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Wondery subscribers can binge full seasons of the Spy who early and ad free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app. Before we begin, a huge thank you to listeners Hazel, Brian, and Mike, who requested that the Spy who Tells the Tale of Oleg Gordievsky Send your suggestions to the spy who@wondery.com. July 1985 2:40pm the Soviet Union In a forest near the border with Finland, KGB officer turned British agent Oleg Gordievsky lies in the damp undergrowth. A few meters in front of him is a highway lay by. He checks his watch, then strains his ears, hoping for the sound of a car turning off the highway. Gordievsky has spent the past few days evading KGB surveillance in what is probably a futile attempt to escape Soviet Russia. Britain's foreign intelligence service, MI6, has never successfully extracted a Russian agent from the USSR, let alone one under near constant scrutiny. And Gordievsky's rescuers are late. The silence stretches unbearably. Feeling dehydrated, Gordievsky swigs the last of the beer he brought with him, then tosses the bottle into the undergrowth. Shit. Gordievsky curses his carelessness. His fingerprints are on that beer bottle. He draws himself to his feet, then plunges his hands into the bracken until his fingers meet the smooth glass. The spy rolls the bottle in some mud. When satisfied that he has smudged away his fingerprints, he pushes the bottle deep into some tall grass, then returns to his hiding position. He tries to remain still, shuddering his shoulders occasionally to shoo away the ravenous mosquitoes. He checks his watch for what must be the 30th time. Where is MI6? Emboldened by alcohol and boredom, Gordievsky creeps into the layby. There he crouches, listening for cars. He reasons that if anyone sees him, they'll assume he's a hitchhiker. The road is empty. Then, on the horizon, he spies a white Saab speeding toward him with another car following close behind. Could this be them? He wonders. Suddenly he realizes his mistake. What if his rescuers have been found out and the KGB have come to arrest him? Gordievsky dives into a nearby bush, hoping that the occupants didn't catch his silhouette. Idiot. Control yourself. Peering through the leaves, he Gordievsky hears the cars approach the lay by. They begin to slow, then pull in. Gordievsky strains to make out the occupants of the cars. Gordievsky holds his breath. It's a moment of destiny. Is he about to be rescued or dragged back to Moscow?
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Dedication isn't born in the light of day. It's carved in the quiet hours before the world blinks awake. At Boar's Head, we rise with a mission to deliver craftsmanship worthy of your table. A slice of something special folded into every moment worth savoring. Because dedication means delivering only the very best. Thank you. You're welcome. Boar's Head Committed to craft since 1910. From Wondery, I'm Indiravama and this is the spy who. Beneath the veneer of the everyday lurks the realm of the spy. It's a murky world full of dark corners, sinister motives and corrupted morals. A place of paranoia and infiltration, sabotage and manipulation. In this season, we open the file on Oleg Gordievsky, the KGB officer who turned his back on Moscow to spy for Britain. His spying would reveal how the world almost sleepwalked into nuclear war in 1983. And his secret advice would help Western leaders steer east and west away from confrontation, hastening the end of the Cold War. But when his treachery was uncovered, he became a hunted man. You're listening to the spy who outran the kgb. This is episode one, Secrets and Chocolate Bars. 1967, Denmark. 18 years before Oleg Gordievsky attempts to flee the USSR. In Copenhagen's red light district, two Danish intelligence officers rest against a wall. They stand side by side, pretending to chat. But they're really watching the man who's just entered one of the nearby city sex shops. Russian diplomat Oleg Gordievsky. It's the height of the Cold War, and the Danish intelligence service pet is out to monitor, investigate and neutralize threats from foreign powers. Its officers have been trailing Gordievsky ever since he arrived at the Soviet embassy a year ago. PET suspects he's no diplomat, but a KGB agent working undercover. Back in a minute. One of the Danish officers pushes off from the wall, then crosses the road and enters the sex shop. The officer descends into the shop's basement. Gordievsky is at the counter paying for something. The officer pretends to browse the pornographic magazines on the shelves. Here you go, sir. The officer glances toward the shopkeeper just in time to see him slide two magazines