The Spy Who - The Spy Who Killed a Prime Minister | Independence Day | 1

Episode Date: November 26, 2024

When MI6 sends officer Daphne Park to help stop a communist takeover in Congo, it kickstarts one of the darkest operations in MI6 and CIA history. Because security services either need to win the trust of Congo’s first prime minister, or remove him.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. A note to listeners. This episode is set during the end of colonial rule in Africa and contains some historically racist language. November 1960, Leopoldville, the capital city of the Republic of Congo. In his grand colonial villa, Patrice Lumumba gazes out the window and soothes his two-year-old son, Roland Gilbert, to sleep with a traditional Congolese lullaby. Lumumba is a tall man with a neatly trimmed moustache and goatee

beard. A few weeks ago, he was Congo's prime minister, but then the CIA and MI6 engineered a coup that removed him from power. Now he's trapped here under house arrest. Through the window he sees storm clouds rolling in off the distant mountains. Lightning flashes against the darkening sky. Then his gaze shifts down to the Congolese soldiers surrounding his home. They're not here to protect him, but to keep him prisoner. Lumumba looks up. One of his aides is at the doorway and he looks distressed. What is it?

Sir, it's confirmed. The United Nations has voted to recognize the new regime. Lumumba's body slumps at the news. The only reason he's not dead or in prison is because of the UN peacekeepers guarding his home. But now that the UN no longer regards him as Congo's rightful leader, that protection will soon be gone. The aide clasps Lumumba's arm. Sir, we've got to get you out of here. Without the UN guarding you, you'll be arrested. This storm is ideal cover. We have to move now.

Fine, let's go. If we can make it to Stanleyville, we can regroup and gather our forces. I won't let these criminals win. Lumumba follows his aide downstairs to an office, where other assistants are stuffing documents into boxes. In the centre of the room is a large wooden crate. Without a word, Lumumba climbs inside it. He and his team have already worked out the escape plan.

The aide lifts the crate's lid, but Lumumba suddenly stops him. You will take care of my wife and Roland and bring them to Stanleyville. I will, sir. I promise. Lumumba curls up inside the crate. The aide brings down the lid and secures it. Lumumba feels the crate being borne aloft and loaded onto a waiting jeep.

The jeep's engine guns into life and lurches forward. Lumumba listens to the heavy beat of the rain on the vehicle's roof. Inside the crate, Lumumba's breath catches as the car slows. They must be nearing the checkpoint set up by the Congolese soldiers surrounding his home. If they catch him now, he will be seized and almost certainly tortured to death. Where are you going? Where is your permit? Lumumba digs his nails into his palms to contain his terror as his driver responds. We're going to buy cigarettes.

Come, let us go and we'll pick some up for you as well. The entire world seems to stop as the soldier considers the offer. Then the soldier speaks. All right, let them pass. Lumumba exhales in relief as the jeep passes the checkpoint. But he's not safe yet. A long, deadly road still lies ahead. It's more than 2,000 miles to the safety of Stanleyville.

And there are enemy spies everywhere. From Wondery, I'm Indra Varma, and this is The Spy Who. Beneath the veneer of the everyday lurks the realm of the spy. It's a dark, dangerous world full of shadowy corners, sinister motives, and corrupted morals. A place of paranoia and infiltration, sabotage and manipulation. In this season, we plunge into one of the darkest operations in MI6 and CIA history, the 1960 mission to exert influence over what is now the Democratic Republic of Congo. It would drag the newly independent African nation into the Cold War power struggle between the capitalist West

and communist East. And at stake was access to Congo's vast resources, including the uranium and cobalt used to build atomic bombs and missile defense systems. But to succeed, the CIA and MI6

would need to win the trust of Congo's first prime minister, Patrice Lumumba. Or remove him. A quick note. In this season, when we refer to Congo, we mean the present-day Democratic Republic of Congo, rather than its smaller neighbour, the Republic of Congo. We will also use the names of cities, countries and individuals as they were at the time these events took place.

