The Spy Who Defused the Missile Crisis | The Stranger In Red Square | 1
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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. August 1960, Moscow. It's late at night. Rain splashes off the cobblestones of Red Square as American student Eldon Cox huddles under an umbrella. He's on his way back to his hotel with one of the other students who's also visiting the Soviet Union as part of an exchange trip.

As they pass the painted onion domes of St Basil's Cathedral, a Russian man steps out of the shadows with an unlit cigarette in his hand. Excuse me, do you have a light? The man's in his early 40s with auburn hair that's starting to grey. He's wearing a suit and tie, but Cox served in the Air Force and recognises the straight back of a military man. No, sorry, we don't smoke. Cox and his friend walk on, but the man follows.

The students exchange a worried glance. Before coming to Moscow, they were warned that the KGB tries to entrap and blackmail American visitors. The man says nothing as they walk past the soldiers guarding Moskvoretsky Bridge. But when they reach a darkened area in the middle of the bridge, the man breaks his silence. I saw you both on the train yesterday. I could not speak to you because the KGB were there. But please, I need you to deliver this letter to your embassy.

Cox recoils as the man tries to press a letter into his hands. Hey, what are you doing? Please, I want to help the West. I know secrets. Cox's friend picks up the pace. Oh, Jesus. Eldon, let's get out of here. The man steps forward, eyes intent. I have information about your pilot who was shot down. The truth about how his plane was shot down. It took many attempts, not one. Cox stops.

He's read about a CIA pilot whose spy plane got shot down over Russia. Soviet Premier Nikita Khrushchev has just announced that the pilot will stand trial for espionage. "How do you know this?" my letter explains. "Please, take it to your embassy." "Why can't you deliver it to the embassy yourself?" The KGB guards the gates to the embassy. They report any Russian who goes in there. "You are Americans. No one will stop you."

Cox feels his friend pull at his arm, but he resists. The Russian draws even closer. Please, Khrushchev is a madman. He is leading us into nuclear war. I can help the West stop him. The man presses the letter into Cox's hand again. This time he takes it. The Russian gives him a tight smile and vanishes into the night. Cox's friend stares at him in disbelief. Are you an idiot? I think you might be genuine.

Get real, man. Throw that letter in the river. Cox ignores him and tucks it into his coat pocket. His friend shakes his head in dismay and walks off towards their hotel. Undeterred, Cox tries to saunter nonchalantly past the bridge guards and then hails a passing taxi. Taxi! American Embassy, please. Cox can feel his heart beating in his throat. He sees the driver's eyes in the rearview mirror scrutinizing him.

And he wonders if he's just made the biggest mistake of his life. 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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at dove.com slash crown. That's dove.com slash crown. 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. From Wondery, I'm Indra Varma, and this is The Spy Who. Beneath the veneer of the everyday lurks the realm of the spy.

It's a dark, dangerous world full of shadowy corners, sinister motives and corrupted morals. A place of paranoia and infiltration, sabotage and manipulation. In this season, we go back to 1960. It was a time when the world teetered on the edge of nuclear war.

New long-range missiles and spiraling tensions over Berlin and Cuba were threatening to turn the Cold War between the US and USSR hot. But then, Soviet spy Oleg Penkovsky emerged out of the Moscow shadows, promising to arm the West with the USSR's greatest military secrets. It was an offer the CIA and MI6 couldn't dare ignore.

What you're about to hear are dramatized reconstructions based on real events and the information that's been made public. But remember, in the shadow realm of the spy, the full story is rarely clear. You're listening to The Spy Who Diffused the Missile Crisis. Episode 1, The Stranger in Red Square. August 1960.

In the CIA's headquarters in Washington, D.C., Joe Bulek walks towards the office of his boss. He's tall and rangy with a square, dimpled jaw and short, black, wavy hair. And he's risen up the ranks fast to become the CIA's head of Soviet operations.

You wanted to see me? Bulik's boss nods towards a letter sitting on his desk. This just came through from our embassy in Moscow. A stranger handed it to two American students and said he wanted to stop Khrushchev from starting a nuclear war. Bulik picks up the letter and reads the first few lines. My dear sir, it is your good friend who is turning to you.

A friend who has already become your soldier-warrior for the cause of truth. For the ideals of a truly free world and of democracy for mankind. Buleek's boss continues talking as he reads. The embassy thinks it's nothing but a crude provocation, and I'm inclined to agree. But you have a better instinct for KGB traps. What do you think? Buleek keeps reading.

