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Wondery Plus subscribers can binge full seasons of The Spy Who early and ad-free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app. September 24th, 1971. The Foreign Office, London. John Leahy strolls down the corridor towards the press briefing room. Leahy is the Foreign Office's head of news and this afternoon there's a spring in his step. He greets the civil servant waiting for him outside the briefing room.
"How's it looking there? Full house?" "Yes, sir. Slow news day, apparently." "Well, let's see if we can't help them out with that." Leahy strides into the briefing room. The morose, bored journalists don't even acknowledge his arrival. Leahy shrugs it off. He knows today's briefing will shake them out of their apathy. He walks to the lectern, opens his folder of notes, and experiences a surge of adrenaline. "Hello, gentlemen."
My colleague informs me your editors are in search of some headlines. Permit me to assist. At quarter past three this afternoon, the permanent undersecretary handed a list of names to the Soviet-charged affair in London. On that list were the names of 90 Soviet officials, who we have good reason to believe work as Russian intelligence officers. These men and women must leave the country within the next two weeks.
Another 15 Soviet officials who are currently traveling outside the country will be refused re-entry to Britain. Some of the journalists leaned forward in their seats, roused from their stupor. No one expected such drastic action from the British Foreign Office. The Soviets will not be allowed to replace any of those expelled. These men and women are known to have engaged in espionage on British soil.
These activities include plotting sabotage operations on critical civilian and military infrastructure. One of the journalists raises his hand. Is this related to the news of a KGB defector as reported in today's London Evening News? No comment. The journalists take that as a yes. Another hand goes up. Sorry, did you say 19 spies? No. 90. 9-0.
As the scale of the British response becomes clear, one of the journalists rises from his chair and runs for the bank of phones set up at the far end of the room. Others follow. Soon the room is filled with urgent conversation as each journalist demands their editor hold the front page. Leahy smiles. After months of planning, Operation Foot is underway. 105 Soviet spies are getting booted out of Britain. But now Britain's made its move.
They must brace for the retaliation. But there's no doubt that the Soviets will respond. The only question is how hard, swift, and damaging their response will be. We get support from Dove. Hey everyone, this is your girl Kiki Palmer, host of the Wondery podcast. Baby, this is Kiki Palmer. Listen up, because there's some messed up stuff we gotta talk about. Currently, race-based hair discrimination is still legal in some states in the U.S.,
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From Wondery, I'm Rozir Jaffrey.
And this is The Spy Who. On the last episode, Oleg Lelin and Irina Tepliakova defected to Britain. MI5 secured a treasure trove of KGB secrets and Prime Minister Edward Heath approved Operation Foot, the plan to kick 105 Soviet spies out of Britain. Now, Operation Foot is in motion.
But the government and MI5 know it's only a matter of time before the Soviets respond to Britain's decisive strike at the KGB. You're listening to The Spy Who Saved MI5. Episode 4. The Dominoes Fall. Around a cottage at the end of a country road in southeast England, CCTV cameras swivel and pressure pad alarms lay hidden among the bushes. Behind the green-painted front door,
Oleg Lelin comforts his girlfriend, Irina Tepliakova. "He's right, Irushka. You know as well as I that they won't stop until they've found us." Lelin's MI5 handler, Tony Brooks, nods in agreement. "Plastic surgery is really the best option here. The news of your defection has leaked. We've announced the expulsion of your former comrades. It's only a matter of time before your names and faces appear on the front pages."
And, not to sound indelicate, but we don't want two dead Russians on our hands. Brooke's bluntness shakes Teplyakova from her grief.
He leans forward. You don't have to decide today. We strongly recommend plastic surgery, but it's your decision. There are other ways to disappear. Of course. And we can and will support you. We'll provide shoes that make you taller, training on how to move and act differently, vocal work. As for location, we're thinking Bournemouth or Yorkshire, somewhere a good distance from London. Why not London? Seven million people live there. We'd be invisible. The risks are too severe, Oleg.
