The Spy Who - The Spy Who Started the Cold War | Fallout | 3

Episode Date: October 1, 2024

Klaus Fuchs is sure his espionage has gone undetected. So when authorities unearth a similar spy ring in Canada’s nuclear project, Fuchs doesn’t consider that he could be next.Listen to The Spy Who ad-free on Wondery+ in the Wondery App, Apple Podcasts or Spotify. Start your free trial by visiting wondery.com/links/the-spy-who now. See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

Wondery Plus subscribers can binge full seasons of The Spy Who early and ad-free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app. September 1945, Ottawa, Canada. In an interrogation room, a Royal Canadian Mountain Police officer is questioning Israel Halperin. Halperin is a mathematics professor at Queen's University and a communist. I ask you again, why have I been detained? Professor Halperin, we have been through this. A cipher clerk stationed at the Soviet embassy has defected. Based on the information he has supplied,

we have uncovered a communist spy ring operated here in Canada. And how is that relevant to me? Sir, you are a communist. Halperin goes to interject, but the police officer cuts him off. And you are friends with some of those involved. Halperin is one of five people named as spies by the Soviet defector. All of them were arrested this morning. The police believe together they've been involved in stealing atomic secrets for the Soviet Union. So, Mr. Halperin, once more, have you ever been part of a spy organization? No. Have you

ever knowingly met with a member of Soviet intelligence? No. Have you ever passed information to such an individual? No, no, and no. I am a mathematician. I study the underpinnings of the world, not its frivolous politics. Release me at once! The officer sighs. He has interviewed stubborn men before, but few quite so belligerent as Halperin. He picks up Halperin's address book, which detectives found when searching the professor's study. It contains more than 700 names, including those of several individuals already confirmed to have spied for the Soviets. The officer flicks through the pages.

The entries are written in a scratchy hand, but are nonetheless legible. Without noticing, he passes the address of Dr. Klaus Fuchs. Then pass the entry for Crystal Heinmann of Cambridge, Massachusetts. The officer closes the address book and looks at Halperin. So, when we follow up on the addresses in this book, we won't find anything untoward?

I am a friendly person, officer. Ergo, I have many friends. There is nothing more to it than that. We shall see. In the last episode, Klaus Fuchs joined the Manhattan Project in Los Alamos. There, he helped develop the first atomic bomb, while supplying details of how to build it to the Soviet Union. Now, following the dropping of two atom bombs on Japan, the Second World War is over and the Manhattan Project is winding down.

Fuchs is sure his espionage has gone undetected. But the uncovering of a Soviet spy ring in Canada is about to raise concerns about nuclear spies. This is The Spy Who Started the Cold War. Episode 3, Fallout. September 1945. Outside Santa Fe, New Mexico. Klaus Fuchs drives slowly along a pitted desert road as bottles of liquor rattle on the back seat. In the passenger seat, Fuchs' Soviet handler, Harry Gold, turns to check on the clinking cargo.

What's with the bar in the back? They cornered me as I was leaving. Someone had to do a liquor store run. I couldn't refuse. The British delegation is throwing a party for the Americans tonight. I mustn't be long. Take the side road. Pull up somewhere by

those trees. Gold looks at Fuchs, trying to discern his state of mind. Did you see the news from Japan? Yes. 70,000 dead. Maybe three times that. We'll probably never know. There were no bodies left to count. Still, Japan surrendered. It's over. Over? It's barely begun. Fuchs shoves a manila folder into Gold's lap. What is this? I thought you were headed back to Britain. This is chapter two. We have started work on a hydrogen bomb. Why? The plutonium bomb can already flatten a city. It's never enough, though, is it? A hydrogen bomb is a thousand times more powerful than what they dropped on Hiroshima and Nagasaki. The end of the war was never the goal.

