The Spy Who - The Spy Who Killed a Prime Minister | Heart of Darkness | 2

Episode Date: December 3, 2024

Newly independent Congo is spiralling into disorder. Disorder the Communists could be quick to exploit. MI6 officer Daphne Park needs to act, and fast.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.Have you got a spy story you’d like us to tell? Email your ideas to [e-mail] 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. July 8th, 1960, Leopoldville, Congo. Daphne Park leads a group of terrified British citizens through the chaotic capital. Oh, my God. Oh, God. What do we do? Where do we go? How do we get out? This way. Follow me. Keep your heads down. Park is a British intelligence officer, and she's been stationed in Congo for almost a year.

Her job is to monitor the fractious political station in the country for MI6, while posing as an official at the British Embassy. But that job's just got a lot harder. During the past 24 hours, the army has mutinied. Rank and file troops feel betrayed by Lumumba, who had promised them pay rises that are yet to materialise. Soldiers with rifles and machetes now

wander the streets. Some hurl rocks at windows of homes belonging to Belgians. Robbery, rape, even murder is rife. Many members of the white population are desperate to flee the country before the situation deteriorates. Park leads a group of Brits to the dock, where they hope to evacuate

via ferry across the Congo River to the nearby French-held city of Brazzaville. As they round a corner, Park sees a group of soldiers loitering around the path to the dock. They appear to be smoking cannabis and swigging from bottles of beer. As Park leads her group towards them, the men move to block the route. Park addresses the largest soldier. Good day to you, sir. My name is Miss Park. I'm with the British Embassy and these are British subjects. We need to reach the ferry. The crowd of Brits behind Park collectively hold their breath, anticipating the soldier's reaction.

From the corner of her eye, Park sees him move his hand toward the handle of the long bowed knife that hangs from his belt. Park tenses, ready to turn and flee. Then, the soldier's face breaks into a broad smile. He steps forward and grips Park's shoulders, drawing her into a hug. You don't remember me? Well, I remember you. You are the lady who cannot reverse. With her face pressed against the soldier's chest, Park furrows her brow. What on earth do you mean? You drive that little car. You're a dangerous woman. The other troops laugh. How can we help? Would you let us through? I need to get my people to Brazzaville. The soldier looks between the expectant faces of the British citizens lurking behind Park. My people? These are your friends?

Absolutely. My dearest, most personal friends. Hmm. A dangerous woman. But also a popular one. You can pass. The relieved British citizens pass through the group of uniformed men, hurrying to catch the ferry to safety.

The soldier looks at Park. You are not leaving with your friends? Might be your last chance. Park shakes her head. Oh no, I'm not going anywhere. I have far too much work to do. That work may cost you your life, if your driving doesn't kill you first. Park smiles and then turns to leave.

Don't worry about me. I'm not the one who should be afraid. From Wondery, I'm Indra Varma and this is The Spy Who. In the previous episode, MI6 officer Daphne Park built a spy network in Congo, just as the country gained independence from Belgium and elected Patrice Lumumba as its first prime minister. But now, just five days after Belgium cut and run, Congo's army has mutinied, demanding higher wages and complete freedom from their white officers,

many of whom have remained in their positions. Their rebellion has plunged the young nation into chaos. Chaos that the CIA and MI6 fear the Soviet Union and its communist allies will exploit. This is Episode 2, Part of Darkness. July 5th, 1960. The Prime Minister's residence, Leopoldville, Congo. Congo's first Prime Minister, Patrice Lumumba, paces around the heavy wooden desk in his office, gesticulating at the military man seated opposite.

Let's promote everyone immediately. Every soldier goes up a rank. That should calm things down. The white Belgian commander of the Congolese National Army, who has been tasked with ensuring a peaceful transfer of power, bristles in his chair. Preposterous. Promotions are to be earned, not handed out at random.

This would make a mockery of my army. Your army? Have you not heard? You and all the other colonizers are out. The army commander narrows his eyes. He had been assured that independence would change neither his role nor his authority. Then why don't you command your men to end their mutiny? The number sinks into his chair and holds his hands to his head.

Why are the soldiers rebelling now? It doesn't make sense. He looks up and fixes the commander with a fierce stare. What have you said to them? Look, permit me to help. The Belgian military aren't gone yet. There's a squadron of paratroopers I could call on. Let me lead them into the camp.

