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- [00:00]
Raza Jaffrey
Wondery plus subscribers can binge full seasons.
- [00:03]
David Kimchi
Of the Spy who early and ad free on Apple Podcasts or The Wondery app. July 1978 Gonda Province, Ethiopia. In a sparse one room home in the remote hill country, Farede Aklam strokes his wife's cheek as she weeps into her hands. Close by, their 5 month old baby sleeps in its bed. My love, I'm sorry. The police are hunting me. I have to leave. But you've done nothing wrong. That doesn't matter. We're Jews. The secret police are always looking for reasons to hunt us. If they catch me, I'm as good as dead. Aklom and his wife are part of Beta Israel, an isolated Jewish community that's lived in Ethiopia for more than 2,500 years. Throughout that time, they've often been persecuted and ostracized, but have fiercely maintained their loyalty to their Jewish identity and beliefs. But now a Marxist junta has seized power and is increasing the oppression with brutal rounds of arrests, harassment and disappearances. And Aklom's on its blacklist. He's a teacher and community leader, someone who could mobilise opposition to the regime. The secret police have already raided his home once and could return any minute. If they catch him, he faces prison, torture or execution. His only option is to run, to get out of Ethiopia entirely. And that means finding a smuggler who can guide him on the perilous trek across the desert. Aklom walks in the cold desert night through the rough backcountry. Next to him is the smuggler he's hired to get him out of eastern Ethiopia. It's taken them three weeks to walk here. They move at night to avoid the police. Aklam is exhausted. His entire body aches with hunger. But now they're near the border with Sudan. Just a few miles more and he'll be beyond the police's reach. The smuggler grabs his arm and pulls him down. Crouching, he points at a line of four by fours driving in the distance. Bandits. We hide. Then we can cross the border. Khartoum, the capital of Sudan. Aklam wakes with a start. He looks around the garbage strewn salvage yard where he has slept rough for weeks. It's more than a month since he crossed the border, but as an undocumented refugee, he still far from safe. Sudan is a dictatorship and a member of the Arab League. As a Jew, if Aklom is arrested, his life will be at risk. He's also out of money. The cash he brought with him from Ethiopia is long gone and he hasn't eaten since yesterday. As he gazes at the rats scurrying through the salvage yard, a desperate idea comes to him. Many years ago, he worked with American Jewish organizations in Ethiopia. If he could contact them, maybe they could help. But Aklom doesn't even have the money to write a letter or send a telegram. He slides off his right shoe. Inside is his wedding ring, his last possession. Tears come to his eyes as he squeezes the ring tightly, knowing what he must do. A few hours later, in a telegram office, Acklom scratches out a message to his American contacts. He sold his wedding ring so he could send a telegram. His message asks for help, but is written in carefully coded language so as not to identify himself as Jewish. Aklom raises the message to his lips and kisses it, whispering a silent prayer. This is his last hope. Two days later Tel Aviv, Israel David Kimchi sits at his desk at the headquarters of the Israeli spy agency Mossad. He's an agency veteran with years of high level operations behind him. A subordinate appears at his office door. Kimchi waves him over. So we've just had a call from a contact. They've received a telegram from an Ethiopian Jew seeking help. Kimchi shakes his head in frustration. We can't operate in Ethiopia. You know that. It's too dangerous. Nothing we can do. But that's the thing. This guy's not in Ethiopia. He's in Sudan. Kimchi's expression changes. He gestures for the subordinate to sit, an audacious plan already forming in his mind. Mossad never thought that Ethiopian Jews might escape to Sudan. But this could change everything.