The Soviet embassy and trade delegation are based there. London is where you're most likely to accidentally bump into someone. How will we afford to live? They will be exactly as we agreed. You'll be a quiet European couple of means. You'll get a generous lump sum plus annual payments for the rest of your life. You can work for pleasure or interest, but you won't have to worry about money." Tabliakova and Lelyn look at each other. Their affairs already cost them their country, their families, and their children.
Now their identities and their faces are going too. September 24th, Mayfair, London. The evening Operation Foot was announced. In a large room at MI5 headquarters, the team's enjoying a rare celebration. The door of a huge vault filled with bottles of wine and whiskey hangs wide open. In one corner, two MI5 officers trade gossip.
So, let me get this straight: Irina wasn't the only one? He had three women on the go? And the rest? Don't know how he managed them all. What a dog. Couldn't manage the admin myself. The expulsion of 105 Soviet spies represents the service's greatest win since the Second World War. It's also a much-needed victory after MI5's failure to prevent former British intelligence officer Kim Philby's defection to Russia in 1963.
Operation Foot has smashed Soviet spy operations in Britain. The MI5 officers stop talking as Director General Martin "Furnival" Jones calls the room to attention. Furnival Jones waits for the chatter to stop and then addresses his troops. Ladies and gentlemen, may I be the first to say to you all: congratulations. For Furnival Jones, today has been a long time coming.
After years of being outplayed by the KGB, Britain's Homeland Security Service has finally managed to deal a blow to Soviet intelligence. Your diligence and hard work has finally paid off. We've succeeded in turning a major Russian asset, and that has given us grounds to expel dozens of KGB officers.
We have dealt a profound blow to Soviet intelligence operations in our country and upheld the security of Her Majesty's realm. Your work is also making the world safer. Our colleagues in France, Germany, America and beyond are sending messages of congratulations and now hope to persuade their governments to follow our example. Across the world, the KGB will be feeling the heat. Furnival Jones raises his glass into the air.
So drink, you've earned it. But a word of caution. No good expulsion goes unpunished. The foreign secretary will meet the Soviet foreign minister in New York tomorrow. I think we can all anticipate how that exchange will go. The Russians, they take their vengeance like they take their vodka. Neat, swift, and usually in a series of shots. Still, that's tomorrow's problem. And tonight...
We drink. The party lasts long into the night, but the dawn will bring with it the threat of reprisal. The next day, in a side room within the United Nations building in New York, Soviet Foreign Minister Andrei Gromyko jabs his finger into the chest of British Foreign Secretary Sir Alec Douglas Hume. Provocatia! Provocatia! Sir Alec feigns ignorance.
He's enjoying having the upper hand. Andre, what exactly is on your mind? You know very well how dare you expel our people and threaten us. What gives you the right? My dear man, I am flattered. Do you really think my country can threaten yours? Gromyko scowls. This is no laughing matter. Sir Alex Manor hardens.
This is not the first time the pair have addressed the issue of Soviet spies in London. I have written to you time and again about this problem, and you had every opportunity to deal with this matter privately. Instead...
You just ignored my letters. Your claims were entirely fabricated. A mirage of your own making. Another baseless attack against Russia's virtuous name. We have no spies in your little country. Come on now. Seriously? I resent your implication. With the greatest respect, why would we want to spy on England? It's tragic in its way. You also believe you're this great empire. Such delusion. Gromyko has overstepped the line.
Sir Alec spots an opportunity to deliver a counterpunch to Gromyko's ego. "I am glad that we've been able to inform you just how many Soviet officials in Britain work for the KGB. Or perhaps you simply lack the necessary security clearance to be informed." Gromyko seethes. He's caught in a bind. "This is diplomatic hooliganism. You bear full responsibility for this provocation. Know this.
If you proceed, Anglo-Soviet relations will be forever ruined, and there will be consequences. And if you retaliate by expelling our people from Moscow, we will respond in kind. We know the identities of many other Soviet intelligence officers operating in our country, and won't hesitate to boot them out too, if we must." The two men glare at one another for a moment.