We will put an end to this drunken insurrection. You want me to send Belgian soldiers to attack my own army? No, I will not punish my men. I need them on my side, not dead in the ground. I will promote them all. It won't work. They want money, not stripes on their shoulders. Lumumba stands to his feet, freshly enraged. Wrong. These men are proud to serve their country. We will treat them with honour. We will treat them with dignity and we will have them with dignity. And we will have their loyalty in return.

Get out of here. The Belgian commander leaves the office with a look of surprise and scepticism. Lumumba stares out of his office window, surveying the city streets outside. He knows the Belgians will try to use this mutiny to exert control. The tendrils of colonialism are still wrapped around the levers of power. They must be removed if the Congo is to ever be truly free. A few days later, Camp Leopold II, Leopoldville. In a large room inside the Congolese army base, Lumumba is meeting with his newly elected cabinet to attempt to resolve the crisis.

Outside the room, mutinous soldiers guard the doors, refusing to allow any of them to leave until they've found a way to restore order. The precariousness of the situation is underlined by the line of white Belgian army officers kneeling outside in the courtyard. They have been taken hostage. As soldiers point their rifles at them, the officers hold their arms in the air, wearing their shoes on their hands. Lumumba's right-hand man and friend, Joseph Mobutu, places a hand on his friend and new leader's shoulder. Patrice, whatever you choose to do, it must be decisive. Order must be restored.

Lumumba nods gravely. We have trodden too softly. It is time to show our strength. The white officers must be expelled from the army. How? We fire them. All of the officers. The people must realize we, they, are fully in control. We are no longer co-pilots to our destiny.

Concern flashes across Mobutu's face. For several months, he has been feeding information to Belgian intelligence, attempting to play both sides to ensure he is allied with whoever comes out on top. But he's finding Lumumba's increasing radicalism unnerving. And he's not alone. He knows that others in the cabinet are also worried, including Lumumba's personal secretary, Damien Candolo.

To Mobutu's relief, Candolo speaks up. I understand, Patrice. But perhaps we can allow some of our Belgian friends to stay on in an advisory capacity. The people don't need to know. Mobutu quickly backs up Candolo's suggestion. I agree. It will be to our advantage. We are all learning how to run a country. Hmm. Okay, fine. As you are such an expert, why don't you take command?

What? Yes, I like this. You will be our first colonel. And your first responsibility is to fire the white officers and quell this mutiny. Mobutu is shocked, but doesn't protest. Let's find you a uniform. I hope you are up to this, Joseph. Without saying anything, Mobutu leaves the room to where the Belgian officers are knelt in the courtyard. Lumumba, Kondolo, the cabinet ministers and the mutinous soldiers follow, watching him carefully.

Mobutu approaches one of the guards who is pointing his rifle at one of the Belgians. Mobutu looks directly into the soldier's face while, with his right hand, he gently pushes the barrel of the rifle down until it points toward the floor. My friend, you will have your pay rise and I will choose 750 of you to become officers. Tell your comrades to return to the barracks. I will meet you there. Lumumba watches Mobutu with a mixture of admiration and quiet concern. He's taken to leadership instantly and with relish. Mobutu's authority is undeniable. This promotion, it seems, will solve Lumumba's military problem. But now, with an army at his disposal,

can his old friend be trusted. Three days later, Brazzaville, capital of the French colony, the Republic of the Congo, just across the river from Leopoldville. It's been four months since CIA field officer Larry Devlin was told he was being sent to the Congo. Finally, after much planning and preparation, he stands alone at the ferry port wearing dark sunglasses. His suitcase sits on the planks of the jetty. Several golf clubs poke out of the large bag on his back.

Devlin surveys the horizon. On the opposite side of the Congo River, he sees smoke rising from the city of Leopoldville in what was once the Belgian Congo. A packed ferry approaches the jetty, laden with people and sandbags. Yeah, Larry, Congo's a sweet posting. You'll love it there. Golf and black-tie dinners all the way. You'll thank us for this one.