- [05:33]
Raza Jaffrey
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- [06:09]
David Kimchi
From wondery I'm Raza Jaffrey, 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're covering one of Mossad's most daring operations. A mission to help Ethiopia's Jews make the perilous journey to Israel. And to do it, the Israeli spy agency would create one of the wildest cover stories in espionage history. What you're about to hear are dramatized reconstructions of events based on the information that's been made public. But remember, in the shadowy realm of the spy, the full story is rarely clear. This is episode one of the Spy who Ran Mossad's Fake Hotel. The Escape February 1979 one week after Farede Akhlum's telegram was passed to Israeli Intelligence, Mossad Headquarters, Tel Aviv Danny Limor strides down the corridor. He's a lean, athletic officer in his early 30s who has just returned from a dangerous mission in Nigeria. He still sports the scraggly beard and unkempt blond hair of his time in the field. Up ahead, he sees his commander, David Kimchi, waiting outside the office of Mossad's director, Yitzhak Hofi. Kimchi scowls at Limor. Danny, you could have at least shaved. Come on, this isn't about my beard. Are we going to Sudan or not? That depends. The prime minister wants us to help the Ethiopians, but Hoffy doesn't trust you to follow the rules. David, you know I'm the only guy who can do this. Kimchi gives Li Moore a hard stare. Maybe. But if Hoffy thinks you want to do it, he won't let you. So let me do the talking. Kimchi opens the door to Hoffy's office and raises his hand in greeting. Hoffy's receding hairline and grandfatherly air belie his history as one of Israel's most fearless spymasters. He looks straight at Kimchi. Okay, what have you got for me? Something about Ethiopia. Kimchi smiles at Hoffy's straight to business manner. Bringing the Jews of Ethiopia to Israel is still a priority, right? Yes, but we can't operate in Ethiopia. The Jews of Ethiopia were only officially recognized by the State of Israel in 1975, three years earlier. Since then, Mossad has tried to assist them, but thanks to Ethiopia's ongoing civil war, those operations have become impossible. Kimchi gives Hofi another smile. Well, a few days ago, a contact of Dani's received credible information that one Ethiopian Jew made it across the desert to Sudan. If one guy can do it, maybe others can too. It could become the basis of a new evacuation route. Hoffy pauses, glancing at Li Moore. Sudan is an enemy state. We're officially at war. Well, that's why it would have to be an undercover operation. First, someone would have to go to Khartoum and find this guy. Let's say I approve this. Who do we send there? Well, there's Avner or maybe Shai. Hoffy shakes his head. They're good, but they don't have the balls for something like this. Well, there's always Danny. It was his contact who got in touch. Hoffy fixes Lymour with a steely gaze. Okay, but only if you shave off that beard, boss. I'll shave my head if that's what it takes. As the officers stand, Hoffy points at Limor and Danny. I want none of your usual shit. Be careful out there. Lymour flashes Hoffy a broad smile. You know me, boss. I'll do my best. Two weeks later, Khartoum. Danny l' Amour weaves through the crowded streets, a baseball cap pulled glow over his face. He turns into a cluttered shop piled high with canned food and old clothes. He smiles at the shopkeeper, who watches him warily. Salaam alaikum. I don't suppose you know a man named Faredi Aklam? He's Ethiopian. The shopkeeper shakes his head. Nimor sighs and backs out of the shop. All he knows about Feredi Acklam is his name. He doesn't even have a picture of the man he's trying to find in a chaotic city of over a million people. So he's mapped out the areas where Ethiopian refugees congregate and is now methodically asking every shopkeeper if they know Akhlum. But all he has gotten is hostile stares. He's not surprised. He entered Sudan two weeks ago under a false identity. But everywhere he goes he encounters the same wall of silence and suspicion. The refugees are desperately afraid of the authorities and of informers in their midst. And any Ethiopian Jew will be doubly cautious. For them, Sudan is enemy territory. Limor enters the next shop. This one sells wigs and hair extensions. Salaam alaikum. I don't suppose you know a man named Faraday Ahlum? He's Ethiopian. The shopkeeper's eyes narrow. Why do you want to know? Who are you? Nimor's heart leaps. This might be it, but he understands the shopkeeper's distrust about the unknown white man asking after a refugee. I have a message from his wife, but I have to give it to him personally. Look, you don't have to tell me where he is. Just tell him to meet me at the Blue Nile Hotel. I'll be there every evening between 6 and 7. The shopkeeper nods his head slowly. Limour places his hand on his heart and