The Spy Who - The Spy Who Outran the KGB | The Chase | 3

Episode Date: December 9, 2025

Oleg Gordievsky's back in Moscow and the KGB are tracking his every move, waiting for him to slip up. He’s got just one option left: MI6’s harebrained plan to smuggle him out of the USSR. And if it goes wrong he’s a dead man.Have you got a spy story you would 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.

Wonderry Plus subscribers can binge full seasons of the Spy Who early and add free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app. Beside him is Victor Grushko. Grushko is head of the Soviet intelligence service's foreign department. The atmosphere in the car is cold. The two men have barely exchanged any words. Gordievsky hasn't been told where he is being taken, but the car is headed out of the city.

His stomach churns. It's been eight days since Gordievsky returned to Moscow from London, and it's clear he is under suspicion. his apartment has been bugged and searched colleagues have started to keep their distance whatever awaits at the end of this journey cannot be good the car pulls up before a small white bungalow isolated among the trees on the outskirts of the city two men stand guard outside he does not recognize them come oleg a drink will warm us the two men sit grushko pours brandy into two glasses from a crystal decanter then he raises his glass with a smile and a toast

And to your good health too. Gordievsky raises the glass and swallows. Grushko places his glass back on the table still full. The brandy burns Gordievsky's insides as it trickles down into his stomach. All of a sudden he feels the room tilt. Colors smear, sound distorts. He realizes his drink was spiked. Good, you admit it. You are a British agent.

Yes, thank you for your kind cooperation. Your family will thank you for you. Now tell us all the things you talk to your house. Gordievsky tries to steady his mind. He does not remember admitting to being a spy. So why are his interrogators talking like he did? No, you are mistaken, and I am loyal. You have the wrong man.

But you were about to tell us the name for him. Come on, Oleg, your bravery will be rewarded with mercy. The questions come faster, sharper, drilling into him. Admit it, tell us, admit it, where did you meet? How many times? What's his name? What did you give him? Gordievsky thinks he might vomit.

He gulps down the feeling and focuses on the simple, mission. Deny, deny, deny. You have the wrong man. You have the wrong man. Mom and dad. Mom and mom. Dad and dad. Dad and dad. Whatever. Parents. Are you about to spend five hours in the car with your beloved kids this holiday season? Drive an old granny's house? I'm setting the scene. I'm picturing, screaming, fighting. Back-to-back hours of the K-pop demon-hound. soundtrack on repeat.

Well, when your ears start to bleed, I have the perfect thing to keep you from rolling out of that moving vehicle. Something for the whole family. He's filled with laughs. He's filled with rage. The OG Green Grump, give it up for me, James Austin Johnson as the Grinch.

And like any insufferable influencer these days, I'm bringing my crew of lesser talented friends along for the ride with A-list guests like Gromp, Mark Hamill, and the Jonas Brothers, whoever they are. There's a little bit of something. sent for everyone. Listen to Tis the Grinch holiday podcast wherever you get your podcasts. From Wondery, I'm Indravama and this is the spy who. In the last episode, KGB

Colonel turned MI6 spy Oleg Gordievsky alerted the West to how a NATO war game almost sparked nuclear war. But just as he was about to be confirmed, affirmed as the KGB's top man in Britain, he was summoned back to Moscow. And now he's under suspicion of betraying his country. You're listening to The Spy Who Outran the KGB. This is episode three, The Chase. The following day, Gordievsky wakes in.

In a narrow bed, his head pounding. The bungalow's curtains are drawn. He lies still, waiting for the sound of a pistol being cocked. Execution feels inevitable. How did they discover his betrayal? The bug department? A careless word in his sleep? His mind flits through every possibility.

His interrogator's return. One leans over him, his face scrawled with concern. How is your head? Nasty fall you had there? Gordievsky says nothing. He tries to reconstruct last night's interrogation. What did he reveal? What do they have on him? Come now, Oleg. We got off on the wrong footing. You said some truly awful things, but I'm sure it was just the alcohol talking.

Gordievsky meets the eyes of his interrogators with a puzzled look. You said we were acting like Stalin's lackeys. A scandalous accusation, comrade Gordievsky. Nobody had breakfast in bed during the purges, did they? One of the interrogators presents Gordievsky with a plate of warm toast. Gordievsky doesn't move to take it, so the man rests the plate on top of the sheets. Here, eat. And when you're feeling yourself, we will bring you through to the sitting room.