What you're about to hear are dramatised reconstructions based on the information that's been made public. But remember, in the shadow realm of the spy, the full story is rarely clear. This is The Spy Who Killed the Prime Minister. Episode 1. Independence Day. January 1959. Leopoldville, Belgian Congo, present day Kinshasa. Outside the city's football stadium,

33-year-old Patrice Lumumba stands on a crate giving a speech to a small crowd. Brothers and sisters, we must kick out the Belgian conquerors. Congo must create its own destiny. For nearly 80 years, Congo has been subject to one of the most savagely brutal colonial regimes in history. First under the personal rule of the Belgian king Leopold II, then under the Belgian state itself. But now a resistance movement is growing, and Lumumba is one of its brightest leaders. Remember, freedom will never be given. It must be taken. We must seize the power. If Ghana can do it, if Guinea can do it, why not Congo? Lumumba basks in the crowd's support.

But then his friend Joseph Mobutu runs over and grabs him by the arm. Patrice, come quick. People are fighting with the Belgian police. My brothers, come, join the struggle. Lumumba manages one last shout to the crowd before sprinting over to Mobutu's scooter. Lumumba clutches onto the bike's sides as Mobutu speeds through Leopoldville, past the well-maintained apartments of the European Quarter and onto the low-rise housing of the Cité Africaine.

Lumumba's heart races as he sees Congolese men hurling stones at the police and driving them back. Some of the crowd have ripped down Belgian flags and are tearing them apart. But then, Mobutu peels away, cuts down a side street

and pulls his scooter to a stop outside an office building. What are you doing? We need to get back there. I'm a journalist, Patrice. I need to write about this. Lumumba grabs his friend by the shoulders. Yes, you're right. You must write about this. But remember, they will claim this is just random violence. They always try to make us look like savages. You have to tell the world that this is a national resistance movement.

I'll do what I can. My editor, he's afraid of angering the authorities. The two friends share a glance. Then Lumumba sprints off, back to the riot. Six months later, Brussels, Belgium. Daphne Park enters a wood-panelled office in the British Embassy. She's in her 30s with short brown hair. For a decade, she's been an officer in Britain's Foreign Intelligence Service, MI6,

and she's about to be posted to Congo. MI6 has few officers in Africa, but with decolonisation gathering pace, it's moving to increase its presence. So Park's come to Brussels to be briefed on the colony by MI6's head of station in Belgium. Welcome to Brussels, Miss Park. It'll be a short stay, I'm afraid. You're needed in Leopoldville as soon as possible. And what do we know about the situation there, sir? The head of station glances towards a large map of Africa hanging on the wall. The continent is divided into British, French, Belgian, Portuguese and Spanish territories,

plus a smattering of newly independent states. Well, there's been considerable unrest. Our sources here think the Belgians might cut and run, granted independence with no transition period. That would create a power vacuum, and we don't want the Soviets filling that gap. Your task is to ensure that British interests in Congo are protected. I see.

And what are those interests? Well, there are various mining operations. Most crucially, there's the southeastern province of Katanga. It has much of the world's supplies of uranium and cobalt. Cobalt? It's used in electronics and missile defense systems, and Congo's got most of the world's supply outside the USSR. If the Soviets gain control there, it's no exaggeration to say, it could cost the West the arms race. When Guinea became independent from France,

the KGB were in there like a shot. We can't let the same happen in Congo. Park nods. I see. Well, regardless, after the last few years in Moscow, it'll be nice to get back to the tropics. That's the spirit, Park. I heard you have some experience in Africa.

I grew up in British East Africa. Tanganyika. Excellent. Still, I should warn you that things may get a little spicy over there, should the natives get restless. If I'm honest, I was unsure about London's decision to send a lady officer. Park resists the urge to frown. After years in the boys' club of MI6, she's used to such attitudes. Sir, my father was a gold prospector.

