The Spy Who - The Spy Who Inspired 007 | Retribution | 4

Episode Date: March 11, 2024

British intelligence is out to fool the Nazis into thinking the Allies invasion will start anywhere but Normandy. But to make Operation Fortitude’s lies stick, they need an agent who can sell the fiction to the Abwehr under interrogation and only one man has the chutzpah for that: Duško Popov.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.

30th of April, 1944. Estoril, Portugal. Abwehr officer Johnny Jebsen enters a picturesque villa overlooking the sea that doubles as the German intelligence service's headquarters in Portugal. He feels on edge. But that's normal. Come in, Jebsen. It is good to see you. Good afternoon, Oberleutnant. Ever since he agreed to join his closest friend, Dusko Popov, in spying for the British, his days have been defined by fear and paranoia. And now he's been

summoned here to meet his new commanding officer, Alois Schreiber. Schreiber is a 50-year-old bald Bavarian Nazi with a foreboding reputation. He's a doctor of chemistry and one of the Abwehr's most senior officers. As Jebsen greets him, he notices the scars on the backs of Schreiber's hands, evidence of an old accident involving a spilled beaker of acid. Congratulations on your recent commendation. Schreiber guides Jebsen into his office, then manoeuvres himself between Jebsen and the door.

There were others more deserving, I am sure. Surely not. Though it was unfortunate you missed our recent meeting in Biarritz, I trust you had good reason. A flash of concern crosses Jebsen's face. Could Schreiber know about his recruitment to the Allied cause? Anyway, there's unwelcome news, Jebsen. Sir? I have orders to escort you to Berlin.

Jebsen tenses in readiness as Schreiber reaches into his uniform and draws a Luger pistol, by any means necessary. Schreiber doesn't aim his pistol at Jebsen, but lets it hang at his side. But Jebsen's not fooled. His life's in danger, no matter how much the Germans do or do not know about what he's been doing for the British. He bolts for the door. Stop! Schreiber grabs Jebsen's jacket and pulls him backwards. Schreiber is taller and stronger, but Jebsen knows that this is his only chance to get away.

Schreiber pins Jebsen to the floor. I hoped it wouldn't come to this. Schreiber reaches into the pocket of his uniform and draws out a syringe filled with clear liquid. Schreiber plunges the needle into Jebsen's arm and empties the syringe. Jebsen struggles on for a few moments, then his muscles start to relax. Finally, he falls limp. Schreiber stands, walks across the room and starts to drag a metal trunk toward Jebsen's motionless body. The trunk's large enough to hold a human and has been fitted with openings for ventilation. Jebsen stirs. He's alive, but it's dark and his body's cramped.

He tries to move, but his limbs prove unresponsive. As he drifts in and out of consciousness, Jebsen tries to figure out the hows and whys of his arrest. He thinks of his best friend Popov. Wherever this car is headed, the person at the other end will want to know if Jebsen knows of any other German agents who work for the British Jebsen resolves to say nothing, no matter the cost Wondery Plus subscribers can binge full seasons of The Spy Who early and ad-free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app.

From Wondery, I'm Indira Varma, and this is The Spy Who. On the last episode, Dushko Popov returned to Europe and bluffed his way out of the Abwehr's doubts about his loyalty. Johnny Ebsen made powerful enemies in the Gestapo. And British intelligence launched Operation Fortitude, a campaign of misinformation designed to clear the way for the Allied invasion of Normandy. Now, Operation Fortitude needs to convince the Germans that the fake intel they've been getting about the Allied invasion is real. To do that, they need someone who can sell the lie

under interrogation, and MI6 believes only one man is up to the job. Dushko Popov. This is The Spy Who Inspired 007. Episode 4. Retribution. January 1944. Four months before Johnny Yepsen's arrest. Dushko Popov and his MI5 handler, Tar Robertson, wander through the port of Dover on England's southern coast. Everywhere they look, they see hundreds of fake ships bobbing in the water. The vessels are made of rubber or canvas stretched tight over steel frames.

