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- [00:00]
Indra Varma
Wondery plus subscribers can binge full seasons of the Spy who early and ad free on Apple podcasts or the Wondery app the year 2000 Savile Row, London A BBC interviewer sits in a spacious room at the offices of the fashion label House of Amy's. He looks at the man the camera is trained on. He's a distinguished looking elderly gentleman who is wearing an elegant suit cut in the classic British style. Sir Hardy, thank you so much for agreeing to this interview, dear boy. It's my absolute pleasure. I must warn you, though, my line of work has always required a great deal of discretion. Sir Hardy amies is a 91 year old gay fashion designer. He has dressed Everyone from the 1966 England World cup team to Queen Elizabeth II who became a client while still a princess. And this BBC documentary team is here to interview Amy's about his life and career, including his lesser known achievements as a wartime spymaster. The team's researchers have excavated documents suggesting that during the Second World War, Amies led a secret mission to assassinate prominent Nazis and their collaborators. The program makers hope that now, at the end of his life, Amy's might reveal more about this clandestine operation. Are we rolling? The cameraman nods at the interviewer, then presses his eye firmly against the viewfinder. Sir Hardy, you are perhaps best known for dressing the Queen, but. Oh, I must stop you there. The interviewer looks momentarily surprised. He didn't expect this to be the controversial moment in the exchange. You must understand I do not dress the Queen. Her Majesty well knows her own taste, naturally unimpeachable. My team and I only strive to meet her requests. Yes, of course. Apologies, I did not mean to suggest. Amy's waves his hand with a genteel smile. Of course, of course. Please go on. Well, before we discuss your career in fashion, I rather hope to ask you about an earlier portion of your life. During the war you worked for the Special Operations Executive, the soe. Amy's narrows his eyes momentarily, then quickly resumes a friendly, placid expression. Briefly, yes. Then again, who among us didn't? Anyway, we've seen some of your wartime records. I want to ask you about them, particularly the operation that as head of the Belgian section, I believe you led. The interviewer pauses, hoping that Amy's might fill the silence with an admission. Instead, the designer sits quietly, his hands folded in his lap. He neither nods nor shakes his head, but maintains steady eye contact. Sir Hardy, to be precise, might you tell us about Operation Rat Week? For a few seconds, Amy says nothing. His face is fixed with steely composure. Finally, he benignly smiles. Sorry old chap, don't remember a thing about it. The interviewer sinks back into his chair. Amy's is almost certainly lying. His team have seen the still classified documents about Operation Rat Week in Britain's National Archives. The sources are clear. The Queen's dressmaker helped organize a wave of assassinations on the streets of of wartime Belgium. But Amy's is an elderly man and without his cooperation, the story may never be told.
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- [05:34]
Indra Varma
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 dank, murky world full of dark corners, sinister motives and corrupted morals. A place of paranoia and infiltration, sabotage and manipulation. In this season we tell a story of how Sir Hardy Amies, one of Britain's most successful fashion designers, played a central role in a campaign of assassination in Nazi occupied Belgium during World War II. A secret mission of murder called Operation Rat Week. It's a story that Amy's took to his grave and was kept secret for decades. But now, using the fragments of information that still survive, that story can finally be told. What you're about to hear are dramatized reconstructions of events based on the information that's been made public. But remember, in the shadow realm of the spy, the full story is rarely clear. This is episode one of the Spy who Dressed the Queen. THE man with the missing finger late 1939 London 61 years before the BBC interview, Hardy, Amy's hunches over a sewing machine. Working on his latest design. He's a 30 year old couture designer for La Chasse, one of London's leading high fashion houses. Two years earlier he designed a stylish tweed suit. It became a huge hit after being featured in Vogue magazine. Now, on the outbreak of the Second World