The Americans want total domination. Gold scans through the pages inside the docket. How did you smuggle this out fox rubs his temples firmly in my mind the pages were blank when i left los alamos i wrote it all down before i met you but there's so much here how can you be sure you've remembered everything correctly this is my life. It's all I think about from the moment I wake to the moment I am unable to fall asleep at night. The two men sit in silence for a while, watching the sway of the tree branches and the occasional blow of wind that

kicks up the desert sand into a breeze of dust. Finally, Fuchs turns in his seat. He grabs Gold's arm. Make sure Moscow gets these calculations. Russia is falling far behind. At this rate, nobody will ever be able to keep the Americans in check. Several months later, Los Alamos, New Mexico. At his desk, Fuchs is concluding his final tasks at the American Atomic Research Base as part of the wind-down operation. While work on the hydrogen bomb continues in secret, Fuchs has been assigned to write the official history of Los Alamos. And once it's complete, he'll be heading back to Britain.

Have you read the news? Fuchs and his colleagues look up from their desks. The scientist in the doorway holds a crumpled newspaper in his hand. They've uncovered a Soviet spy ring. In Canada. Made up of scientists and mathematicians. We worked with one of them. It says he passed Russia details about our work here.

Fuchs slowly rises to his feet, racking his mind for who might have been arrested. Can I see? The scientist hands Fuchs the newspaper. He spreads it out on an empty desk as his colleagues huddle around. Fuchs scans the report for names and immediately recognises one. He had corresponded with Israel Halperin, the mathematics professor at Queen's University,

but they never discussed espionage. He doesn't recognise the photograph of the British physicist Alan Nunn-May, who worked at the Chalk River nuclear plant in Ottawa. Fuchs doesn't know the other names on the list, but he's interested to learn that two of them worked at Los Alamos. He thought he had been the only one. Fuchs relaxes. It seems there is no paper trail leading back to him.

I knew Halperin. He sent me textbooks when I was interned in Canada. Forget him. Look here. It says this Nun May chap sent a sample of uranium-235 to Moscow. What? Under diplomatic cover. The sheer gall. It says here, Nunmay was described by colleagues as a nice, quiet bachelor who was very helpful at parties. Just like you, class. Another scientist points at Nunmay's photograph. You even look the same. After the laughter dies down, the group falls quiet considering the implications of the news. I can't believe the Soviets were trying to steal secrets.

Fuchs feels a flash of irritation. He's unable to remain quiet. They were our allies, if that was ever true. I guess we'll find out if they get the bomb. Do you think Nunmay gave them enough? Fuchs, still angry at the naivety of his colleagues, now feels a pang of professional jealousy. There's a reason Oppenheimer left him in Canada. He probably doesn't even know this place exists. Besides, I've read his work. Not very impressive.

July 1946. Harwell, Oxfordshire, England. Fuchs approaches the gated entrance of the Atomic Energy Research Establishment. Through the high-meshed fences that run along the site's border, he sees ugly prefabs, muddy roads, laboratories and former aircraft hangars. It sits in stark contrast to the rolling green fields and hedgerows of the surrounding countryside. And after the billion-dollar excess of Los Alamos, Britain's nuclear science facility feels basic and cash-strapped. Identification, please. At the entrance, a security guard wearing a military uniform checks Fuchs's ID.

As the security guard hands Fuchs' papers back to him, a military man with grey hair and a thin blonde moustache strides around the corner. Dr. Klaas Fuchs, we've been expecting you. The two men shake hands. Wing Commander Henry Arnold, Head of Security. Pleasure to meet you. Now, I know the Americans had some spy problems. Wing Commander Henry Arnold, Head of Security. Pleasure to meet you. Now, I know the Americans had some spy problems. Never fear, I take my job quite seriously.

I can assure you we are no leaky ship. Nothing enters or leaves Harwell without my knowledge. Fuchs looks the strange, officious man up and down, but says nothing. I needn't remind you of the need for utmost vigilance. As the Prime Minister himself points out, our foreign enemies will stop at nothing to penetrate this fortress. You know Prime Minister Attlee? Arnold looks momentarily downcast. He quickly rallies, puffing out his chest.

Not personally, but I know he takes a keen interest in our work here. The person I report to reports to the person who reports to him. Fook's losing interest surveys his surroundings. Scientists and technicians, some in lab coats and others in military attire, stride purposefully between buildings. The air is filled with a sense of disciplined urgency. Anyhow, follow me. Arnold leads Fuchs into the main laboratory building.

