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- [00:00]
Raza Jaffrey
Wondery plus subscribers can binge full seasons of the Spy who early and ad free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app. A quick note that this episode contains graphic descriptions of a dead body. April 17, 1943 Hackney Mortuary, London. RAF intelligence officer and Double Cross committee member Charles Cholmondeley grimaces as he attempts to put military boots on the frozen feet of Glyndor Michaels corpse. It's no good, even with the laces undone. He throws the boot on the floor in exasperation. His colleague, Naval Intelligence officer Ewan Montague, frowns and removes the pipe from his mouth. We can't go without boots. Yes, I'm aware of that. And what do you suggest? His feet are frozen solid. The two intelligence officers look at Michael's corpse. His body is now the centerpiece of Operation Mincemeat, an ambitious con designed to fool the Germans into thinking that the Allies are about to invade Greece and Sardinia rather than Sicily. But right now, the plan could fail because the boots won't fit. Cholmondeley and Montague are interrupted by the arrival of Coroner Bentley Purchase. He supplied the operation with the body and kept it in cold storage for the past few weeks. He notices that Glyndor Michaels thinned emaciated corpse now wears a Royal Marine uniform, a long khaki coat, an uninflated life jacket and a St. Christopher's medallion. Purchase smiles and shakes the dead man's hand. Well, well, how wonderful to meet you, Major William Martin. And very smart. You look too. Not with bare feet, he's not. Montague grimaces as he closes the briefcase that will be attached to the body with a chain. Inside the briefcase is a supposedly top secret letter revealing the Allies fictitious invasion plans. Purchase spots the naked feet pointing away from the body at an odd angle. Ah, bit too cold at the back of the fridge, eh? Well, I did say we were keeping him on ice for you. Beneath his large moustache, Chomney grinds his teeth in frustration. This is going to derail the entire operation. Any suggestions? We're running out of time to get into Scotland by dawn. Purchase rubs his chin thoughtfully. Then we must act fast. We need to use an electric fire and thaw out the feet only. As soon as the boots are on, we'll pop him back in the freezer. Defrosting will hasten decomposition, but with boots and gaiters on, his feet shouldn't fall off. Purchase disappears and returns moments later with a single bar electric heater. Thomley and Montague share a glance of revulsion as Purchase switches on the heater. I'll do the cooking. You two get these boots on as quick as you can. Tomley controls the sudden urge to vomit. Reluctantly, he and Montague pick up the boots. After a few minutes of effort, the boots are on and laced up as Purchase pushes the corpse back in the fridge. Chumley glances at the wall clock worriedly. Putting the boots on has taken much longer than planned. The submarine base in Scotland is more than 400 miles away. It's going to be tight. Montague nods and heads for the door. I'll get the transport canister ready. When the corpse is cooled enough, Purchase removes it from the fridge and Charmley takes a final photo of the dressed body for their records. As he does so, the coroner lightly touches the stiffened fingers of the dead man. They are still curled as if in pain. Poor Chapter, giving his dead body more than he ever had when he was alive. Thomley lowers the camera slowly and blinks through his round glasses. Both men look silently at the body of Glyndor Michael, trying to imagine the difficult life that led him here. Montague returns with the canister. It is a long steel cylinder packed with dry ice. It is specially designed to minimize the body's decomposition on its 12 day journey to Spain. He rolls his eyes at the centimeter mentality of the two other men. Oh dude, come on. He's doing more for his country dead than he ever did when he was alive. Now get him in here. That submarine won't wait.
- [04:54]
Ben
Ben hadn't had a decent night's sleep in a month, so during one of his restless nights he booked a package triple broad on Expedia. When he arrived at his beachside hotel, he discovered a miraculous bed slung between two trees and fell into the best sleep of his life. You were made to be rechargeable. We were made to package flights and hotels and hammocks for less. Expedia Made to travel.