War and just five years into his career in fashion, Amy's is La Chasse's star designer. Hardy, could you spare a moment? Amy's looks up from his sewing machine and sees Fred Shingleton, the company's founder. In his hand, Shingleton holds a copy of the Times newspaper. Of course, Fred. I'm done here anyway. How may I help? Come, let's go to your office. Amy stands to his feet and hangs the dress he's been making on a nearby rack. The two men walk between the rows of seamstresses and their chattering machines. Strange question, Hardy, but while you were messing about on the continent in your wilderness years, did you bother to learn any of the lingo? Ein bishan. Of course you speak French and German. How enviably cosmopolitan. Well, anyway, I know you volunteered as a fireman for this war we are now supposedly fighting, but I wonder, might this be a better use of your talents? Shingleton spreads the newspaper across Amy's desk and points at a job advertisement he has circled in red pen. Here. The military police are looking for people who know two or more European languages. Not that I doubt your ability to adequately fight fires, it's just, well, the police uniform would be a better fit to my eye. Amies turns the idea over in his mind. Any day now, the La Chasse premises will be converted into a temporary fire station. Amy's thought it made sense to volunteer as a fireman while continuing his fashion work in the evenings. But Shingleton is right. There's something exciting about the prospect of joining the military police corps. But Fred, can you spare me? Probably not. Then again, none of us want to design clothes for the Nazis. We should do whatever it takes to make sure that never happens. And at least with you involved, the British will look fabulous while fending them off. Shingleton smiles as he walks away. Amy's pulls a pen out of his breast pocket and begins to compose a letter of application. June 1940. Brussels, Nazi occupied Belgium. In a prison, an officer from the German Army's secret police force watches as a handcuffed inmate is led into the interrogation room. The guard shoves the man's shoulder hard, pushing him into the chair on the opposite side of the table. And who have we here? The interrogator opens a manila folder and skims the prisoner's file. He checks the mugshot in the document, then glances at the prisoner's face, satisfied it is the same person. He runs his finger along the name in the file, enunciating each syllable as he reads it out loud. Prosper De Zita. A name worthy of Shakespeare. No, thieves never prosper. But perhaps you are the exception that proves the rule. Prosper De zita is a 40 something petty thief and serial criminal. The pages in his security file detail a constellation of crimes ranging from minor acts of theft and violence to a conviction for the rape of a young teenager. It seems that you have a talent for law breaking. For the first time the prisoner looks up at his interrogator. This was not quite what he was expecting, but not so much talent for getting away with it. You fled to Canada the last time you were caught, correct? De Zita clears his throat. Yes, I lived there for a decade. So I hear. Your English is flawless. They let me join the Canadian Air Force for a while. The interrogator nods sagely, checking the documents on the table. And since you returned? I run a car sales business. The interrogator reads down the list of crimes De Zita has been accused of since he returned to Belgium. I'm surprised you found the time to sell many cars. Theft, forgery, embezzlement. You even managed to add marriage fraud to your repertoire. De Zita shifts forward in his chair, ready to defend himself. But the interrogator cuts him off. No need to explain yourself. We are in the market for industrious self starters, Mr. De Zita. I have a proposal for you. We need someone to infiltrate and expose British escape lines and resistance networks. And I believe you have the qualities and experience for the task. In return, we will scrub your slate clean. And of course you will be paid handsome. Handsomely? How handsomely? Well, you won't need to sell any cars to supplement your income. Let's put it that way. Any objections? De Zita says nothing. Good. Then it is agreed. One last thing. What happened to your finger? De Zita raises his hand. Most of his little finger is missing. A cost of the trade. The Trade the car. Trade. 