Inside, it's a hub of activity. On the walls, maps and charts detail various scientific projects, underscoring the complexity of the research being conducted. Fuchs overhears snippets of conversations punctuated by technical jargon and urgent debate. Not much of a talker, are you? Just taking it all in. But I appreciate the energetic welcome. it seems like an industrious place despite arnold's bluster after the high security environment of the american complex harwell feels laughably relaxed arnold is no more than a glorified bouncer and despite the high fences it's obvious this place is much less secure than Los Alamos. Fuchs relaxes his shoulders.

He has already stolen the greatest secret of the war for the Soviets. Now he's back in England with his cover intact and nothing more than an overpromoted park he to worry about. The End In the Cabinet Room, the British Prime Minister, Clement Attlee, has gathered his five most trusted advisers for a top-secret meeting. Gentlemen, we are being left behind. The Americans took our best scientists, then shut us out. And they've been so leaky, it appears as though the Soviets aren't far behind with their bomb. It is apparent that the cost of a place at the superpower table is nuclear capability.

Without a bomb of our own, Britain standing in the world is threatened, not to mention her national security. We need this bomb. Here, here. And we've got to have that bloody Union Jack on it too. No more of this international collaboration. Well, we might need some collaboration.

Of the four candidates that have been proposed to lead the project, three are German. Gentlemen, you have their names and biographies in front of you. Shall we go through them in turn? Attlee and his advisers discuss each of the four men that have been proposed to lead Britain's nuclear programme at Harwell. Rudolf Peels is perhaps the most qualified candidate, but in recent weeks he has been publicly campaigning

for tighter nuclear arms controls. Nobody doubts the abilities of Klaus Fuchs and Otto Frisch, but the fourth candidate, William Penny, has the benefit of being English. Is Penny up to it, though? He is, after all, a mathematician. He was one of Oppenheimer's closest colleagues. All of these men are eminently qualified. Very well. I have no doubt they can all do the job and that they are all loyal to Britain. But it wouldn't hurt to keep the German scientists out of the spotlight. The British people might not grasp the nuance of the situation.

Yes, Sir Peels, Frisch and Fuchs will all be deeply involved in the situation. Yes, Sir Peels, Frisch and Fuchs will all be deeply involved in the project. It just won't be their names and faces on the rocket. Decision made, Attlee reiterates the need for those in the room to maintain the secrecy of the project. Make no mention of this to anyone, not even other members of the Cabinet.

The work will be billed as Britain's atomic energy project. Remember, they're developing nuclear power, not nuclear weapons. Sir, what about the security service? Keep MI5 in the dark. They don't need to know specifics. October 1946. The Atomic Energy Research Establishment, Harwell. Head of Security, Henry Arnold, proudly brings a tray of freshly brewed tea and a plate of chocolate digestive biscuits into his office. An MI5 officer patiently sits in a chair opposite Arnold's side of the desk. He raises his eyebrows inquisitively when he sees Arnold's tray.

We've managed to escape rationing here, sir. Well, when it comes to elevensies at least. Milk and sugar? Just milk. How was the journey? Did you find us easily enough? Look, I appreciate the fuss, but we're terribly busy at the moment. In your letter, you alluded to some concerns about this scientist. What is it that's been bothering you about class books. Arnold draws up his chair and sits opposite the MI5 officer. He is pleased that his letter

has sufficiently stirred MI5 to send an officer. He is now in the middle of things. Arnold brings his fingers together in an arch and leans back thoughtfully in his chair, enjoying the moment. Well, as you know, I have been closely observing all the foreigners who work here.

Fuchs especially. He is a difficult man to get to know. Popular, especially with the women, although God knows why, not a muscle on the man. But very closed, too. No matter how I ask the question, he won't be drawn on his wartime work in America. I suspect he has been trained in matters of security. At this, the MI5 officer leans forward. What makes you say that? Any specific incidents you can point toward? Call it detective's intuition. A flash of skepticism crosses the MI5 officer's face. Arnold realizes he will need to give something a little firmer. Look, he is almost too cooperative, if you know what I mean. Always telling me where he's going whenever he leaves Harwell. The others are forgetful and preoccupied, just as you'd expect from scientists. Fuchs is meticulous.