Bastards. A sailor jumps down from the ferry and ties a thick, salt-stained rope to a sturdy dock lead. The rope creaks with the strain. Europeans rush to disembark the boat. Some carry heavy suitcases, others are without belongings. Devlin realizes they must have fled their homes in a hurry. As the men, women and children push past him, Devlin examines their faces. He sees expressions of fear mixed with relief. What exactly is going on the other side of the river?

After a few minutes, Devlin is alone again on the dockside. The ferryman calls out. Hey, are you coming or what? Devlin looks around. There is nobody else here. With a weary sigh, he picks up his suitcase and steps onto the vessel. The ferryman unties the rope and the engines kick up a frothy wash as the boat heads toward the far side of the river. Standing on the bow, Devlin hears the distant, intermittent screams and rounds of gunfire waft toward him from across the river. July 11th, 1960. The airport in Luluhabur, 700 miles east of Leopoldville. Everyone, calm down! On the concourse of the Congo's largest airport,

Prime Minister Patrice Lumumba is spending his 12th day in power, standing on a crate with a loud hailer in hand. There is no need to panic. Frightened Belgian families push and bustle around him, desperately trying to find someone who can sell them a ticket out of the newly independent country. I am Patrice Lumumba, your prime minister, and I guarantee your safety. You do not need to leave our country. Return to your homes. Peace and prosperity are coming. Lumumba's new army chief, Joseph Mobutu, has managed to restore some order to the armed forces. But after a week of looting, beatings and rapes, the white population no longer believes the country is safe.

Hundreds are hoping to catch a flight out and growing frustrated by the lack of places. One heckles Lumumba. Your soldiers burned our family car. Lumumba searches the crowd and spots the person who called out. Those perpetrators will be brought to justice and my government will make reparations. Please have been restored. You may return home.

The people in the crowd are unswayed. But Lumumba is desperate to convince these skilled workers and professionals to remain in the country. For decades, the Belgian colonizers have restricted black citizens' education. Congo has fewer than two dozen black university graduates. Almost every doctor, lawyer, accountant, chemist and engineer in Congo is white. Lumumba knows that if they leave, Congo's prospects will be seriously diminished.

He realizes that rather than reassuring the crowd, the sight of their new prime minister begging them to stay is only confirming their worst fears. But what else can he do? He rubs his eyes with one hand, while the loud hailer dangles at his side. His dream of a peaceful and prosperous Congo is dissolving before him. That afternoon, the British Embassy, Leopoldville. MI6 officer Daphne Park hands her newly arrived CIA counterpart, Larry Devlin, a cup of tea.

Here you go, Mr Devlin. Milk and two sugars. Thank you. And Larry is fine. As you wish. You can call me Daphne. You certainly have picked an interesting moment to arrive, have you not? Yeah. I was told to expect rounds of golf and glasses of cool burgundy. Not an uprising. Well, the course of power transfer never runs smooth in my experience. Devlin takes a sip of tea and burns his top lip. He quickly places the cup and saucer on the table between them. I assume your superiors at the CIA briefed you on the situation in Katanga?

Devlin smiles. He is both unsure of whether he has the most up-to-date information and eager to see what the British know. Why don't you fill me in on the latest? Well, of course, the Belgians were never going to give up those mineral deposits so easily. They have been meeting with Katangan nationalists. It appears they might try to cut the region off from the rest of the Congo, make it into its own country, which they, of course, will run.

God knows what the Belgians have offered in return. No doubt the Katangans could name their price. I hear the diamond deposits there run deep, and the rest. Katanga is rich with rubber, cotton, copper, and, most alluringly, uranium and cobalt. No wonder the Soviets are sniffing around there. Park and Devlin exchange a knowing glance. If the Belgians convince Katanga to break away, it will give the Soviets a pretext to step in, and that would make it much harder for America and Britain to benefit from Congo's resources.

Larry, did they not brief you on any of this before sending you out here? Of course they did. And what about Mobutu? Where do his loyalties lie? Ah, so they did brief you properly. Now, that is an interesting question. Is Kongo's new military overlord Lumumba's man, or is the army up for sale to the highest bidder? Devlin leans forward, lowering his voice. Well, to put my cards on the table,

we are not looking to acquire an army, but we would like to help Mobutu steer Lumumba away from certain foreign buyers. Eight o'clock that evening. Elizabethville, the second largest city in Congo and capital of the Katanga region. A short, 40-year-old man in a grey suit strides purposefully into the sound booth of the city's main radio station. Moise Shombe is a Congolese businessman who recently ventured into the world of politics. Born into wealth, his pro-Western anti-communist party has spent the past two years

campaigning to make Katanga independent. His entourage watches from the far side of the glass as Shombe sits down in front of a microphone and awaits the signal from the station's sound engineer. The engineer gives a thumbs-up signal to indicate he's now live on air. Shombe leans towards the microphone. My friends and fellow Katangans, this is Moise Jean-Bé speaking.

