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August 30th, 1971, just after 1am in London's West End.
In his patrol car, police constable Charles Shearer peers at a Hillman Minx driving up ahead. Its lights are off and it's drifting from side to side. Shearer flicks on the siren. Blue light flashes across the darkened shopfront. The Hillman Minx pulls over. Shearer stops behind it and steps out of his patrol car. As he does, the passenger door of the car he pulled over opens. An attractive blonde woman gets out and hurries away.
Shira ignores her and walks towards the stopped car. The driver winds down his window. "You scared my date away, officer." Shira looks at the driver. He's a slim, suave man with a pencil mustache and wearing an expensive suit. "Have you been drinking, sir?" "One or two." "I'd like you to take a breathalyzer test." "No, I'm not doing any tests." "Then I'm arresting you for refusing to be tested." Shira guides the driver into the back of his patrol car.
starts the engine and heads for the nearest police station. Then, something heavy lands on his shoulder, the drunk's feet. Shira swipes the man's feet away. "Oi, what are you playing at?" The man snarls as Shira pushes away his feet. "You cannot touch me. You cannot stop me. I'm KGB." Shira's body tenses. The Soviet spy agency's reputation for brutality has made it one of the most feared organizations in the world.
Shearer checks the man's face in the rearview mirror. He's used to arresting big mouth drunks, but claiming to be KGB is a new one. And the guy doesn't look like he's joking. But then Shearer shakes his head. Even in the movies, secret agents don't blurt out that they're spies. This guy's got to be just another West End drunk. Yeah, sure you are, mate. You're KGB, and this here is the Kremlin. Shearer stops outside the police station.
and leads the drunk into the building. The custody officer looks up from his newspaper as they approach his desk. Who's your new pal, Shearer? Suspected drunk driver, but refuses to be tested. The custody officer turns to the driver. Then it's a night in the cell and caught in the morning for you. Name? Oleg Lelen. Occupation?
Soviet trade official. Sheera interjects. Make your mind up. You said you were KGB a moment ago. The custody officer frowns. He did. I better notify Special Branch. The custody officer calls Special Branch, Scotland Yard's counter-terrorism unit. As he does, Leland staggers over to the bench in the waiting area.
We've arrested a drunk who says he's a Soviet trade official and... Get this. KGB. Time waster, probably. But... His name? Oleg Lelin. Yes. The arresting officer's still here. Okay. Understood. Right away, sir. The custody officer hangs up and stares at Shira. Bloody hell, Shira. I think he is KGB. Special branch are on their way.
They want him put in a cell immediately so that no one can get to him. They think someone's after him. I don't know, but they said you were not to leave the station either. Shira wonders what kind of secrets this drooling drunk could know that would make him so vital that he needs to be locked up for his own protection. Shira looks at Leland. He's sprawled face down on the bench with his eyes closed, his silk tie dangling onto the floor, and there's a smirk on his face.
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From Wondery.
I'm Raza Jafri and this is The Spy Who. Beneath the veneer of the everyday lurks the realm of the spy. It's a dank, murky world full of dark corners, sinister motives and corroded morals. A place of paranoia and infiltration, sabotage and manipulation. In this season, we open the file on Oleg Lelin, the KGB man who triggered the biggest removal of spies by any government in history.
It's a story of an overstretched security service in need of a win, a plan to unleash death and destruction on Britain's streets, and a love affair that shook the world. What you're about to hear are dramatized reconstructions based on real events and information that's been made public. But remember, in the shadowy world of The Spy, the full story isn't always clear. You're listening to The Spy Who Saved MI5, Episode 1.
The Spider and the Fly 1969, two years before Oleg Leland's arrest, the North York Moors. Oleg Leland strides up the damp, windswept hillside, past thick clumps of dark purple heather. As he advances, drizzle pelts his raincoat, and the binoculars around his neck swing side to side. He reaches the hilltop, wipes the rain from his pencil mustache, and looks around. Empty moorland stretches out in every direction.
He reaches into his raincoat pocket and pulls out an egg timer. Leland winds the timer, slips it back into his pocket and raises his binoculars to his eyes. He sees a blurry hill in the distance. He adjusts the focus and pans across the landscape to find his target. He stops on what look like three gigantic golf balls. These are the radar stations at RAF Fylingdales and they maintain a constant vigil for a Soviet nuclear attack.