I've lived in a mud hut in the middle of the bush and didn't experience running water until I came to England for school. I'm sure I can handle it. A few weeks later, the Congo River. Daphne Park sits on the deck of a riverboat that is heading up the Congo River towards Leopoldville. She uses a folded newspaper to fan herself against the sticky, oppressive heat as the jungle canopy slides by in the distance.

The riverboat's deck is reserved for white passengers. Black passengers are forced to travel in the lower cabins. Park watches a young African boy carry drinks to a Belgian couple on the deck. As the boy hands them their drinks, the boat sways and a tiny drop spills on the man's trousers. Oh, you clumsy little idiot! The man cuffs the boy around the ear, sending him running back below deck. Park sighs. This isn't the first such incident she's witnessed on this voyage.

She tucks her newspaper under her arm and heads towards the stairs to the lower cabins. She's been using the slow river journey to gather information by talking with the other European passengers. But she knows that to really understand this country, it's not Belgium she needs to talk to. Park blinks as she descends from the bright sunshine of the deck to the dim electric bulbs of the third-class cabin. The hum of conversation quietens as the African passengers notice her. It's clear white travellers rarely come down here.

Park walks over to a woman sitting on one of the wooden benches. Pardon me, may I sit? The woman looks suspicious, but makes space. Park sits and gives the woman a smile of thanks. The other passengers slowly restart their own conversations. After a few moments, a man approaches Park. Madam, excuse me, but may I borrow your newspaper? Of course.

Park hands the man her newspaper. He is immediately surrounded by five others and begins reading the front page to them. On Sunday, Mr Lumumba addressed a political rally in Leopoldville demanding independence and the end of Belgian rule. Park notices the group's rapt attention and the way they smile and nod at every mention of Lumumba. When the man finishes, she approaches. Pardon me, this man in the story, Mr. Lumumba, you all admire him? Yes. Mr. Lumumba is a great man. It's people like him who will lead Congo to freedom. And after Congo becomes independent, how should he run the country? Like Mr. Castro in Cuba. Oh, why's that? Castro kicked out the rich landowners and is

helping the people. Here in Congo, we have been under the foot of Belgium so long. We also need to be free. A shadow passes over the man's face. I mean, I don't know. Who am I to say? Park immediately realizes the man fears he has said too much. Please don't worry. I am not Belgian. Mr. Lumumba sounds like a very interesting man. Please, keep the newspaper. The man smiles and returns to his friends. Park observes them thoughtfully.

If their views are representative, London is right to worry. Congo is on the brink of revolution and ripe for Soviet infiltration. Just like Guinea before it. It's 14 days since Park began her journey up river from the Atlantic Ocean to Leopoldville. Now she's in the well-appointed office of the British Consul. Hunting trophies are mounted on the walls. Above her, a ceiling fan whirs. Officially, Park is the latest addition to his staff. But that's just her cover. She's here to work for MI6.

Still, he hopes she won't create any diplomatic controversies for him. Miss Park, I do hope your journey upriver wasn't too uncomfortable, but I'm sure the house we have arranged for you in the European Quarter will compensate. Once you're settled, I'll... Pardon, did you say my house was in the European Quarter? Yes. Sorry, that won't do. I'll find myself a place on the African side of the city. Well, Miss Park, that's not really how things are done here.

I don't give a stuff about how things are done. I'm here to meet people and gather information. How am I meant to do that if I'm stuck in some European enclave? But Miss Park, it's not safe out there. Also, it'll be a scandal for the Belgians. Europeans and Africans don't really mix here. Asante nitekuasawa. I beg your pardon?

That's Swahili. It means, thank you, I'll be fine. Do you speak Swahili? Um, I'm afraid I don't. Well, I do. I grew up in Africa. I'll tell you what. You take care of the European cocktail parties,

and I'll go out and meet the people who are actually going to run this country when the Belgians scuttle off home. The consul leans back in his chair, unsure how to respond. Park has only just arrived, but it's clear she's not going to let anyone get in the way of doing whatever it is that the secret intelligence service sent her here to do. He decides he better stay out of her way unless he wants to get run over. September 1959, Leopoldville, Congo.