From afar, they look just like a real armada. A fleet worthy of Nelson, wouldn't you agree, Dushko? It's convincing, although I doubt you'll win many battles with this lot. They've come to the south coast to inspect the fake fleet. These boats are the latest ploy in Operation Fortitude, British intelligence's grand plan to fool the Nazis. For weeks, Popov's been providing his Abwehr spymasters with information that suggests Dover will be the place where the Allied invasion fleet will sail from. Now, German reconnaissance planes will inevitably photograph the phony armada

amassed at Dover, shoring up Popov's tall story. Popov lights a cigarette and scans the harbour. He needs to remember the sights, the smells, the sounds, every detail he can, so that when the Abwehr interrogates him, he can convince them he saw the Allied fleet with his own eyes. He turns to Robertson. You really think this will work? It takes more than firepower to defeat your enemy these days, Dushko. Anyway, take it all in. The more of this you can recall, the better the chance you'll convince anyone who asks about it. Take me through the details again. It's not complicated. Fortitude is the deception on which the success of D-Day rests. We need German high command to believe that Calais is the true focus of

our invasionary efforts and to move their forces there. Popov takes a drag on his cigarette. It doesn't hurt to be reminded of the plan, nor of what is at stake. This phantom fleet will combine with fake wireless chatter and, of course, your own deception work to strengthen the mirage. A ruse of this scale requires the best efforts of many organisations. I don't want to alarm you, old chap, but if anything goes wrong, you'll have Churchill and Eisenhower on your case. If anything goes wrong, I probably won't be around to hear about it. Robertson glances at the ground. He knows Popov's life relies on the success of Operation Fortitude as much as that of any Allied infantryman. The two men gaze out across the English Channel, across which the real Allied fleet will soon set sail.

Two months later. In his room at the Palazzo Hotel in Estoril, Popov sits in a chair and rolls up a shirt sleeve to reveal his upper arm. Nearby, a doctor hired by MI6 hunches over his bag and fills a syringe with clear liquid. Popov looks up at his close friend Johnny Yebson, who's standing over him. Tomorrow, Popov will meet his Nazi spymasters. It will be the most important interview of his career in espionage.

He must convince the Abwehr that the fake intel they have is real. If he fails, the whole sham will fall apart and the chances of a successful Allied invasion will collapse. And that's why Jebsons volunteer to help him rehearse the interrogation. Johnny, are you sure about this drug? A vein full of serum and I start spilling secrets. It's not a magic potion, but they're obviously getting some results. Else, why would they be using it in interrogations? What say you, doctor? 25 grams of sodium pentothal will cause a

partial paralysis of the nervous system. Popov sits up. Hang on. I thought this stuff affected my capacity to deceive, not to walk. The doctor approaches, syringe at the ready. It's a fast acting barbiturate. It slows the speed at which messages pass from your spinal cord to your brain. We don't know precisely how effective it is, but I've observed that subjects usually believe they have revealed too much, even if they have not. For someone in your situation, that kind of paranoia could prove fatal. Hold still, please. The doctor sinks the needle into Popov's arm and injects the clear liquid from the syringe. Okay, he's had worse. The doctor picks up his bag. I'll be in the bar if anything goes wrong. Good luck. Dusko, I know you had your run-ins with von Karsthoff, but he's a kitten

compared to this new chap. Schreiber runs things here in Lisbon now, and he's the Lord High Executioner of Berlin. It'll be him interrogating you, not von Karsthoff. Oh, please. Schreiber plays with chemistry sets and paper clips. Beneath the uniform, he's... Oh, it's already working. My tongue feels too big for my mouth.

The Abwehr are banking on what you've gleaned in London. They trust you, but they'll want to be sure you haven't been played. Be on your toes. Come on, then. Make like a Gestapo man. Jebsen switches off the main lights. A single lamp angled toward Popov now provides the only illumination. Jebsen sits in a chair opposite Popov

and rests a pile of notes on his lap. Do you dislike Germans? No. The Nazis? No. And yet when you were a student, you made public speech at the end of the day. Tell me again, where were you

when you first learned about the British plan to invade France? Oberstleutnant Schreiber, it's been five hours. Please, can we take a break? It's 24 hours since Popov finished his practice run with Jebsen. He's now in a run-down villa in Eshteril, close to his hotel, and Alois Schreiber, the new boss of the Abwehr in Lisbon, has been questioning him for most of the day. Schreiber checks his notes.

We are nearly done. This is all just precautionary, you understand. Entire armies may act on the intelligence you have provided. You are an outstanding agent, Popov, but even the best have their weaknesses. Isn't that right, von Karsthoff? In the corner of the room, Popov's former spymaster, von Karsthoff, watches on in uncomfortable silence. Schreiber leans forward. So tell me again, what precisely did you see at Dover? Hundreds of Royal Navy vessels.