Then, with a sharp nod, Sir Alec leaves the room. He just hopes his threat is enough to protect Britain from the Soviets' retaliation. Five days later, outside the Soviet embassy in London, Daily Express reporter Roy Blackman watches the door, ready to pounce on any Soviet official that emerges. Blackman's editor has dispatched him here to try and get the scoop on the identity of the KGB defector.
So far, neither the British or Soviets are naming him. Blackman spots Vladimir Pavlinov leaving the embassy and rushes over. He knows Pavlinov is a new arrival, sent in by Moscow to deal with the unfolding chaos in London. Mr. Pavlinov, Roy Blackman, Daily Express. Moment of your time, please. What do you want? What is the name of the Soviet who defected to Britain? Pavlinov pauses and lights a cigarette.
He senses that this could be an opportunity to regain control of the situation. The British are already arresting the agents Leland knows about. Siraj, Abdul-Khadir and two others are already facing imprisonment. Maybe he can save others from the same fate. You understand, I am not permitted to give you his name. And if your own government won't help you with your story, why should I? But he is a spy, that's true, right? I'm as puzzled as you about these claims.
"'He's a man of little importance, and who knows, maybe he'll come back to us, so it would be foolish to brand him. If he is of such minor importance, you won't mind sharing his name, then?' Pavlinov flicks his cigarette onto the ground and stubs it out with his heel. "'You know the traitor's name already. You published it in your paper a month ago. Ten lines. How can I put it? He is someone who likes to drink. How does that help? We know he's Russian.'
And who likes to drive? Pavlinov smiles as the reporter races away. By morning, Lelin's name and photo will be known across the world. Every agent he hasn't already betrayed will have a chance to cover their tracks. And with the fallout from Lelin's defection contained, the Soviets can now focus on how to respond to the British expulsions.
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September 27th, 1971. Moscow airport. Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev stomps down the gangway towards the VIP lounge with a face like thunder. He's just cut short a tour of the Balkans to fly back to Moscow for an emergency meeting of the Politburo, the Communist Party committee that runs the Soviet Union. As he enters the lounge, the other members of the Politburo rise to their feet. Sit. Sit. Sit.
I've cut short my tour and cancelled tonight's banquet with the Prime Minister of India because of this mess in London. Andropov, explain yourself. KGB chief Yuri Andropov calmly adjusts his thick glasses. He knows Brezhnev will want to pin this on him and use it to rein in the KGB's power, and he has no intention of allowing that.
The British expulsions are a temporary setback. We still have a strong presence in Britain. I don't care about the expulsions. Brezhnev cuts in. I care about this traitor Leland. He knows all about Department V and its plans. Knowledge that will undermine my attempts to reduce tensions with the West. Why was this allowed to happen? Leland is a drunk and a womanizer. There's much we already knew.
But the officer we dispatched to investigate Leland failed to press these concerns with sufficient vigor, causing the risk to be ignored. The officer will be punished for this. Brezhnev bristles at Andropov's maneuvering. None of this helps. Department V has been exposed. This failure has set back our efforts to find a way to counter NATO's military advantage by years. It will be fixed. It won't.
Not by you, at least. I am taking control of this situation. You will dismantle Department V and recall its officers to Moscow. Andropov looks dismayed. Brezhnev's order will risk the lives of his officers and weaken the KGB's presence across the world. That would immediately confirm the recalled agents as spies. They'll be unable to work outside the USSR again. Better ex-spies at home than live spies in enemy hands.
The damage must be contained. Andropov seethes. It is clear that Brezhnev is using Lelin's defection as an opportunity to wrest control of the Soviet Union away from the KGB. Why punish our agents for Lelin's betrayal? There is another way. We respond to the expulsions in kind. We could wipe out the British presence in Moscow. That is no longer your call to make, comrades.
Brezhnev has made his point. It's time to leave. As the meeting breaks up and Dropov pulls aside one of his deputies. "What are you waiting for? Find Leland. Kill him." The deputy nods in understanding. The traitor must pay. Three days later. Marlborough Magistrates Court, London. "Order." The magistrate looks around his packed courtroom. So many people turned out to see Oleg Leland stand trial for drink driving that some had to be turned away.