11 months later April 1941St James's Club, Mayfair Hardy Amies, wearing a uniform he's already had tailored by a friend in Savile Row, smiles politely and checks his surroundings. St. James is a private member's club that exudes an air of Old World sophistication and exclusivity. Situated in one of London's most prestigious neighbourhoods, it carries a refined charm suited to its elite clientele. After months of training, Amies has become an intelligence officer in the 1st Canadian Corps. But a few days ago, he received a mysterious invitation to lunch with two men from the War Office. Never want to miss a chance to explore the social ladder. He accepted immediately. Now these men are plying him with drinks and questions. Another drink, Cardi? Sure, if you're buying. These come courtesy of His Majesty. A few minutes later, the officer returns to the table with a tumbler of whiskey and places it in front of Amy's. Aren't you fellows having anything? We're right behind you. Now, Hardy, tell us about your time in Berlin. Amy's takes a sip of his drink. It's his third whiskey on nothing more than a bowl of soup. He blinks his eyes in an effort to clear his head. Well, I spent a year in Paris thinking I'd become a journalist, but I grew restless, so upped and left for Germany. I picked up conversational German and soon found a job selling tiles in a countryside town. Berlin was only for the nightlife. Well, cheers to that. And what happened to the journalism career? I lost interest. Then Hitler came to power and it seemed sensible to come home. The job at La Chasse came up and lo, I found my place in the world. The two officers look at one another. The quieter man nods at his colleague subtly. Lieutenant Amies, are you a discreet man? Amy stiffens. But how could they know homosexuality is illegal in Britain. He takes a gulp of whiskey and winces as the liquid lights a fire in his throat. I've been discreet my entire life. Several drinks later, unsteady but still in control, Amy stands to his feet. With a fierce concentration of the tipsy, he bids the strange duo farewell. As they shake hands, one of the officers leans close to Amy's ear. We'll be in touch. Hang on. About what? And who is we, for that matter? The man turns away, pretending not to hear. A week later. Brockenhurst, Hampshire. Amy's climbs into the rear seat of the military car that has come to collect him from the railway station. A few days after his drunken lunch in Mayfair. He received the order to report here, but he is still unclear as to why he has been summoned. As the car sets off, Amy's leans forward in his seat to press the driver for some information. Thanks for the lift. Anything you can tell me about why I'm here? The military driver glances at Amy's in the rearview mirror. Sorry, Lieutenant, that's above my clearance. I can tell you I've been instructed to deliver you to the house in the woods. Sounds ominous. Yes. The car turns onto a long gravel driveway. Eventually the driver slows outside a picturesque house nestled in front of a backdrop of dense woodland. Here we are, sir. The house in the woods. Amy stares at what would be a quintessentially English cottage were it not so large. The garden is ablaze with spring colors, with a warren of pathways that trundle away between the trees. Which stockbroker with a Peter Pan complex designed this palace. Then it's certainly peaceful. Difficult to imagine there's a war on here. This is where the instructors reside. Instructors? The driver ignores Amy's. All the best with it, sir. Amy's heads up the driveway and approaches a heavy wooden door. The place appears to be deserted. Just as he goes to knock, the door creaks open. Goodness, I wasn't sure anyone was in. A short man with a kindly face and a hunchback peers out at him. Lieutenant Amies. How do you do? We have been expecting you. A few hours later, after dropping his suitcase in his room, Amies follows the stooped man through the grounds of Beaulieu Abbey. Amid the ancient stone cloisters and the springtime bloom of daffodils, he watches small groups of trainees huddled under the watchful eyes of their instructors. One group stands around a long bench that appears to be littered with explosive devices. Nearby, muffled cracks echo as recruits drill with silenced pistols. Amy's feels a sense of curious unease. The abbey's tranquil beauty stands in contrast to the tests of clandestine warfare being staged in its grounds. I'm terribly sorry, but I didn't catch your name earlier. Call me George. No rank, sir. George is sufficient. Well, George, what is this place? And to ask a candid question, why am I here? Beaulieu is the training facility of the Special