The Spy Who Came Back From The Dead | Agent Twister | 1
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Hi, Alice. Hiya. Why are your bags packed? Well, not just my bags. They're your bags as well. I won't even ask how you got into my flat to do that, but thank you. I think we should travel more. So, where would you like to go? Okay, um...

I'd really like to go to Hawaii. Okay. Anywhere else? The south of France is lovely. It is. But is it as lovely as the West Midlands? Oh. Can I fly business? I'll check with Wondery. Hang on, I'll just ring them. Hello, is that Wondery Artist Liaison? It's Matt Ford. Ford. No, I co-host. I'm friends with Alice Levine. Yes. She's just wondering if we could fly first class to the West Midlands.

Hello? This always happens when I ring them. It's December 24th, 1974. 9.30am. Melbourne, Australia. Joseph Markham strides into the Bank of New South Wales and heads for the cashier's desk.

I wish somebody would tell me I moved with authority. What do you think you move with? I give off, I think, a French teacher on an exchange trip energy. Hassled and in charge of 35 kids. He glides over to the cashier, lifts his trilby to greet him. The cashier grins back. G'day, Mr Markham. And how are you today? I'm fine.

Markham hands over a withdrawal slip, watches the cashier's eyes widen. $22,000? Somebody's in for a good Christmas. Markham grins, relaxes. He likes Melbourne, likes the casual friendliness of it. There's no formal English stuffiness here. He puts the money in his leather briefcase, walks a few hundred yards to the Bank of New Zealand. The cashier smiles at him. Morning, Mr Mildoon. Wait a minute. He puts his briefcase on the counter.

Hands over the bundles of notes. "I'd like to put this into my account, please." He taps on the desk as the cashier counts through the money. Then, something catches his eye. It's a newspaper. He stares at the headline. "John Stonehouse, British MP missing, presumed dead." He pulls down his trilby, gathers his receipt for the deposited money, and rushes out.

A few minutes later, he's in a cafe near the cathedral. He usually loves coming here, sipping coffee in the sunshine. But now his hands shake as he thumps through the bundle of newspapers he's just bought. Every one is running stories on the missing MP. How he was deeply in debt before he disappeared. How he was having an affair with his secretary. And how, as a cabinet minister, he'd been secretly spying for the Czech Security Service.

Mr Markham? He turns. The man flashes a police badge. Can you come with us, please? There's no ever an okay answer.

This way, sir. Mr. Markham, can you please pull up your right trouser leg, sir?

He bends down, peels up the fabric. Everyone stares at an old white scar on his knee. The police glance at each other. The one with the badge leans forward. "John Stonehouse, you're under arrest. You do not have to say anything, but if you do, it may be used in evidence against you." He hangs his head, feels the air leave his lungs. His life as Joe Markham is over. It's almost a relief he doesn't have to pretend anymore. But now he'll have to explain why he's been living under an alias.

and how many crimes he's committed just to get here, and how he managed to convince the British establishment he was dead. He looks up at the officer. I'm ready to tell the truth. My dad works in B2B marketing. He came by my school for career day and said he was a big ROAS man. Then he told everyone how much he loved calculating his return on ad spend.

My friend's still laughing at me to this day. Not everyone gets B2B, but with LinkedIn, you'll be able to reach people who do. Get $100 credit on your next ad campaign. Go to linkedin.com slash results to claim your credit. That's linkedin.com slash results. Terms and conditions apply. LinkedIn, the place to be, to be.

As summer winds down, let your imagination soar by listening on Audible. Whether you listen to stories, motivation, expert advice, any genre you love, you can be inspired to imagine new worlds, new possibilities, new ways of thinking. With Audible, there's more to imagine when you listen.

And speaking of listening, you can listen to the best-selling science fiction thriller Project Hail Mary by Andy Weir right now on the Audible app and traverse the galaxy in a desperate last-chance mission along with astronaut Ryland Grace, all from the comfort of your living room.

As an Audible member, you choose one title a month to keep from their entire catalogue. New members can try Audible free for 30 days. Visit audible.com slash WonderyPod or text WonderyPod to 500-500. That's audible.com slash WonderyPod or text WonderyPod to 500-500. From Wondery, I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. And this is British Scandal.