Park enters the lobby of the British consulate and stops in her tracks. In the queue, there's a man who seems familiar. He's tall, well-dressed with glasses and a neat goatee and moustache. She stares for a moment, then it clicks. It's the man from the newspaper article she read on the riverboat, independence campaigner Patrice Lumumba. Without a second thought, Park strides over. Pardon me, but are you Mr Lumumba?

Lumumba looks surprised, but nods. Yes, madam, I am. Wonderful. My name's Daphne Park. I work for the consulate and I've read a lot about you. Would you join me for a cup of tea? Park leads Lumumba to a small table and orders two cups of tea from the consulate's African servant.

However, when the servant returns, he only brings one cup, which he sets in front of Park while giving Lumumba a disapproving look. Lumumba leans forward. You see, he won't serve me. Black people and white people aren't supposed to sit and drink tea together. That's how things are here. We'll see about that, Park signals to the servant again. Another cup of tea, please. With that, Park pointedly slides her own cup over to Lumumba's side of the table. The servant fumes but complies with the order. Lumumba can't help but smile. So, Miss Park, what can I do for you? I'm interested in your vision for this country. I want to know what this independence movement is pushing for. Well, Miss Park, you saw what just happened. I am not even supposed to drink tea with you, even though to the Belgians I am supposedly one of the educated Africans.

Lumumba edges forward slightly in his seat. You know what they call us? Evoluee. Evolved people. Meaning we are just Europeanized enough to be acceptable. You know, I came from nothing. From a tiny poor village near Stanleyville. I walked to the city using a rope for a belt to hold up my trousers. Then I worked and I worked to get here, and yet the highest job open to me was to be a post office clerk. The Belgians only ever let us rise so far. Who wouldn't want to end that? Yes, I've seen how the Belgians treat African people on my journey here. But tell me, how will you fix this? What's your vision for the country after Belgium leaves? I've heard people say you're a communist. People say a lot of things,

Miss Park. But we don't have to be aligned with Americans or with Russians. We are Africans. We will make our own way in the world. Isn't that what freedom means? Park sips her tea. She can sense Lumumba's passion and charisma. But he also seems strangely naive. And that naivety could be exploited by the Soviets. Your organisation, the MNC, its main following is Stanleyville, isn't it? I'm actually going to Stanleyville in a few days. I'd like to meet others in your organisation. Do you think you could make some introductions?

Lumumba eyes Park warily. First, tell me this. Can I trust you to put my interests first? Certainly not. I will put my own country's interests first. But if things go well, I'd hope our interests would be identical. It's not often I meet a European who tells the truth. So, yes, I will arrange some introductions for you. Two weeks later, just outside Stanleyville in northern Congo, Park steps onto a rickety wooden pier jutting out over a riverbank. It's after dark, and mosquitoes crisscross the beam of her flashlight.

At the end of the pier is a man holding a lantern, his face shrouded in the darkness. Park walks out towards him, the worn-out boards creaking under her feet. Hello, I'm Daphne Park. Thank you for meeting me. Mr Lumumba asked me to help you. Apologies for making you come out here, but in the city the Belgians are always watching.

The only way to meet safely is to go night fishing. Still, we should hurry. The man helps Park into a small canoe. And they push off. As he paddles through the black water, he turns back to her. Keep your hands in the canoe. The Belgians may not come out here, but there are plenty of crocodiles. Eventually, they reach a muddy bank.

Park's guide leads her into a small clearing where three men are gathered around a fire. They jump up as Park and her companion approach. Her guide raises a hand. Brothers, it's me. This is Miss Park, the friend I was telling you about. Don't worry, she's not Belgian. She's British. The men eye Park suspiciously. Park steps forward.