- [05:28]
Raza Jaffrey
From Wondery. I'm Raza Jaffrey and this is the spy who in the last episode, intelligence officers Charles Cholmondeley and Ewan Montague hatched an outlandish ploy to trick Hitler by planting fake intelligence about the Allies next invasion target on a dead man. But the clock is ticking on Operation Mincemeat. The invasion of Sicily is imminent. The corpse they're using is rotting and they're running out of time to reach the submarine that has agreed to drop the corpse off the coast of Spain on its way to North Africa. This is episode two of the Spy who Duped Hitler, washed up the night of April 17, 1943, London. Ewan Montague clings to the passenger seat of a specially adapted van with a V8 engine. It speeds dangerously through the blacked out streets. His knuckles show white on the grab bar as race car driver turned Mi5 chauffeur singe and horsefall cuts a corner and then hits the horn to clear the road. God's sake, slow down. Horseville grins at him. Thought you were in a hurry. Yes, but we'd also like to get there in one piece. Montague glances over his shoulder through the back window. He sees Charles Chumley grimly holding onto the canister containing the body while trying to brace himself against the walls of the van. Horse Falls. Racing exploits are famous, but Montague hadn't expected him to be so short. He watches with mounting concern as the driver crouches close to the steering wheel and squints through the windscreen. What's the matter? Are your eyes all right? Never been real good at night driving, if I'm honest. Probably the astigmatism. You don't have glasses? Never bothered. I like to feel the road, you see. The van hits something hard. Everything inside the cabin lifts into the air, including Montague, who bangs his head on the ceiling. What was that? Did we hit someone? No, no, just a roundabout. Find it's easier to go over the top of them when we're going this fast. Montague closes his eyes and wonders exactly how many corpses they will be in the van by the time they get to Scotland. The next morning. Greenock Docks, Scotland, 25 miles west of Glasgow. Montague and Cholmley clamber down a jetty ladder and step onto the small motorboat waiting below. Above them is the grinning face of Horsefall. Who's got them here just as the sky turns pink with dawn. Last bit of the journey, boys. Try not to miss the big bloody boat. Chumley gives the MI5 driver a sour look and mutters to Montague under his breath, I'm driving. On the way back. As the motorboat sets off, Cholmondeley tries to arrange his legs beside the long metal canister with the corpse inside, Montague remains standing, looking out towards the large naval depot ship sitting in the middle of Holy Lock. Soon the sleek shape of a submarine docked next to it comes into view. It hasn't left yet. The boat docks alongside the submarine. Waiting for them is a young handsome man in a naval uniform. Montague recognizes him immediately as Lt. Bill Jewell, captain of the HMS Seraph. Jewel helps Montague out of the boat and onto the deck of the submarine. I was getting worried you weren't going to make it. So, awake in every sense. Jewel raises a curious eyebrow but doesn't waste time. We'll make a start on loading, if that's all right. Jewell waves to his second in command. Immediately, a crane starts its slow whirl towards them. Sailors scramble from the submarine into the small motorboat to put a rope around the canister deck. Loading hatch clear. Torpedo shoot clear. Cholmondeley moves forward to ensure the sailors load the cargo carefully while Montague gives Jewell his final briefing. The briefcase is in the canister with him. Use only your most trusted officers for the release and tell them as late as possible about the plan. Understood. And Release time is approximately 04:30 hours. Correct. And as close to the shore as you can. Beneath his navel cap, Jewel's blue eyes watch the large canister swing through the air before being lowered onto the submarine. On its side are the stenciled words Handle with CARE Optical instruments. What should we do with the canister afterwards? Put any remaining evidence inside it and sink it far out to sea. It must be sunk deep enough that there's no risk of it floating to shore. Understood. Well, if that's all, we better be getting on. Montague nods and gives Jewel a farewell salute. Best of British Lieutenant John Lee rejoins Montague as the canister disappears into the submarine and the hatch closes above it. So that's it then. Yes. Strange feeling. I'm going to miss, Bill. Like sending a friend I've known all my life. Off to war. Technically, we have known him all his life, haven't we? But we don't get to write the rest of his story. The two men return to the small motorboat that brought them to Holy Lock. As it heads back to the docks, Montague watches the submarine get smaller behind them until it finally fades from sight. Montague lights his pipe. He feels strangely lost. He supposes