The show where we bring you the murkiest stories that ever happened on these odd little isles. British scandals come in many shapes and sizes. Some are about money, some are about sex. They're all about power. But when we look at scandals a bit closer, they turn out to be stranger, wilder, just plain weirder than we remember. So we're journeying back to ask who's to blame for what happened. And when the dust settled, did anything really change? Alice, do you like compilation albums? Yes.

I thought you'd never ask. Yes, I do. You know, like, now that's what I call music. Oh, yeah, like kind of the best of the best. Exactly. That's what I've got for you with this series. This is effectively, now that's what I call the best of British Scandal, because this has the greatest hits of so many of the other stories. It has the infidelity of Archer. It has the espionage of Profumo. It has the mystery of Lucan, and it has the harebrained scheme of the Canucon. But does it have Chumbawamba?

Well, one of our characters may get knocked down. The big question is, will they get up again?

Oh my goodness. Excellent. Okay, I'm ready for this. It's a crazy story about a left-wing Labour MP who becomes a spy for the Czech government, gets into all kinds of financial trouble, has all kinds of affairs, and then in a wild attempt to get out of it, decides to do something so insane, it might just remind you of a certain Geordie Kanoa we've met before. No. Yes, you just wait. This is episode one, Agent Twister. June 1954, Uganda.

John Stonehouse jumps to his feet and runs around the small dark shed, shakes hands with the coffee farmers. Congratulations, everyone! He spent the last few weeks helping them form a cooperative. Now that every farmer in the region has signed up, they'll all get a better price for their crops. Outside, he takes a breath of air. He wants to savour this moment.

He scans over the vast landscape in front of him, at the endless green hills threaded with orange roads. Takes in the scent of the white blossoms on the coffee plants. His eyes rest on a tree with bright yellow flowers. He smiles when he realises the flowers are actually birds. Stop. This is like a cartoon. And then they start just dancing and flying around his head in a circle and then they help him get dressed. He loves Uganda.

He's been here for two years now, travelling from village to village, helping small farmers set up co-ops like this one. He came over on a ship with his wife, their two baby daughters, a harp and a washing machine. Just all the essentials. His mother had waved them off at the dock. He closes his eyes now and pictures her. How she used to take him to Labour Party meetings. How she would jump to her feet and give passionate speeches against colonial rule. He used to imagine the far-off places she was talking about.

Now, here he is in the warm Ugandan sunshine, helping local farmers and making his mother proud. He hears scuffling behind him. Someone yells his name. He spins round, worried some dispute's broken out about the agreement. Then he sees Barbara. She's carrying their oldest daughter, Jane. He races over. Jane's body is limp, her face sickly white. Barbara looks at him, tears in her eyes. "I can't get her temperature down!"

Half an hour later, they pull up outside the hospital. The doctors take Jane into a large, busy ward. He stands with Barbara while they run tests. She grips his hand. "What if we're too late?" He puts his arm around her. "Try not to worry." But his own worried eyes flick around the ward. There's a bucket in the corner to catch rain from a hole in the roof. Some of the kids are on drips attached to makeshift frames. And there aren't enough doctors. They sit for ages in tense silence in the corridor.

Eventually, a young doctor comes up. "Your daughter has cerebral tuberculosis. We've put her on antibiotics. We'll keep her here until she recovers. Go home and get some rest." He feels Barbara slump with relief. On the journey home, they're both quiet. Eventually, Barbara says, "I want us to go back to London." John stares straight ahead. He doesn't want to leave Uganda. He's made good friends here. And after two years, his work is finally having an impact.

Give it another year at least. She snaps. The kids keep getting sick. Our house doesn't have running water and I'm lonely here. He glances at her. He's been so caught up in his work, he's hardly seen her or the kids recently. His work matters, but so does his family. He hears himself mutter, "Okay, as soon as Jane's well enough, I'll make arrangements." He steps out into the night air, takes in the scented breeze. He's going to miss this place.