Professionally so. Your security concerns about Klaus Fuchs are that he is too security conscious. Precisely. Damn suspicious if you ask me. Anything else? Yes. I think he's a communist. The MI5 officer masks his irritation.

He's come all the way from London for this flimsy speculation. And what makes you think that? Well, he's German, but he's not a Nazi. What if he's supplying the Soviets with atomic secrets? Or running a communist spy ring? The MI5 officer goes to take a sip of his tea, but it's scalding hot. He quickly replaces the cup to its saucer. Well, thank you for raising your concerns.

So you're happy for me to organise a programme of surveillance? No. I will put a note on his file, and we will continue to monitor the situation. Good, good. And you will let me know if you uncover anything, won't you? Fuchs falls under my jurisdiction. It is my job to keep this place safe. And you're clearly doing a fine job of it. September 1947, North London. Klaus Fuchs emerges from Woodgreen Underground Station

into the warm late summer evening. It's been a year since he returned to England and began working on Britain's nuclear weapons programme. He feels settled at Harwell. He enjoys the work and has made firm friends. Since returning to England, he's done almost no spying, but now the Soviets have asked him to come to London to meet his latest handler. He crosses the road without looking.

The near miss rouses Fuchs from his thoughts. He heads down the road before doubling back, when he feels sure that he is not being followed. He enters the doors of the Nags Head pub. The pub smells of warm beer and cigarette smoke. Fuchs orders half a pint of bitter and takes a corner seat, where he has a clear view of anyone entering or leaving the pub. He opens a copy of the socialist newspaper The Tribune. He angles the paper so that anyone looking in his direction can clearly see the masthead. A man enters the pub carrying a red book under his arm. He looks furtively around at the pub's patrons, then walks to the bar to order a drink.

Fuchs watches on, checking the door to make sure the man hasn't been followed. Once the man has been served, he walks over to where Fuchs is sitting and sits at the adjacent table. The wall behind them is covered in black and white photographs of British boxers. After a minute or so, Fuchs turns to the man. I think the best British heavyweight of all time is Bruce Woodcock. The man shakes his head. Oh no, Tommy Farr is certainly the best. It's the correct signal.

The man is his new Soviet handler. Fuchs finishes his drink and leaves the pub. Fuchs walks around the corner into a side street and stands in the shadow of a doorway. A few moments later, the man from the pub joins him. Hello, I'm Klaus. Pleased to meet you. You can call me Eugene. The two men talk in urgent whispers. Eugene asks about Fuchs's life at Harwell, whom he spends his time with, and how work on the British atomic bomb is progressing.

We have some technical questions too. Here. Eugene hands Fuchs a tiny piece of cigarette paper on which numerous questions are scrawled. Fuchs scans the list. Moscow requires technical details for its hydrogen bomb project. Keep the paper. Swallow it if you need to. No, I have already memorized the questions. Here, take it back.

I'll have the answers for you next time we meet. You cannot make any mistakes. I haven't. I won't. Eugene hands Fuchs a weighty envelope. Here. I know you have refused payment in the past, but your circumstances have changed. The British pay less than the Americans, don't they? Fuchs peeps into the envelope and sees a wad of paper money. Perhaps as much as £100.

He doesn't want to take payment. He works for principal, not profit. But after so long without contact with the Soviet Union, he decides it would demonstrate his loyalty to accept on this occasion. Fine, just this once. Good. I will see you in three months. Same time, same place. Bring answers. Two months later, Curzon Street, London. In MI5 headquarters,

several of its most senior officers have gathered to discuss Klaus Fuchs. The government is eager to promote Fuchs from a contractor to a full employee on the atomic energy project at Harwell, and that's triggered another round of vetting. Nobody in the room is entirely clear about the work Fuchs and his colleagues are engaged in, but its importance is obvious and its precise nature can be guessed at. Martin Fernaval-Jones, who works in the Protective Security Department, lights his pipe and looks at the grave faces in the room. We know the Gestapo file is not entirely trustworthy, but it cannot be entirely dismissed either. Some of the men around the table nod in agreement.

It seems certain that Fuchs moved in communist circles before he left Germany. This is sufficient to warrant further investigation. Roger Hollis, head of F Division, MI5's counter-subversion department, shuffles in his chair. Martin, I'm sorry, but this is ancient history. You must look at the context. Hitler had just come to power. Communist groups were the primary counter-fascist force.