Leland's name has been splashed across the front pages, and the world's press want a glimpse of the man the papers call a KGB super spy. At 10:30 sharp, the court jailer stands to address the room. "Remand number one, sir." "No answer." A police sergeant steps into the empty witness box and turns to the magistrate. "No appearance, sir." The magistrate surveys the audience.
He wonders if any of the people in the gallery are KGB assassins sent in the hope that Leland would make an appearance. He nods at the police sergeant in the witness box. "Very well." Everyone in court looks puzzled at the magistrate's lack of concern at Leland's no-show, but the government's already told him it's too dangerous for Leland to attend court and that it plans to dismiss the charges.
October 1971, MI5 safe house, South East England. Sit still please Mr. Leland, these photographs are a vital part of the process. In Leland and Tepliakova's heavily guarded countryside hideaway, a plastic surgeon hired by MI5 photographs Oleg Leland's face. All being well, the spy will undergo the first of several operations to alter his appearance the following week. Make sure you get my best side.
On that note, do you take requests this jawline could do with a tuck? Please, stop moving. It's not like I'll be working in the canteen of the Soviet embassy. At least, permit me to keep my looks. Mr. Leland, I'm not here to fix your flaws. I'm here to make you someone else. Turn around, please. How long will the operation take? Operations, Mr. Leland. This will be a multi-stage process. Your wounds should have healed by the spring.
The surgeon puts down his camera and uses a pen to mark out lines for incision on Leland's face. Leland holds still as the surgeon draws dotted lines beneath his eyes. "And what about my Irina? You're doing her too, right? I hope so. You have a steady hand, I can see. By the way, if you need some inspiration for her makeover, I have a few suggestions." "I'm surprised you think this is funny, Mr. Leland." "I'm being serious." "As am I."
My job is not to flatter you, but help you stay alive. Hold still." The surgeon picks up his camera and takes another reference photo. October 4th, 1971. Tilbury Docks, Essex. Through the autumn fog, more than 200 expelled Soviets and their families watch as dockers load their belongings onto the aging cruise ship, Baltica.
Yellow stains streak from the ship's portholes, and smoke rises lazily from her chimney stack. A hammer and sickle flag flutters from the stern. At the foot of the gangway, one expelled Russian diplomat barks at the dock workers as they ready his belongings for the crane to lift on board. Careful with that! I will hold you personally responsible for any breakages! Sure thing, Vlad. Send me the invoice when you reach Leningrad.
Like many of his colleagues, the diplomat has filled his luggage with luxuries that fetch a high price on the black market back home. Items like Coca-Cola, cigarettes, and whiskey. Bewildered children clutch their teddy bears and watch as a crane lifts their parents' cars into the air and onto the ship. The diplomat heads up the gangway.
He glances at the press photographers peering through their lenses from behind the dock's wire fence. Each of them hoping to capture the moment the KGB caught the boot. He steps aboard and joins the crush of Soviets lining the ship's decks. All aboard! We're ready to sail! Das Grava, London. As the Baltica sails along the River Thames and out into the North Sea…
The diplomats watch London and Britain disappear into the mist. Their mission here has failed, but each man comforts himself that even if they personally won't ever get the opportunity to return, the Soviet Union will surely kick Britain's diplomats out of Moscow in revenge.
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October 7th, 1971, Moscow. In the lobby of the British Consul building, a distraught 51-year-old Russian woman rages at the receptionist. You lie! You lie! You have my daughter! British Consul Ralph Griffiths hurries out of his office to see what's going on.
"'Excuse me, ma'am. I am the British consul. Is there something I can assist you with?' The woman spins round to face him, her eyes reddened by tears and rage. "'I am Yelizaveta Stetsenko, and I demand to see my daughter!' "'I'm sorry, Mrs. Stetsenko. I don't understand. Who is your daughter?' "'Irina Teplyakova! Your government has taken her hostage!' "'I assure you, that's not the case.'