Corvettes, destroyers, landing craft. It's as if the entire British fleet has been redeployed, ready to cross the Channel. Schreiber makes a note and scrutinises Popov for a moment. His manner is that of a psychiatrist, not an inquisitor. Popov suspects it's an approach designed to lull him into a false sense of security. But instead of asking another question, Schreiber smiles. Thank you, Herr Popov. Next time we meet, I am sure it will be in more relaxed circumstances. We appreciate your time and efforts. You may go. As Popov shakes hands with Schreiber,

he notices the relief on the face of von Karsthoff. Popov wonders if his former commanding officer suspected him all along, but looked the other way to Karsthoff. Popov wonders if his former commanding officer suspected him all along but looked the other way to keep his masters happy. Popov appears to have passed the test. Four days later, London. In MI5 headquarters, a young officer bursts into the office of Popov's case officer, Tar Robertson. Sir, you need to see this. Robertson looks up from the papers on his desk. Spit it out, man. It's a signal.

From Berlin. And? They have the false intel from Popov. And they seem to have bought it. They're only questioning the information they have about a single army formation now. They've swallowed everything else we fed them. Here it is in writing. The report confirms our own overall operational picture.

The brilliant bastard. A smile cracks on Robertson's face. Popov's come through. The Nazis are now sold on the fiction spun by Operation Fortitude. It's April 1944, and in the casino Esteril, Popov and Jebsen are at the roulette table. Popov pushes all his chips along a green baize table.

All on black. Jebsen grabs his arm along a green baize table. All on black. Jebsen grabs his arm. Slow down, Dusko. The night is still young. How do you think we'll pay to keep it going, Johnny? Have faith. The old friends lean forward as the croupier sends the ball rattling around the spinning roulette wheel. Tomorrow, Popov returns to Britain.

With the Allied invasion of France imminent, he doesn't know when he'll next return. So tonight, they're enjoying one final hurrah. The wheel begins to slow. Oh, look out! Congratulations, sir. Your chips. The croupier slides Popov's winnings across the felt.

Jebsen shakes his head. It never runs out, does it? Your luck. We make our own, Johnny. You know that. The two men move to the bar. Popov orders. Scotch and soda, twice.

What was he like? Who? The great Nazi of Lisbon, of course. You mean Schreiber? He was, um, gentler than expected. Polite, even. Then again, those are the ones you need to watch out for. A cruel son of a bitch beneath it all, I'm sure.

He had acid burns across the back of his hands. So he is acquainted with pain. And no syringes? None. Although von Karsthoff looked like he could have used a squeeze of opium. They made him watch from the corner, stewing from the sidelines. Like I said, cruel son of a bitch. You did well. I was well rehearsed. The friends talk for hours, enjoying one another's company, as if they were students again. Then, as the last stragglers leave the casino, they call it a night. They stroll through the warm spring night until they reach Jebsen's villa. Jebsen smiles at Popov. Next time we meet, Europe should be free.

Maybe thanks to you. A team effort. Auf Wiedersehen, old friend. Popov turns to leave. Dusko. Yes? Nothing. I just wanted to have a good look at you.

We've... We've been through a lot, haven't we? I'm not coming in, Johnny. Go to bed. The two men embrace, thankful for a night of fun after so many years of war. Then Jebsen watches as Popov walks away into the night. Seventeen days later, Jebsen will wake up in the boot of Schreiber's car, heading to a destination unknown. It's a June evening in 1944.

Dushko Popov is walking home through Knightsbridge, London. But as he nears his house, he sees a light shining through a carelessly drawn blackout curtain. Not that he's concerned. Popov's friends and lovers know he leaves the front door key on the right-hand window ledge and that his bar is always well-stocked, even if the refrigerator is empty. Inside, Popov finds his MI5 case officer, Tar Robertson, waiting for him. Ah, it's you. I'd rather hoped it was someone better-looking waiting for me. Robertson rises awkwardly to his feet. Popov senses it's unwelcome news. Sorry to disappoint you, Dushko. It's urgent, though. What? Have a

seat. Just tell me. It's Johnny. He's been arrested. Popov feared he had news about Jebson, but even so, the reality hits him like a bucket of freezing water. Bullshit. How? When? He was a no-show at his most recent MI6 appointment. I was with him just before that. There'll be a good reason. We checked his apartment. He's not been home in weeks. Our agent in the German embassy in Lisbon just got the story. Gestapo?