As he does, his initial skepticism starts to shift. First, the writer identifies several Soviet spies to prove he can be trusted. Then, he also outlines in careful detail how the CIA can contact him in Moscow without a risky face-to-face meeting. Instead, they should use a "dead-drop site" he has identified, where messages can be concealed and then collected by an operative later on.

Well, whoever wrote this knows his tradecraft. Of course, that could just mean it's a more elaborate trap than most. Bulik checks the photo attached to the letter. In it, a man in a US Army uniform poses with a straight-backed man in a Soviet uniform. But the Soviet's head has been cut out of the picture. Bulik holds the photo up to the light. I guess the man with the missing heads, our guy...

His boss looks bemused. You think this could be a genuine approach? It's unusual for a provocation. It's worth investigating. Well, Joe, you know as well as I do how helpful it would be for us to get an agent in Moscow right now. Let me know if it pans out. Bulik nods. It's an election year, and defense is a hot topic for the American public.

The White House is demanding more information about the Soviet nuclear threat, but the CIA is struggling to deliver. This could be the break the entire agency needs. As Bulik walks back to his cramped office, he feels his excitement growing, but tries to stamp it out. He wants to believe this letter and the man behind it are genuine, but he knows from experience that it's probably nothing. August 1960.

Offutt, Air Force Base, Nebraska. In a high-security briefing room, Senator John F. Kennedy faces the man in charge of America's nuclear forces, General Curtis LeMay, the head of Strategic Air Command. LeMay's dressed in full ceremonial uniform for the presidential candidate's visit. It's less than three months until Election Day, and Kennedy is currently neck and neck in the polls with Vice President Richard Nixon.

But beneath LeMay's thick eyebrows, Kennedy thinks he sees a touch of contempt. LeMay leans back in his swivel chair and lights a fat cigar. So, Senator, you asked for this briefing. What is it you wish to know? Kennedy is aware of LeMay's abrasive reputation.

LeMay commanded the firebombing of Japanese cities and dropped atomic bombs on Hiroshima and Nagasaki at the end of World War II. Well, General, I'd like to know why you think the Soviets have so many more nuclear warheads than us. The Air Force estimates are far higher than those of the Army, Navy, and CIA. LeMay puffs cigar smoke towards Kennedy, then speaks with his cigar clenched between his teeth. Look.

We know the Ruskies made a breakthrough in long-range missile technology three years ago. So you can bet they've been pumping out those ICBMs as fast as they can slurp a cabbage stew since then. And you think they have at least 500 long-range nuclear missiles at the moment? Absolutely. And what have we got? Twelve. Those communists have us over a barrel, and they know it.

We need to build more long-range missiles immediately. But we don't actually know the numbers, do we? LeMay snaps forward in his chair. We're never going to know. Sure, the CIA's got its spy plane photographs, but those Ruskies could be hiding those damn missiles anywhere. Underground, in cow barns, in caves. Khrushchev says he wants to bury us. We need a president who will stop him. Kennedy knows a challenge when he hears it.

He also knows LeMay wants funding for more nuclear weapons, so it's in his interest to inflate the size of the missile gap between the US and USSR. But on the other hand, nobody knows exactly how many nukes the Soviets really have, and painting the Republicans as weak on defense would play well on the campaign trail. One week later, Anchorage, Alaska.

Joe Bulek shuts the hotel window. He ignores the idyllic view of snow-capped mountains just beyond the city and returns to his chair to watch Eldon Cox looking through photos spread out over the coffee table. Cox is back from his student exchange visit to the Soviet Union and is now working in Alaska. He had almost forgotten his encounter with the stranger in Moscow until Bulek turned up flashing his CIA credentials.

He stares at the array of photos and then points at one of them. "That's him. That's the guy who gave me the letter." Bulik jumps up in triumph. "I knew it!" Over the past week, Bulik and his team at the CIA have identified the US Army officer in the photo that came with the letter. From that, they were able to identify the Soviet military man whose face had been cut out of the picture. "That man is Oleg Penkovsky.

a former military attaché who is now an official on the Soviet Committee for Science and Technology. But the CIA suspect that job is merely a cover and that Penkovsky really works for the GRU, the Soviet Union's secretive military intelligence agency. And as a GRU officer, he's got access to exactly the kind of secrets the CIA is under pressure to provide.

A few days later, in a secluded corner of the gardens surrounding the CIA's 19th century office building in Washington, D.C., Bulik runs a hand through his short, wavy hair in exasperation. What do you mean the State Department won't help? Penkovsky could give us what we need, real insight into the Soviet missile program. Facing him is Dick Helms, the CIA's head of covert operations.