And Lelyns here to find a way to destroy them. Officially, Lelyns a Soviet trade official who buys knitwear, but he's really a KGB operative. Sent to devise ways to bring Britain to its knees if war seems imminent. Like blowing up Liverpool's docks, stoking the conflict in Northern Ireland, and destroying Britain's nuclear bombers. But RAF Fyllingdales is his prime target. This facility gives the UK four minutes warning of a Soviet nuclear strike,
Enough time for Britain to fire back, and that's why Moscow wants a way to take it out. Leland scans the facility, seeking weaknesses and assessing defenses. The egg timer in his pocket screeches into life. Leland lowers his binoculars and turns it off. It's time to move on before he attracts attention. But he'll be back. Kensington Palace Gardens, London.
On a park bench with a clear view of the Soviet embassy, a surveillance officer from Britain's domestic intelligence service, MI5, scatters breadcrumbs onto the ground. Pigeons fly in and land around him. As they peck at the breadcrumbs, the MI5 officer sees a man leaving the embassy. He's also a suspected KGB officer that MI5 have codenamed Red Swan. They hope to catch him in the act of meeting an agent or collecting information from a dead drop.
but he's proved adept at giving MI5 surveillance crews the slip. As Red Swan gets into his car, the MI5 officer radios the operations room. Red Swan is on the move, driving a blue Ford Cortina. In MI5's operations room near Regent's Park, the head of surveillance checks a huge map of London on the wall. On the map are tiny flags that mark the location of the pursuit vehicles at his disposal.
and most of them are already tailing suspected Soviet spies. He weighs his options. He's only got two vehicles free. If he sends them after Red Swan, he'll have no pursuit vehicles left. The officer feeding pigeons near the Soviet embassy radios again. Red Swan turning west towards Notting Hill. The surveillance chief's out of time. He grabs the radio. Vehicle 5, tail the blue Ford Cortina.
Back at Kensington Palace Gardens, the two-man crew inside MI5 Surveillance Vehicle 5 lets Red Swan drive past and then moves to follow. It hangs back, changing lanes and using buses for cover. As it does, the operations room directs the second MI5 vehicle through the back streets so it can take over the pursuit and reduce the chances of Red Swan spotting the tail. Red Swan heads past Notting Hill and onto the leafy streets of Holland Park.
A few seconds later, the second MI5 pursuit vehicle emerges from a side road and takes over the chase. Immediately, Red Swan indicates left. The MI5 officer in the passenger seat of the second pursuit vehicle sits up. "Shit, that road loops back around. He could use it to flush us out." Red Swan turns left. The MI5 car follows. As they enter the side street, Red Swan slows to a crawl. The MI5 vehicle has no option but to keep going.
Red Swan stops at the junction that leads back onto the main road and waits for the Mi5 vehicle to catch up. For a moment, the two cars idle in a standoff. Then, Red Swan pulls out onto the main road, just ahead of a stream of oncoming traffic that traps the Mi5 vehicle at the junction. By the time the traffic's passed, Red Swan is gone.
The MI5 officer hits the dashboard in frustration. "Damn it! How? How can he have spotted us? We were barely on in ten seconds!" The MI5 officer doesn't understand it. The takeover of the pursuit was flawless. There's no way Red Swan could have spotted the tail that quickly. Unless, somehow, he already knew their vehicle belonged to MI5. Old Eagle Ellen smiles at the barmaid as she pours the last of the drinks he ordered.
It's July 1969 and he's at the Tally Ho pub in Finchley, North London. He lifts the three glasses from the bar and heads through the smoky pub towards a small table in the corner. At the table, a stern man in a suit sits waiting, cradling a birthday present. His name is Vlad and like Lelynn, he's a KGB officer posing as a Soviet trade delegate. Lelynn places the drinks on the table and sits next to Vlad so they both have a clear view of the entrance.
They're here to meet Siroj Abdul Khadir. Vlad's been running Abdul Khadir as an agent for two years, and today, Leland takes over as his handler. What's Siroj like? Vlad keeps staring ahead at the pub's entrance. Compliant? Bitter? His father is a prominent judge in Malaysia. He came here to study law but failed his exams. His family told him to stay, but he struggled because few English wanted to rent a room to an Asian.
Now he's a lowly clerk in vehicle licensing. All of which led him to socialism. Leland nods. So he's angry at being born into a life of great promise that never came to pass and thinks his job's below him. Yes. So now we give him purpose. And he's very useful. He can jerk vehicles we suspect are MI5 without arousing suspicion. He has security clearance.
No, but knowing which vehicles he can't access the details of pretty much tells us which ones belong to British intelligence. Ah, he's here. Lennon looks at the short man in his mid-thirties who's just entered the pub. He's clean-shaven, with a prominent nose and short black hair. Vlad waves at him. Siraj, my friend, sit, sit. We already have your drink. This is the friend I told you about. Alex. Alex.