into a white plastic bag. The officer looks away, not wanting to arouse suspicion. But surely he wasn't mistaken. Those magazines had men on the covers. Didn't the file state Gordievsky is married? He waits for Gordievsky to leave, then, after a minute or so marveling at the shop's exotic wares, follows his mark. Outdoors, he returns to his colleague, who offers him a quizzical glance. Anything. The first officer grins broadly. THAT evening gordievsky's Apartment in his apartment, Gordievsky smiles at his wife, Jelena, across the dinner table. She meets his gaze with a stern look. What? You'll never guess what I bought today. Gordievsky pulls out the two magazines and slides them across the dining table. Look. Here. In Russia they pretend homosexuals don't exist. In Denmark, they publish entire magazines about them. Jelena eyes the covers as though they might soil her fingers. She opens one, grimaces, and shoots her husband a withering, practiced look. Is this what excites you now? His wife's sarcastic tone drags Gordievsky back to reality. Outwardly, she is the ideal KGB wife. Clever, loyal, the skilled translator who can support his work whenever needed. Inwardly, their marriage is hollow. He wants children. She does not. She recently revealed she had an abortion without telling him. Her quick tongue, once charming, now corrodes her disinterest in keeping their flat tidy, once evidence of her wild individuality, now rankles. Ignoring the mess of the living room, Gordievsky stands and sets the magazines on the mantelpiece, perversely proud. There, a reminder of what you're fighting against, Yelena. Yelena rolls her eyes and shuts herself. In the bedroom. Gordievsky stares at the plate of half eaten food she has left on the table, a meal he cooked for her after a long day at the embassy. He feels his anger rise. Denmark has shown him what life could be open, unafraid and free. Everything Moscow taught him to fear. And Yelena, clinging to that old world, has sealed herself off. Gordievsky pulls on his running shoes and without a word leaves the apartment. He pounds into the night to escape both his wife and the Soviet ideals he has begun to doubt. The following summer, Copenhagen. In a cramped office, the Danish intelligence surveillance team monitoring Gordievsky's home phone line switch on their reel to reel recorder. They hear Gordievsky calling his wife at home from his office in the Soviet Union's Danish EMBASSY Jelena, have you seen the news on tv? Tanks in Prague, students beaten the streets. It's unbelievable. There are already protesters here outside our embassy. Is it so surprising? What's happening in Prague is disgraceful. How could our leaders be so blind? The surveillance officers freeze. They too have heard the news. Czechoslovakia's leaders have been trying to loosen Moscow's grip on their country by introducing greater political freedoms. In response, Soviet tanks and troops have arrived to crush the movement and restore hardline control. But for a KGB man to condemn Moscow on a phone line he must at least suspect is being monitored. This is almost unthinkable. Did he say disgraceful? He's furious. Quiet. Listen. I feel ashamed to wear their uniform. The agents exchange a glance. This was no slip of the tongue. Gordievsky's outrage rings with conviction. For the first time, the Danish officers glimpse the fissure in Gordievsky's loyalties. A crack that, given the right pressure and enough time, might yet split wide open. Five years later, 1973. Copenhagen MI6 officer Richard Bromhead sweeps into the city Hall. He's here to attend the opening of an art exhibition that's being attended by multiple foreign dignitaries. But he's come with an ulterior motive to meet and evaluate Oleg Gordievsky. After the Prague Spring, Gordievsky returned to Moscow. Pet assumed they missed their chance to turn him into a spy for the West. Now Gordievsky's back at the Soviet embassy in Denmark and the operation to recruit him has resumed. But after a failed attempt to entrap him with a male honey trap, the Danes have asked their British friends at MI6 for help. Bromhead steps into the hall. Champagne, sir? Right on cue. Thank you, my good man. Now, let's see. Across the room, Bromhead spots Gordievsky. He's standing with some other Soviet diplomats. Bromhead moves towards them, shaking hands and chatting to other guests. As he closes in, he's been briefed by the Danes that Gordievsky could be a closeted homosexual. If they're right, he could be vulnerable to blackmail. Homosexuality is a criminal offense in the Soviet Union. Bromhead inserts himself into the huddle of Soviets Strasbotier. Da. Da. Bromhead smiles apologetically, as if he mangled his Russian and German by mistake. Like