous ideas that have been circulating since the start of the war.

That one was taken straight from the pages of a Basil Thompson novel, if I remember rightly. Charmily knows the memo Montagu's referring to. It's a list of 51 ways to deceive the Germans. Most of the ideas are outlandish, but this one's got charming thinking. Yes, but in the light of what's just happened with a genuine plane shot down, I think it might have legs. We could call it Operation Trojan Horse, and where exactly is

this body going to come from? We'll go to the morgue. We're at war. I very much doubt there's a shortage. Half of them don't have limbs. But supposing you do find one, what's to guarantee the Germans getting hold of it? Chalmley has already given this some thought. We drop it off the coast of Spain. The Spanish pick it up. This time the Germans will be quicker to react. They exert more pressure to examine whatever papers were found with the corpse. And they won't be suspicious of a random body, carrying little more than vital intelligence.

Not if we create the perfect persona for our body. He'll have his story, just like any living agent does. Only in this instance, that story will be told through the objects he has with him. Montague draws on his pipe. I must say, he made a semi-convincing case. Could possibly work. Cholmney looks at the committee chair. The plan needs his approval, and he doesn't look convinced.

I suppose if this body's going to be floated at sea, it's a naval matter, so Montague, I suggest you work on it with Chomley. It sounds like a crazy plan to me, but I think I can trust you to test its robustness. Three months later, the Anfar Hotel, Casablanca, Morocco. Following the successful invasion of French North Africa, the leaders of Britain, America and Free France are meeting to discuss their next move. US President Franklin D. Roosevelt can already taste victory. The tide is turning. We will accept nothing less than unconditional surrender.

British Prime Minister Winston Churchill remains pragmatic. First, we have to regain control of Europe. My chiefs of staff favor an assault on the island of Sicily, followed by the invasion of mainland Italy. Its position in the Mediterranean at the foot of Italy means we can easily move troops in from North Africa. Churchill draws on his cigar and waits for Roosevelt's response. Agreed? If we can divert German troops down into Italy, it will make it harder for them to be redeployed to defend France when the time comes. Exactly. be redeployed to defend France when the time comes. Exactly. The problem is, everybody but a bloody fool knows that Sicily must be our next target. Yes, no doubt. Edler and

Mussolini will anticipate our plan. The island's already well defended, and they will doubtless have their forces waiting to meet us. Yes, even if they're foolish enough not to see it coming, they will surely cotton on when 160,000 allied troops turn up. It could become an almighty bloodbath. We could mount a cross-channel invasion instead. Timing's not right. Our troops are in the Med, and we need to act soon. It has to be Sicily.

What we need is a decoy target. Churchill waves his cigar towards a small group of British intelligence officers sitting at a nearby table. If they can come up with a plan to convince heir Hitler that the blindingly obvious isn't so blindingly obvious at all, then he might move his troops and we can avoid that almighty bloodbath. A few days later, the Admiralty, London, Tomley ducks his head to avoid an overhead air duct as he enters room 13, home to the Royal Navy's Special Intelligence Section.

The section's job is to assess any enemy communications relating to naval matters that have been decrypted by the codebreakers at Bletchley Park. He picks his way across the tiny room between tables, chairs, safes and filing cabinets. The air is stuffy and there seems to be at least 14 people working in a room that only fits two or three comfortably. At the back, he finds room 13's boss, Montague.

Tomley, welcome to our salubrious surroundings. Take a seat. Tomley sinks gratefully our salubrious surroundings. Take a seat. Tomley sinks gratefully away from the low ceiling, noting that Montague's face is a strange colour. Gosh, you look rather pale. Are you unwell? No, not at all. It's the lighting, old boy. You all look like death warmed up in here. Talking of which... Very good.

The now rather urgent need for a corpse. We've got less than three months to convince the Germans that Sicily is not our next target. Plenty of bodies about, but we need one with no family. We don't want relatives sniffing about, asking questions or wanting the body back. Chomney notices the Penguin paperback on Montague's desk. You read a lot. Evidently. Chomley notices the Penguin paperback on Montague's desk. You read a lot. Evidently.

I find it the best way to escape the grim realities of the world and the possibility of what might happen to us if we can't defeat Hitler. Indeed, I enjoy work of fiction myself. I'm relishing the chance to create a character of our own. Have you thought about names? Well, obviously, Operation Trojan Horse has to go. Varty revealing a name. I think Operation Mincemeat sums it up nicely.