It's not a point of suspicion. It's a point of pride. Furnival Jones looks unconvinced. Hollis continues. Besides, Fuchs is one of only two men in the country who understands the science. The Americans had no qualms with him, and his work there helped defeat the Japanese. Isn't that enough? MI5's Deputy Director General Guy Liddle nods in agreement.

A strong point. Do we really want to imperil our nation's atomic capabilities based on hearsay and what is, at best, circumstantial evidence? This security chap, Arnold, it must be said, is hardly Sherlock Holmes. Colonel James Robertson of the counter-espionage branch strokes his chin, lost in thought. His cigarette rests in an ashtray, its smoke curling toward the ceiling. The other men around the table watch him expectantly. Fine.

It seems possible, probable even, that Fuchs has communist convictions, but there is nothing to suggest he is anything more than sympathetic. Look, I need to get a decision to the Director General today. Ultimately, the advantages to Harwell through Dr. Fuchs' abilities

outweigh the security risks. So I will recommend we approve his employment at Harwell. April 1949. Harwell. Fuchs steps out of his front door and into the cold spring evening. Since becoming a full-time employee at Harwell, Klaus Fuchs has moved into a prefab house on site. Like Harwell itself, it's claustrophobic and lacks character. But Fuchs feels settled within its community of scientists.

He now thinks of them as his family. As Fuchs heads towards his car, he hears his neighbour's front door open. Klaus! Off somewhere exciting? Henry Arnold, Harwell's head of security, has moved into the house next door to Fuchs. But he seems to monitor every move Fuchs makes. I'm headed to the pub, Henry. Felt like a change of scenery. Arnold looks up and down the quiet street. By yourself? Just for a half. You know what they say, a change is as good as a rest. Well, have a good one. As Fuchs pulls away, he checks the rear-view mirror and sees Arnold standing in the doorway, watching him leave.

Suspicious bastard, Fuchs thinks to himself. Fuchs heads toward the nearby town of Abingdon. He takes the long route, checking his mirrors every few moments. Arnold's prying has put him on edge. Fuchs parks in the town centre. He makes his way along the high street with his collar turned up against the cold. He suddenly stops, turns around and heads back the way he came, checking the reflection in shop windows to see if anyone follows.

When he is satisfied that he is alone, he makes his way to a nearby hotel. The doorman greets him. Good evening, sir. Are you staying with us? Just here for a drink. Very good, sir. Are you staying with us? Just here for a drink. Very good, sir. Bar is straight down the hallway on the left. Fuchs discreetly checks the bar's patrons looking for his contact. Then he spots the woman he has come to meet. She's sitting on a stool on the far side of the bar, nursing a gin and tonic. Fuchs smiles warmly and approaches. Erna. Klaus, you came. Fuchs orders a drink and the pair retire to a quiet corner in the bar. Erna Skinner is 41 years old and strikingly attractive.

She is also the wife of Fuchs' immediate boss, Herbert Skinner. Erna momentarily narrows her eyes. Then she tips her head to one side and smiles. She leans in for a kiss. But Fuchs pulls back, his eyes darting around the room to see if they are being watched. What's wrong? Herbert isn't stupid, Klaus. He knows about us.

Who cares if someone else sees? Sorry. Old habits. What do you mean? Fuchs realizes his slip-up. He quickly leans forward, kissing Erna long and firmly on the lips. It's a few days after his rendezvous with Erna Skinner, and Fuchs is in London. He's come here to meet his Soviet handler, a man named to Fuchs only as Eugene. In a quiet side street, Fuchs hands Eugene a manila envelope

containing the latest sums and equations the team at Harwell has been working on. I'll see this reaches our friends quickly. Eugene tucks the envelope inside his large Macintosh coat. Have there been any security concerns at Harwell? There are always security concerns at Harwell. You do know what we're working on, right? Eugene looks a little taken aback by Fuchs's outburst. Fuchs realises he has been rude and looks apologetic.