Operations Executive. Never heard of it. Quite right, too. We support resistance fighters behind enemy lines. Sabotage, bribery, propaganda, even assassination. Whatever gets results. So it's generally best that nobody's heard of us. Hang on. I'm being sent behind enemy lines? You're getting on a bit for all that. Amy's looks momentarily wounded? I'm 30. George ignores him. You'll be instructing the agents who go behind enemy lines. What? I'm a tailor, not a spy. I didn't ask for this kind of work. People who want this kind of work are never right for it. Surely indifference isn't the only criteria. George turns and fixes Amy's with a level stare. You have lived in France and Germany. You are fluent in both languages. You are clever and adaptable. People like and follow you. You do not have a wife and you probably never will. You come from working class stock, yet you move without difficulty or friction through upper class circles. Most of all, you are in possession of a gift, often overlooked yet which is, to those who want to truly know the world, priceless. What gift? From the palace to the poorhouse, there is no room in which you feel you do not belong. This is something money cannot buy. It is, in fact, a gift that money often repels. Amy feels strangely dizzy. This man he has only just met seems to know him better than he knows himself. Even if that were true, how am I supposed to instruct people in things of which I have no experience? You wouldn't be the first, dear boy. But you are not without experience. As well as burglary, lock picking, and communication in the field, we teach our agents how to maintain a cover story in a foreign land. This is, in fact, the most important part of their work. How to belong in an alien environment. This is, I believe, something of an area of expertise. Amy says nothing. I will guide you, but you must succeed. The survival of these good men and women depends on it. These agents brim with courage, but they lack training. Before the war they were lawyers, footballers, shopkeepers and poets. It's your job to ensure they make it to the field, finish their mission and return safely home. Won't they all make it back? We live in hope, Hardy. We live in hope. Which brings me to the graver part of the spymaster's job. Bearing the responsibility, no matter the outcome. Amy stares at the trainees as they perform their exercises around the grounds and wonders how on earth he has ended up in such a place. That summer Brussels. Outside a Belgian Resistance safe house, RAF Sergeant Eric Ware settles into the rear seat of a waiting car. At the wheel is a man he's Growned to trust, Captain Willie, a Canadian Air Force officer who runs an escape line to ferry downed airmen out of Nazi Europe. The middle aged captain glances at Ware in the rearview mirror. Ready? Ware nods and Willy shifts the car into first gear with a gloved hand. Ware's bomber crash landed several weeks ago. He was certain he would soon be caught, but a family of friendly Belgians took him in and he soon found himself in the care of the Resistance. Since then he's been moving between safe houses under the care of Captain Willie. You know how much I appreciate this, Captain. You do the same for me. Ever considered leaving yourself? You must have family back in. Where are you from again? Ottawa. And sometimes. Yes. But I know that I am of more value staying here. Helping people like you. The car pulls up outside the train station. A man approaches. Captain Willey turns to Ware. This is your escort. He'll ride with you to Paris and pass you to the next contact in the escape line. My friend, this is where we must part ways. Ware sticks out his hand. Thank you, Captain. For everything. Captain Willie takes Ware's hand. As they shake hands, Ware notices an absence where one of the Captain's fingers should be. Now don't dally. Go catch your train. August 1941 A hotel room near Gare du Nord railway station in Nazi occupied Paris. Downed British airman Eric Ware emerges from the bathroom feeling refreshed. The train journey to Paris went without a hitch. His escort left him at the hotel a few minutes ago, assuring him that someone will soon arrive to collect him. Ware sits down on the bed with a deep sigh. He is busily removing one of his socks when the door bursts open. Ware looks up to see two SS men with their revolvers raised. SERGEANT WARE Place your hands on your head slowly. Your journey is over. Where does not struggle as the Nazi officers handcuff him. He's too busy wondering who betrayed him.