Abdul-Khadir shakes Leland's hand. Pleased to meet you, Alex. Leland smiles. Alex is the alias he uses with the agents he runs. Good to meet you too, Sirosh. Vlad hands Abdul-Khadir the gift. This is from us, for your birthday. You've remembered? Of course. Please, open it. Abdul-Khadir opens the gift. Inside is an expensive electric razor. Thank you, this is very kind.
It reflects your contribution to our mutual struggle against the imperialists." "Yes. Down with the British swine." The three men clink their glasses. Vlad looks Abdul-Khadir in the eyes. "Ziroj, I have some news. I must return to Moscow. This will be the last time we shall meet. Alex will work with you from now on." Leland smiles at Abdul-Khadir. He's only just met him, but Leland's already got plans for this malleable agent.
Plans that go well beyond checking vehicle registrations so the KGB can spot when MI5's cars are following them. Plans that will help Lelynn figure out how to neutralize Britain's defenses. Westminster, London. Sir Martin Furnival Jones pauses to light his pipe. He's in a meeting room deep inside the palatial Foreign and Commonwealth Office. It was built at the height of the British Empire, but now it's tired and worn.
Its finely decorated walls have been covered over with plasterboard and its ceilings yellow from tobacco smoke. The whole place needs restoration, and that's something Furnival Jones can relate to. He's 58, with crow's feet around his eyes. His tweed jacket and knitted cardigan look shabby next to the tailored suits of the Foreign Office officials he's here to meet. But beneath his relaxed exterior, Furnival Jones is a man with a burning mission.
He's been the Director General of Britain's Internal Security Service, MI5, for three years. And from the moment he got the job, he's wanted to rid the nation's streets of Soviet spies. He removes his pipe from his mouth. "There are almost 500 Soviet officials in our country, and about half of them are intelligence officers. We need to kick them out." The Foreign Office officials look unmoved. Furnival Jones isn't surprised. Inaction is their default setting.
One official replies. "We limited the size of the Soviet embassy last autumn." Furnival Jones nods. "Yes. So now they're just filling their trade mission with spies instead. You and I both know the trade figures don't justify the recent expansion of their trade mission." "Then expose them. That is MI5's job, is it not?" "We're outnumbered three to one. We cannot track them all. Besides, whenever we expel one spy, they simply send us another."
The official frowns. And that's not enough.
Fernaval Jones says nothing. The officials aren't listening. MI5's reputation is still shot from its failure to expose Kim Philby and the rest of the Soviet Cambridge Five spy ring that infiltrated Britain's foreign intelligence service, MI6. But Fernaval Jones knows that beyond these walls, the Soviet threat is growing, and MI5's in no position to stop it. What he needs is an agent inside the KGB.
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It's December 1969, and the opening party for the new Soviet trade delegation complex in Highgate, London, is underway.
Around the room, British businessmen and politicians mingle with Soviet trade officials, sipping drinks and trading jokes. In one corner, Oleg Lelin's secretary, Irina Tepliakova, sips champagne. She's a 29-year-old mum with her blonde hair cut into a fashionable bob, and she's sandwiched between Lelin and her husband.
This year's grain harvest was even worse than last year. Tabliakova listens as her husband tells Lelin about his work as a wheat buyer. She wonders if Lelin's as bored as she is with her husband's chatter. Tabliakova notices a change in mood at the other end of the room. She cranes her neck to see what's happening and sees a man with jowly cheeks and silver hair shaking people's hands.
Is that Harold Wilson? Her husband stops talking and turns to look at the British Prime Minister. Yeah, it is. My glass is empty. I'll get more drinks. Leland moves closer to Teplyakova as her husband leaves. Would you like to meet him? Teplyakova stares at Leland. Harold Wilson? Yeah. You know him? No. Well, it's no problem. Do you want to meet him? But I shouldn't.
Don't be silly. Come. Leland places his hand on the small of Teplyakova's back. She feels a frisson of excitement at his touch. No, he won't want to meet me. Of course he would. What man wouldn't want to meet a woman as beautiful as you? Teplyakova smiles, but then sees her husband returning. She pulls away from Leland. Her husband arrives and hands out the glasses. She makes eye contact with Leland as they sip their drinks. Then Leland straightens his back.