this is how writers feel when they send their creations off to the publishers. But he and Cholmondeley aren't sending their creation to a publisher. They are sending it to the German intelligence agency. The AB Fair. And a bad review won't just puncture their egos. It will threaten the entire success of the Allied invasion of Sicily. Montague takes a deep breath. Good luck, Bill. Ten days later. April 30, 1943. Off the coast of Punta Umbria, near Huelva, Spain, Jewel stands on the deck of his submarine with five of his most trusted officers. Around them is the inky Black of night and faint starlight. He has just informed them as a dead body in the canister that's now lying on the deck in front of them. He's also told them its purpose in deceiving the Germans ahead of the Sicily invasion. So now you see why I wanted to come so close ashore. We must ensure the body is found. Any questions? The officers all look at each other before finally one speaks. Isn't it unlucky to carry dead bodies around? Jewel wants to laugh. His officers are neither shocked nor flustered by the secret mission. But it seems they are not immune to the superstitions of sailors. Let's hope not. We should start. Three of the officers keep watch as Jewel and two others set to loosening the lid off the canister as it's removed. Call three. Reel back the unharmed, wholly stenched that is released. It's a bit overripe, sir. They ease the body out carefully and unwrap the blankets that have been tied around it. Jewel checks the briefcase is still attached by a chain to the belt of the dead man's coat. He crouches next to the body to blow up its life jacket. As the son of a doctor, Jewel is unworried by the decomposing corpse. But he narrows his eyes as he notices there's mold growing on the dead man's chin. He wonders if this body might be too far gone for the Germans to believe. He died only a week ago. Right. I think that's it. He stands and looks at the others. Somehow it seems wrong to just tip the body overboard. He removes his officer's cap and bows his head. The others follow suit. Jewel attempts to remember as much as he can of the funeral prayers. Lord, make me to know mine end and the measure of my days that I may know how frail I am. Oh, spare me. That I may recover strength before I go hence and be no more. Amen. Amen. Solemnly, the men kneel and slip the body gently into the water. Jewel watches the body roll slowly to bob face down on the gentle, swelling waves. Sir, the tide. We'll be stranded if we stay any longer. Jewel nods. He gently prods the body with an oar in the direction of the shore and with a final glance gives the signal for the submarine to head for open water. 30 minutes later, 12 miles out to sea, with the seabed 200 fathoms below, Jewel orders the HMS Seraph to halt. He and another officer toss the metal canister overboard. But as the minutes tick by, they realize it isn't going to sink. Jewel frowns. The air pocket between the canister's outer and inner shell must be keeping it afloat. Blast. If the canister is found, Jewel knows the Germans and the Spanish will become suspicious and Operation Minceme Meat will be blown. Give me a vicars. One of his officers disappears below and returns with a heavy machine gun in his arms. Jewel knows the gunfire could prompt awkward questions among his crew. But right now his priority is getting rid of the canister. He fires around the canister spins frantically as bullet holes litter its side. The officer as waits with bated breath. Despite now resembling a large colander, the canister remains stubbornly afloat. Jewel swears under his breath. What the hell did they make this thing off? Bloody dolphin skin. The horizon is fast filling with the first rays of dawn. Jewel knows they must not be seen in this area. News of a British submarine anywhere near the body will be a disaster. He thinks fast. Right. Get it back on board and fetch me some plastic explosive. The officers work swiftly to mold the plastic explosive and create detonators. They pack it into the canister and Jewel takes a cigarette lighter from his pocket. Ready? But one of his officers grabs his arm. Sir Fisherman. Jewel snaps his head around, squinting towards the shore. Further down the coast, he can see a small fleet of fishing boats heading out for their early morning catch. Dammit. Jewell hesitates, but he has to take the risk. They might not hear it over their engines. With that, he flicks the cigarette lighter and lights the fuse. They shove the canister off away from the submarine and wait, hands pressed over their ears. It bobs optimistically for a moment and then the explosion causes a wall of water to rise up high in the air, taking bits of the canister with it. Relieved, Jewel watches the rest of it finally sink beneath the waves. Right, let's get out of here. The officers rush below deck as he gives the order to dive. Jewel just hopes the noisy destruction of the canister won't blow the entire mission.