But if he has to go back to London, it's not going to stop his work. He'll join the anti-colonial movement there and find another way to fight for what he believes. The 28th of February, 1957, 4:30 AM, Wensbury, West Midlands. Barbara bursts into the hall, checks her watch. She'd only meant to take a short nap in John's office, but that was an hour ago. She runs over to him. "Have they called the results?"

He gestures at the returning officer. You just made it. She fiddles with her beaded necklace, feels her heart thud as the officer calls for quiet. She knows how much this election means to John. He's already stood twice before and failed. She's been canvassing with him in Wensbury for weeks. The reception hasn't always been great. Some of the voters have told her John's a Londoner, an outsider, or that he looks too young to be taken seriously. I get that a lot. Some of them disagree with his anti-colonialism.

She's had to deal with more than a few ugly racist rants. She holds her breath. Whatever happens, she's determined to support him through it. Tapsal, Peter, Conservative Party, 9,999. Stonehouse, John, Labour Party, 22,235. Whoa, that's more than the first one.

Yeah, he wins. Thank you. It's really good to have your political interpretation of these results. She lets her head tip back. He's done it. She watches party activists gather round him. He holds his hand out for her. She heads over. But she's elbowed out of the way by his mother, Rosina.

Wait your turn, Barbara. Show some manners. She lets her shoulders drop. She's always found her mother-in-law difficult. Not surprised. She watches Rosina now tell reporters how proud she is of her son. When one of them asks if he's too young at 32 to be an MP, she snaps. Never mind him being a young MP, he's going to be a young Prime Minister.

Barbara looks up at John, sees the delight spread across his face. Hears him joke. What can I say? It's a brave man who disagrees with his own mother. That sounds healthy. I sense that this may be the root of some of these issues. But she knows behind his jokey smile how serious he really is. He's talked about wanting to make a big impact. How he can only bring real change by climbing up the party structure. By one day becoming Prime Minister.

She kisses him, tells him how proud she is. He leans down to her. I couldn't have done it without you. You're right. That's why we make such a good team. She watches him head off to do an interview. The past few years haven't been easy. They've had to move home several times for John's work, but it's all finally paying off. And now she's determined to enjoy being an MP's wife.

She'll work hard, support John in everything he does. And when he does climb the ranks of the party, she'll be with him every step of the way. 1957, the Czech embassy, Kensington, London. Hank checks himself in the gilt-edged mirror, looks at his round, cheerful face. I know the feeling. He heads over to the group of Labour MPs who've just walked in. You know the feeling. He's determined to impress them.

He holds out his hand. My name is Hank. I'm a diplomat here at the embassy. As the waiters serve drinks, he chats with a few MPs and their wives. He knows some of the people here already. He's working closely with one or two of them. But he needs to catch someone at the start of their career. Someone who could make it to the top of the British establishment, even be Prime Minister.

And from what he's heard, that man could be John Stonehouse. So he's being headhunted, or if I was being more suspicious, recruited? He watches Stonehouse. He's tall, good-looking, stylishly dressed in a well-cut suit. Hank makes a mental note of his expensive tastes. He watches the way the other MPs hang on his every word, how they follow him and his elegant wife around the room.

Hank hopes he won't have to play dirty to get him, but if he has to, he will. He wanders over, holds up his glass. Mrs Stonehouse, my compliments. You look stunning. Then he turns to Stonehouse. And congratulations to you on your win. What are your immediate plans? He listens carefully as Stonehouse says he's going to promote Wensbury as a thriving centre for heavy industry. Hank smiles. He likes ambitious men.

"Have you thought about twinning Wensbury with the Czech city? It would be a great honor for us." Hank watches Stonehouse frown. "I don't agree with the Czech state or the Soviet Union or anything it stands for. I'm not going to twin my constituents with an oppressive regime." Hank nods and smiles. He's heard it all before. "In that case, why not do it anyway? Show our people what freedoms they're missing."

He watches Stonehouse down his drink. He starts to move away. Hank jumps in. "Of course, the advantage of state-run economy is that when we invest, we throw everything into it. We want to do trade deals with Britain, ones that could benefit heavy industry areas like your own." He sees a flicker of interest cross Stonehouse's face. "Why not come on a fact-finding mission at least?"