That's good. But I was actually thinking of a name for our fictional airmen. First things first, we need a fail-safe delivery method for our corps. More importantly, the intelligence has to convince the Germans that our plan is to attack Greece and Sardinia instead of Sicily. The consequences of not getting this right, don't bear thinking about. Of course, but we don't want to put the cart before the horse. You know, all this talk of corpses brings Victor Frankenstein to mind. Are you a fan of Shelley?

An amused smile forms on Montague's lips. Yes, I see what you're saying. We've got to breathe new life into our body before it can bend to our will. Several days later, St. Pancras coroner's office, London. Coroner Bentley Purchase pulls a box of chocolates from the drawer at his desk and offers it to Montague. Chocolates? What a treat.

Montague pulls the box towards him and selects a rather damp chocolate. He's about to put it in his mouth when Purchase pipes up. They were found in Auntie's bag when she was fished out of the round pond at Hampstead last night. Probable suicide. Montague looks repulsed. Ha ha ha, I jest. I bought these to take to the opera last week.

They're not the finest chocolates, but they're perfectly serviceable. In that case, thank you. Chocolate is in rather short supply at the Admiralty. I presume your visit is not entirely culinary. How can I help naval intelligence? We need a male corpse as a matter of urgency. Purchase becomes serious. You can't get bodies just for the asking, you know. The supply might be a little steadier than chocolate, but each one has to be accounted for, and there are other families to consider.

You'd have to give me a very good reason to give one to you. Ideally, we want someone without relatives, but I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to say why. But rest assured, it's a matter of vital national importance. Even so, if word got out, it would shake public confidence in the coroner's court. Has this matter of vital importance been approved?

Montague nods. And helps himself to another chocolate. At what level? The Prime Minister. Well, if Churchill's involved, I'm willing to be a part of it. Why don't I give you a tour of the mortuary and see if any of my bodies fit the bill? Purchase leads the way to the mortuary, where several bodies are laid out on the slabs. The smell of rotting flesh hangs in the air.

Montague puts his hand over his nose and mouth. Order the man of military service, H. Purchase draws a body out of cold storage. This chap? He's missing half his leg. Only the corpse with no visible injuries. Helpful to know. Whoever finds the body must believe that he died from drowning.

We don't get that many drowners. He doesn't actually have to have drowned. As long as it can be made to look as if he did. Then I fear you might have a bit of a wait. There's plenty of corpses, but a male of service age with no known relatives who must appear to have drowned, it's a bit of a tall order. Purchase pushes the corpse back into the refrigerator, noting Montague's look of disappointment.

There's not much he can do. It might have helped if naval intelligence consulted him before they came up with the specifics of their plan. But whatever their plan is, a lot seems to depend on it. A few days later, St Pancras Hospital morgue, London. Montagu watches as Purchase pulls out a fresh corpse. He holds his breath and takes a closer look. His skin's rather yellow. Liver damage. Poor Glendor Michael died of phosphorus poisoning after eating rat poison. Not a nice way to go, but it causes little external damage to the corpse. He could be your drowned man. What about internal damage?

Well if they open him up, the examiner could find traces of phosphorus, but it's not obvious. Not like arsenic, for example, which invades the roots of the hair. If he washes up, the odds are whoever finds him will think he drowned. What exactly would you say the odds were on that? Well, I'd say three to two. Not a gambling man. I'd prefer more favorable odds. We can hang on to him for a bit, but you'll have to decide soon. Storage slows decomposition, but it doesn't stop it.

The longer you wait, the more obvious it will be that this chap has been dead for some time. Montague looks at the body again, weighing up his options. He's got no family, you say? None that we can find. He was a down and out, God rest his soul. Purchase bows his head briefly, as if in prayer, then snaps it up again, suddenly. Which gives me an idea. The Catholic Church discourages autopsies. If you can pass him off as Catholic, you might narrow the odds in your favor. There's a

lot of ifs, but we haven't got time to wait for the perfect body. Okay, we'll take him. Later that day, room 13, the Admiralty. Montague sits behind his desk filling his pipe. Chalmley sits at an angle opposite, stretching his long legs alongside the desk. Montague takes a few puffs on his pipe and looks at the blank sheet of paper on the desk in front of him. Our man needs to be in uniform, so it's obvious he's a soldier. If we make him a Marine, then no questions asked about why he's at sea. Chalmley twiddles his moustache, thinking. He'll need to be a high-ranking officer to be trusted with important documentation. Fortescue is a high-ranking officer, to be trusted with important documentation.