bows in a traditional Arab gesture of thanks. Two nights later, 6:30pm Lemour sips hibiscus tea in the restaurant of the Blue Nile Hotel. Khartoum has only two major hotels, and most foreigners stay at the Hilton. As a white man, Limour is glaringly out of place here. Across the restaurant, he sees a man enter. Limour's pulse starts to race. The man looks Ethiopian, and Limaure's seen him before. Yesterday evening he. He came into the restaurant but left almost immediately. Could it be Aklom? The man circles the room, trying not to draw attention. Then, for a split second, their eyes meet. The man immediately turns and strides out of the restaurant. Nimor springs up and follows. The man is walking away from fast. Li runs to catch up and grabs his shoulder. Are you Farede Acklom? The man hesitates with fear. Why? Your telegram asked for a ticket out of here. I'm your ticket. Acklom's eyes widen in surprise. But then Nimor remembers that a white man and an Ethiopian talking together on the street might attract the wrong sort of attention. Keep walking. Aklam seems to understand and resumes walking. Limor pulls his baseball cap down low and follows. Did you walk here from Ethiopia? Yes, from my village. Do you think others could make this journey? Aklom pauses, as if he had barely even considered the possibility. Maybe. But the way is hard. Are there other Ethiopian Jews in Sudan now? Possibly. Maybe a few. But we keep ourselves hidden. Can you help me find them? If you can bring them to me, I might be able to get them to Israel. Aklom stops in his tracks. He turns to Limor, his eyes shining to Israel, To Jerusalem. For more than 2,000 years, the Jews of Ethiopia have told stories of the land of Jerusalem and dreamed that one day they would return. Limor can see Aklan blinking back tears. My wife and baby are still in Ethiopia. I have to get them to Israel. Yamor fixes Aklam with a penetrating stare. I can help you get there, but you have to help me find others who have made it here as well. Aklam nods in agreement, tears of relief now streaming down his cheeks. Two weeks later, Nimor speeds down a highway at the wheel of a Land Rover in the passenger seat, Aklom leans back, letting his hand catch the breeze through the open window. The two are driving from Khartoum to the refugee camps in the Sudanese state of Khadaref, near the border with Ethiopia. They want to find out if other Ethiopian Jews made it there. Limora can see that Aklom is starting to relax around him. He's no longer the terrified refugee he met at the Blue Nile Hotel. Even so, Limour is Not ready to reveal that he's with Mossad. As far as Aklom knows, Limour is a French anthropologist studying East African tribes. Acklom turns to him, shielding his eyes from the blazing sun. So in Jerusalem, is it true the streets are made of gold? Jerusalem? No. The streets are made of stone and cement like everywhere else. Aklan grins in resignation. When we were young, they told us that Jerusalem was made of gold. And the water tastes sweet like honey. Jerusalem has always been our people's dream. Well, I hate to disappoint you, but the water just tastes like water. But you know when you're there, when you stand by the wall of the temple, well, you feel something. Namour stops talking mid sentence. A row of military jeeps is blocking the road ahead. He turns to Aklom. ROADBLOCK Stay calm. Let me do the talking. Acklom tenses as they slow down for the roadblock. Limour lowers the window as a Sudanese soldier approaches. Papers now. Limor hands over the fake French passport that Mossad prepared for him. The soldier examines it, comparing the picture to Lima's face. After a moment, he hands the passport back. Then he looks at Acklom and gestures for his papers. Acklom simply shakes his head helplessly. As an unregistered refugee, he has no papers. Limour turns to the soldier. He's with me. My assistant. The soldier's hand moves to his gun. Papers now or he comes with me. Get out of the car. Limor's heart races. If the soldier sees Aklom, the mission is over. And if they find out Aklam is Jewish, they might torture or kill him. Limour makes a split second decision and snaps at the soldier. I said he's with me. Get me your commanding officer. The soldier hesitates for a moment, his hands still on his gun. Then, seemingly cowered by Limour's fury, he turns and walks towards one of the tents to fetch his commander. The moment the soldiers enter the tent, Limo slams his foot on the accelerator. Gunshots ring out behind them. But the car is soon out of range and the soldiers don't give chase. Once they're a safe distance away, Limor slows the car to a stop and turns towards Aklan, who is ashen with terror. It's Aklam that speaks first. You don't drive like you're just an anthropologist. Nimour stays poker faced, ignoring the implication. From now on, we drive at night and will keep to back roads to avoid the