I knew he wasn't interested in the heavy industry!

then use his Labour contacts to help him climb the party's ranks. The higher he can push Stonehouse, the more chance he has of controlling British foreign policy. If he plays it right, John Stonehouse could be the biggest catch of his whole career. 1957, Kladno, Czechoslovakia. John slowly opens his eyes. He can hardly lift his head for the throbbing pain. He tries to remember what he drank last night, but it's all a blur.

He swings his feet to the floor. He needs some painkillers. He hears a noise behind him. He turns, startled. A young woman is lying in the bed, fast asleep. He scrambles away, horrified. Then it comes back to him. Getting drunk in a bar. Chatting to the woman. Coming back here. He rubs his eyes with the heel of his hands. It's not just the hangover that makes him want to throw up. What's he going to tell Barbara?

He grabs his trousers and shirt, dresses quickly. He wakes the woman, throws her clothes at her. A gentleman. When she's dressed, he grabs her arm, shuts her out of the room. He puts his back to the door. He can hardly breathe. He wants to leave this city as soon as possible. He'd go straight to the airport now if he didn't have official visits all day. An hour later, he meets his Czech guide. He spends the day visiting coal mines and steelworks. His head throbs.

All he can think about is what a fool he's been, how hurt Barbara would be if she found out. Back at the hotel, the receptionist hands over his room key and a large brown envelope. He sits on his bed, tips out the contents, stares down in horror at photos of himself and the woman having sex. I'm guessing that's not a gift. Thanks for a great night. We've put it on the key rings, on the mouse mats and on the mugs, just in case you wanted to remember this moment.

Two days later, he sits in the White Tower restaurant in London, fiddles with his drink, looks around nervously. Yesterday, he got another photo in the post and a message to meet here. Eventually, a dark-haired man with a cheerful round face sits opposite. It's Hank, the same man he met at the embassy. John, lovely to see you again.

He's about to tell Hank he has to meet someone. Oh, John, don't be so naive. He's not just happening to be in the same restaurant. Get out of here. I'm in the middle of a tricky situation. The last thing I need is the checks hanging around. How was your trip? And how was your lovely wife? He watches a cynical smirk spread across Hank's face. So, it's you. What do you want? He listens closely as Hank tells him they want him to gather information on foreign policy and feed it back.

He wipes his face with his hands. He can't spy for the Czechs. It's treason. It'll betray everything he believes in. He shakes his head. I'm not doing your dirty work. I meant what I said about the Czech regime. I won't help you. Hank smiles. We filmed the whole thing. And we won't just show your wife. We'll leak it to the press. Then no one will believe you're not compromised.

They filmed it. That is quite good going, isn't it, in the 50s, that they had a whole rig set up. Can you imagine how big the camera would have been? How drunk was he that he didn't notice, like, five blokes filming it in the corner? It's not an iPhone stuffed in a pot plant, is it? It's going to be huge. John turns away. He's played right into their hands. And now he's in a vicious trap, all of his own making. He has to choose between his marriage and his principles.

He heaves at a sigh, looks at Hank, and sees a smile of satisfaction spread across his face. So, Mr. Stonehouse, are you with us? Hey, I'm Ryan Reynolds. At Mint Mobile, we like to do the opposite of what Big Wireless does. They charge you a lot, we charge you a little. So naturally, when they announced they'd be raising their prices due to inflation, we decided to deflate our prices due to not hating you.

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January 1960. The House of Commons, London. John looks down at the paper in his hands, tries to focus, read over the words, but they all look blurred. Any minute now, he'll be called to ask his question to Ernest Marples, the Conservative Minister for Transport, and he has to get it right. A few days ago, he'd met Hank in a restaurant in Mayfair. Hank had handed over a sheet of paper with the question typed on it, followed by an envelope stuffed with money.

We want to make sure the West German military is kept as weak as possible. So push hard on this. We want the Germans isolated. He hears his name called by the Speaker. He gets to his feet, looks up. A sea of faces stare back. He swallows hard. Mr. Speaker, can the Right Honourable Member for Wallasey explain why we allow the development of nuclear-powered ships by the German Federal Republic? When can we expect to see our own nuclear-powered ships being commissioned?