Fortescue is a high-ranking sort of name. Good point, but all the serving Marines' names appear on the Navy list, which doubtless the Germans have access to. We need a name that checks out if necessary. Joe! Montague summons his chief assistant, Joan Saunders, and sends her to find the list. Moments later, she returns. The names you asked for. Thank you, Joan. Montague examines the list.

There are several Martins on here, so I think we can safely make him a Major Martin. What about his first name? I reckon William. Major William Martin. That's a certain ring to it, don't you think? He can be Bill to his friends. Major William Martin on duty, and Bill when he's dancing the night away. Dancing?

Why not? I never go dancing. Why ever not? I'm too tall, and I've got two rather large left feet. I can't picture him dancing. Well, I like to go dancing and I think Bill needs to let his hair down a little from time to time. So, he's going to like dancing. More importantly, we're going to have to get him an identity card and it's going to be suspiciously new. Well, maybe we make Bill prone to be suspiciously new.

Well, maybe we make Bill prone to misplacing things. He could have lost his identity card and recently had it replaced. In fact, that could be helpful. How so? Well, we need to make sure the documents in the briefcase stay with Bill when he's washed ashore. So we may need to attach the briefcase to him by chain. If we hint that Bill is prone to forgetting things,

that would explain why he has a new identity card and why the briefcase is chained to him. Brilliant! Then we ought to get him photographed. The following day, St. Pancras' mortuary. Glendor Michael's corpse is propped up in a sitting position. His head lolled slightly to one side, his jaw ajar, and his eyes clouded. Montague tries to put the ghoulishness of his task out of his mind

as he takes a photograph of Michael's corpse. Sorry, old chap. I know. Dignity in death and all that, But it's for the good of your country. He takes another photograph and shakes his head. No, it's no good. No matter what angle I try, he looks dead. Tomley pinches the corners of his moustache as he considers the problem. We need to find a face double. Someone living who bears a good enough resemblance.

Tomley takes out a tape measure and begins measuring the corpse. Montague notes down the measurements. We'll need a body double too. Someone of a similar size to him who can wear in his uniform. It's got to look lived in. How tall is he? Same height as me. Six

foot three. It's rather strange. Well, then that's one problem solved. You've got yourself a new set of clothes. A week later, room 13. Chonley sits wearing Bill's marine uniform. He's reading a letter. It's handwritten by Montague but purports to be from Bill's bank manager. I like this. You more than anyone appreciate that there is a war on and in constrained times the bank cannot approve an overdraft to cover your extravagances. You've given Bill a good ticking off. But the next line, does it serve its purpose?

No doubt it is forgetfulness on your part rather than any deliberate avoidance of payment. But I must ask that you pay the outstanding bill immediately. I love it. Bill's unpaid bill underlines his lack of organization. Good. Then I'll ask Joan to type it up. Joan! You don't have to shout. I'm sitting right here. Joan takes the letter and the two men watch as she narrows her eyes while reading it. Tom Lee found it pretty convincing. What do you think?

It reads like a letter to a man about town who's running up a debt in the process. Yes, but there's a but. Well, it seems strange that someone like Bill is flying off to war clutching a letter from his bank manager. Why doesn't he have a sweetheart and letters from her? Yes, of course.

He needs a love life. But Bill's is going to be a rather tragic love story. He planned to marry his girl, but then his tragic accident off the coast of Spain brought their match to a brutal end. Tomley raises his eyebrows, but he's enjoying this latest twist in the story of Bill. If he bought her a ring,

that will help account for the overdraft. He could have the receipt in his pocket. What else? Chomley turns out his own pockets and places a bus ticket and a few banknotes and coins on the desk. He watches as Montague adds a box of matches,

a bill for shirts from a London tailor, and a ticket for a dance. Then looks over to Joan. Can you picture Bill a little more clearly now, Joan? Well, he's getting there. But if he's got a receipt for an engagement ring, then surely he'd have a photo of his fiance too. A few days later, room 13.

Montague and Chonley lay a series of photographs out on the desk in front of them. During the past week, Joan Saunders has asked the Admiralty's Office Secretaries to supply photographs of themselves for potential use as bills make believe sweetheart. Montague sorts them into three columns. Headshotsshots home shots and holiday shots I think Bill's more likely to take a holiday snap don't you a reminder of a carefree day out yes indeed most of the girls are wearing twin sets with pearls but Montague's eyes have landed on a photo of a striking looking brunette in a one-piece bathing suit. He picks it up.