- [18:23]
C
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- [18:58]
Raza Jaffrey
April 30, 1943 off the coast of Punta Umbria, near Huelva, Spain, fish spotter Jose Maria is in his rowboat when he hears an explosion. He looks around, scanning the horizon and the distant coast, but he sees nothing. He returns to looking for sardines. They are not too far from Gibraltar, where there are sometimes battles. But Spain remains neutral in this war. His main concern is it will scare the fish away. A few minutes later, Jose spies a lump breaking the surface of the water. He rows over to investigate, thinking it might be a dead porpoise. Instead of a porpoise, he finds a dead man. He hurriedly crosses himself. The other fishing boats are too far away to call for help. Oh. Cautiously, he reaches over the side and hauls the floating body onto his rowing boat. The stink of decaying flesh fills his nostrils. Unbearably, he notices a chain attached to the man's belt is pulled taut by something in the water below. He pulls on the chain until a bridge briefcase appears. He drags the briefcase out of the water and places it carefully on top of the body. Then he slowly rows his gruesome cargo back to the beach. Hours later, La Bota Beach, Punta Umbria Spanish naval lieutenant Mariano Pasquale de Pobil Bell Ben Susan stares at the dead body with disgust. It has been placed under a tree, but the sun is now high in the sky and the stink is overwhelming. A crowd of locals has gathered as news spreads around the town. Pascual del Pobil is a large and imposing figure next to Jose and the police officer who was first on the scene. He was called because any soldiers found at sea, whether dead or alive, come under the jurisdiction of the Spanish Navy. Pascual de Pobil, sweating in his heavy uniform, turns to Jose. You heard an explosion? Yes, just before I found him. Pascual de Pobil notes the sunken eyes of the corpse can't be connected. This man has been dead for some time. Grimacing at the smell, Pascual de Porbil squats and searches the coat pockets of the body. He finds the photo ID card. Major William Martin. He's British. As he unclips the briefcase from the chain, the policeman steps forward eagerly. Shall I take that to the British consul in Huelva? Lieutenant Pascual del Pobel eyes him suspiciously. He knows many of the police here take bribes from the German Secret Intelligence Service. The abfair? No, thank you. I shall inform the British. He turns on his heel, taking the briefcase with him. The next morning Welva British Vice Consul Francis Hazelden drives extremely slowly as he follows the unhurried progress of the horse and carriage in front of him. It is carrying the body of Major William Martin, which is now in a simple wooden coffin. As they turn up the hill towards the local cemetery, Haselden feels a knot of anxiety in his stomach. He's a retired engineer in his 60s, and he is uncomfortably aware that he has no flair for deception work. But he has been carefully briefed on operation mincemeat by MI6 and has been waiting for the call to attend the body. He's pleased to see the small crowd of locals lining the route. Word of a dead British soldier being washed up on the beach has obviously spread quickly. Hopefully the news has already reached the Germans. But his satisfaction evaporates on spotting Lieutenant Pascual de Pobel of the Spanish Navy waiting for him at the gates to the cemetery. Tucked firmly under one arm is Major Martin's briefcase, the briefcase that Britain wants to see fall into German hands. But Haselden knows the Navy is the only section of the Spanish government that is anti German. Haselden tries to think quickly as he greets Pasquale de Pobil and then follows him into the small building at the edge of the cemetery that acts as the town's morgue. The corpse is removed from the coffin and laid on the marble slab. The mortuary assistant goes through the dead man's pockets and removes a variety of objects, including theater tickets, the St. Christopher's medallion that hung around his neck, and the key to the briefcase. Pascual de Pob takes the key and opens the briefcase. Inside there are several letters, including one with an official wax seal. Pascual de Pobill motions Haselden over to his side. These letters will need to be returned to the British Consul anyway. Would you like to take them now? Haselden's lined face twitches slightly. He knows the Spaniard is trying to be helpful, but he needs to give the Germans a chance to get their hands on them. Oh, but your superior might not like that. I think perhaps we ought to follow the correct procedure. Pascual de Pobil shrugs at the British need to follow the rules. He closes the briefcase and locks it again. Fine. All these items will be handed over to the naval commander of the port of Huelva for safekeeping. Pascual de Porbil steps back politely, waiting for Haselden to precede him out of the door. Haselden smiles apologetically. I thought I might stay for the autopsy, actually. Pasquale de Porbil's eyes widen in disbelief. Nobody in their right mind would want to stay in this tiny, hot hut with its tin roof to watch a stinking corpse be cut up. He shrugs again and Leaves. Azildin wipes his brow with a handkerchief and then uses it to cover his nose. As the doctor and his assistant strip the body, the doctor takes up a scalpel and makes a small incision down the middle. Oh God. The dead man's lungs explode all over the table, releasing a foul smell that makes Hasleton gag. The doctor, unmoved, examines