Yes. They've taken him to Prinz-Albrecht-Straße. Popov slumps into a chair. He's heard of the place. And what goes on there? A cascade of implications tumbles through his mind. His cover. Operation Fortitude. The Epson knows everything.

He won't give me up. There's more at stake here than you cover, Dusko. Johnny has the keys to Fortitude. Right now, he practically holds France's fate in his hands. He knows this. Johnny will hold out. I hope so. Um, he sent you a letter. Before they took him. We've read it, of course.

Robertson hands Popov the letter. It's dated two days before his arrest. In it, Jebson tells Popov about the guilt he feels about a recent decoration he received from the Nazis. Popov's eyes well up as he reads Jebson's sign-off. I hope you will give my love to all you can give it to, without spoiling your, my, or anyone else's cover. To you, I can give my love unconditionally. Yours, as always, Johnny. of Normandy. Allied troops are now locked in battle on the other side of the English Channel. To mark the moment, Popov's been invited to a quiet dinner by his friends in British intelligence. He opens the door to the dining room and gasps. Instead of the intimate gathering he expected, he sees long tables dressed for a banquet. Top-ranking intelligence officers stand around discussing the day's events.

His case officer, Tar Robertson, rushes over to greet him. The man of the hour! Wilson said it was going to be a quiet affair. I'm not dressed for this. A harmless deception. We were worried you wouldn't show. Come, follow me. Robertson leads Popov to the seat of honour at the head of the table.

Smiling heads in the room turn to face him. Popov looks confused and embarrassed. Robertson taps his glass and delivers a toast. A moment, gentlemen, to honour those brave individuals who are, as I speak, reclaiming Normandy. They have been helped, of course, by our guest of honour tonight, whose daring acts of deception have helped ensure that the enemy's forces were in the wrong place at the right time. Dusko, we have recommended you to the king for an order of chivalry. It will be well deserved.

Undoubtedly, lives have been saved tonight because of the success of Operation Fortitude. A toast, gentlemen, to our combined efforts made manifest in this man, Dushko Popov. Dushko Popov! Robertson sits down next to Popov. Popov turns to him. This is all a bit premature, don't you think, Tar? Their boots are still wet with seawater.

Not at all. Your mission was a success. What happens next is down to others. Any news on Johnny? Only what we can deduce from the success of today's events. That he didn't talk. Popov nods without smiling. His mission may have succeeded, but his friend remains in mortal danger.

August 1944, four months after Jebsen's abduction, Paris, France. Popov wanders the streets of the newly liberated French capital. War still rages across Europe, but Popov is now preoccupied with a personal mission, to locate his best friend, Johnny Jebson. The trails brought him to the Rue de la Pompe, in Paris. Popov's been told there's a German there named Frederic Hahn and he may have a clue to Jebsen's whereabouts. Popov stands outside the door to Hahn's apartment and listens. The voices stop but there is no response. Popov waits a moment then tries again. Jacqueline Blanc, I know you're there. Please let me in. I'll only take a few moments of your time. There's no reply. Well then, I shall stay here until you come out.

Or if you prefer to be discreet. The door creeps open with the chain lock still on. A woman in her mid-twenties with flowing brown hair peeks warily through the gap. Popov notices she's wearing a dressing gown. Monsieur, how can I help you? Mademoiselle Blanc, I'm looking for a friend of yours. Of mine, too, for that matter. Frederick Hahn. Is this the place?

A flash of anxiety crosses the woman's face before she quickly regains her composure. I'm sorry, he's not here. He left for Germany a month ago. May I come in? Don't fret. I am with the liberators. Blanc opens the door a little further to get a better look at Popov. After a moment, she nods and steps aside so that he can enter. She motions to the sofa as she sinks into the armchair opposite. Would you care for a cigarette? I don't smoke. Popov spots a tray

full of ash on the sideboard. She blushes and looks at the floor. Popov catches the scent of Balkan tobacco hanging in the air, but he decides to not force her hand prematurely. I'm trying to save a friend of mine who has been taken by the Nazis. I'm not interested in the nature of your arrangement with Herr Hahn. I simply need to speak with him. I told you, he's not here. Where is he? He did not leave a forwarding address. Mademoiselle Blanc, I am determined to save my friend by any means necessary. If you refuse to help, I shall take disagreeable steps. What do you mean? Have you seen what they're doing to collaborators out there right now?