So is this it? He doesn't have to get any blueprints or, like, the code to a safe or anything? It's pretty slight stuff, isn't it? And the question itself doesn't seem that outrageous. No. He sits back down. He can hardly take in the answer for the blood pounding in his ears. No matter. He'll get a written reply anyway. And when he does, he'll hand it straight over to Hank in a plain brown envelope hidden in a newspaper as arranged.

When the debate's over, he hurries along a covered walkway to the bar, orders a pint, gulps it down in one go, puts the glass on the polished oak top and tries to gather himself. He doesn't know if his nerves can take this. What if his question was too obvious? He glances round. What if everyone's worked out he's working for the Czechs? John! He spins around. A senior Labour MP stands behind him, frowning.

I just heard your question in the house. In fact, a few of us have been watching you very closely for the past few weeks. He starts to fumble for an explanation, but the MP puts a firm hand on his shoulder. Well done. You really put old Marples on the spot with that one. Fancy another? He nods, feels himself relax, listens as his colleague tells him. Keep this pressure up and you'll do very well. He smiles, lifts his glass and hears himself say...

That's exactly what I intend to do, comrade. October 1964. An airbase. Wales. John heads over to the vast turbine engine in the middle of the aircraft hangar. He's being shown around by the chief engineer, a middle-aged man with a deep frown, who points out the latest designs and techniques. He's been in his new post as junior minister for aviation for a few days now. The new prime minister, Harold Wilson, appointed him just after Labour won the general election.

As he moves through the hangar, he feels the thrill of power. He's finally made it to the centre of the British establishment. He's got an international platform, solid support from his colleagues, and most importantly, support from the new Prime Minister. If he can make a name for himself selling British aircraft around the world, he could even make it into the Cabinet. The only problem is Hank. He won't leave him alone. And whatever information he passes on is never enough. Hank always wants more.

He stops now, looks up. He'd been so lost in his thoughts he hadn't realised. The engineer is talking to him and holding a piece of metal. This is our new alloy, lighter than steel and three times stronger. We're going to use it in jet turbines. We haven't released details on this yet. Still top secret, so don't tell anyone. He then winks at him and grins. John smiles back, but his eyes never leave the alloy sample. He holds it in the palm of his hand.

As the team move away, he folds his fingers around it, puts it in his pocket. I don't think it's a sort of take samples sort of visit. He glances nervously across the room. One of the welders has stopped working. He's staring at him. His heart thuds. He watches the engineer head over. He can't hear what they're saying. They both turn and look at him. Then the engineer walks slowly towards him. Sorry about that. Just a technical problem. Shh.

John nods, watches as the welder pulls down his visor and goes back to his work. He loosens his grip on the metal hidden in his pocket. All he can think about now is getting out of here. That night, he tells his driver to drop him off at a pub. He sits there for a couple of hours. He has to get control of this situation. He feels like he hasn't made time for Barbara and the kids for months. He can't keep taking risks like this. He orders another pint and then heads to the phone booth. Meet me in an hour.

He goes back to the bar, downs his pint. If he's going to run risks like this, he's going to demand more money. Much more money. January 1968, Prague. Hank stands in the falling snow, stamps his feet to keep warm, draws on his cigarette. He's been called to a meeting by his boss in the Czech state security. He needs to give a report on John Stonehouse. Codename? Agent Colon.

Stonehouse had promised to sort a contract selling commercial aircraft to Czechoslovakia, but it's fallen through. And now Hank has to explain why. His stomach churns, but he needs to keep his nerve and his job. If he loses his position, he'll lose everything. His state-owned house, his good income, his kids will be taken out of their elite schools. He can't let any of that happen.

You didn't think about that, did you, Matt? Will no one think of the spies for their children in elite schools? He finishes his cigarette, hugs his arms into his body, tries to move his frozen toes in his boots. A few minutes later, he makes his way into the State Security Building. The walls are still peppered with bullet holes from World War II. He clings to the wrought iron banister, walks up to the fifth floor and into a large whitewashed room. His boss is at a big oak table.