You see, we have a few more questions for you, questions about what you told us. The thing is, Oleg, we know everywhere you've been. Your shoes and clothes were sprayed with radioactive dust. You've been leaving a trail for weeks, and we've been following. As the men leave the room, Gordievsky feels a flicker of hope mixed in with his splitting headache. These mind games must mean they don't have enough evidence yet. If they did, surely by now he would be dead.

Or something worse. The relief is fleeting. Sooner or later, they will find their evidence. And he is trapped in a police state. No suspected spy has ever escaped the Soviet Union while under KGB surveillance, let alone one held in a safe house under armed guard. Four weeks later, Moscow.

In their apartment, Oleg Gordievsky watches his three-year-old daughter play with her toys. Two weeks ago, his family was summoned back from London, an obvious sign the KGB is still circling and has no intention of letting him return to Britain. Unaware of the danger they are in, his wife Leila, is preparing to take the girls to visit her family in Azerbaijan. Since being allowed to walk free from the interrogation house in the woods, Gordievsky has resolved to trigger the British East. escape plan. It may prove fatal, but at least this way he can control the schedule of his destiny.

Papa, look! His daughter holds up her toy train, showing him how its wheels spin. Gordievsky smiles kindly. Inside, however, he feels torn. Should he take his family with him? He has yet to reveal anything to Leila. He trusts her, but only to a point. She is the daughter of a KGB colonel. If he makes her choose between a familiar life here in Russia and an unknown future in Britain, where will her ultimate loyalties lie? It is time for a test.

Darling, join me for a moment. Gordievsky ushers Leila onto the balcony. There they can speak freely away from the microphones that are surely hidden in the apartment. My love, there is something you must know. There's a plot against me within the KGB here in Moscow. Is this about us? The divorce? I thought things had blown over.

No, no, it's not that. They love you, of course. How could they not? No, these are jealous people, powerful people. It's serious and we are in danger. I've tried everything, but I think there is no other solution. We must flee. What?

What are you talking about? Hush! Don't be afraid. I have worked it all out. We can escape once we're in Azerbaijan. We'll cross the mountains into Turkey. Mountains? Don't be idiotic.

You've been reading too many novels. They've made you paranoid. Hearing their child crying. for her, Leila hurries back into the apartment, leaving Gordievsky dismayed. His heart aches. He knows the truth. He will never again see his family. Sunday, June 30, 1985. For three hours, Gordievsky has wandered the streets of Moscow, trying to shake his tails. Now he believes he slipped the KGB, he steps into Red Square in the city centre. The plaza heaves with sightseers, bodies among which he can easily disappear.

For the past few days, Gordievsky has wavered on whether he should initiate MI6's exfiltration plan, but he knows that that plan carries fatal risks. So instead, he's decided to let MI6 know that he is in trouble and to be on standby. There is only one way in which Gordievsky can pass a message to MI6, via a brush pass on a stairwell inside St. Basil's Cathedral. Every two weeks, without fail, a female MI6 officer descends the stairs at a set time ready to receive a written note. Gordievsky slips into the cathedral,

the note already held tight in his hand inside his coat pocket. Its message is clear and desperate. I'm under strong suspicion and in bad trouble. Need exfiltration soonest. Beware of radioactive dust and car accidents. But the staircase where the exchange is supposed to happen is barred. A small sign hanging on the rope declares it's closed for renovations. No, no, no.

Gordievsky feels a panic rise in his chest. The plan already so fragile has crumbled. He drifts back out into the crowded square, uncertain of his next move. Fearing he's being tailed again, he descends into the metro. On the rattling journey home, Gordievsky surreptitiously pulls the note he planned to pass to MI6 from his pocket. Slowly and methodically he tears it into scraps, then puts them in his mouth pretending it's gum. He chews the note to a pulp, then swallows.

His plan to alert MI6 has failed. He can only hope that if he triggers the escape plan, someone is still watching. weeks later. In his Moscow apartment, Gordievsky reaches for his old copy of Shakespeare's sonnets. Valerie Petit, the architect of MI6's escape plan, handed him this book seven years earlier. In the kitchen sink, he slips the book into warm water where a few cups and pieces of cutlery are currently soaking. Moments later, Gordievsky retrieves the sheet of cellophane, the has been hidden inside the book's back cover.