Helms gives Boulik a tough but sympathetic look. The State Department doesn't want any CIA agents working undercover at our embassy in Moscow. They think we'll cause a diplomatic incident. I'm sorry, Joe. How the hell are we supposed to get any intelligence if they won't let us do our damn job? This could be a major breakthrough for us. We need to send an agent to Moscow and he needs an official role in the embassy to use as cover. I've told the ambassador all of this.

All he'll offer is a janitor's position in America House. What's America House? It's the compound where the Marines who guard the embassy live. The bigger problem is janitor jobs don't come with diplomatic immunity. Boulique paces the gardens, thinking, OK, OK, so this is not ideal, but it is better than nothing.

All we need our agent to do is make contact with Penkovsky via the dead drop. That's all. Helms narrows his shrewd eyes. Bulik can tell he's weighing up all the possible hazards.

Finally, Helms juts his chin forward decisively. All right, but I'm not willing to risk a senior agent. The surveillance in Moscow is too tight. Bulik gets it. If the KGB captures a junior agent, they'll learn very little of value, even if he cracks under torture. Thanks, Dick. Bulik shakes Helms' hand and hurries back to the building.

He wants to get someone to Moscow fast. Getting a man inside the GRU could give America a vital edge in the Cold War. It might even stop a nuclear war.

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He's been in Moscow for two months, but it feels like a lifetime. This morning, Agent Compass received a terse communication from the CIA's head of Soviet operations, Joe Bulik, demanding to know why he still hadn't made contact with Oleg Penkovsky. So now he's heading to the dead drop site identified in the letter. He is to leave a small matchbox with a letter inside it behind a radiator in the foyer of an apartment building.

Then he needs to leave a signal in a telephone box a street away to let Penkovsky know there's a message waiting behind the radiator. He stops to cross the road. To his left, he sees a woman who looks familiar. She seems to nod to someone across the road. Kompas whips his head around and sees another woman there. He quickly changes direction and heads to a bus stop. What are you doing?

Compass sits on the cold, wet bench and scowls. He hates Moscow. Everyone's unfriendly. Even the other Americans in the compound treat him like crap. Probably because when he's not doing CIA work, he has to maintain his cover by being their janitor. And he's sure he's being followed by the KGB everywhere he goes. He reaches for his hip flask and takes a swig of Kentucky bourbon.

As people join him at the bus stop, he puts the hip flask away. The suspicious women have disappeared. He decides to try again. He reaches the dead drop site. It's a tired-looking apartment block wedged between two shops. He hesitates. It feels too exposed. Then he hears a voice. Compass struggles to hide his panic. He doesn't speak much Russian.

The Russian woman looks confused at Compass's reaction, then walks away. Compass pats his pocket to check the matchbox is still there. He looks back at the apartment block. The KGB could easily corner him in there while he's depositing the matchbox. He's heard that the KGB does terrible things to foreign spies. His last shred of confidence melts away. He turns and hurries back to America House, the only place he feels safe.

It's the third time he's scoped out the dead drop site and the third time he's lost his nerve. November 1960, the Ivy, Covent Garden, central London. Greville Wynne follows a waiter through the restaurant's maze of white tablecloths. His fingers nervously smooth his pencil-thin moustache and slicked-back hair.

He spots the acquaintance he's come to meet. His name is James, and he called a few days ago inviting him to a business lunch at one of London's most exclusive restaurants. James rises on seeing Wynne. "Greville! Good to see you. Sit down. The fish here is very good. I've taken the liberty of ordering for you." "Oh, is it?" Wynne's a salesman from a working-class family, and he's spent years trying to cultivate an upper-class accent.

He listens enviously to James's smooth tones, honed in the best boarding schools and universities in the country. So, how's business? I'm told you're a sales consultant for a group of electrical firms now, is that right? Er, yes. I help them with export sales in Europe. You've even made a few trips to Moscow, I hear. Wynne wonders how James knows this. A few?

Unfortunately, the Russians are suspicious and the firms I represent wary of the Soviets too. It's frustrating. There's money to be made. They just can't seem to realise it. Interesting. There's an organisation in Moscow called the Scientific and Technical Committee on Gorky Street, I believe. They control all the visits of foreign scientists and engineers. You should check them out.