roadblocks. Acklom simply nods, still terrified about what and who he's got himself involved with Two weeks later, Lamour and Arklom sit by their campfire, warming themselves as evening falls over the fire. Aklom fries a pan of desert ants for their dinner. The two have been living rough for weeks while searching the refugee camps. They are both filthy and utterly exhausted, and they haven't found any other Ethiopian Jews. The strain is showing on Akhlim's face. Nimor also feels the pressure. He hasn't made contact with headquarters in almost two months, and he knows that if they can't find any other Ethiopian Jews in of spite Sudan Mossad will call off the mission. Limor sits up as he hears a 4x4 approaching. He tenses, preparing to either run or fight, but Aklam motions him to be still. It's okay. This is the man we're waiting for. You sure we can trust him? Acklam shrugs. What choice do we have? The car stops and the a tall, thin man emerges. He's a Muslim cattle smuggler Aklam has made contact with. Aklam invites the smuggler to join them by their fire. Salaam, my friend. Salaam. What can I do for you two travelers? Aklam fixes the smuggler with an intense stare. You know where I'm from and I know you crossed the border to Ethiopia. I need you to take a message to my people. Tell them to come here to make the journey to Sudan. The smuggler looks thoughtfully into the fire. The village is a long way away. The journey will be expensive. Nemour leans forward, holding out a wad of US Dollars. The smuggler's eyes widen at what is a small fortune in Sudan. Okay, the sea. You're serious. I'll deliver you a message. I can leave tomorrow. As the smuggler takes the money, Limor and Aklan share a glance. This is a huge risk. The smuggler could simply disappear or worse, betray them to the authorities. But he also knows Aklom is right. They have no choice. If there's any hope for the mission, they must take this risk. Foreign.
- [21:42]
Raza Jaffrey
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- [22:06]
David Kimchi
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- [22:09]
Raza Jaffrey
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- [22:18]
David Kimchi
Spring 1979 two months after meeting the smuggler Paris, France In a secure room of the Israeli embassy, Danny Limour picks up the phone. A few days ago he was urgently summoned from Sudan to check in with Mossad headquarters, and he's terrified that the mission will be cancelled. He spent months in the field and is yet to find any more Ethiopian Jews. Limour readies himself as his commander, David Kimchi answers the call. David, what's going on? Why am I sitting in Paris, not doing my job in Khartoum? Hoffy wants you back in Tel Aviv. He wants a briefing on your progress in person anymore Goes quiet. Offie is Mossad's director. He's sure that if he returns to Tel Aviv, Hoffy won't let him go back to Sudan. Before he left, he promised Aklam he would return. It's a promise he intends to keep. David, please. We're trying to get messages to the villages in Ethiopia. We need more time. There's a pause, then a new voice comes on the line. Hoffy. He's been listening the whole time. Danny, we need to assess this mission. Have you even found any of our people there? Boss, please, we're close. I need at least one more month. Nimor senses Hoffy hesitating. You have one week. Nimor smiles and punches the air at this small triumph. Let's say two weeks. You got some chutzpah. All right, two weeks. But not one day more. Limor exhales in relief, but it's only a brief respite. The if he and Ahlam cannot find any more Ethiopian Jews, the mission is over. Two days later Gadaref, Sudan Akhlum walks through a squalid refugee camp. Ethiopian refugee families, thin with hunger, shiver around campfires, trying to make the supplies that they get from Western aid agencies stretched to another meal. Aklam knows he can't simply approach people and ask if they're Jewish. The camps are full of people who would readily turn over Jews to win favor from the authorities. Any Ethiopian Jews in this camp will be hiding their identities. Then, from the corner of his eye, Aklam sees them. A small group, a group of refugees gathered together but without their campfire lit. It's Friday night, the start of Sabbath. Even in the freezing desert night, having walked many hundreds of miles, these families won't break the Sabbath by lighting a fire. And if they're here, there's only one explanation. The smuggler must have delivered his message. Aklam has found his first Jewish refugees. Four days later, near the Gadaref refugee camps in Sudan, Limour speeds through the desert in his Land Rover. It's only three days till Hoffy's deadline, just 72 hours to save his mission. Ahead, he sees the the place he agreed to meet Aklan before he went to Paris. A scraggly tree blown almost sideways by the desert wind. Limour slows the car and jumps out. As he