"Well, I'm off to meet Wilson. You two coming?" Teplyakova's husband replies, "No, we'll stay here." Teplyakova watches Lele walk away and wishes she was going with him. Siroj Abdolkhodir tenses as his train pulls into London Waterloo Station. It's February 1970 and he's just made a round trip to the naval city of Portsmouth. As the platform rolls into view, he tightens his grip on his newspaper.
Inside its folds, he's hidden a flattened beer can. Leland called him this morning and told him to go to Portsmouth and collect this can from behind a tombstone. This is the second time he's done this for Leland. He assumes it's a dead drop. He's read about them. They're when spies hide information in prearranged places for other spies to collect, which makes Abdul Khadir wonder if he's now a KGB spy.
He's not sure what secrets are in the beer can. He peered into it but only saw a few stones and he doesn't dare investigate further. He never worried about checking vehicle registrations, but these new missions make him anxious. Abdul Khadir opens the train door, steps onto the platform and heads towards the concourse. He sees Leland ahead. He's standing still and motionless as the crowd swirls around him. Leland smiles as Abdul Khadir approaches. "Zeroj!"
Did you have a successful trip? Um, yes. It was where you said it would be. And your trip was uneventful? Yes. Leland glances at Abdul Qadir's folded-up newspaper. Abdul Qadir gets the hint. Oh, uh, yes. They're here. Abdul Qadir feels relief as Leland takes the newspaper and the beer can hidden within its pages. Will you want me to do this again? Maybe next week. Or the week after. I'll tell you when.
"What's in the beer can? Something to do with the navy?" "I can't tell you, but rest assured, it's important for our struggle." "Couldn't you collect these cans yourself?" "I'm afraid not, but I appreciate your help." Leland places a hand on Abdul Qadir's shoulder. "I don't like doing this." Leland leans towards Abdul Qadir. "My friend, it's better you don't argue. Otherwise, bad things will happen to you. Painful things."
Abdul Khadir shivers. He doesn't doubt Lelin for a moment, and he senses that it's already too late to walk away. October 1970. The Soviet Embassy. Kensington Palace Gardens. In a small room with dark wood panels on the walls inside the Soviet Embassy, British Foreign Secretary Sir Alec Douglas Hume takes a seat.
Sir Alec is a 67-year-old elder statesman, with a taut face and short, thin wisps of grey hair that hug the back of his head. He embodies British aristocracy. He became an Earl at 15, went to Eton and Oxford, and became Prime Minister for a year before losing the 1964 election. Then, five months ago, Edward Heath led the Conservatives back to power and made Sir Alec Foreign Secretary.
Now, Sir Alec wants to do something about the Soviet spy problem. He's alarmed at MI5's reports of the KGB running around the country stealing secrets and trying to infiltrate the government. So he's asked for a private chat with the Soviet Foreign Minister, Andrei Gromyko, who's visiting London. Gromyko shuts the door.
So, Sir Alec, what is this about? Sir Alec looks uncomfortable. It's an unseemly topic, I'm afraid. You've nominated a Mr. Kudashkin to join your embassy here. He was previously implicated in intelligence activities in the United States. I trust we can agree that his visa application lapsed. Kromiko's face darkens.
I know nothing about this case, but he is probably a victim of the practice of fake information being planted against Soviet officials. Regretfully, this is no isolated incident. We believe at least 300 Soviet officials in our country are involved in suspect activities. These figures cannot be true because the Soviet Union does not have spies. Maybe you should put your complaint in writing.
Gromyko opens the door to indicate this conversation is over. Sir Alec burns with humiliation as he returns to the official dinner he's here to attend. But what stings most is the sense of powerlessness. MI5 wants the spies thrown out, but Sir Alec knows Moscow will retaliate in kind. And with more Soviet representatives in London than British officials in Moscow, tit-for-tat expulsions will only end in victory for the USSR.
Then there's Berlin. Since World War II, Britain, France and America have controlled the west of the city, much to the frustration of the Soviets who want it subsumed into communist East Germany. But now, after 25 years of struggle over the city, talks to settle Berlin's future are underway. If Sir Alec falls out with the Soviets now, it could derail those talks, and Britain would be blamed. What Sir Alec needs is leverage.
Something that can put the Soviets on the back foot and give him the cover he needs to kick out the spies in Britain's midst. Two months later, and at the offices of the Soviet import-export agency, Rasno, in Regent Street, London, the receptionist smiles as Oleg Lelin arrives. She's new to the job, but Lelin's already a highlight.