most things he does, it's a ruse. For Bromhead, clowning provides the most fitting cover. Gordievsky, polite but curious, responds in fluent German. You are with the British Embassy, yes? Yes. Embassy. Bromhead notices Gordievsky slightly raise an eyebrow. Surprised that such an apparently unsophisticated man should be representing Britain on the diplomatic stage. Good. There's power in being underestimated. Bromhead uses the moment to consider the Russian's appearance. Gordievsky is bluntly handsome, his hair swept back from his forehead. An athletic frame, perhaps a sportsman. He has a humorous smile that lights up his face, but with something hard and hidden behind his convivial exterior. Bromhead gestures with comic grandeur at the walls. Good paintings, eh? The two men laugh at the futility of their exchange. But while they lack a shared language to discuss the art, each man recognises something in the other. Bromhead maintains eye contact for an extra second or two. Gordievsky doesn't fit his image of a homosexual, but he doesn't fit the KGB stereotype either. Something about him is different. Bromhead has spent years around KGB officers in various European cities. Gordievsky is not like the others. As the Soviets drift away to look at the artwork, Bromhead lingers, turning the thought over the composure, the interest, the flicker of independence behind the eyes. Gordievsky could be worth an approach. A few weeks later, MI6 headquarters, London Jeffrey Guskett, an intelligence officer on the Soviet desk, sits opposite a senior colleague. Between them lies an open file stamped with the codename Sunbeam. Puzzling man buys homosexual magazines in Copenhagen, but shows no sign of interest in the honey traps the Danes set for him. And yet doesn't seem to hold much affection for the wife either. Bromhead didn't think he was queer either, and he'd know, boarding school and all that. Guskett leafs through Gordievsky's dossier. The Russian comes from a pedigree KGB family. Both his father and brother worked in Soviet intelligence. All of which suggests he's unrecruitable. Yet the file carries another note. Guskat passes it to his senior officer. This is interesting. When he came over to our side, Standard Kaplan, one of Gordievsky's Czechoslovak KGB colleagues, an old running mate named him for turning. Said he soured after the Soviets crushed the uprising. There. Guskett weighs the contradiction. Family loyalty against ideological fracture. I don't deny it's worth an approach, but he's an unknown quantity. And Bromhead, well, subtlety isn't exactly a strong suit. Then don't rush him. Use a litmus test first. Gascott frowns, pen tapping against the folder. Or what exactly do you have in mind? A few weeks later, Gordievsky and his wife Yelena, are eating another dinner in Resentful silence. When they're roused from their thoughts by a knock at the door, Gordievsky freezes. He and Jelena exchange a look. They rarely have visitors, and never uninvited ones. Gordievsky opens the door and his stomach drops. On the threshold stands Kaplan, once a comrade, now a defector. Kaplan. Oleg. I was in Copenhagen. Thought I'd better say hello. It's a lie, and both men know it. This is no chance visit Kaplan has been sent. The question is, by whom? They sit. Wary words falter. Yelena watches, her eyes narrowing at the undercurrent. You both look well. Life in Denmark suits you. We manage. What brings you to Copenhagen? Oh, just passing through. Thought it would be pleasant to see an old friend. Yes, we were friends. That's true. You've heard about my defection, I'm sure. Oleg. Life in Canada. It's good. I can run without having to look over my shoulder. Gordievsky struggles to contain his astonishment at his old friend's candor. This is not a reunion. It is a test of loyalties. Kaplan wants to see how Gordievsky will respond, either now or after. They bid their goodbyes. Each word must be carefully loaded. Even the silence feels loaded. The trio continue their polite conversation, discussing the weather in Canada and old colleagues. At last, Kaplan rises. Well, good to catch up, Oleg. Perhaps we could meet for lunch later this week. I'm very busy, but I'll check my diary and let you know. Yelena turns to her husband. You must report this. Of course. But he knows he won't. Kaplan was sent as a signal. Gordievsky knows that someone is interested in him, and he wants to know who they are and what it is that they want. He stands at a crossroads. To misstep now is to risk everything, and the price of error could be fatal. Later that week, Copenhagen MI6 officer Richard Bromhead sits hunched in the driver's seat of his wife's car outside a sports center. He tries to adjust the dial on the heater, but