does, several figures rise from the ground where they've been sleeping. One of them is Aklan. Limor runs over and embraces him. Danny, you came back. I told you I would, didn't I? Who are your friends? Limor gestures to the five men standing nearby. Aklom smiles, a twinkle in his eye. These are our brothers. Our message goes through. They walked here from Ethiopia. Limor looks at the men. They are in terrible condition, starving and terrified. One is covered in bruises, the victim of a savage beating. His arm hangs limp in a makeshift sling. Still, they have found Ethiopian Jews. The mission can continue. But now Limor has a bigger problem. He may have convinced some of Ethiopia's Jews to come to Sudan, but now he needs a way to get them out. One month later Khartoum Le More breaks to start a game of pool, managing to pot a red ball. He glances over at his friend Jean Michel and gives a wink of confidence. Jean Michel rolls his eyes and takes a swig of beer. The two are relaxing in the bar of the Hilton Hotel, the main gathering place for Westerners in Khartoum. Jean Michel is a Belgian official for the United Nations High Commissioner for Refugees. L' Amour met him a few weeks earlier and is developing him as a contact, bonding over a shared love of motorbikes, beer, and football. Nemours pots another ball as Jean Michel chalks his cue. So, back from the field, huh? How's the anthropology survey going? Limour doesn't bat an eyelid at the inquiry into his cover story. Yeah, interesting. I was up near the border with Ethiopia. You know what's crazy? But you know I'm Jewish, right? Well, up in the refugee camps, there are black Jews from Ethiopia. Black Jews? You're kidding. It's true they walked across the desert because of the persecution in Ethiopia. But here in Sudan, they're obviously targets as well. L' Amour takes another shot, missing on purpose, then gestures for Jean Michel to take his turn and continues. I want to try and help them get to France, but obviously in Sudan I can't go through official channels. You do some passport work for the unhcr, right? Jean Michel pauses as he leans over the pool table. I'd love to help you, but I can't bypass the rules. If I got caught, I'd lose my job. I might end up in jail. I'm not asking you to break any rules. Just take me along next time you go and collect passports for your refugees at the Interior Ministry. Just so I can see how the process works. Jean Michel thinks for a moment before giving a shrug. Oh, well, that. That should be fine. Yeah, sure. Nemour smiles in thanks before leaning over and smashing another red into the pocket. Three weeks later Khartoum Le More waits in line at the passport office of the Sudanese Interior Ministry. He's come here three times with Jean Michel now, enough time for the clerks to get to know his face and for him to memorize the process the UNHCR goes through to obtain passports for the refugees in its care. The space of Clarks the desk becomes free and Limour steps forward. The board clerk flashes a momentary glance of recognition. Refugees. Limor smiles. Just as he hoped, the clerk assumes he works for the UNHCR. Yeah. 16, please. Limor watches as the clerk pulls 16 passports from the pile on his desk and begins robotically stamping them with the officer's insignia. Four days later, Lemur and Aklam stand at the entrance of Khartoum airport, watching as a group of 16 Ethiopian Jews walk towards passport control. Most of them are from villages where life has remained unchanged for hundreds of years. Many had never ridden in a car before, let alone an airplane. Limor and Aklam have tried their best to prepare the refugees for the journey ahead and to instruct them on how to navigate the airport security. Limor turns to Acklom. Do you think they'll be okay? Acklam pauses, then turns his eyes up towards the sky. We've done all we can. It's in God's hands now. May 1979 Ben Gurion Airport, Tel Aviv One day after Limor and Aklam watched their first group of refugees pass through airport security, a Mossad officer sits at the front of an El Al flight that's just landed. He cranes his neck to look back at the 16 Ethiopian refugees under his care. There are no direct flights from Sudan to Israel, so Danny Limour put the group on a flight to Athens, where this officer met them the previous day. Now they are finally in Israel, but their arrival is top secret. One leak to the media could alert Sudanese authorities to what's going on and in danger of future flights. The refugees press their faces to the plane's windows, trying to steal a glance of their promised land. The plane stops and the door swings open. Okay, everybody up. Welcome to Israel. The the Mossad officer leads the refugees out of the plane. He can read the shell shock on their faces. They're traumatized from being forced to leave their homes and the hardships they've endured on the journey. But there's also something else