It has been worked loose by the warm water. He dabbs the sheet with a tea towel, then spreads it flat and studies the faint writing. The sheet spells out every detail of MI6's elaborate plan to smuggle him out of the Soviet Union. He committed it all to memory years ago, but the failed brush pass at the cathedral has him scared. Only one lifeline remains.

the pre-arranged signal outside a central Moscow bakery. The signal for extraction is convoluted. He must be seen with a plastic bag while wearing specific clothes. Then, to know that the signal's been received, he must watch for someone in grey trousers eating a chocolate bar while carrying a Harrod's bag. After that, he needs to get to a highway lay-by near the Finnish border for pickup by MI6 at a pre-arranged time.

With so many moving parts, one slip-up is all it would take for the KGB to catch them red-handed. He cannot afford to make a mistake. He knows he should read Petit's instructions, then burn them, but he cannot yet bring himself to destroy them. He fears he might misremember some crucial detail. Besides, what if the signal tomorrow fails, and he needs to refer to the instructions again? So he barricades the front door, dragging a chair across the floor and wedging it beneath the handle.

Then he bolts every lock. Then, with a bottle of rum, he forces himself into uneasy sleep. Beside his bed on a tin tray, the sheet of cellophane rests next to a box of matches. Should the KGB storm his apartment in the night, he will burn it. The next day, July 16, 1985, Moscow. Arthur Gee, second in command at MI6's Moscow station, nudges his Ford Sierra forward in the evening traffic. He is a few dozen metres away from the little bakery which he and his colleagues have patrolled faithfully

whenever Gordievsky is in Moscow. Ghee's eyes skim the pavement outside the shop in a ritual that has become a natural habit. He is expecting nothing. Suddenly his chest tightens. There, by the doorway, stands a man in a peaked grey cap. In his hand, he clutches a plastic safeway bag. It's bright red logo clearly on display.

It's Gordievsky. Gie's adrenaline spikes. Everything narrows to a single, terrible focus. Back at his apartment within the British Embassy compound, Gie drops his briefcase in the hallway and calls out to his wife. Ah, I forgot to buy bread. So sorry, darling. Let me quickly change and I'll head right back out.

Guy's wife looks at the two loaves of bread already on the table and then back at her husband, wide-eyed. Wordlessly, she hands Guy at Green Harrod's bag. Inside, there is a single Mars bar. The couple have rehearsed this moment many times. Gie looks at her stoically as he pulls on his grey trousers. Gie exits his apartment. resisting the urge to run and heads towards the bakery.

He watches Oleg Gordievsky from across the street. The Russian leans against the war, a cigarette smoking between his fingers. Safeway bag in hand, its red logo facing outward. Ghee steps forward. He unwraps the chocolate bar and takes a slow bite, long enough to ensure Gordievsky has time to catch the signal. The two men's eyes meet for a moment. They do not nod, but their glance is a flaring, silent confirmation.

Guy returns to his apartment feeling breathless, as if he has sprinted a mile. It seems extraordinary to him that so grave a sequence of events has been triggered by such a mundane gesture. Operation Pimlico is on. Two days later, Balmoral Castle, the Highlands are on. of Scotland. Charles Powell, private secretary to British Prime Minister Margaret Thatcher, arrives at the Royal Gates, bone-tired.

Earlier that day, he was briefed by MI6 about Operation Pimlico, the escape plan to extract one of their most valuable agents out of the Soviet Union. But it's a plan fraught with diplomatic risk, and so requires the Prime Minister's personal approval. But Mrs Thatcher is in Scotland. on her annual visit to the Queen. Phoning ahead was out of the question. Security protocols would not allow it.

So Powell has spent the day travelling. First by plane to Aberdeen, then by car through the driving rain. He is in no mood to be held up at the castle gates by some royal courtier. Sir, you understand we can't have people wandering around the estate without knowing why they are here. You're going to have to. I need to see the Prime Minister. Now. Why? My good man, were you in a position to receive that information, you would not be manning a booth in the wilderness.

Well, I'll have to pass this up the chain. Wait there, please. I am the chain. I'll find her myself. Minutes later, Powell stands dripping in the doorway of Margaret Thatcher's room, catching her just as she prepares for bed. at him surprised. Prime Minister, the Russians suspect our man. MI6 has a plan to get him out. It needs your approval now. Thatcher listens as Powell explains the next steps.

Her lips pressed thin. She has been following the case of Gordievsky, an agent she knows only as Mr Collins, carefully. Even so, the decision is not simple. There is no telling what the Russians will do when they discover Britain has intervened. The diplomatic fallout will be severe even if everything goes to plan.