The time has come for us to make our own way in this world. Katanga will no longer submit to the arbitrary will and communistic intentions of the central government. With the financial backing and support of our Belgian friends, I hereby declare Katanga free. Free to make our own laws. To forge our own alliances. To make our own business deals. Long live Katanga. Through the glass, Shombe sees his entourage erupt in cheers and applause.

But he knows that not everyone will share their enthusiasm. The next day, number 10, Downing Street, London. In his office, British Prime Minister Harold Macmillan is on the phone with US President Dwight Eisenhower. And they're both concerned about the implications of Katanga's declaration of independence. Yes, Mr President, this Katanga business is keeping me up at night too. It's a treasure chest, that's for certain.

But also perhaps a Pandora's box. I agree, Mr President. Belgian support for Katanga does rather complicate matters. We have business interests there that could be affected. And without Katanga's resources, it's unclear how the Congo can survive without foreign backing. Yes, I agree it would be an opportunity for the Soviets. No, I haven't seen the transcript of Khrushchev's speech yet.

Macmillan scowls as the president recounts the Soviet leader's accusation that Western imperialists are trying to reimpose colonial rule in Congo. Then Eisenhower reveals that he sent an aircraft carrier to the Congolese coast just in case the Soviets try to invade. Well, it does make sense to have a military presence in the region in case the Russians do try anything. Yes, don't worry. We have people on the ground there keeping a close watch on developments.

It's the next day, and in a small room at an army garrison on the outskirts of Leopoldville, a Congolese soldier slams CIA officer Larry Devlin hard against the wall. The room is dense with marijuana smoke, which sticks in Devlin's throat. Half an hour ago, he set out on a mission to secure grenades, guns and other weapons that could be used to help protect the US embassy in the event of an attack. The rioting might have subsided, but there are still pockets of violence around the city and the embassy remains a major target. But as he was buying the black market weapons,

a gang of soldiers took him hostage. Devlin eyes the leader of the gang warily. He looks like he's taken something stronger than cannabis. Sit. We're going to play a game. The soldier shoves Devlin into a wooden chair in the half-light. The soldier takes a long drag of his spliff. Its end burns brightly, lighting up the soldier's features. Russian roulette. Do you know this game?

The soldier pulls a revolver from his belt. Devlin catches a glint of light on the trigger guard before the soldier turns his back and fiddles with the weapon. Devlin decides the moment has come to speak up. I don't think I am who you think I am. The soldier spins around to face his hostage. Really? Because I think you are nothing. I think you are nobody. I could kill you now and no one would even notice.

That would be unwise. Are you threatening me? Do not tell me what to do. The soldier leans down and peers into Devlin's face. Devlin feels the soldier's hot breath on his cheek. The soldier's eyes are bloodshot and his expression muted. Devlin wonders if his captor is too high to even work the weapon. Then he spins the cylinder

and holds the barrel to his temple. Devlin winces and closes his eyes. Shit! Shit! And we're off. The soldier presses the barrel harder against Devlin's temple, pushing his head slightly to one side. Shit! Lucky guy!

Devlin unclenches his eyes just enough to see the faces of several other soldiers peering at the morbid scene through the doorway. They're standing far enough away to not get my blood on them, he thinks. Okay, now we do two quick ones. Don't blink. Shit! I lied. Good job, Mr. American.

You made it to the final round. But everyone's luck must run out eventually. Last chance, boss. Kiss my foot. Devlin goes to answer, but before he can say any words, the soldier presses the barrel of the revolver hard against his temple. Too slow. Devlin continues to hold his breath, waiting for the explosion.