I think Bill would be rather taken by her. I think Bill would. She's the one then. I think she's a Pamela, but Bill calls her Pam. They are interrupted by Joan Saunders. She glances at the photograph and hands Montagu a cable. This has just come in from Bletchley Park. I thought you should see it. Montagu takes the latest decoded German message and reads the transcript.

It says the Germans are anticipating an allied attack on Sicily in the next few months. Then we need Major Martin ready as soon as possible. It also says they are expecting a major deception operation. The two men fall silent. Montague gathers up the photos and hands them back to Joan. The cable underlines what they already knew. The lives of 160,000 Allied troops are at risk if their plan doesn't work. Major Martin's character needs to be convincing,

but the fake intelligence in his briefcase has to be foolproof, and they haven't even started work on that. The War Office, London. Montagu watches as Colonel John Bevan, Britain's head of military deception, reads his draft letter. The letter contains the fake military intelligence they plan to plant on the corpse. It's supposed to be from General Nye, the deputy head of the army.

And it indicates that the Allies will attempt to invade mainland Europe through Greece and Sardinia, rather than Sicily. Bevan shakes his head and looks at Montague. All this stuff about Monty's hat size. I suppose this is some sort of joke about the General's reputation as a big head. I think the letter will be more convincing if the tone is not too dry. It needs a little humor in it. But General Nigh doesn't have a sense of humor.

Take all the jokes out. But Montague bites his tongue. He spent days on this letter, and he doesn't like being edited, especially by Bevan. The two have never seen eye to eye, but if the letter doesn't sound like General Nigh, it won't work. Bevan stops reading again. And what's all this nonsense about wanting a crate of oranges and lemons? But it's supposed to be a personal letter from General Nye to General Alexander in Tunisia. He's supposed to be letting slip the invasion plans rather than announcing them. It needs something personal in it. I sort of fruit here.

There's plenty in Tunisia. I thought he might mention it. We don't want the general to sound like a bloody scrounger, especially to the Germans. And the invasion plans need to be more specific. If you say the Allies target is Greece without naming a specific landing point, the Germans will think we are bluffing. Take it away, start again. Later that month, the Minimax Fire Extinguisher Company, Broadway, London. Charmley waits outside the office of Charles Fraser Smith. Charmley, I've been expecting you. Come in.

The Fire Extinguisher Company is a cover. This is actually the headquarters of the secret intelligence service, MI6. And Fraser Smith's job is to make equipment that can be used by spies behind enemy lines. Charmily steps inside and looks around. A table running at right angles to a desk is covered with dismantled everyday objects. It's an honor to meet you and see your place of work. Are these famous devices? Would you like a demonstration? Smith picks up a hairbrush and inserts a razor blade into an almost imperceptible gap. The brush opens to reveal a map and a miniature saw. Essential kit for anyone dropped behind enemy lines. Ingenious. But we need something on a somewhat larger scale. We need to transport a corpse to Spain by submarine.

We don't want it to decay too much on the journey, and we don't want the crew to know what's in it. Smith takes a seat at his desk and unscrews a thermos flask. Tea? No, thank you. Chomney watches as Smith pours himself a cup and sets the flask back down. This is what you need. Honestly, no tea for me. I'm fine. Thank you. Chomley watches as Smith pours himself a cup and sets the flask back down. This is what you need.

Honestly, no tea for me. I'm fine. Thank you. And not tea. Fraser Smith taps the side of the flask with a metal pen. Partial vacuum insulation to minimize heat conduction. I don't quite follow. A giant thermos flask.

That is what you need. If you can pack the body inside that with plenty of dry ice, it should keep it cool most of the way. And you can make one. We need it urgently, ideally within a week or two. We're in the business of supplying fire extinguishers. This one will be bigger and with some vacuum insulation. We'll work it out. And as for the submarine crew, just tell them it contains optical equipment. That sounds dull enough not to elicit any interest. I'll get on with building it straight away.

A few days later, Room 13, London. Montague and Chonley are huddled around a desk with the assistant naval attaché at the British embassy in Spain, Salvador Gomez Biari. It's almost six months since Chalmley first outlined his crazy plan to use a dead body to trick the Germans. Now, over tea, Montague is outlining Operation Mincemeat to their man in Madrid. Montague is outlining Operation Mincemeat to their man in Madrid. We need to make sure the bodies dropped somewhere will not only be washed ashore, but at a location where the contents of the briefcase are sure to be passed on to the Germans. Gomez, Biare gets up and goes to the map of Spain that's pinned to the wall behind Montague's desk. He jabs it with his finger. You don't want it to wash up anywhere near Cadiz.