He gestures for Hank to sit. Hank starts to explain what went wrong with the trade deal when his boss picks up a file and thumps it down in front of him. We've just found out the British RAF are replacing their fighter stock with the new American F-111s. Hank watches his boss lean back and fix him with a stare. Any idea which agent gave us this information? He swallows hard. No, sir. Agent Knight. A backbench Labour MP.

He throws Agent Colon's file at him. Hank just catches it. The photo of John Stonehouse drops out. Hank bends to pick it up. His boss points a stubby finger at the photo. What are we paying Colon for? He costs us a fortune. And what have we got? A lump of metal and a few empty promises. To be fair, and a sex tape. Okay, apart from a lump of metal and a few empty promises and very good sex tape, what has he done for us? LAUGHTER

Hank's mouth is dry, but he starts explaining how Agent Colon is a long-term investment. "He's popular. Other MPs look up to him. He's tipped to be the next leader of the party. And when that happens, we'll be right at the heart of the British state." Hank watches his boss lean back and light a cigarette. Everything he's just said is true. But it's also true that Stonehouse has been tricky to pin down lately. He's expensive to run. Hank has matched his MP's salary.

However, Stonehouse hasn't given much back in return. You get him into shape, or you know what will happen to you and your family. Hank nods. Yes, sir. He's at the door, about to leave, when his boss says... And change his name. From now on, he's not Agent Colon. He's Agent Twister. It's March 1968. Hotel Kosovo. Cossard Ravina. Chopok Mountain. Czechoslovakia.

John stands in front of the small sink and shaves. He's been in Czechoslovakia for a few days now, promoting British aircraft. The Czechs are interested in the Vickers VC-10, so he's been touring factories with his Czech counterpart. The rest of the time has been spent in long, drawn-out meetings. Today is his first day off, and he's looking forward to hitting the ski slopes. He lifts his chin, scrapes away the last of the shaving soap. Room service!

He opens the door for the waiter, dabs at his face with the towel. When the waiter's gone, he looks down at the trolley full of coffee, bread and cakes. But there's something else. A note. When he reads it, his stomach turns. It's a message from Hank to meet in the hotel lobby in one hour. He's been avoiding Hank for weeks. He's hardly passed him any decent intel for months. The last thing he wants is to see him today.

He screws the note up, dresses quickly, grabs his skis and rushes out to the hotel. If we don't have a chase sequence on a ski slope, I will be livid. On the slopes, he veers away from his group, heads up to a remote ledge, looks around. The view is breathtaking. Distant blue and white mountains rise into the clouds. Best of all, he's completely alone.

He gulps in the pure air, edges his skis downwards and feels the rush of speed as he traverses across the narrow ledge. He feels the biting cold on his face, loses himself in the freedom of it all, but someone's following. You're joking. I was joking. This is so Bond. You asked for it. We delivered it. It's the first ever British Scandal ski chase. He speeds up. Here's a whoosh of skis. Realises with a sudden panic that he's being pushed to the edge.

He glances down at the sheer drop on his right hand side. He slows instinctively to keep his balance. The man slows with him. It's Hank. He stabs his ski pole into the snow. You weren't in the lobby. I don't appreciate that, John. Time's up, I'm afraid. He watches Hank reach into his pocket. His heart thuds. He half expects him to pull out a gun, but instead he hands over an envelope. John peels off his gloves.

That was years ago. I don't care anymore. I'll tell Barbara myself. It was a stupid mistake. I've decided. I want out. I'm not passing any more information to you. You might want to look at the last photo. A good front page scoop, don't you think?

I also have audio recordings of our meetings. I could leak your file to MI5. Hank leans in close. In my country, traitors are despised. They never work again. Their families are hated. Children bullied. I can't imagine your country is any different. John glances down. A few ragged boulders stick out of the snow. But after that, it's a sheer drop. If he loses his footing now, he's dead. All free.

He hears himself mutter, Okay, tell me what you want. This season, Instacart has your back-to-school. As in, they've got your back-to-school lunch favorites, like snack packs and fresh fruit. And they've got your back-to-school supplies, like backpacks, binders, and pencils. And they've got your back when your kid casually tells you they have a huge school project due tomorrow.