But please, come to my office and we will discuss. Griffiths leads Stetsenko into his office. Can I get you something? Some tea? Biscuits? I don't want your English biscuits. I want my daughter. Why have you kidnapped my Irina? I understand this must be very difficult for you, Mrs. Stetsenko. But the British government has not kidnapped your daughter.
She asked to stay in Britain. Lies, lies. Your country is always harassing innocent Russians. Stetsenko pulls out a copy of the Communist Party newspaper Pravda from her handbag. She opens it to a story about the recent expulsions and angrily taps the page. See here.
It says how your intelligence services beat up our diplomats and steal from them. That is... Look, I don't know what I can tell you. Your daughter is a free woman. That cannot be! It can't! I have written 12 letters to Irina, but I have had not one reply. Why? This is not like her, and nobody here helps me. I don't know if she's well or even alive, where she is, or what's happened to her.
Mrs. Stetsenko, I can assure you Irina is alive and well. I can't tell you where she is because I have not been told, but I can tell you she has requested asylum in Britain, along with Oleg Lelin. Stetsenko's face contorts in disgust at the mention of Lelin. That man is a traitor.
What woman would abandon her husband and child, her child, to be with such a man? My daughter would not disgrace our family name this way. It is impossible. Mrs. Stetsenko, if you have a message or a letter you wish to pass on to your daughter, I can make sure it reaches her. But whether she replies or not is out of my hands. Stetsenko glares at Griffiths for a moment.
and then pulls a letter addressed to Taplyakova from her handbag. She passes it to the British diplomat and hurries through the door. Two days later, the British embassy, Moscow. Inside the embassy, Sir John Killick settles down for his evening meal of soup. Sir John's the new British ambassador to the Soviet Union. He's a veteran diplomat with a stiff, graying mustache, and he's not easily flustered.
He removes his napkin from its silver holder and tucks it into his shirt collar. As he raises his spoon to his lips, a flustered official bursts into the room. Sir, the Soviets demand your immediate presence at their foreign ministry. Sir John sips the soup. Sir, I heard you. I am sure whatever it is the Kremlin wishes to tell me can wait until I have finished my supper. I do not enjoy cold soup.
"Do you enjoy cold soup?" "No, sir. It's just they demanded an immediate summons." Sir John takes another slow sip of soup. He thinks of the pressure the Soviets have placed on the British Embassy in recent weeks. The barrage of anti-British stories in Pravda. Diplomatic vehicles tailed bumper to bumper. British mothers refused access to their children's Soviet nurseries. Extra police posted outside the embassy.
The expulsions are surely next. The official presses Sir John again. "Sir, they insisted you come immediately." "Well, now, I am sure the Russians are eager to inform me of all the ways in which they plan to punish us. They'll have their moment. But I learned a long time ago never to rush to a telling off. I'll be there soon." "Very good, sir."
Sir John takes another sip of soup. He will answer the Russian summons, but at his own pace. An hour later, Soviet Foreign Ministry, Moscow. Sir John strolls into the office of the Soviet Union's Deputy Foreign Minister. "You asked to see me immediately?" The Soviet Minister scowls. He's been waiting an hour for Sir John to show. He moves straight to business.
Your government has undertaken senseless and absurd action in recent weeks, all based on unfounded fabrications. These actions are clearly provocative and hostile to the Soviet Union. So, to ensure the security of our country, we hereby order the expulsion of five British diplomats. They must leave the USSR within 14 days.
Sir John, the British ambassador in Moscow, listens as the official spells out the Soviet Union's response to Operation Foot. Philip Hansen and Lewis. Sir John feels relief as the names of the barred British diplomats are read out. These reprisals are minimal, designed to save face rather than punish. Britain's threat to expel more Soviets seems to have tempered the Kremlin's response. Finally,
Sir Alec Douglas Hume's impending visit to Moscow will also be cancelled, as the Minister's intentions could be hostile. Sir John nods and rises from his chair. Sir Alec will be most disappointed. I shall, of course, convey this message to my government. Sir John smiles as he walks away. After weeks of threats, the Soviet response to Operation Foot is more a squeak than a roar.