it's already set to maximum. He shivers in the Danish dawn. Oh, the glamour of surveillance work, he thinks to himself. Bloody hell. Enough of this. Bromhead enters the building and follows the signs to the badminton court. Through the glass in the door, he spots Oleg Gordievsky finishing a rally. The Russian looks over. He seems calm, almost amused to see Bromhead. It's as if he had been expecting him. Gordievsky strolls across, towel draped round his neck, eyes steady. He addresses Bromhead in German. Their shared second Language. You again. A badminton fan? Or did you come for me? Can't it be both? I had you pegged as more of a rugby man. Bromhead smiles. This flirting has gone on long enough. It's time to make a move. The truth is, I'd love a private audience with a KGB officer. And I believe you might be in a position to help. Bromhead waits for outrage, denial, a storm. But Gordievsky doesn't flinch. So bold. Well, your gamble paid off. This is a wish I can grant. Gordievsky speaks in a calm, matter of fact tone, as though confessing the weather. Good. Then perhaps lunch? Gordievsky nods. Yes, let's. After years of testing, circling, waiting, at last, the door has opened. The crucial meeting is on. The question is, who is playing whom?
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Okay, Carrie, you ready? Quick, quick, quick. List three gifts you'd never give a.
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Cowboy, lacy bobby socks, a diamond bracelet and a gift certificate to Sephora.
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Oh, my God. That's outrageous.
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Carrie.
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Oh, wait, we're recording a commercial right now. We gotta tell them why we're doing this.
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Oh, yeah, sorry, POD listeners. Okay, so we're five besties who've been friends for five million years. And we love games, so of course we made our own.
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It's called quick, quick, quick. You just pick a card and have your partner give three answers to an outrageous question. It's fast, fun, fantastic, and a bunch of other funny adjectives.
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Anyone can play your mom, your dad, your kitten, your kids, your Auntie Edna, and even your butcher.
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And you know what's incredible? There are no wrong answers. Just open your brain and say what's in it. Just quickly.
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And you're not going to believe this. Well, you might. Once you start playing. It's as much fun to watch as it is to play seriously.
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So get up and go grab your copy now at Target and Amazon. Quick, quick, quick.
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It's the fastest way to have fun. October 22, 1974. Copenhagen. Oleg Gordievsky and Richard Bromhead leave the bar where they've spent the past hour. It's taken months to arrange the meeting they agreed on at the badminton court. But now it's finally happened. They've talked like old colleagues enjoying an after work wind down. Now they need somewhere more private to discuss the delicate matter they have been circling all evening. Defection. The night is crisp and quiet. They walk through the light snow to a nearby safe house. Bromhead turns a key in the lock and the two men sit down at the small, bare table. Inside, the atmosphere has shifted. Bromhead no longer holds back. We know you have worked in line n of the First Chief Directorate, the most secret of all KGB departments, which runs illegals all over the world. Gordievsky does not hide his surprise that London is aware of the Soviet Union's global network of deep cover agents living under false identities. But he says nothing. Tell me, who is the PR line deputy in your section? The person in charge of political intelligence gathering and agent running? After a pause, Gordievsky breaks into a broad grin. I am. Bromhead is momentarily taken aback. He feels conflicted. Gordievsky seems genuine, a man he can trust. And yet Bromhead knows better than to swallow a KGB officer's word. Bromhead reaches into his case and spreads out a handful of newspaper clippings about atrocities, gulags and repression in the Soviet Union. I am in fact, aware of my government's actions. Do you think I'd have come here if I required further convincing that I must work to end my country's criminal regime? Bromhead studies him. Suspicion rises in the back of his mind. Has this all been a bit too easy? Gordievsky catches the Englishman's flicker