The city is out for blood. It's better to be a Nazi than to have slept with one. As Popov stares at the woman, he notices the bedroom door behind her slowly open. A man emerges holding a pistol at waist height, its barrel levelled at Popov. Herr Hahn, I presume? Put the gun away. Hahn does nothing. You can shoot me, but soon enough they'll come

looking. You can't dispose of a body in this city, not mine anyway. Besides, I can help you. Han maintains Popov's gaze. I appreciate your position. You are a businessman, not a war criminal. You wouldn't have remained in Paris otherwise. Help me and I will put in a word for you with the Allied authorities. Is that all? It's a damn sight more than you have now. Germany will lose this war just like it lost this city. It's only a matter of time. Then the bodies will start to swing. Don't be one of them. Han lowers the barrel of the gun. What do you want to know? You knew Johnny. Don't deny it. And you knew which Nazis he had business dealings with. One of them, I am certain,

is responsible for his arrest. Give me their names. Hahn walks to the window. He pulls out a silver case and lights a cigarette. I only want them to tell me where he is. No need. I can tell you. They took him to the cellar prison in Prinz-Albrecht-Strasse. His interrogator was an SS officer named Sonder Eger. Whether Johnny is still there, I do not know. And as for who put him there... I could give you more names, but they won't help. There is one person, though. Walter Salzer.

He was Jebsen's go-between on all financial transactions. If anyone knows who sold him to the Gestapo, it's Salza. Where will I find him? No idea. His office was in Hamburg. You will know him when you find him. His left hand is severely burned and he has a duelling scar across his left cheek. Popov heads back onto the streets of Paris, armed with his new lead. But until the Allied forces capture the German port of Hamburg, he can't act on it. He just hopes that when that city falls, it won't be too late to save his closest friend.

October 1945, Hamburg. Popov drives an army jeep through the ruined German port. The war is over, in no small part thanks to the deception of Operation Fortitude. But there has been no word of Jebsen's whereabouts since his disappearance 18 months earlier. Popov suspects his friend is dead, but he needs to be sure. Hans Tipoff in Paris has led him here. Popov arrives at Salzer's former offices. He hoped to find paperwork here, perhaps a home address.

But the building is now rubble. Popov sits in his jeep and surveys the wreckage. Then he spies a boy playing among the blackened bricks. Hello, young sir. Love what you've done with the place. The child looks afraid. Do you live around here? My father's the caretaker.

Looks like he has some sweeping up to do. Could you fetch him for me? The boy looks at Popov suspiciously. Popov reaches into his pocket and produces a bar of chocolate and offers it with a smile. The boy snatches the bar from Popov's hand and sprints into a nearby building. A few minutes later, he emerges with his father. Popov pulls a packet of cigarettes from another pocket and holds them so the man can see. My good man, did you know the tenants well? I'm looking for a man named Salsa. I'm not sure. Popov offers the man the packet. Perhaps a smoke would help loosen the memory.

The man takes the packet and hungrily lights a cigarette. I know who you mean. I don't know where he lives, though. One of his colleagues, Dr. Ziegler, he'll know. Do you have something to write on? Popov hands the man a notebook and watches as he scribbles down a new lead. The next morning, in a wood-panelled office in the Allied military prison in Hamburg, Popov sits behind a large desk and waits. Yesterday, he called in a favour from British intelligence to have Mr Ziegler arrested and kept in the cells overnight. Now he hopes to extract the information he needs from him. The office door opens. Two British soldiers march Ziegler into the room. Mr. Ziegler for you, sir.

The soldiers turn and leave. Popov doesn't even look at Ziegler. Instead, he pretends to read through a folder stamped with the name Salza, which the secretary fabricated for him for just this purpose. Popov puts down the folder and picks up a pen. You know Walter Salza? Yes. He used to work for our firm.

Where is he now? What's his address? I do not know. Move your chair to the corner and face the wall until you do. You have 30 minutes. Ziegler does as he is told and faces the wall like a naughty schoolboy. Eventually, Popov tells his prisoner to return to the desk. Perhaps I have been unclear, Mr. Ziegler. I'm not interested in you. You are irrelevant. But unless you give me the information I require, you will remain irrelevant in prison.

I ask again. Where is Salza? Ziegler's lips quiver. Fine. Salza is hiding in a house named Schloss on the outskirts of Minden. He goes by the name of Hugo Ulrich. Popov has what he needs. But he's got one last question. One he doesn't expect an answer for. What about Johnny Jebsen? I know Jebsen. And what precisely do you know of him?