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- [27:16]
Indra Varma
Three Months later norshby House, Baker Street, London Hardy Amies is being shown around his new workplace by Major Claude Knight, head of the SOE's T section. T section oversees operations in Belgium and now Amy's is to be one of its spymasters. Well, you are certainly our best dressed officer. Thank you, sir, I think. Did you read the evaluation report the brass wrote about you at Beaulieu? No. He possesses a keen brain and an abundance of shrewd sense. His only handicap is his precious appearance and manner. Right? Don't look so defeated. One man's handicap is another's asset. Your sense of decorum reveals a tidy mind. Knight leads Amy into a meeting room. The two men sit at opposite sides of a long, heavy table. Let me be frank with you, Hardy. Things are not good. T Section is supposed to support Belgian subterfuge, but the resistance there is uncoordinated. It's affecting us gravely. We're losing agents faster than we can recruit them. Most wind up missing in prison or worse. Why? They've been trained to not take unnecessary risks, we don't know. Night falls silent. Amy's can see the toll the work is taking on his superior. Night is clearly haunted by the losses sustained under his watch. After a moment, the Major recovers his composure. There is a rumor that a German agent is running a fake escape line to track downed airmen. I'd be inclined to believe there's some truth to it, were it not for the dozens of contradictory descriptions. What's my role in this? You could start by trying to find out whether the rumor is true. But most pressingly, I need you to lead on recruits. We desperately need more agents. A few months later March 1942 Regent's Park, London In a quiet area of the park, Amy's throws crumbs of bread to the ducks. Next to him stands one of his first recruits, Andre Wendelin. He's a Belgian lawyer turned SOE agent and he's come to be briefed on his debut mission, the 1st of April. Make sure you're packed. Gwendolyn tilts his head quizzically. Why do I have to wait till then? The next full moon, Belgian terrain makes covert landings a serious challenge. You'll need to parachute out. The moon means you can land safely. And once I land? Establish contact with a communist resistance. We need to support them and start coordinating the work of the resistance movement in Belgium. As you know, it's been chaotic. Your job is to impose a little order. Spare the chaos and subterfuge for the Nazis and their collaborators. Any specific sort of chaos and subterfuge. Use your training and imagination. But above all, stay safe. I'd rather you didn't go at all than go and wind up in a prison cell. As soon as you're done, find an escape line and get back. Don't stay any longer than is necessary. Gwendolyn nods. Anything else I should know? Amy's hesitates. He wonders whether to warn his agent about the rumors of the fake escape line, but he decides against it. That way, if he is captured Wendell, and can't divulge what the British know. Just keep your wits about you. And remember, don't take any clothing you've bought in London with you. Not even a pair of shoes. They're trained to look for these things. The Belgium you're returning to won't be like the one you knew. Where you're concerned, Belgium might as well be Berlin. It's that perilous April 1942. In the skies above Belgium, Gwendolyn opens the door of his plane and peers down to see the Belgian countryside far below, drenched in the milky light of the moon. He catches eyes with his fellow agent, a wireless transmitter operator codenamed Major Domo. He nods, meaningful. The two men leap from the plane in quick succession. Gwendolen releases his parachute. It unfurls, catching the air and yanking his straps upwards. The world is suddenly strangely calm. Yet as he scans the roads and fields below for enemy lookouts, the agent feels his heart pound inside his chest. The two agents deftly land. They quickly gather up and bury their parachutes. Then they straighten their civilian clothes and hurry into the night, ready to wage covert warfare. Several days LATER Brussels On a darkened street, a member of the Belgian Resistance keeps watch as Wendellin secures dynamite on the last of several German military vehicles. Since parachuting into Belgium, Gwendolyn has set train carriages ablaze, severed phone lines and established contact between the SOE and the Resistance. Wendell and lights the fuses. Then he and the Resistance member sprint around the corner. Two months LATER Brussels Wendelin keeps watch in the street near a house inside which his SOE colleague Major Domo is waiting to receive a coded radio message from London Wendell and scans the street, looking for any loitering pedestrians