Even worse if it fails, and MI6 officers posing as diplomats are arrested with a fugitive spy in tow. Years of delicate trust-building with the new Soviet leader Mikhail Gorbachev could collapse. Do it. We must honour our promises to our agents. Mr Collins has taken grave risks for us.

He must do everything we can to save him. The next day, Moscow. The day of escape has come. Gordievsky shuts the door of his apartment, knowing he is also shutting the door on his life and family. He loves his wife. But years living in a state of paranoia have eroded his capacity for trust. He must act.

alone. At the entrance to his apartment block, the KGB watchers are in place, as they have been for weeks. Gordievsky wears a track suit. A typical middle-aged man at war with his gut, or at least that's how he hopes he appears. He has 90 minutes to shake the tail and catch his train. After stretching, Gordievsky jogs away, casual at first, then faster and faster still, pounding into the woods.

Branches whip past, his heart hammers. The watchers, he hopes, cannot keep up, at least not without giving away their game. He tears back onto the city streets, maintaining his speed before reaching the loitering crowds at the train station. Just as he climbs aboard the train to Leningrad, he sees them, riot police advancing down the platform. His chest seizes. But they pass by. Gordievsky sinks deep into his seat, his lungs burning, the sweat cold on his back. The train jolts forward.

There is no turning back now. He has no excuse for travelling north toward Finland, and it's there he will meet freedom, or capture. Later that night, Moscow. Two cars wearing diplomatic plates slip from the compound where British embassy staff live. The vehicle's headlights cleave the dark. In the lead car sits Viscount Raymond Asquith, MI6's station chief, his face intermittently lit by the passing street lamps. Beside him, his wife Claire sits rigid.

In the back seat, their baby sleeps, bundled and unaware of the night's mission. Asquith knows he is placing his family in unreasonable danger, but his daughter is too young to be left behind and it will make them seem less suspicious. MI6 officer Arthur Gee is at the wheel of the second car. Asquith can almost hear Guy's wife rehearsing her complaint, a well-chosen ruse about agonising lower back pain. This is the cover for their journey. Her ailment has become so severe she must seek urgent treatment in Finland.

Since the couples are friends, they have all decided to go with her and make a trip of it. It's a flimsy excuse Asquith knows. But Guy's wife is an accomplished amateur performer. Her cries of pain almost fooled him when she climbed into the car, even though her moans are purely for the benefit of any KGB officers listening in via bugs. In the rearview mirror, Asquith catches the outline of a black sedan. It is unmistakable, the KGB.

He tightens his grip on the wheel. Next to him, Claire notices the shift in her husband's body language. It's them, isn't it? Do you think they'll follow us all the way to Finland? I hope to God they do not. The next morning. Gordievsky is jolted awake aboard the ancient bus, carrying him from Leningrad toward the Finnish border.

His body aches. The past month of stress and sleepless nights have left him physically and mentally exhausted. And yet, he cannot relax now. As the bus pulls away, Gordievsky scans the road for any clue as to his whereabouts. As the vehicle passes a sign for a local town, he realizes with a surge of horror that he has just missed his stop. No, no, no. He scrambles to his feet, grabbing his bag with one head. hand and clutching his stomach with the other, feigning illness.

He lunges toward the driver at the front of the bus. Off, off, you must let me off before I have an accident. The driver evaluates Gordievsky in his rearview mirror. Please, it's bad. The driver breaks hard, opens the bay doors to let Gordievsky off, his face fixed with an irritated scowl. Gordievsky stumbles across the carriageway and checks his watch. 10.30 a.m.

The pickup is scheduled for half two, four hours early. He notices for the first time today that he is both hungry and thirsty. He could try to find a truck stop, but he knows it would be better to disappear into the undergrowth and wait. The fewer eyes on him, the better.

But his mind is sluggish. He needs to balance the risk of being seen against the need for energy to stay alert. Gordievsky sticks out his thumb. A car slows. Soon he is in a nearby town sliding into an overheated cafe.

Gordievsky waltzed down the plate of food and downs the last of his beer. He signals to the waitress to bring another bottle. He knows he is being reckless, but he doesn't care. He can taste freedom. Soon, however, the warm, of the cafe, the alcohol in his blood and the exhaustion in his bones close in. His eyes droop. His head sinks forward.

The highway outside of Leningrad. Ten kilometres from the rendezvous, Raymond Asquith counts five surveillance cars hemming him in. Three behind, two ahead. With this much KGB attention, There can be no pickup. He eases his speed down to 45, hoping to force his pursuers to draw ahead. The convoy, however, obediently slows, clogging the lane. Civilian drivers forcefully press on their horns, leaning out of windows to curse. At last, the two cars in front break ranks, surging ahead to pull into a layby and rejoin later.