That he died in a concentration camp, Salter told me. Apparently, Jebsen knew too much about some irregular financial deals. Ziegler's given Popov more than he was prepared for, confirmation that his friend is dead. Tears fill Popov's eyes as he briskly strides out of the room. Only one thing remains to be done now. Find the man responsible. One month later, Minden, Germany.

Popov drives his jeep up to the lodge by the entrance of a large house with an expansive drive. This is where he's heard Salza now lives, under the alias Hugo Ulrich. He stops and looks at the gatekeeper. I'm looking for Herr Ulrich. First floor, fourth door on the left, but he's out shopping. You should come back later. I'll wait. I have time to kill. Inside the building, Popov sits in a chair by the front door. He chain smokes as people come and go. Finally, a man matching Seltzer's description enters the corridor.

Popov remains seated. Seltzer! The man's body stiffens, but he continues walking up the stairs with his shopping bags. Popov rises to his feet and unholsters his pistol. Put down the bags and come here. Seltzer turns and looks confused. He has no idea why a total stranger's pointing a gun at him. Remove your gloves.

Seltzer exposes his left hand. It's covered in scars. Popov now knows he has the right man. We will talk more comfortably in my jeep. Follow me. Popov sits in the passenger seat with his pistol aimed at Seltzer, who drives slowly following Popov's directions. On the outskirts of Minden, the jeep arrives at a forest track.

Stop here. Seltzer pulls up by the track. Popov leans across and switches off the ignition. Get out. Seltzer hoists himself from the driver's seat as if he is made of lead. Popov feels no pity, only disgust. Do you know why you're here? Seltzer shakes his head.

Johnny Yebson. Why did you have him abducted in Lisbon? I didn't order it. My superiors did. On your suggestion? No. I was following orders. Popov shoves Seltzer against the trunk of a tree and drives the barrel of the pistol into his stomach. You Nazis. Always with the sodding orders.

What if I order you to shoot yourself in the head right now? Whose orders? I can explain. So can I. You had Jebsen take the blame for your financial misdealings. I'll kill you for that. Seltzer's legs give way. Popov pins him against the tree.

A foul stench hits Popov, causing him to step back. Seltzer has soiled his trousers. Popov stares at the man he's pursued for two years. He lifts the pistol and takes aim. He holds it there, finger on the trigger. Then he changes his mind, throws the weapon into the jeep and swings at Seltzer with a clenched fist. I'll kill you with my own hands.

Fight back, you bastard! Fight back! Popov rains punches down, pounding him over and over. Then he grabs Seltzer's throat. But something stops him from squeezing. The men remain locked in place. Popov throws Seltzer to the ground and staggers toward the jeep. As Seltzer lays on the ground, Popov clambers into his jeep and accelerates away. To be continued... Dusko Popov, a Serbian double agent also known by the codename Tricycle, came to be regarded as one of the greatest spies of the Second World War.

In 1947, he received an OBE from King George VI for his role in Operation Fortitude. Thanks to his efforts, German troops were diverted away from the French beaches Allied troops stormed on D-Day. After the war, naval intelligence officer and aspiring novelist Ian Fleming reportedly based his iconic character, James Bond, on Popov. Popov left the world of espionage after he returned to Britain in 1945 and became a successful businessman. Popov and his brother Ivo became British citizens shortly after the war. In 1962, aged 50, Popov married a 19-year-old Swede he met on a business trip to Stockholm. The couple had three sons and remained together until Popov died in 1981 at the age of 69. It is unknown whether Salzer, if that was indeed his name, lived or died.

On the next episode, author and journalist Charlotte Philby, the granddaughter of British double agent Kim Philby, tries to get to the bottom of whether Popov really did act as an inspiration for Fleming's hero, or whether there are other spies who have a stronger claim to the title. From Wondery. This is the fourth episode in our series, The Spy Who Inspired 007. A quick note about our dialogue. We can't know everything that was said or done behind closed doors,

particularly that 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 many sources to make this series, including Into the Lion's Mouth by Larry Loftus, Codename Tricycle by Russell Miller, and Spy, Counterspy by Dushko Popov. The Spy Who is hosted by me, Indira 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 Simon Parkin

and researched by Marina Watson and Louise Byrne. Our managing producer is Jay Priest. For Vespucci, our senior producer is Thomas Currie and our sound designer is Matt Peaty. Matt Willis 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, Jessica Radburn and Marshall Louis.