Oh my God, your face! Devlin feels the warmth of his own urine soak across his trousers. We were screwing with you. What? You think we're savages? Here, have a beer. The soldier presses a warm bottle into Devlin's hand. He's shocked to have survived the encounter. But the scale of the disorder on the streets is now terrifyingly clear.

Nobody is in control. And this huge, resource-rich country of more than 200 ethnic groups seems on the verge of disintegration. July 13th, 1960. Two days after Katanga declared independence from Congo. CIA officer Larry Devlin races up the staircase inside the US Embassy in Leopoldville. He unlocks a large cupboard and opens the door to reveal an armoury. He looks along the rack and grabs a 9mm Browning semi-automatic pistol and a Thompson submachine gun. Then he fills the pockets of his jacket with grenades.

All around the packed embassy, staff are emptying files and documents into large burn barrels filled with magnesium, ready to be set aflame if the building is overrun. No one in the embassy is sure why Congolese soldiers have surrounded the building, but if they've come to oust the Americans, at least they won't get hold of classified information. Downstairs, Devlin stashes the submachine gun in the hall

and checks the pistol is secure on his belt. Then he joins the US ambassador at the entrance to the embassy. The ambassador is peering through a crack in the curtains of a downstairs window. How's it looking out there? The ambassador startles. Jeez, Devlin, don't creep up on me like that! Well, they have two tanks and a jeep with a mounted.50 cal machine gun turret trained on my office. So, in my professional opinion, these are probably not civil servants.

No, probably not. May I look? The ambassador steps aside, allowing Devlin to survey the scene in front of the embassy. They're mostly sitting around. It doesn't look like they're preparing to storm the building. The ambassador closes his eyes for a moment. Then he turns to Devlin. Come with me.

Outside? But, sir! Trust me. And leave that grenade in your pocket. I just need you to smile and generally look friendly. Devlin follows the ambassador as he strides toward the tanks. The machine gunner on the jeep spots them and swivels the gun barrel in their direction. The other soldiers around the vehicles raise their guns. Devlin resists the urge to reach for his pistol and instead grips the grenade hidden in his pocket.

Gentlemen, we are so glad to see you. Thank God you're here to protect us. I heard the Belgian army was coming to attack us. Devlin masks his surprise as he translates the ambassador's bold gambit into French. The soldiers look confused. In appreciation of your loyal service, I have brought you a gift. With a broad smile, the ambassador holds out two large cartons of cigarettes The machine gunner lowers the barrel as the Congolese officer steps forward to accept the gift

Inside his pocket, Devlin relaxes his grip on the grenade The immediate danger has passed But Devlin senses it's time they track down Prime Minister Lumumba and try to find a way to help restore order. The next day, Ninjile Airport, Leopoldville. Devlin puts on his sunglasses as his chauffeur turns into the airport. Minutes ago, he received word that Patrice Lumumba is flying back into the capital city after a visit to the country's interior.

And Devlin hopes to use the opportunity to try and get Lumumba on side. But as the car streaks onto the landing strip, Devlin sees Belgian paratroopers have seized control of the airport. The DC-3 propeller plane that Lumumba's commandeered is parked near the terminal, surrounded by around a hundred angry Belgian citizens. Devlin's heart sinks. Belgium is a NATO ally of America, but by sending troops back into Congo to protect white Belgians, it's just made his task far harder.

The car inches through the crowd to within a dozen or so meters of the plane. Devlin leans forward. Stop here. Devlin jumps out of the car and pushes through the crowd of Belgians, flashing his US Embassy credentials. He then hurries up the stairs and boards Lumumba's plane. Inside, Lumumba looks up at his new guest. Oh, hallelujah! The Americans are here. That always calms things down. Prime Minister, you have our utmost sympathies. The situation with Katanga is untenable.

Lumumba looks surprised at Devlin's attitude, but says nothing. That said, you must find a way to make peace with the Belgians. The Soviets may look like your friends, but they will betray you. Perhaps, but at least they are offering me something more than free advice. Devlin tenses. This is confirmation. The Soviets are in talks with Lumumba and are willing to help. What have they offered? Lumumba waves his hand dismissively. I cannot talk about these things, not when I am a prisoner in my own country. With respect, sir, we are sitting in your airplane.

You're hardly a captive. Lumumba gestures out the window towards the Belgians gathered outside his plane. Is that so? The Belgians plotted to take Katanga from us. Now they've seized our capital's airport. They want to destroy our nation and all you care about is whether I take calls from the Russians.