Well, I didn't come empty-handed. Park pulls a bottle of whiskey from inside her coat and holds it up. The whiskey seems to win the group over. Park pours out drinks and they begin to talk. You all seem very worried about the Belgians. Why is that? One of the men sitting around the fire turns to her. Miss Park, my grandfather only had one hand. Do you know why?

Because when he was 13, Belgian soldiers came to his village and forced everyone to collect rubber from the trees. But his father, my great-grandfather, didn't collect enough. So they cut off my grandfather's hand right in front of his family. That's what the Belgians do to us. So, yes, we worry. Park absorbs the gravity of the man's story before replying. I see. And what about once Belgium leaves? What happens then?

Another member of the group cuts in. Ha! She wants to know if the British can keep their mines, or if we'll give them all to the Russians. Well, yes, I've lived in Russia, you know. And one thing I will say is the Russians make terrible bosses. Park senses some tension is diffused amidst the laughter, but as she talks with the MNC members late into the night, she comes face to face with the depth of hatred towards the colonial regime.

And it's clear that the communist world's anti-imperial rhetoric will resonate powerfully here. Several weeks later, Leopoldville. Park sits at her desk in her modest house well outside the city's European quarter. It's past midnight and Park is up reviewing documents. Since arriving in Congo, she's built a network of contacts

around the city. That network now keeps her supplied with details of cargo shipments, bank transactions, telephone records, and more. Tiny details that, when put together, reveal what's really going on in the city.

And right now, she's reviewing passenger manifests provided by a contact at the airport. She traces her finger down the list, checking who's been flying in and out of the city. Her finger stops over several names from Czechoslovakia. The manifest says they work for the communist country's consulate. But spies often work under diplomatic cover, just like Park does. But then a noise outside the house breaks her concentration. Park's heart leaps as someone tries her locked front door. The British consul warned her against living outside the European quarter.

Now she's alone and people are trying to break into her home. She stands defiantly, throws open the window and yells into the darkness. You there! Listen! I am a witch!

If you come in here, your fingers will drop off, then your toes, then your ensoca. Park smiles as the intruders flee to safeguard their manhood. She shuts the window and gets back to checking the manifests for more signs of communist activity. October 1959, Stanleyville. Joseph Mobutu watches from the side of a makeshift stage as his friend, Patrice Lumumba,

delivers an impassioned speech to 3,000 supporters. The crowd is rapt as Lumumba raises his fist in the air. We will show that we are determined, that we fear nothing. We will die for our country. Belgian colonisation must end, and it must end now. We will turn our backs on Belgium, not in ten years, not in five years, but now. Now is the time for freedom. Now is the time for Congo. Mobutu spots several white faces on the outskirts of the crowd.

He assumes they are Belgian intelligence officers surveilling their movement. In recent days, Lumumba has dialed up his rhetoric. The city now feels ready to riot. As Lumumba steps triumphantly off the makeshift stage, Mobutu grabs his arm. Patrice, you can't make speeches like that. Didn't you see the Belgians in the crowd? They're watching us. Who cares? Let them watch.

Patrice, they'll throw you in prison. Let them! If they put me in prison, the people here will rise up. I will come back stronger. The people will follow me. February 1960, four months after Lumumba's speech in Stanleyville. In the Belgian capital Brussels, CIA officer Larry Devlin stands across the street from Belgium's foreign ministry. He's wearing a tailored suit and sunglasses, despite the grey weather. Devlin watches as a group of African

men emerge from the building. They're in high spirits, and at the centre of the group is Patrice Lumumba. That Lumumba is here at all is a surprise. Last autumn he was jailed for inciting a riot in Stanleyville. But last week, the Belgians released him out of fear of mass unrest. Now he's in Brussels, negotiating the terms of Congo's independence. As the group moves off down the street, Devlin follows at a careful distance and commits to memory everything he can about Lumumba's entourage. Later that afternoon, the US embassy, Brussels. In a secure room, Devlin sits with the local CIA station chief.