of concern. The phone call I made during the Prague Spring. You were listening in? Yes. Bromhead looked surprised. Well, not me personally, but yes, we heard you. Naturally, I was surprised it took you so long to approach me. After that, I really couldn't have made things much clearer. Bromhead nods slowly. He and the Danes totally missed the subtext of that phone call. Is this a power play? Gordievsky's way of showing he's the one in control here? You'll need something to convince London, I expect. Would it help if I told you how the KGB forges identities? The illegals we send abroad, how they live, how they're sustained? I have the names, if not the addresses. Bromhead is jolted by the weight of what's being offered. Gordievsky leans back. I have only a few conditions. I do not want your money and I will not do anything to harm my colleagues here in Copenhagen. You understand? Your colleagues. I don't think loyalty runs very deep in the kgb. The words land heavy. Gordievsky looks away, saddened. He wonders if he is making a terrible mistake. Yet beneath the doubt, conviction burns. He wants to build a better future for his country. He dreams of a Russia freed from fear and deceit. And he longs for a life where the secrets he keeps serve something greater than a lie. He is prepared to betray his government to make it happen. A few months later, MI6 headquarters, London on the Soviet desk, Jeffrey Guskett skim reads the latest dispatch from Copenhagen. His eyes widen. Then he bolts for his superior's office. The intel from Bromhead. It's magnificent. His man has laid out the KGB's organizational chart, chapter and verse. Even the illegals department. No dangle would ever give up a detail like this. He's for real. Guskett's superior checks the dispatch. He nods in approval at the bounty of KGB secrets revealed by Gordievsky. You've done well, but we play the long game. He's still young. He has promotions ahead of him. Let's not act on any of this just yet. See what else he can supply first. Gusket nods and Guskett. Keep the circle small on this yet. Absolutely, sir. And I hope you don't mind me saying, but I don't think the CIA should be included in that circle. It is a fateful choice. By cutting the CIA out, Britain keeps sole claim to this well placed spy inside the kgb. But if exposed, that decision could damage the trust with its closest ally. A few months later, Copenhagen Gordievsky strolls through a park with Leila, a Russian woman 11 years his junior. She is pretty and bright eyed, a typist at the World Health Organization with a shock of dark hair and long eyelashes. Gordievsky's official cover is as the press attache at the embassy. On paper, the pair are drafting an article on Copenhagen, something to help secure a job at a newspaper which might in time prove useful to Gordievsky in practice. This is their fifth meeting and they are yet to write a single line. You know you're a terrible collaborator. We've talked about everything but the article. It's all useful background material. I'm sure. Journalists need to be inquisitive people. They're paid to be interested in the world. They've spoken of music, of books, of childhoods lived in the shadow of KGB fathers. She suspects her mentor might also be a KGB officer. He knows that she is not. He checked the files. Gordievsky relishes his new role as an educator. In Layla, he has found a flattering student, someone who is interested in his knowledge and experience, a feeling he has not known for many years. Their common ground feels to Oleg both dangerously and satisfyingly intimate. Leila stops to look at a bird nesting in a tall tree. While she's occupied, Gordievsky studies her face. He cannot help but compare her to his wife, Jelena. The two women could couldn't be more different. Where Yelena is Sharp tongued and quick to scorn, Layla is gentle and unworldly. Where Yelena meets life with defiance, Layla listens, still eager to learn. In Yelena, he sees duty and resentment. In Layla, possibility. Layla feels Gordievsky's eyes on her and turns to face him. He investigates her dark, admiring eyes. She holds his gaze with a sudden dread. He realizes he is falling in love. This is madness. An affair would open the door to another world of secrets. The KGB frowns on adultery and even more on divorce. A compromising photo could be used against him. He would lose his job and with it, his usefulness to Britain and his life in the West. And yet he feels his longing grow inexorably. Besides, he is already a citizen of one secret world. What is another? Deception. Two years later 1977 the Soviet embassy, Copenhagen. A cipher clerk drops a folder containing a bundle of microfilm strips onto Oleg Gordievsky's desk. Microfilm that