Wynne isn't totally sure what James does, but this seems an odd thing for him to know. A waiter discreetly places their meal in front of them. James waits until he leaves before continuing. It would be interesting for us if you could develop relations with them. Wynne pauses in the middle of lifting a forkful of fish to his open mouth. Us? The Secret Intelligence Service. You mean MI6? We do get called that. Wynne stares at James in disbelief.

But now that he thinks about it, everything makes sense. "I'm here because you want me to spy for you in Moscow?" "Good God, no. You're a businessman. All we ask is if you would let us know who you meet over there." "That's all. Nothing illegal. I promise you." Wynne hesitates. Even the slightest hint he is helping British intelligence could get him arrested in any of the communist nations of Eastern Europe. And that's where he does most of his business.

On the other hand, it might be good for business. And a tap on the shoulder from MI6 could give him valuable social contacts. Besides, what MI6 is asking for doesn't sound all that dangerous. All right, then. I could do that. One month later, Moscow. Wynne is in the offices of the Soviet Scientific Committee with the woman he's hired as his interpreter.

He looks around the rectangular table and wonders why the Soviet officials are all so unkempt. Every committee member, except one, has three chins, an unironed shirt and nicotine-stained fingers. He also thinks the chairman's cough needs medical attention.

Shall we get started, Mr. Wynn? What is this proposal you have to help us do business with your country? Instead of bringing brochures and catalogues, as I usually do, I want to bring a delegation of technical specialists from Britain to Moscow. The only Soviet on the committee who is well-dressed and slim leans forward alert. He introduced himself to Wynn earlier as Oleg Penkovsky.

He sits straight with his manicured hands clasped lightly on the table. The weak sunlight filtering through the grimy windows shows his slightly receding hair as auburn flecked with grey. The chairman starts coughing again.

When do you propose to bring these experts? And for what purpose? By the end of this year. If you can make similar Soviet experts available for them to talk to, then our negotiations would progress far more quickly. For the benefit of all of us. Wynne notices the chairman look at Penkovsky, who gives the slightest nod of his head. We'll consider your proposal. As the committee file out of the room, Wynne's eyes drift to admire the legs of his interpreter.

But then Penkovsky interrupts. "Excuse me, Mr. Wynne?" Wynne senses that Penkovsky knows exactly where he's been looking, but is pretending not to. "Good news, Mr. Wynne. The Committee has approved your proposal. I will be in charge of ensuring everything goes smoothly for your delegation." Wynne's surprise is obvious. He's had plenty of experience with the torturous Communist Bloc bureaucracies. "That was quick."

I was expecting a decision to take weeks. You presented us with a very compelling case. Will you join us in toasting this development in our trade relations? Wynne smiles. It's clear that Penkovsky is behind the swift decision and the real decision-maker on the committee. And Wynne is willing to bet he's someone MI6 will want to know about. January 1961. CIA Headquarters. Washington, D.C.

In the basement, Joe Bulik, the head of Soviet operations, paces a secure basement room, burning with frustration. It's five months since we got that letter. Five freaking months. And that lily-livered agent we sent to Moscow still hasn't made the dead drop. Dick Helms, the head of covert operations, holds up a hand to stop Bulik's tirade. Yes, all right, Joe. We get it. The point is, what now?

I think we should approach the British. MI6? You can't be serious. They've been riddled with double agents for years. If there's another mole in MI6, then Penkovsky's dead before we're out of the starting blocks. Listen, I don't like it any more than you do, but we've not got much choice. In Kennedy, we've got a new president who wants answers immediately, and a State Department that won't let us send anyone else into Moscow.

The Brits have got both people and experience there. Bulik's heart sinks. He doesn't trust the British. And he doesn't like this plan. Not one bit. Contacting Penkovsky was already a risky and difficult operation. Now, it's gotten even more dangerous. The following month, MI6 headquarters, Westminster, London.

In a secure room, Buleek faces MI6 officer Harold Shergold across a table. Buleek knows he's been spiky and difficult since his flight landed a few hours ago, but Shergold's steadily winning him over. The British officer seems to have no air of superiority, wears a knitted vest instead of a suit, and prefers to listen rather than talk.

So, I guess what I'm proposing is a joint MI6-CIA operation to make contact with and potentially run this guy in Moscow. Shergold puts his fingertips together in front of his mouth as he contemplates the idea. Hmm. Joint operations are complex. It increases the number of people involved and the risk of miscommunication...

"'And leaks. Well, that's what I said to my superiors, but the reality is we don't have anyone in Moscow. So this seems a better option than not trying at all. But we'd want to vet all those on your side who will be involved in the operation.' Boulik sees a flash of annoyance cross Shergold's face, but it's gone in an instant. "'I understand.'