It's a naval city and the Spanish navy is very pro-British. If they get hold of the documents, they will send them straight back to you, which is exactly what we don't want to happen. For the plan to succeed, the Spanish authorities must leak the documents to the German military intelligence unit, the Abwehr. Montagu presses the diplomat further. So, where would you suggest? Here. Wölver. Close to the Portuguese border.

It's the stomping ground of a particularly troublesome Ab up-fair agent, Adolf Klaus. Everyone in Welver is in his pocket. If he hears the body of a British officer was washed up, he'll make sure he gets to it. Tomley looks at where he's pointing. I'll check the tides there, so we get the timing right for it to be washed ashore. Montague lights his pipe.

And we need to be certain this Klaus gets wind of it, while maintaining the impression we absolutely don't want him to. Understood. The British Council is reliable. You can count on him, and I'll brief him as soon as I'm back. When should we expect Major Martin to arrive? End of April? That's only a few weeks away.

We know, but our body is already starting to decompose. If we wait any longer, the authorities will know Bill's been dead for weeks and the game will be up. Mid April, the Ministry of Information, London. Chomley observes as the Ministry's technical analysts photograph all of Bill's newly acquired possessions. A briefcase with a chain attached to the handle stands open on the table. Next to the briefcase are Bill's letters, one from his bank manager, another from his fiance, and the all-important letter from General Nye that contains the fake intelligence. This letter has now been

written by the general himself. It's dull, but so is the general, and that means it's less likely to raise German suspicions. It's also written using an ink that won't wash away in the water. Once the letters have been photographed, the analysts fold them, ready to insert them into the envelopes. Charmly intervenes. One more thing. He removes his glasses and pulls out an eyelash. He places it carefully into the fold of the letter, blinking as he does so.

It might just help us detect if they've been opened or not. The analysts continue with their work, securing the envelope containing General Nye's letter with a wax seal. If the Germans read and believe the contents of the letters, they will need to go to some lengths to make it look as if they haven't. They might find a way around breaking the seals, but it's unlikely anyone will check for an eyelash. Several days later, April 15th, 1943,

the Cabinet War Room's annex, Whitehall, London. Colonel Bevan, Britain's head of military deception, stands in Winston Churchill's bedroom. The Prime Minister is in his bed, wearing pyjamas and a dressing gown. He puffs on a large cigar as he reads Bevan's briefing notes. This is fantastic. This is what will help us win the war. The Germans are far too literal to do anything but take it seriously. Bevan straightens his uniform.

He's here to get Churchill's approval for Operation Mincemeat to go ahead. But while he's presenting the plan to the Prime Minister, he still has reservations. There's a possibility that the Spaniards might find out the dead man was in fact not drowned but poisoned. If they do, that scuppers all our other deception plans. It will simply confirm that Sicily is the target and not Greece or Sardinia. It's worth the risk. Sicily is the key to freeing Europe,

and anything that might persuade Hitler to divert troops elsewhere increases our chance of success. It's also possible that the Spanish will hand the body straight back to us. In that case, we shall have to get the body back and give it another swim. This plan has my approval. Bevan turns to go. A submarine that can take Bill to Spain will set sail in four days' time. With the Prime Minister's stamp of approval,

there is no more room for any of his private doubts. Operation Mintmeats is going ahead, whether he likes it or not. or the Wondery app. Glass of champagne however you fly, economy included. Elegance is a journey. Air France. Travel from March 17th to June 28th and from August 24th to November 30th, 2025. See conditions at airfrance.ca. Have you got a spy story you'd like us to tell? Email your ideas to thespywho at wondery.com. From Wandery, this is the first episode in our season, The Spy Who Duped Hitler.

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 Operation Mincemeat by Ben McIntyre and The Man Who Never Was by Ewan Montague.

The Spy Who is hosted by me, Maraza Jaffrey. Our show is produced by Vespucci with writing and story editing by Yellow Ant for Wandery. For Yellow Ant, this episode was written by Lizzie Enfield and researched by Louise Byrne with thanks to Marina Watson and Kat Whitehouse. Our managing producer is Jay Priest. For Vespucci, our Senior Producers are Ashley Clevery and Philippa Gearing. Our Sound Designer is Ivor Manley. Rachel Byrne is the Supervising Producer. Music Supervisor is Scott Velasquez for Frisson Sink. Executive Producers for Vespucci are Johnny Galvin and Daniel Turkin.

Executive Producer for Yellow Ant is Tristan Donovan. Our senior producer for Wondery is Theodora Louloudis and our senior managing producer is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Chris Bourne and Marshall Louis.