The station chief offers Devlin a cigarette. So, you got a look at Lumumba today, huh? Yeah, I tailed him from the foreign ministry. I wanted to get a good look at the guy before I get to Leopoldville. Well, you're going to be seeing a lot more of him. He just convinced the Belgians to grant full independence on June 30th. June 30th? That's just five months away.

Exactly. So your posting to Congo is now a priority. Lumumba will probably end up running the show, but we still don't know where his loyalties lie. Our Belgian sources say he's a communist, or at least he has communist sympathies. All right, what else do we know? Do we have any contacts on the ground in Congo? The British have someone in Leopoldville. A woman. She'll help you out. Till then, here's what we've got.

It's thin, but it's a start. The station chief slides a few manila envelopes across the table and gestures at one of them. Inside is a photograph of a clean-shaven Congolese man wearing tinted glasses. One name that comes up a lot is this guy, Joseph Mobutu. He's a journalist who's close to Lumumba, but apparently he knows how to play ball. He might be someone who can help steer Lumumba in the right direction. The station chief stubs out his cigarette.

Still, Devlin, I think you're likely a Poldville. I hear the Belgians built some great golf courses there, so take your clubs. Devlin smiles, but he doesn't share the station chief's breezy enthusiasm. Congo has less than six months to prepare for independence, and Devlin senses chaos ahead. Four months later, June 30th, 1960, Leopoldville. In the Palais de la Nationale, Patrice Lumumba feels a flush of pride as he adjusts his ceremonial sash. Before him are a crowd of dignitaries from across the world,

and they're here to watch the official ceremony to mark Congo's independence from Belgium. Congo's first elections have already taken place, and Lumumba will be its first prime minister.

The moment he's been fighting for is finally here. The hall falls silent as a young, clean-shaven man in ceremonial military attire rises. He's Boudouin, King of the Belgians. He maintains a stiff, formal manner as he steps up to the microphone. The independence of Congo represents the culmination of the work conceived by the genius of King Leopold II, who came here not as a conqueror, but as a civilizer. Lumumba cannot believe his ears.

The king is trying to whitewash the horrors of the colonial regime. Horrors that began with Baudouin's own great-great-uncle, Leopold II. Blood boiling, Lumumba grabs a sheet of paper and starts frantically scribbling notes. On stage, the Belgian king continues his address. Now it is up to you gentlemen to show that we were right to trust you. Do not cast aside the gifts Belgium has given you. People of Congo, my country

and I recognize that Congo is granted in complete harmony and friendship with Belgium independence and international sovereignty. The room ripples with polite applause as a ceremonial cannonade sounds outside. But all heads turn as Lumumba rises and strides towards the podium.

He's not scheduled to speak, but he cannot let the king's speech go unanswered. Before anyone can stop him, Lumumba reaches the microphone. Men and women of the Congo, I salute your glorious struggle for freedom. We'll never forget that struggle was fought with tears, fire and blood. We have experienced forced labour, seen our land seized. We've experienced atrocious sufferings, been exiled from our native land. Lumumba turns to the king who is visibly seething with anger. But Lumumba knows this is his chance to finally hold the colonial regime to account. Who will ever forget the shootings which killed so many of our brothers?

All the cells into which we were mercilessly thrown. Brothers, let us commence a new struggle. We shall make the Congo the pride of Africa. Long live independence and African unity. Long live the independent and sovereign Congo. As the hall erupts into cheers, the king and his entourage stalk off the stage. After so many years of struggle, Lumumba basks in his moment of triumph

and the adulation of his people. Five days later, Tisville, 100 miles south of Leopoldville. In the local military base, rows of bleary-eyed soldiers snap to attention in the yard. They're hungover from four days of independent celebrations. But now they've assembled for a visit from the army's Belgian commander. Though Congo is now independent, the structure of the army is unchanged. The enlisted men are Congolese, while all senior officers are white Belgians. Under Belgian rule, black soldiers were barred from advancing past the rank of sergeant.