the lungs closely and then looks curiously at the dead man's face. Strange. Haselden feels his heart thump uncomfortably. What is it? From the decay on the insides and the mold on the skin, I'd say he's been dead at least eight days. So he drowned far from here and has been drifting ever since. Maybe, but there are no fish bites. It's unusual in a body that's been submerged for that long. Usually they go for the earlobes. Let's have a closer look at the lungs. Azildin must do something to stop. The doctor, raising concerns, allows himself to wretch again. Gosh, the heat has really done its worst. This is most unpleasant. Look, there's no need for a detailed autopsy. I. I'm quite satisfied he drowned. I'd rather we didn't do more than we have to, given he's Catholic. The doctor hesitates. He glances at the St. Christopher's medallion that's been placed in the tray near the body. It lies next to a damp photo of the dead man's girlfriend and a bill from his members club in London. Well, if you are truly satisfied. Hazeldon nods vigorously. The doctor puts down his scalpel. All right. We will let them prepare him for burial. Haselden is thankful to escape the small hut, but he's worried. He may have averted the danger of the autopsy report, but Operation Mincemeat is still in trouble. The briefcase is in the hands of the Spanish navy, which is unlikely to cooperate with the Germans. He just hopes the Abwehr have enough ingenuity to get hold of it. The following day, the German Consulate Welva local Abwehr chief Adolf Klaus is in the home of the German Consul. His elderly father, Ludwig Klaus is a tall, thin man with intense eyes and a restless energy. He lifts and puts down the phone in front of his father. We need to know what is in that briefcase. Call him now. Yes, yes. Klaus paces the room impatiently, watching his 80 year old father carefully dial the numbers. Ludwig is phoning his golfing partner, Captain Elvira, the Spanish commander of the Port of Huelva. Major Martin's briefcase is current, locked inside the Captain's safe. Ah, Francisco. Ludwig Klaus here. How are you? Unlike your handicap, eh? Klaus glares at his father and signals for him to get to the point. Yes, actually, I was calling to ask a favor. I heard about the British soldier who washed up on the beach a few days ago. Yes, yeah, exactly. The briefcase. I wondered if we might be able to take a quick look at it before it is returned to the British. Ah, yes, I see. Of course. No, no, I understand. Not to worry. I'll see you at the club on Saturday. Adios. Ludwig hangs up and shakes his head. You won't do it. He's a stickler for the rules. Klaus chews his lip with frustration. Nothing happens in Huelva without him knowing about it. Yet a mysterious briefcase belonging to the British has managed to elude him and end up in the one place he cannot get at it. And that just makes him want it more. He turns on his heel and stalks out of the house. As he passes his father's golf clubs, he can't help aiming a small kick at them. May 2, 1943 Huelva Cemetery the midday sun shimmers off rows of white gravestones in the dusty cemetery. In a quiet corner, Major Martin's funeral is underway. Francis Haselden, the British vice Consul, stands with his head bowed next to the black robed Catholic priest. Into thy hands, O Lord, we commend thy servant, Major William Martin, our dear brother, as into the hands of a faithful Creator and most merciful Savior. At the back of the small gathering is the tall figure of Adolf Klaus. His deep set eyes flick around the gathering, searching for clues that might help him get to the briefcase. Standing next to Haselden, he sees his father's golfing buddy, Captain Elvira, in full naval uniform, and his jaw clenches. In the corner of his eye, Klaus notices a slight movement. He moves his head slightly and sees the shadow of a man lurking under some nearby cypress trees. As the funeral ends and the mourners depart, Klaus walks unhurriedly down the hill towards his home. He takes an indirect route and occasionally stops to tie his shoelace. Although he doesn't show it, he is tense and alert. Soon he is convinced the man he first spotted under the cypress trees is following him. As he reaches his garden, he concludes that man must be British, and if a British spy is tailing him, it means they are worried about him getting hold of the briefcase. He feels a thrill run along his veins. Whatever is inside that briefcase is important. He must get hold of it. The next day British Embassy, Madrid Naval attache Alan Hilgarth sits at his large mahogany desk, reading Two encrypted cables he's received from the Admiralty in London. The first cable is in a code the British know the Germans have cracked. It reads top secret. Some papers in the possession of Major Martin are of great importance and secrecy. Make discreet demands for all papers by the fastest safe route. Hilgarth picks up the second cable. This one sent in a code they feel certain the Germans have not yet cracked. Carry out instructions contained in my first signal. This is necessary cover, but lack of success is desirable. Hilgarth leans back in his chair. Like Haselden, he too has been briefed on Operation Mincemeat. He ponders the best way to achieve his mission. He must make the Germans believe London is desperate to get the briefcase back. But if he is too obvious, the Germans will suspect a trap. And if he is too subtle, they may not pick up the signals. Ruefully, he reflects that all the work he has put into