Let's face it, we were all that kid. So first call your parents to say I'm sorry, and then download the Instacart app to get delivery in as fast as 30 minutes all school year long. Get a $0 delivery fee for your first three orders while supplies last. Minimum $10 per order. Additional terms apply. July 1968. Labasola Restaurant, London.

Barbara tucks her blonde hair behind her ears and smooths down her silk dress. She knows she looks good, but John's hardly glanced at her all night. In fact, he's been distant for months now, quiet and closed down. Tonight, though, she's determined to get him to celebrate. He's just gained a place in the Labour cabinet. It's everything they've been working towards. She holds up her glass to him.

To the new Postmaster General. Well done, darling. Keep this up and you'll be Prime Minister before you know it. She smiles at him, but the smile he gives back is half-hearted. She leans forward, puts her hand on his. Try to unwind a bit, darling. You don't have to worry about work tonight. She watches him tap nervously on a folded newspaper. She looks up as the waiter brings over their prawn cocktails, watches her husband silently pick at his food without really eating,

His eyes dart around the room. John, is everything okay? He doesn't answer. He's staring at something. She follows his gaze, sees a tall man talking to the waiter. She can't see the man's face. His hat's pulled down too low. What strikes her as odd is his dark overcoat. It's July and he's dressed like it's December. When will these spies learn? A lightweight jacket will carry you so far.

When she looks at her husband, he's on his feet. "I'll be back in a minute." She watches them exchange a few words, then sees John hand over his newspaper. The man puts out his cigarette, takes the newspaper from him, tips his hat and walks out. Then it dawns on her. She's seen him before. He was outside their house earlier today, pacing up and down the street. When John sits back down, she asks, "Who was that?" He shakes his head. "Don't worry, just someone from work."

But she is worried. "'I saw that man outside our house today. Who is he?' She watches the colour drain from John's face. "'You're mistaken.' She leans forward. "'I know what I saw, John, so don't give me that. What's wrong with you anyway? We should be celebrating.' He glances round, whispers. "'Let's not have a scene.' She leans back. She doesn't want their evening to be ruined either. She touches his hand, but they spend the rest of the evening in near silence."

That night, she watches him sleep. Something is clearly amiss. So she decides she'll be more supportive, help him with his workload, be more involved with his life. And if she sees that odd man near their house again, she's going to call the police. A few weeks later, Kennington, London. John sits in his study, taps out a couple of white pills from a small brown bottle.

Downs them with a whiskey. I think that's how they say to do it on the label. He'd been prescribed Mandrax a few months ago by his doctor to help his anxiety. He needs some now to calm down. He should be in the garden helping Barbara prepare their summer party, but he can't face seeing anyone at the moment. He closes the curtains to block out the sunlight, leans back and waits for the pills to kick in.

He thought he'd enjoy being Postmaster General, at the top of his career running the country's communications. But it's a nightmare. Hank won't leave him alone. He demands meetings, turns up in pubs and restaurants, even in the street outside their house. He sinks down into the chair. He just wants to block it all out, hide here until it's dark, then crawl into bed.

He hauls himself up as Barbara comes in. What are you doing in the dark? The guests are here. Come and say hello. He nods. I'll be right there. Barbara comes closer. You're slurring. Have you been sitting here drinking? He shakes his head. Sorry, I was having a nap. I'll be right out. She turns to leave. Don't be long. He reaches for the bottle, pours himself another. His head feels heavy.

He lets it fall back, stares at the ceiling, closes his eyes and starts to drift off into a dreamless sleep. He jumps, snatches up the phone. "John?" He squeezes his eyes shut. It's Hank, again. He wants to yell at him to leave him alone. But then he hears: "I've been called back to Prague. We've got intel the Russians are going to invade. They're coming in to crush demonstrations."

He's read all about the Czech demonstrations, how people have taken to the streets to fight against state control. It's the first time he's heard Hank sound scared. John puts the phone down. He sits, stunned, then jumps to his feet. His head is clear. With Hank gone, he's finally free.