So, as part of the independence deal, Lumumba agreed that white Belgian officers would continue to run the military for a transitional period. The army's commander addresses the assembled soldiers. I know you're upset that Prime Minister Lumumba gave a pay rise to government workers but not to the military. But this is the army. We will maintain discipline. Here, nothing changes. The commander walks over to a large chalkboard and scrawls the words. Before independence equals after independence.

Several soldiers break their rigid military posture to exchange disapproving glances. A nearby Belgian officer notices. Attention! The soldiers snap to attention once again. As the commander returns to his chauffeured car and is driven away, the Belgian officer begins shouting orders. 12 Platoon, latrine duty. 17 Platoon, you're on guard. Two soldiers share a glance, then one shouts at the officer.

Hey, Belgium, why don't you go home? The officer blinks in shock. He's never been spoken to like this by a Congolese. Private, return to your barracks. No, we're free now. You can't control us anymore. Return to your barracks. That's an order.

The entire yard of Congolese soldiers look at each other. Then they rush the terrified officer. It's a mutiny and it's about to spread through the entire army. A few hours later, Leopoldville. Daphne Park yanks hard on the wheel of her Citroën 2CV to make a sharp left. The lightweight car tips precariously towards the corner as it takes the turn. Inside, Park's passenger, a terrified US diplomat, clings tighter to his seat. Oh my God! Miss Park, please! Slow down! Park tucks a stray wisp of hair behind her ear and turns to the diplomat. Sorry about that. It's these ghastly roads.

Who the hell taught you to drive? Oh, I didn't bother with all that. Bought the car and figured it out from there. Park ignores the diplomat's horrified gaze, steers around another corner, then slams on the brakes. A stream of pedestrians fills the road, flowing towards them. Some haul heavy suitcases,

packed in a hurry. Others are injured and bleeding. These are Congo's Belgian residents, and they are terrified. As they push past the car in panic, Park winds down her window and calls out to whoever will listen. What the hell's going on? A woman clutching a young child catches Park's gaze. The Congolese soldiers are rioting. Get out of here! What the hell are you waiting for? Reverse! Sorry, I don't know how. Didn't get to that bit in the manual yet. Before the American can reply, Park hits the accelerator accelerator the car lurches forward down the road the american grips his seat his eyes widening as

the car approaches a group of soldiers at speed stop they have guns park crunches to a standstill as the soldiers stare through the windscreen, their rifles raised. The troops surround the car. Their leader taps on the glass. Park winds down her window. Can I help you, sir? Get out. Certainly not.

The soldier addresses his subordinates. Remove these Belgians. Belgian, How dare you? I'm British. The soldier is taken aback at Park's defiance. He points his rifle at Park's passenger. What about him? American, I'm afraid. But certainly not Belgian. The diplomat cringes in the passenger seat as the soldiers hesitate, unsure of what to do. Park tries to take control of the situation. Look, I'm here to help the peaceful transfer of power to the Congolese. I know Patrice Lumumba personally.

Hurt us, and you'll answer to him. The soldier stares at Park. Then his face breaks into a smile. The way you drive, you'll spare us the bullets anyway. Go back the way you came. Park tries to find reverse gear, but misses, revving the engine uselessly. As the soldiers laugh at her incompetence, Park shoves the stick into first gear and accelerates away. It's a narrow escape.

But Park knows it won't be her last. Congo gained independence from Belgium just five days ago. Now its rioting soldiers have plunged the country into chaos. And that chaos leaves the country increasingly vulnerable to exploitation by those who want it strategically vital resources. The only question is who will get there first? The British? The Americans?

Or the Soviets. Wondery Plus subscribers can binge full seasons of The Spy Who early and ad-free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app. From Wondery, this is the first 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 J.S. Raffaelli 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.