Are you able to give me any more details on this man? His name is Oleg Penkovsky. He's a GRU intelligence officer. Well, now, that is interesting. You see, we're already in contact with him. You are? Yes, we are indeed. Penkovsky's cover is working for the Soviet State Scientific and Technical Committee. It monitors all foreign scientists and engineers that visit the Soviet Union.

We think his job is to try and recruit those visitors as agents. Bulik stands and starts pacing the room as he tries to process this. Shergold leans back in his chair with just a hint of smugness. We have someone, a businessman who made contact with Penkovsky a few weeks ago. Our man is now working with Penkovsky to organize a visit to London for a delegation of Soviet engineers. Bulik isn't sure if he's annoyed or elated.

He's now got a way to reach Penkovsky, but it means he has no choice but to work with the British. He just prays there's not another Soviet mole lurking inside MI6.

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Find what piques your imagination with Audible. New members can try Audible free for 30 days. Visit audible.com slash imagine or text imagine to 500-500. That's audible.com slash imagine or text imagine to 500-500. April 1961, Moscow. British businessman Greville Wynne applauds as the dancers of the Bolshoi Ballet bow.

Next to him, Oleg Penkovsky stands applauding with tears in his eyes. Bravo! Bravo! Wynne has spent the past few days working with Penkovsky, finalising the Soviet engineering delegation's visit to London. Now they're celebrating his last night in Moscow in style. They sit back down and wait for the theatre to empty. Before Wynne flew to Moscow, MI6 told him to do nothing more than befriend Penkovsky.

And that's proved to be an easy task. Wynne finds Penkovsky remarkably uninhibited for a Soviet official. He enjoys a drink and has often made Wynne laugh with his disparaging jokes about life in the Soviet Union. Wynne leans over to Penkovsky. It's a shame I'm leaving tomorrow. I do hope we'll meet again. So do I. Very much. Perhaps in London. Have you been there? No, but I would very much like to. It's not impossible, is it?

I have been to your country. Why don't you come to mine? You could bring a return delegation. Penkovsky swiftly holds his theatre program to cover his mouth and leans forward. That is a wonderful idea. Well, suggest it to your people. No. Wynne is startled at Penkovsky's intense rejection. Penkovsky glances around. No, Greville. It would be much better if the suggestion comes from you. Will you do that for me? Of course.

I'll suggest it before I leave tomorrow. Later that same night, the Berlin Hotel, Moscow. Wynne stops outside his hotel room and inserts his room key as Penkovsky watches. After the ballet, Penkovsky insisted on walking him to his room, but since entering the hotel, he's grown quiet. Well, Oleg, thank you for a memorable evening.

Greville, there are a few more matters to discuss about the delegation leaving tomorrow. May I come in? Yes, of course. Once inside, with the door locked, Wynne watches puzzled as Penkovsky moves swiftly around the room, turning on bathroom taps and switching on the radio at full volume. Thank you, but I don't usually have a bath at this time of night, so they cannot hear me.

Penkovsky then silently shows Wynne a secret pocket sewn into his trousers and then cuts it open with a razor blade that was concealed in another pocket. To Wynne's amazement, there's a stash of documents inside the secret pocket. Penkovsky offers them to Wynne. Drevel, I believe we are friends, no? I need you to take these documents with you to London. Oh my god, Oleg, no, I can't.

Wynne is horrified. It's one thing befriending a Soviet trade official, quite another to smuggle top-secret documents out of the Soviet Union. Greville, please! It's very important these documents get to your government. You've seen what the Communists are doing to this beautiful country. I must try and stop it. These documents could prevent nuclear war!

Please take them. Oleg, you're a nice guy, but I'm not going to a gulag for you. Wynne takes a step back. At times he's imagined himself as James Bond, but this feels scary. Penkovsky looks disappointed, but soon recovers. Then take them to your embassy, tonight. All you need to do is take an evening walk. Nobody will challenge you going there. Wynne smiles awkwardly.

That feels safer, and he doesn't want to upset Penkovsky. But if he's caught with these documents, he pushes the thought aside. He takes the documents, puts on his jacket, and prepares to head out again. The next day, Sheremetyevo Airport, Moscow. In the airport bathroom, Wynne emerges from a stall to find Penkovsky checking under the other stall doors. Penkovsky insisted on taking Wynne to the airport and waiting with him until his flight to London leaves.

Oleg, what are you doing? Plenkovsky turns to win. Grevel.