Asquith seizes the moment. He stamps the accelerator. The Ford Sierra lunges forward. Behind him in the second car, Guy does the same. The British-made cars are faster, more powerful than the Soviet ones. The gap between them and the unwanted escort grows. 400 yards. 600 yards.

800 yards. If Asquith can stretch the gap just a little farther, just a little longer, then maybe, just maybe they have a chance. Meanwhile, the cafe in Viborg. Gordievsky jerks awake, his heart pounding. He fumbles for his watch. It's 1pm. Panic strikes. Three men in suits watch him from across the room. Gordievsky rises, lifting his half-empty beer with studied calm and strolls out of the cafe.

He continues down the path to the road, not daring to glance back until the cafe is out of sight. The suspicious men have not followed, but a new realisation hits harder. The highway is deserted, stretching empty in both directions. The pickup site is at least... 16 miles away. Gordievsky breaks into a run. His shoes slap the hot asphalt, the breath tearing in his chest.

Desperation drives him on. 16 miles to cover. And the clock's already against him. On the highway, Asquith rounds a bend and slams the brakes, jolting his wife and waking their baby in the back seat. A military convoy cuts across the road. Trucks, rocket launchers, tanks. The column seems endless.

Aspreth stares in the rearview mirror, his face scrawled with concern. His heart sinks. The KGB surveillance cars closed the gap, one by one, lining up in position behind them. All advantage has disappeared. Further west along the highway. Gordievsky staggers along the road, his jog now little more than a lolloping walk. He has reached the limits of his strength.

Then in the distance, he hears it, the growl of a truck. slowing behind. He spins around waving frantically. The trucker appears at Gordievsky without smiling. Where are you headed? The forest, the old layby. Do you know it? Really? Nothing but swamps around there, I thought. Panic sparks. Gordievsky blurts a story. Something about a woman and a dacher hidden in the woods. She's expecting me, you understand. The trucker poor. for a moment. Then his face breaks into a wide smile, and he slaps the wheel. Ha! Say no more!

Several minutes later, the truck grinds to a halt at the designated layby. Gordievsky slips out of the cabin and waves goodbye to his driver. Hey, Mr! Gordievsky meets his gaze, newly concerned. Yes? Wipe your face down. She'll appreciate it. When the truck has disappeared into the horizon, Gordievsky crouches low and crawls into the undergrowth.

He swats at the voracious mosquitoes while checking his watch. Ten minutes to spare. He takes a gulp from the now-worn beer, his eyes locked on the passing traffic, his heart hammering. Further down the highway. As the last vehicles in the military convoy crawl across the tarmac, Raymond Asquith stamps the accelerator, swerving around a bread van in front. Arthur Gee follows hard, just yards behind.

The KGB surveillance cars are caught off guard. By the time their engines rev, Asquith is already 100 yards clear. The pickup point lies miles ahead. miles ahead. Asquith pushes harder to gain distance from the KGB. 200 yards, three, now five. Yet he knows it isn't enough. Not for a clean extraction. Through the windshield, he spots it, the rock face jutting out, masking part of the layby. A sliver of cover, the only one they'll get. Decision time. Attempt the pickup now, or abort and consign Gordievsky to his fate. Hidden in the bracken, Gordievsky stiffens at the sound of a car tearing down the highway.

Friend? Or KGB? Two cars, diplomatic plates glinting. His heart leaps. It must be them. But then several cars shoot past the layby at speed. Gordievsky realizes the KGB must be onto his rescuers. They don't have much time. He staggers toward the edge of the forest, mud streaked, ferns clinging to his clothes. The card doors open. Two women step out.

One cradling a baby. Gordievsky falters. Is this who they've sent to rescue him? The women freeze, eyes wide at the sight of him. Then Gordievsky sees the MI6 man who he saw outside the bakery in Moscow eating a Mars bar. Recognition steadies him. Which car?

They spring into action. Gee throws open his car's boot. Hands help Gordievsky inside, then cover him with a foil blanket designed to blur heat signatures. A bottle of water and sedatives are pressed into his hands. 80 seconds later, the cars roll out,

merging back onto the highway. Engine steady faces calm. Inside the boot, in darkness, Gordievsky feels the world tilt. After years of peril and deception, the escape has begun. As they pass the KGB surveillance cars pulled over on the highway, Rachel Ghee smiles, but then wrinkles her nose. From the boot behind her comes the sound. smell of their hidden passenger.