contains images of the latest letters, instructions and reports sent from KGB headquarters in Moscow. Intel that lays bare Moscow's thinking and plans in Denmark. Gordievsky pretends to be mildly irritated by the additional work. He makes a show of putting the microfilm into his safe. But instead he slips the microfilm into an envelope, which he slides into the inside pocket of his jacket. He leaves the embassy for his lunch break and catches a train out to toward the suburbs. At a small station in the north of the city, Gordievsky spots Jeffrey Guskett, his MI6 handler. He's sitting in the window of a nearby cafe, cradling a cup of coffee and reading a newspaper. Neither man acknowledges the other. Their plan is simple and well rehearsed. Gordievsky will place the microfilm in a hiding place for Guskett to collect. Gaskett will then head to a public bathroom and use a small portable device built for him by MI6's engineers to copy the strip. Gaskett will then return the microfilm to Gordievsky. The whole process should take less than 30 minutes, after which Gordievsky can return to the embassy and replace the microfilm without raising suspension. Gordievsky heads to a payphone, drops a coin into the slot and dials a number he knows does not exist. While he pretends to wait for the line to connect, he tucks the envelope of microfilm under the shelf that holds the phone book, Pretending to be irritated by a lack of response on the line. Gordievsky replaces the handset and without a glance toward the cafe, steps out of the phone booth, leaving the microfilm in its hiding place. A few minutes later, from inside the cafe, Gusket watches Gordievsky head toward the park. He drains the last of his coffee, leaves the cafe and strolls toward the phone booth. Excuse me. It's urgent. Before Guskett can reach the booth, a commuter barges him and with an apologetic glance, lifts the receiver and starts to make a call. Guskett loiters, scanning the station, checking his watch. He has barely half an hour to retrieve the packet, duplicate it, and return it to Gordievsky. The minutes drag. The man shows no sign of ending his call. Come on, come on. Gasket glares, willing the commuter to end his call. At last, the receiver slams down. The booth empties. Gasket darts in and, barely concealing his actions, runs his fingers along the ledge to retrieve the microfilm. He hurries out and makes for the train station lavatory, as if he's been caught short. By the time he reaches the park, with the original microfilm in his hand and the copy in his briefcase, Gordievsky is already visible on the far side of the street, checking his watch. At the rendezvous point. Their window to make the exchange is closing. If Gordievsky isn't back on time, it'll attract attention. Shit. Gasket runs towards Gordievsky as if late for an appointment. Almost without slowing, he barges into the Russian and presses the microfilm into his hand. Sorry. Sorry. My mistake. Guskert disappears around the corner and runs until he needs to catch his breath. Leaning on a lamppost, he has the duplicate files. But the mission feels like anything but a success. And if Gordievsky is being watched, their hapless brush past will surely have been noted. And that could alert Moscow to the mole inside its embassy. A few weeks later. Summer 1977. Copenhagen. Gordievsky sits with his superior, Mikhail Lubimov, at a waterfront bar. The two men share a fondness for English literature, and over time, a friendship has grown. Tonight, however, Gordievsky seems restless. What's going on, Oleg? You don't seem yourself. Gordievsky hesitates, then leans in. It's Jelena. I don't love her anymore, and I'm not sure she ever loved me. Our marriage is over, Oleg. Your colleagues as much as spouses, you must find a way to work together. We all have partnerships of convenience. That's the thing. It's become inconvenient. Lubimov looks puzzled, then catches Gordievsky's meaning. Oh, Oleg, surely not. You fell for your mistress. Gordievsky shakes his head sadly. It's not like that. This person, she's special. We want to be together. Properly. Formally, I mean. Lubimov exhales through puffed cheeks. You know how the KGB view scandal. They are puritans. Or they pretend to be. If you do this, there will be no further promotions or foreign postings. You'll spend years in the wild before they let you back in. If they ever let you back in. It is a bitter truth. Gordievsky had been tipped as a future head of the Scandinavian and British desks. But the KGB does not forgive divorce. I can't live without her. And I want a family. You know this. I've always wanted a family. Lubimov sighs again, almost paternally. I'll put in a word for you, Oleg, but it probably won't