ensuring the Spanish navy are safe, sympathetic to the British cause, may now be his undoing. He calls for his secretary. Mildred, would you get me the number for the Spanish Minister for the Navy, please? Later that day, German Consulate, Huelva German intelligence officer Adolf Klaus reads the intercepted cable from London. Some papers Major Martin had in his possession are of great importance and secrecy. Ha. It's confirmation that his hunch was correct. There is something important inside that briefcase. His bosses in Madrid have also heard rumors. He's already had a call that morning demanding he gets that briefcase. But how? Klaus scowls, tapping his fingers on his desk. He calls one of his informants, the head of the local Guardia Civil. It's me. I need someone inside the Port Authority. Someone with access to Captain Elvira's safe and prepared to pay handsomely. The next day, a restaurant in Madrid. British naval attache Alan Hilgarth pours a glass of wine for his guest, Spain's naval minister, Rear Admiral Moreno. I suppose you've heard of the soldier of ours who washed up on the southern coast. Moreno's eyes light up as he senses intrigue. Hilgarth is friends with Moreno, but he also knows the rear admiral, speaks frequently with the German ambassador, and is a deep lover of gossip. I did. Poor man. Hilgarth fills his own glass of wine. And I suppose you also know he was found with a briefcase. Moreno sips his wine and raises an eyebrow. A briefcase? Well, it's nothing, really. But it would be much appreciated by my government if we could get it back as soon as possible. Not that I would want it to bypass any kind of process, of course. I see this briefcase. It has important documents in it? Heavens, no. There's just a manuscript in there that the author would quite like back as soon as possible, if it's not too ruined by the water. Moreno drinks deeply and gives Hilgarth a warm smile. My friend, I will instantly look into this matter and retrieve this briefcase for you. Hilgarth smiles with every appearance of relief, but inside he's worried. Moreno is fickle enough to decide that on this occasion he will be a friend to the British and not the Germans. The next day, Cafe del Palma Cuelva Adolf Clouse waves to the Guardia Civil commander, who swiftly joins him at his table. The commander surreptitiously hands over a large envelope filled with photos. Klaus opens the envelope eagerly and sifts through the contents. This is everything that was inside the briefcase? Yes. We photographed it and put it back before anyone suspected. Klaus discards the photos of a dry cleaning receipt, a manuscript of a book, and a reminder from a bank manager about Major Martin's overdraft. Finally, the photos show three embossed envelopes with heavy wax seals. Aha. Hold on. Where are the photos of the letters? Inside these envelopes? The Commander shrugs. My contact refused to open them. It's too risky with the wax seals. If the Navy finds out someone has tampered with it, it. The Commander shakes his head sorrowfully. Klaus crumples the photo in rage. He is so close and yet as far as ever. Seeing his reaction, the commander now hesitates to continue. And what is it? The briefcase. It's being taken to Madrid under guard today. Klaus puts his head in his hands. Despite his extensive network of informants, the briefcase has slipped through his grasp. Now he must phone his spy masters in Madrid and confess his failure. Later that day. Room 13, the Admiralty, London. Joan Saunders, the chief assistant to Double Cross Committee member Ewan Montague, gently places an intercepted cable on Montague's desk. I thought you might need to see this. Montague reads the cable through the swirling smoke of his pipe, his face darkening. Blast. And dammit. His Double Cross Committee colleague, RAF intelligence officer Charles Chumley, looks up, suddenly tense. What's happened? It's from Hilgarth. The Spanish Navy is taking Bill's briefcase to Madrid. Adolf Klaus failed to get hold of it. Charlie's tall form slumps in his chair, defeated. It didn't work. Montague starts pacing the room angrily. Bloody Spaniards. They spent this whole war cutting corners and cozying up to the Germans, except. Except when we bloody need them to. Unbelievable. Montague catches Cholmondeley's eyes, but averts his gaze from the heartbreak. Operation Mincemeat is on the brink of failure and they both know the cost will be counted in the lives of Allied soldiers on the beaches of Sicily. Wondery 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 who wondery.com from Wondery this is the second episode in our season, the Spy who Duped Hitler 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 used many sources in our research for this season, including Operation mincemeat by Ben McIntyre and the man who Never Was by Ewan Montague. The Spy who is hosted by me, Raza Jafre. Our show is produced by Vespucci with writing and story editing by Yellow Ant for Wondery. For Yellow Ant, this episode was written by Judy Cooper and researched by Louise Byrne, with thanks to Marina Watson and Cat Whitehouse. Our managing producer is Jay Priest for Vespucci. Our senior producers are Ashley Clivery and Philip Aguirre. 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 Turcom. Executive producer for Yellow Ant is Tristan Donovan, our senior producer for Wondery is Theodora Luludis and our senior managing producer is Rachel Sibley. Executive executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Chris Bourne and Marshall Louis.