They soon roll into the border control compound. Arthur Gee and Asquith step into the office for passports and papers. Claire Asquith strolls over with her baby in her arms. As she nears the car, she smells it too. The unmistakable reek of a man's slowly baking in foil and sweat. The women glance at each other, then at the sniffer dogs drawing near. Rachel dips into her handbag and pulls out a packet of cheese and onion crisps. Deliberately clumsy, she drops some on the ground.

One of the dog's lunges, nose buried in salt and grease. Just then, the baby lets out a gurgle, followed by a loud, messy eruption. Claire beams, seizing the cue. I'll just change her, right here on top of your boot. The acrid stench from the nappy overwhelms the crisps. and sweat alike. The dog whines, pulling back its handler grimacing. Muttering, they move on to the next car.

Inside the boot, Cordievsky does not know it, but he has just been saved by crisps, by nappies, and by nerve. A few minutes later, in the boot, Gordievsky lies rigid. Every muscle aches. His throat itches, but he dares not move. From the car stereo, soft rock music blairs, jangling endless. The car crawls, stops, starts again. Each border checkpoint delivers another spike of dread.

Then suddenly the road opens, the car surges forward, faster, freer, and then he hears it. No more soft rock, but the work of Sibelius, Finlandia. A hymn of freedom. Tears blur his vision in the darkness. The car slows, bumps over uneven ground. and halts. Blue sky, soaring pine trees, and above all, the face of Valerie Petit smiling down on him. Oleg Gordievsky lived out the rest of his life in the United Kingdom.

He died in March 2025 at the age of 86. Six years after he arrived in Britain, he was reunited with Leila and their two daughters. They divorced two years later. But his contribution to the West was immense. The intelligence he provided not only strengthened Britain's hand in the Cold War, it gave Margaret Thatcher and Ronald Reagan the confidence to pursue dialogue with Mikhail Gorbachev.

His reports reassured MI6 that for the first time in decades, there were no Soviet double agents buried in its ranks. The accuracy of Gordievsky's report that Labour leader Michael Foote was regarded by the KGB as an agent of influence remains contested. Foote always denied the claims and successfully sued the Sunday Times for libel in 1995 after it serialised Oleg Gordievsky's book, which first made the claims public. It now seems likely that KGB officers in London inflated the extent of their contact with Foote

to impress superiors in Moscow and that Foote had no idea. that the KGB regarded him as a potential asset. The man who betrayed Gordievsky, CIA officer Aldrich Ames, spied for Moscow for almost a decade until his arrest in 1994. At least ten spies identified by Ames perished at the hands of the KGB. He remains in prison. Oleg Gordievsky's exfiltration in 1985 remains unique, the only known successful rescue operation carried out by MI6 inside the Soviet Union.

Don't miss the next episode where Charlie Higson sits down with investigative journalist and author Tim Tate to uncover the shadowy world of British espionage that laid the groundwork for Oleg Gordievsky's defection. Tim pulls back the curtain on a web of Soviet infiltration, exposing how Moscow's influence stretched into the heart of Britain's most powerful institutions, and demonstrated the chilling reach of Cold War corruption. Wondery Plus subscribers can binge full seasons of the Spy Who early and add free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app. Have you got a spy story you'd like us to tell?

Email your ideas to The Spy Who at Wondery.com. From Wondry, this is the third episode in our season, The Spy Who Outran the KGB. 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 availability, sources. So even if a scene or conversation has been recreated for dramatic effect, it's still based on biographical research. We used many sources in our research for this season,

including The Spy and the Traitor by Ben McIntyre and Next Stop Execution by Oleg Gordievsky. The Spy Who is hosted by me, Indra Varma. Our show is produced by Vespucci, with writing and story editing by Yellow Ant for Wondry. For Yellow Ant, this episode was written by Simon Parkin and researched by Louise Byrne and Marina Watson. Pronunciation guidance from Russ Avery. Our managing producer is Jay Priest. For Vespucci, our senior producer is Ashley Clivory.

Our sound designer is Alex Port Felix. Natalia Rodriguez is the supervising producer. Music supervisor is Scott Velasquez for Frisson Sink. Executive producers for Vespucci are Johnny Galvin and Daniel Turcan. Executive producer for Yellow Ant is Tristan Donovan. Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Theodora Leludis and Marshall Louis.