help. What a shame. You're an excellent officer. Gordievsky nods, staring out at the gray water. The choice before him is stark and immovable. Duty or love. Nine months later, an MI6 safe house in Copenhagen. Gordievsky is feeling paranoid, as he was warned his divorce is set to destroy his career. He's already been told to return to Moscow, where it will be far more dangerous for him to continue spying for MI6. It's tempting to go to ground, but Gordievsky has decided to go to Moscow anyway. He now intends to find out as much as he can about the system he has come to loathe in order to destroy it. The plan comes with major risks. There will be no safe house in the Soviet capital, and if he falls under suspicion, it will be almost impossible for Britain to rescue their agent. But today, MI6 are hoping to offer him some reassurance. With Guskett is a new member of the London team. Valerie Petit, 48 years old, unmarried. Once a secretary, now trusted with active operations at MI6. She is one of only three people in the service who knows Gordievsky's name and identity. Mr. Gordievsky, you asked what would happen if you ever needed to flee Moscow. I have an answer to that problem. Gordievsky looks surprised. Moscow is a city under tight control. The KGB's eyes and ears are everywhere, and MI6 has never attempted to smuggle a spy out of the Soviet Union. But Petit is not easily daunted. Here's how it works. Every two weeks, one of our officers at the embassy in Moscow will pass the bread shop opposite Hotel Ukraine. They will do this at half seven in the morning. If you want extraction, you appear there with a Safeway bag in hand, while wearing a grey cap and trousers. Gordievsky Tilts his head, listening intently, committing the details to memory. The plastic bag from a British supermarket is a nice touch. Very few Russians will have one, so there's almost no risk of misidentification. Petit continues. Wait there for 20 minutes. Within that time, one of our officers will confirm the signal by walking past you wearing grey trousers while carrying a green Harrods bag and eating a chocolate bar. Any chocolate bar? No, a Kit Kat or a Mars bar. That's the same sign your signal's been received. Next, Petit outlines the escape route. Once Gordievsky triggers the operation, he will have to get out of Moscow by himself and reach a highway lay by near the Finnish border. The layby is half concealed by a rocky outcrop. There he will be met by MI6's team, who will be driving cars with diplomatic plates. We'll put you in the boot, sedate you and drive through the border. Diplomatic cars aren't meant to be searched. Though in your country, nothing is certain, I suppose. Gordievsky and Guskett exchange a glance. Both men look grim. Gordievsky shakes his head. It will never work. Too many things to go wrong. Gaskett tries to interject, what about? But Petit cuts in, polite and firm. We've explored all the alternatives. This is the best plan we have and it can work. Petit hands Gordievsky a volume of Shakespeare's sonnets. Tucked inside the back cover, you'll find a sheet of cellophane with all the details. Keep it safe. Gordievsky slips the book into his briefcase. Gasket notices the dour look on his face. It's clear that Gordievsky doesn't believe MI6 is escape. Escape plan has any chance of success. Oleg, we won't contact you in Moscow, not even once. It's too dangerous. Unless you trigger this escape plan, you're on your own. Remember, Safeway bag, gray cap and trousers, chocolate bar. The weight of parting settles. These strangers are more than handlers now. They are his guardians. The kind of friends who might one day save him or just as easily get him killed in Moscow. He knows the KGB never stops watching. 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 thespywhoondery.com from Wondery. This is the first episode in our season, the Spy who Outran the kgb. 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 the Spy and the traitor by Ben McIntyre and next stop Execution by Oleg Gordievsky. The Spy who is hosted by me, Indra Varma. Our show is produced by Vespucci with writing and story editing by Yellowant for Wondery For Yellowant this episode was written by Judy Cooper and researched by Louise Byrne and Marina Watson. Pronunciation guidance from Russ Avery. Our managing producer is Jay Priest for Vespucci Our senior producer is Ashley Clivery. Our sound designer is Alex Port Felix Natalia Rodriguez is the supervising producer. Music supervisor is Scott Velasquez for Frisson Sync. Executive producers for Vespucci are Johnny Galvin and Daniel Turkan. Executive producer for Yellowant is Tristan Donovan. Executive producers for Wandery are Estelle Doyle, Theodora Leludis and Marshall Louis.