Sorry, it's just... the pressure has been getting to me recently. Your work is important. It's only natural that you'd feel the weight of that responsibility. Stay strong. I'll see you in three months. Fuchs and Eugene nod and part ways. Eugene doesn't know it,

but Fuchs has decided this will be their last meeting. The security at Harwell has become tighter, making his regular trips to London increasingly difficult to explain away. Now, with the added pressure

of his affair with Erna, the rigour of sustaining multiple deceptions is taking a toll. Fuchs stops in the street and looks at the branches of the trees above him dipping against a white sky. Eight years.

I have served my time, he thinks. I did my part. I gave the Soviet Union a fighting chance. Time to go to ground. Four months later, Arlington, Virginia, just across the river from Washington, D.C. At the U.S. Army's Signals Intelligence Service, Meredith Gardner sits at a desk covered in a mass of papers. Gardner is a Russian linguist and codebreaker. He spends his days cracking coded Soviet communications as part of the service's top-secret Venona project.

A few days ago, while sifting through a backlog of intercepted Soviet communications, one message caught his eye. The Soviet consulate in New York sent it to Moscow in 1944, three years earlier. And it seemed to concern atomic secrets, which could only have been leaked by one of the British scientists. So now, Gardner and his colleagues are hunting for other messages bearing clues as to the scientist's identity. Most of the Soviets' communications were encrypted using one-time pads,

but the Americans have learned that a printing error has caused the Soviets to be given duplicate code keys. Any message encrypted using those duplicate keys is vulnerable to be cracked. And whenever the Venona team finds one of these messages and decrypts its contents, a little more of the picture emerges. They've already learned the Soviets refer to the scientist by the codename Charles, and that Charles reports to a handler codenamed Arno. They also know Charles is part of the British delegation connected to nuclear research and that he went missing in the early summer of 1944,

leaving the Soviets unsure if he had returned to Britain or moved elsewhere in America. Now, Gardner is decrypting a message from November 1944, and it appears to have been encrypted with a duplicate code key. Letter by letter, the message reveals itself. The handler, Arno, reports that he visited Charles's sister, who lives in America. Got you. The picture of Charles is almost complete. A male nuclear scientist, part of the British delegation, left New York in 1944. A sister in America.

How many men tick all those boxes? Two weeks later, Curzon Street, London. At MI5's headquarters, Arthur Martin is with the service heads for a major case conference. Martin is the services liaison officer with GCHQ, Britain's signals intelligence agency. The mood in the room is grim. Washington has been in contact with the news that Britain sent a Soviet spy to the heart of the atom bomb project. And it's likely this individual is still involved in British nuclear research. Martin addresses the room.

The facts were irrefutable. The candidates were few. It didn't take long to narrow the room. The facts were irrefutable. The candidates were few. It didn't take long to narrow the field. Colonel James Robertson, head of MI5's counter-espionage branch, bristles with irritation. Spit it out, man. Dr Klaus Fuchs is the only scientist who matches the known facts. He is the Soviet agent. Or at least the one who has been passing information to the Kremlin.

Blast! How can the Americans be so sure? Did they catch him in the act? Not exactly. A process of elimination. Hooks is the only member of the British delegation with a sister living out there, and they found both their names in Halperin's papers. Halperin?

One of the Canadian lot? Martin nods before taking a long drag on his cigarette. Robertson looks exasperated, then defeated. We all approved, Fuchs. All of us. Multiple times. This is deeply embarrassing to the service. We must deal with this ourselves. The Americans will want to extradite him. He committed crimes on their soil and ours. We should have left him to rot in that internment camp. No, Fuchs works for us. We must deal with this.

That could be a problem. Why? The Venona Project. It must be kept a secret. We can't use its intelligence to convict Fuchs in court. We'll need to catch him all over again. Robertson rubs his face with both hands in silent vexation. Fine.

Surveillance crews, mail intercepts, phone taps. Use every available measure. Give him enough rope to hang himself. And make sure you get the pictures. 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 third episode in our series,

The Spy Who Started the Cold War. 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 Trinity by Frank Close, The Spy Who Changed the World by Mike Rossiter, and Atomic Spy by Nancy Thorndike Greenspan. 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 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 managing producer for Wondery is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Chris Bourne, Morgan Jones and Marshall Louis.