or suspicious figures in vehicles. There are none. A van rounds the corner. It's driving ponderously. Wendell and stiffens a radio detector car. He places his hands deep into his pockets and pushes himself off the wall. He must move quickly but nonchalantly, approach the house and ring the doorbell twice to warn his fellow agent. But before Wendland can reach the door, two more cars screech into sight, blocking either end of the street. It's the Gestapo. Gwendolyn turns on his heel and ducks down a side alleyway. When he's out of sight, he breaks into a trot, heading for the back gate. He might still have just enough time to warn his friend before the Germans storm the building at the rear of the property. Wendellin peers over the fence. The house seems quiet. Gwendolyn tears himself away from the fence. Everything inside of him wants to rush in to help his friend, but they're outnumbered. Major Domo, he knows, will do his best to hold out under interrogation to give him time to get away. Without knowing who compromised their operation, it is now too risky to stay. Gwendolyn remembers his conversation with Amy's in Regent's Park. Better to cut his mission short and risk being captured. Now he just needs to find an escape line to England and get out of Belgium fast. One YEAR later the War Office London. It's the summer of 1943, and SOE agent Andre Wendelin arrived back in England just a few hours ago. Now it's down to Hardy. Amy's to debrief his agent and find out why he's been missing in action for almost a year. So tell me again, who precisely knew that Majordomo was inside the property at the time of the raid? Nobody outside of the Resistance network. Hardy. They have a mole. The Gestapo arrived seconds after the radio detector van. There wasn't enough time for them to triangulate the broadcast location. They already knew he was in there. After fleeing Belgium, military police arrested Wendelen in neutral Switzerland and later in Spain en route to England. As a result, it's taken him a year to return to London. And while he's been gone, Amy's has been promoted to acting head of T Section after his boss, Major Claude Knight, was signed off with stress induced illness. Wendelin's ordeal is over, but he has had months to obsess over who betrayed them. Amy's can see his agent is fraught and exhausted. Andre Gwendolen looks up. Amy smiles at him gently. You did well. We will find this mole, I assure you. The evidence is gathering. For the past year, Amy's has received dozens of reports about a man with a missing finger who is running a fake escape line. Some claim he's a Canadian Air Force officer named Captain Willie. Others say he's the petty crook turned Nazi informant Prosper de Zita. There have been dozens of names. Amies is unsure of whether he is dealing with a single individual or a network of collaborators. But there are enough similarities between the stories that he has come to suspect they all concern one and the same man. Whatever is going on, it's serious. Belgium has become a black hole into which downed airmen and SOE agents alike are disappearing at an alarming rate. Wendellin leans towards Amy's Send me back. I've delivered my report and wasted a year doing so. Send me back and I'll find the bastard. Amies is taken aback by his agent's bravery and resolve. He feels a surge of guilt and inadequacy about Majordomo's capture and Gwendolyn's near miss. These men and women risk their lives behind enemy lines while he frets about with paperwork and meetings in softly furnished room rooms. Amy's decides it's time he did more than sit around in his office. May 1943 Ringway Aerodrome, Manchester In a large aircraft hangar, Amy approaches the end of a small plank positioned at the top of a tall tower. He feels the weight of the parachute on his back and a throb of nerves as he peers over the edge and sees the concrete floor of the hangar far below. A few weeks ago, in a fit of impotent frustration, Amy's signed up for parachute training. Now he's having second thoughts. Once he jumps, he'll have only the briefest of moments to deploy his parachute. Otherwise he risks landing heavily on the ground. He feels dizzy. It's okay, sir. You can do this. The next trainee, waiting in line behind Amy's, offers a few words of encouragement. Far below, Amy sees his instructor waving his arm energetically, urging Amy's to get on with it. Amy's remembers Major Domo and all the other agents he sent to Belgium who have fallen into Nazi hands. He takes a deep breath, summons all of his willpower and steps off the plank and into empty space. A few days later, T Section Offices, Baker Street, London Having returned from Manchester, Amies arrives for a meeting with Sir Charles Hambrough, the head of the soe. Amy's officer's coat now