He opens the drinks cabinet, grabs a bottle of vintage wine, runs into the garden. He grabs Barbara, sees her eyes light up as he kisses her. He glances around the garden, at his family, his friends, feels a sudden rush of gratitude for everything he has. He holds Barbara close, nuzzles into her neck. He's finally free to reset everything. His marriage, his career, his ambition to become party leader. He whispers in her ear, "When everyone's gone, pack some things."

I'm taking you on holiday. Major personality revamp. Generally light on the dashboard, isn't it? It's 1969. The House of Commons, London. There you go, Mr Stonehouse. John looks up, smiles at his new secretary as she hands over a typed letter. He'd hired Sheila Buckley last year. She's 22 years old with long dark hair and bright intelligent eyes. That's very quick, Sheila. I'm impressed.

He watches her blush. How are you fixed for lunch? I thought I could take you out as a reward for all the extra hours you've put in. She smiles, flicks away a strand of hair. Oh, that would be lovely.

He leans back and watches her answer the phone. I'll just check he's available. One moment, please. She covers the receiver with her hand. It's the Prime Minister's private secretary, Michael Halls, for you. He takes the receiver, grins. He's been expecting a call like this. A few days ago, he'd heard rumours Harold Wilson was thinking about a cabinet reshuffle. With his experience working in the former colonies, he's been tipped as a front-runner for Foreign Secretary.

John, can you come over, please? The PM wants a word. He grabs his jacket, beams at Sheila. Wish me luck. What about lunch? All right, fine. A few minutes later, he walks through Parliament Square, then on to Number 10 Downing Street. He's greeted by a tall, thin man. Your meeting's on the first floor, sir. In the sitting room. Follow me. He heads up the wide, iron-railed staircase, takes in the portraits of previous prime ministers, imagines his own face there among them.

When he walks into the sitting room, he greets Harold Wilson and Michael Halls with a big smile. Then he hears another man's voice. Sit down, please. He spins, stares at the man. He's got round eyes, a long thin nose and an unsmiling mouth. Harold Wilson introduces him. This is Charles Elwell from Counterintelligence.

John smiles, but he already knows who Charles Elwell is. He's one of MI5's most ruthless counter-espionage experts. And right now, he's John's biggest nightmare. He perches on the edge of an armchair. If he's really casual, they'll never suspect him. I won't sit down, because then I'll look guilty. If I just jauntily perch on the arm, totally fine. Never feels that comfortable, though, does it? Never. He listens as Elwell describes his recent visit to the US.

how he'd interviewed a Czech defector there, a secret service agent who'd named several undercover operatives working for the Czech state. Gave us your name, Mr Stonehouse. He claims you've been working with Czech intelligence for several years now. John starts to shake. He feels the room shrink around him. For a second, he thinks he's going to pass out. But then he hears his own calm voice. May I ask who made these allegations and why on earth would they mention me?

He locks eyes with Elwell. He's determined not to look away. Elwell doesn't answer. Instead, he asks, "How well do you know Captain Robert Cusack?" John relaxes. He's never heard of him. He smiles confidently. "I don't know him at all." Elwell stares. "You may know him by his codename: Hank." "Ahh." John forces the muscles in his face to keep smiling. "Have you been passing him information, Mr Stonehouse?"

Well, John, is it true?

This is the first episode in our series, The Spy Who Came Back From The Dead. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said. Some scenes are dramatized for your entertainment.

If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read Stonehouse, Cabinet Minister Fraudster Spy by Julian Hayes and John Stonehouse, My Father, the true story of the runaway MP by Julia Stonehouse. I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. Karen Laws wrote this episode. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Sound design by Rich Ward. Script editing by James Magniac.

Welcome to the Offensive Line. You guys, on this podcast, we're going to make some picks, talk some s**t, and hopefully make you some money in the process. I'm your host, Annie Agar.

So here's how this show's going to work, okay? We're going to run through the weekly slate of NFL and college football matchups, breaking them down into very serious categories like No offense. No offense, Travis Kelsey, but you've got to step up your game if Pat Mahomes is saying the Chiefs need to have more fun this year. We're also handing out a series of awards and making picks for the top storylines surrounding the world of football. Awards like the He May Have a Point Award for the wide receiver that's most justifiably bitter.

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