"'You must take these papers to London for me.' "'Wynne jumped slightly when he sees the wad of documents in Penkovsky's hand. "'Bloody hell, Oleg! I said no! "'I took the others to the embassy, fine! "'But you know what will happen if I'm caught taking those through security. "'You won't be. "'I have special clearance. "'I can take you directly onto the plane. "'You will be safe. No, no! "'Oleg, I'm sorry. "'I have a wife and a child. "'I'm not willing to put myself in so much danger.'

Would the passengers for flight 304 to London please proceed to gate number 6 for boarding. Penkovsky grabs a single page from the pile. Then just take this one page. It is small and thin, yes? I too have a wife and child, Greville. That is why we must do this. For our children. Fine. You are a true friend. I knew I could count on you.

Penkovsky removes a single document from the stash and hands it to Wynne before slipping the rest in a hidden pocket. Wynne puts the letter in his jacket and follows Penkovsky back into the airport lounge. Penkovsky leads him straight to the front of the line of passengers waiting to have their passports checked and flashes a red identity card from his pocket. The border guard lets him and Wynne through without a word.

On the tarmac in front of the plane, Penkovsky gives Wynne a bear hug. "My friend, thank you, and I hope to see you in London very soon." Wynne smiles, but he's starting to feel that being around Penkovsky is like being caught in a whitewater river. Irresistible and extremely dangerous. Nine days later. Central London. The Mount Royal Hotel by Marble Arch.

In a plainly furnished third-floor hotel room, MI6 and the CIA are preparing to meet Penkovsky. A few hours ago, he and the rest of the Soviet science delegation landed at Heathrow Airport. Wynne met Penkovsky at the airport and told him to come to this room as soon as he can get away from the welcome dinner being hosted downstairs. MI6 lead officer Harold Shergold tests the tape recorder. Testing 1-2-1-2.

As he sets up the recorder, Shergold observes his new American colleagues. Joe Bulik and his CIA compatriot, George Kiesvolter, are putting wine bottles and glasses on the table. Kiesvolter is a big, bear-like, avuncular man who speaks fluent Russian. We're going to need more than eight bottles of wine. These four are just for me. LAUGHTER

Boulique frowns. "George, close those windows." Kiesvolter's cheery smile disappears as he moves to the window. Shergold senses Kiesvolter and Boulique are not friends. Kiesvolter seems to resent Boulique's "all work, no play" attitude. He then notices Boulique glaring at the final member of the joint team, MI6 officer Michael Stokes. Stokes is young, fresh-faced and blonde.

and his laid-back attitude irritates Bulik. Right now, Stokes is lying on a hotel bed with his eyes closed. Shergold rolls his eyes. "Stokes, get up. We need some water on the table." Stokes moves unhurriedly to do as he's asked. Shergold sighs inwardly. Stokes' behavior is not helpful given the delicacy of the joint operation. There's a soft knock at the door. All four men look at each other in alarm. It's too early for Penkovsky.

After the second knock, Shergold opens the door while the others move out of sight. Outside is an MI6 officer. Without a word, he hands Shergold a thick envelope. Shergold shuts the door and checks the envelope. The team crowd round as Shergold opens the envelope. Ah, it seems our man gave Wynne some more documents as soon as he landed at Heathrow. All four men stare in disbelief.

The papers very clearly show diagrams and descriptions of the Soviet Union's latest medium-range nuclear missile, the R-12. This is dynamite. It's not just ordinary intel. It's intel that exposes the Soviet Union's missile capabilities and could give the West a critical edge in the nuclear arms race. Shergold looks at Bulik in shock. If this is real... Bulik grins.

then this operation is going to be the biggest thing any of us have ever done or ever will do. Tension's now forgotten. The four men wait for Penkovsky. And Shergold can tell they're all thinking the same thing. If this is what Penkovsky's sharing before they've even met him...

then this could be the agent that could arm the West with the inside knowledge it needs to take on Khrushchev and win the Cold War. Wondery Plus subscribers can binge full seasons of The Spy Who early and ad-free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app. From Wondery, this is the first episode in our series, The Spy Who Diffused the Missile Crisis.

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 Dead Drop by Jeremy Duns and The Spy Who Saved the World by Gerald Schechter and Peter Derry-Abin. The Spy Who is hosted by me, Indra Varma. Our show is produced by Vespucci and written and story edited by Yellow Ant for Wondery.

For Yellow Ant, this episode was written by Judy Cooper. Story edited by Karen Lowe 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. Thomas Currie 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.