proudly bears his parachutist badge. Assigned to himself as much to others that he is proactively involved in this war. The SOE chief, however, appears deeply unimpressed by Amy's new hobby. I trust we won't be seeing any more of these extracurricular antics. Amy's you can't just toddle off to the north every time you feel the need to raise your pulse. Of course, sir, but I only went in service of my mission. Hambro bristles with irritation. Your mission is. Is to protect our agents, not to pretend you're jumping out of planes that you'll never fly in. Never. Plus I really spell this out for you. Amy's you know far too much for us to risk sending you into Europe. Moreover, you are the acting head of T Section. Is that not an exciting enough remit for a tailor? For God's sake, man, leave the agenting to the agents. Your war is here. In London. Amy's looks at the floor, chastened. Very good, sir. Amy slinks off. He knows Hambro is right, but the endless reports of arrests of airmen, resistance fighters and agents he has sent into the field weighs heavily. And behind it all he senses the hand of Prosper de Zita, the man with the missing finger. One month later, RAF Sergeant Fred Heathfield steers his Halifax Mark 2 bomber through Belgian skies. Heathfield and his six crew members have just completed a bombing raid. But as they bank to begin their return to the south coast of England, they come under heavy anti aircraft fire over the village of Kirkhoven. A German flak cannon finds its target. The explosion takes out three of Heathfield's four engines. The plane is going down. A few weeks later, central Brussels in an apartment in the St Catherine district, Heathfield is back on his feet. He survived the downing of his plane with only minor injuries. A nurse working for the Resistance has helped him recover and is now making a phone call to inform the escape line he is well enough to leave Belgium. Yes, the parcel is ready for collection. Wonderful. I'll be here. See you soon. A few minutes later, a young Spanish looking woman enters the apartment. Good to see you up, Sergeant. I'm with the Captain. He is waiting in the car. Heathfield gingerly follows her down the stairs. As they exit the apartment, he spots a black saloon at the curb, its engine idling. The man at the wheel turns his neck and gives Heathfield a broad smile that flashes a gold tooth. Let's get you home. Heathfield smiles at the man weekly feeling his bruises ache on the unfamiliar contours of the car's back seat. He is dimly aware of the driver's Canadian accent, but immediately closes his eyes, focusing his efforts on not being sick. A few minutes later, the Captain stops at a modern apartment block in the suburbs and gestures for Heathfield to follow him inside. Just through here, the room is generously sized and full of people lounging on sofas and in chairs. Heathfield spots a man in priest's garments peeking through the curtains. Several men are still dressed in their RAF uniforms. A few of these individuals look up at Heathfield, nodding their welcome. The Captain places his hand on Heathfield's shoulder reassuringly. Don't worry, they won't bite. You're all headed to the same place to make yourself comfortable. Heathfield nods. Then he glances at the hand resting on his shoulder. One of the Captain's fingers is missing. Wondery plus subscribers can binge full seasons of the Spy who early and ad free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app. Have you got a spy story you'd like us to tell? Email your ideas to the spy whoandry.com from Wondery this is the first episode in our season the Spy who Dressed the Queen 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 based on biographical research. We used many sources in our research for this season, including From SOE Hero to Dressing the Queen by Linda Roland and Still Here by Hardy Amies, as well as material from the National Archives. The Spy who is hosted by me, Indra Varma. Our show is produced by Vespucci with writing and story editing by Yellow Ant for Wondery for Yellow Ant. This episode was written by Simon Parkin and researched by Louise Byrne, with thanks to Ine Bros. And Cat Whitehouse. Our managing producer is Jay Priest for Vespucci. Our senior producers are Ashley Clivery and Philippa Geering. Our sound designer is Iver Manley. Rachel Byrne is the supervising producer. Music supervisor is Scott Velasquez for Frisson Sync. Executive producers for Vespucci are Johnny Galvin and Daniel Turkin. Executive producer for Yellowant is Tristan Donovan, Our senior producer for Wondery is Theodora Luludis and our senior managing producer is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Chris Bourne and Marshall Louis.
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Laundry.