Britain has reasserted itself, restored the reputation of its intelligence services and neutered the Soviet spy threat at home. The KGB is now in turmoil and the USSR's claims to be world peacemaker lies in tatters. Five months later, Highgate, London. Oleg Lelin steps outside a familiar pub a few streets away from the Soviet trade delegation compound where he once worked.
The wounds from his plastic surgery have healed. He and Teplyakova are almost ready to start their new lives. But before that new life can begin, Lelin must put his new permanent disguise to the test. Lelin enters the pub. He glances around, then freezes. Three of his former colleagues from the Soviet trade delegation are sitting drinking and laughing at one of the tables. He fights the urge to run,
and walks slow and steady to the bar. The barman looks up from cleaning glasses. Afternoon. What's your poison? My poison? Oh, I see. A pint of bitter, please. Leland waits at the bar as the barman pulls his pint. He worries that the Soviets sitting nearby might have recognized his voice, but he resists the urge to glance back at them. Instead, he stares ahead,
and catches his own reflection in the mirrored glass behind the shelves, laden with bottles of spirits. A stranger stares back at him. The old cleft in his chin is gone. His new nose is rounded and snub. The thin moustache and close-cropped dark hair are gone, and his face is clean-shaven and framed with a mop of dyed blonde curls. He wonders how much of his old face remains visible beneath the new.
The barman places his pint of bitter on the bar. "That'll be twelve pence." Leland places the coins on the bar and carries his pint over to a small table with a clear view of his former colleagues. The Soviets pay him no attention, so he unfolds his newspaper. Leland sips his pint, half reading the headlines, half eavesdropping on his countrymen. When he reaches the bottom of the glass, he considers ordering another.
But there's no need. The point is proven. His new face has rendered him invisible. Leland folds up his newspaper, places his empty glass on the bar, and walks with confidence past his former colleagues towards the exit. But then he hears a voice. Excuse me. Leland pauses and turns around. One of the Soviets has stood up and is looking right at him. Your keys. You dropped them. Oh gosh. Glumsy.
Thank you. As Lelyan scoops his keys off the floor, the Russian sits back down. Lelyan steps away from them and with renewed confidence walks out the door, onto the street and towards his new life. The removal from Britain of 105 Soviet diplomats and trade officials following the defection of Oleg Lelyan represented the single biggest expulsion of Soviet agents by any Western government during the Cold War.
The following year, in 1972, the Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev ordered the disbanding of KGB Department V. Thanks to Lelyn's defection, British intelligence was able to counter Soviet sabotage plans in the UK and alert the security services of its allies to similar threats across the world. MI5 gave Lelyn and Irina Tepelyakova new identities. They went on to live freely among English society.
It's unclear where they lived or whether their relationship lasted. Neither returned to Russia nor reportedly had any contact with their former families, including their children. Leland died in 1995, somewhere in Northern England. His new identity was never made public. The five volumes of notes containing the details of Soviet espionage that Leland revealed to MI5 interrogators in 1971
remain sealed to this day. On the next episode, author and journalist Tristan Donovan, one of the writers of this series, explains how Leland's cooperation completely transformed the fortunes of MI5 after years of high-profile defections within British intelligence.
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 fourth episode in our series, The Spy Who Saved MI5. 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. The Spy Who is hosted by me, Raza Jafri. Our show is produced by Vespucci, with writing and story editing by Yellow Ant for Wondery. For Yellow Ant, this episode was written by Simon Parkin and researched by Marina Watson, with additional research by Louise Byrne.
Karen Lowe is our story editor and our managing producer is Jay Priest. For Vespucci, our senior producer is Thomas Currie and our sound designer is Ivor Manley. Matt Willis is the supervising producer. Music supervisor is Scott Velasquez for Frizz and Sink. Executive producers for Vespucci are Johnny Galvin and Daniel Turkin. Executive producer for Yellow Ant is Tristan Donovan.
Our managing producer for Wondery is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Jessica Radburn and Marshall Louis.