That's not entirely fair. Then send help. You are a superpower. Prove it. Have your president send troops to help bring Katanga under control. Then I won't need to talk to the Soviets or anyone else. Devlin realizes the loss of Katanga under control. Then I won't need to talk to the Soviets or anyone else. Devlin realizes the

loss of Katanga is pushing Lumumba towards the Soviets. But the president isn't going to send troops to repel the Belgian troops. Devlin decides to change the subject. That's something best discussed with the ambassador. But right now, how about I help you get out of here safely? It's a few days later, and in her home in Leopoldville, MI6 officer Daphne Park answers the door to one of her informers, a worker at the airport. You have something for me? You asked me to count how many people disembarked from the Soviet planes. informers, a worker at the airport. You have something for me? You asked me to count how many people disembarked from the Soviet planes. And?

The informant looks nervously at her hands. I'm afraid I lost count after 200. 200? Yes. I asked one of the airport security guards about them. He said they were part of the United Nations Peacekeeping Force.

Theirs weren't the only planes. There were British, Canadians and Americans too. More that I missed too, probably. Park takes a long drag on her cigarette and uses the moment to consider the implications. There are bound to be KGB agents masquerading as UN peacekeepers among these new arrivals. It's more evidence of an increasing communist presence. She's also been hearing bad news

from her agent inside Lumumba's inner circle. He tells her that Lumumba is increasingly enthralled to a recently appointed group of advisers from communist Guinea. Park exhales and smiles at the airport worker. You did well. Mum. Park goes to close the door, but notices her informant remains rooted to the spot, expectantly.

Oh, goodness, I almost forgot. Let me fetch my purse. A few days later, Ninjile Airport, Leopoldville. On the landing strip in front of his plane, Congo's Prime Minister Patrice Lumumba addresses a gathered crowd of supporters. A few days earlier, he was blocked from taking off at this airport. Since then, at Lumumba's invitation, UN peacekeepers have arrived to restore order on the streets. And now, with the news he is travelling to Washington DC to meet with President Eisenhower,

the public's mood appears to have changed for the better. My friends, thank you for joining me for the start of this historic journey. Daphne Park and Larry Devlin make eye contact across the crowd. Park smiles warmly and Devlin nods, almost imperceptibly. I intend to broker a deal with the American president, one that will bring further safety to our nation and secure our bright and independent future.

The violence we have seen in recent weeks is merely the birthing pain of a new nation. We have survived, and soon we will stand on our own two feet. But of course, no nation can walk alone. When I return, I will bring with me fresh support and a new day. As the crowd applauds, a journalist calls out a question. Will you also accept help from the Soviets? Won't that upset the Americans?

My friend, we are not American. We are not Russian. No, we are African. And I will do whatever I must to save my country. Lumumba waves at the crowd, then heads into the plane that will take him to America. Devlin cuts his way through the crowd toward Park. Just as he nears his British friend, Lumumba reappears in the plane's doorway and beckons to his press attaché, who stumbles up the stairway and disappears inside. Devlin winks at Park.

I guess that's a last-minute addition to the flight roster. Utter chaos. Daphne, what did you make of all that? Park blows air through her cheeks. Do you think this is what the beginning of the First World War felt like? One man's fate destined to change the course of world events? Devlin thinks for a moment. No.

I don't, actually. Why not? Because back then, nobody had nukes. From Wondery. This is the second episode in our series, The Spy Who Killed a Prime Minister. A quick note about our dialogue. We can't know everything that was said or done behind closed doors, particularly far back in history, but our scenes are written using the best available sources.

So even if a scene or conversation has been recreated for dramatic effect, it's still based on biographical research. We've used various sources to make this series, including The Lumumba Plot by Stuart Reid, Chief of Station by Larry Devlin, and Queen of Spies by Paddy Hayes. 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 Simon Parkin and researched by Louise Byrne. Our managing producer is Jay Priest. For Vespucci, our senior producers are Natalia Rodriguez, Ashley Clivery 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 Producer for Wondery is Theodora Leloudis Our Managing Producer is Rachel Sibley Executive Producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Chris Bourne, Morgan Jones and Marshall Louis.