She thinks he's fun, charming, and that his pencil mustache is rather dashing. She waves to him. "Morning, Oleg." Leland moves towards her but trips over the doormat. He grabs onto the reception desk just in time to avoid falling face-first onto the floor. He winks at the receptionist. "Seems I'm drunk again. Don't tell anyone." Leland looks at the receptionist. "Say, what are you doing at lunchtime?"
Nothing. Then you must come for lunch with me. Be ready at noon. The receptionist watches Leland walk into his office, then turns to see one of the Soviet women glaring at her. Don't think you're anything special. He chats up everyone. The typist sat nearby chimes in. He's married too. The Soviet woman snorts. Ha, tell that to Irina Teplyakova. The women laugh.
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It's January 1971, and at the dimly lit Celebrity Club in London's Mayfair, scantily clad dancers perform that night's cabaret. And at one table, Irina Tebleyakova sips champagne and looks into Oleg Lelin's dark eyes. Lelin leans in for a kiss. Tebleyakova pulls back. Someone might see us. Lelin looks around. Who? I don't know. We're not in Moscow now, but we're both married to other people. Lelin flags down a waiter.
Another bottle of champagne, please. The waiter glances at the table. On it are the remains of an expensive meal and several empty bottles. Leland's bill for tonight is already more than the average Briton earns every month. I need to check, sir. It's on the tab of the Moscow and the Rodney Bank. Oh, very good, sir. Tabliakova sips her drink as Leland turns to watch the cabaret. She's never tasted life like this.
It's a life unthinkable in Moscow, and she knows that one day she will be ordered home, never to taste it again. Desire rises within her. She reaches out and turns Leland's face away from the dancers and towards her. You should be looking at me. Leland places a hand on her knee. Their eyes meet, and they kiss. A few weeks later, in a London flat with few furnishings,
Two MI5 surveillance officers sit in the dark, watching for signs of movement from the apartment block across the road. The apartment block is owned by the USSR, and MI5 keeps a constant watch on this building to help it track Soviet activity in London. The younger one picks up his mug and takes a sip of tea. "Ugh, it's cold." The older officer leans forward towards the window. "Forget the tea, we've got movement." The young officer grabs his camera and peers out of the window.
Through the glass panels of the apartment block's entrance, he can see the hallway light's been turned on. The two officers watch as the door opens. A man with a thin mustache steps onto the street. A moment later, a woman with a blonde bob haircut follows. The younger officer takes a photo of the couple. "You recognize them?" "The guy's Oleg Lelin, trade delegate, buys socks." "Sure he does."
The younger officer takes another photo of the couple as they turn to talk to each other. And the woman? The older MI5 officer looks again at the woman, as she and Leland embrace. Not sure, but it's past midnight and they're saying goodbye, so she's probably not his wife. The younger officer smiles and leans forward to take another photo, as Leland and the blonde kiss. February 1971, an MI5 safe house in London.
Leland stares at the photographs spread out across the kitchen table, photo after photo of him and Irina Tepelyakova. Drinking, dancing, embracing, kissing, touching. Photos taken over several days, all undeniable proof of his affair with the wife of another KGB officer. It's enough to destroy his career and get him sent back to Moscow in disgrace, at best.
The middle-aged MI5 officer with the beard, who handed the photos to him, leans forward. "How about you just skip this 'I'm not a spy' charade? We know you're not a trade delegate. You are KGB. We also know that her husband is KGB. And you and I both know it won't end well for you if these photos found their way to your superiors in Moscow." Leland looks up from the photos. "You got anything to drink?"
The MI5 officer checks the cupboard, finds a can of beer and puts it on the table. Leland hoped for something stronger, but it'll do. He opens the can and gulps down the warm liquid. Leland knows how this works. The MI5 man with the beard is the spider, and he's now the fly caught in its web. If the British share these photos with his superiors, his life will be ruined. There's only one path open to him right now. Cooperation.
He looks at the MI5 man. Very well. So yes, I am KGB, and I'm willing to defect and tell you what I know. The MI5 man leans forward. Actually, Oleg, we don't want you to defect. We want you right where you are. In the KGB, but working for us. Leland nods. He'd ask the same if it was the other way around. Then I have conditions. Which are? I want a safe house where Irina and I can go.
And when, if the time comes, you let me and Irina defect together. We also need to talk about money and protection." The MI5 man nods. After years of being infiltrated and outnumbered by the Soviets, British intelligence finally has a man on the inside of the KGB. And that changes everything. For years, the KGB has been running rings around MI5, but now it's finally got a chance to strike back.
and sabotage the Soviet spy machine. 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 four-part 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 researched by Marina Watson. 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.