in their expressions, something the officer can't quite put words to. He watches as each refugee descends the ladder and immediately drops to their knees to kiss the ground. The Mossad officer's eyes fill with tears as he realizes that for these people, this flight doesn't just mean safety. It's the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy held for countless generations, that one day they would return home to the land of Jerusalem. Seven months later Lamour drives a large flatbed truck through the Sudanese desert. Acklam sits in the passenger seat, watching the road ahead. In the back of the truck are several dozen Ethiopians, entire families who risked death to make the arduous walk to Sudan because they heard that there are people there waiting to take them to the promised land. And not all who left survived the journey. Akram turns to Limor. Used to be that we couldn't find enough Jews in Sudan. Now we have too many. The more flashes Aclam a smile. Your smuggler did his job too well. But there's only so many people we can put on flights without the secret police noticing. They may have to find a new way to get them out. Acklom nods but then jolts to attention and points ahead. Roadblock. Limour strains his eyes and sees the military checkpoint. Acklom sticks his arm out of the window and bangs on the side of the truck. This is the signal for the refugees to lie flat in the back of the truck and cover themselves with tarpaulin. Fallen. Namor and Aklan can only pray that they will obey their instructions and hold their nerf. Namor pulls the truck to a stop. A soldier approaches, an AK47 rifle slung over his shoulder. Papers. Limour smiles at the guard, handing over the false identity papers Mossad prepared for him and Aklan. The guard stunnies the the papers, his eyes flicking to Limour and Uckland's faces. Limour feels tension rising within him. If the guard chooses to search the truck, they will all be thrown in prison or worse. But even as his heart thumps, he's amazed by the refugees hiding in the back. They are staying absolutely silent, even the babies and young children. Eventually the guard hands back the documents and motions for the truck to drive on as the checkpoint recedes in the distance, Limor turns to Aklan. How do they manage to stay quiet like that? They are real heroes. Akla nods thoughtfully. My people know what it is to suffer, to live in danger. And they can hold their nerve. Nine months later September 1980. Limor and Aklam drive through Khartoum towards one of their safe houses. What started as a trickle of refugees fleeing Ethiopia has become a flood. There are only so many passports that Limor and Aklam can procure at any one time. So they've seen set up two safe houses for the refugees to live in while waiting for flights out. But as they pull up outside one of the safe houses, Limour notices something's wrong. A lookout should be keeping watch outside, but he's not there. Limour turns to Aklo. Stay here. Keep out of sight. L' Amour slides out of the truck and approaches the safe house. Limour gives the coded knock. The door slams open and two Sudanese secret police officers rush out. Who are you? What are you doing here? They grab Limour, roughly, throwing him against the wall. Limour feels the cold metal of a gun barrel pressed against his temple. Adrenaline courses through his body, but he stays ice cold. United Nations. United Nations. Haram. At the mention of the United nations, the secret police officers seem to pause. They release him and back away slightly, but keep their guns pointing at him. Limour doesn't wait for permission, but begins backing off slowly. When he's halfway to the truck, he turns and begins walking fast, half expecting to be shot in the bag. Limor climbs back into the truck and exchanges a glance with Ackland, who is hiding in the passenger footwell. Without a word, Nemour drives off. He knows it's already too late for the Ethiopian Jews who were in this hideout. But now his mind races with anxiety. What about the other safe house? Have the secret police found that too? Is the entire operation compromised? That night, l' Amour darts from alley to alley on the streets of Khartoum, keeping to the shadows. Gradually, he approaches the wall of the second safe house. This time, he's not going to risk knocking on the door. Lmour launches himself up the wall behind the house, lifts himself over and drops quietly into the courtyard. Moving silently, he comes up behind the sentry, who is keeping lookout. Moving like a cat, Namour grabs the sentry from behind, clamping a hand over his mouth. It's me. Stay calm. I just need to know if everything's okay. Have the police been here? Namor feels the man relax and releases his grip. The sentry turns to face Namor. There's a look of fear in his eyes. We're okay. The police haven't been here, but they raided the other house. They have a photo of your partner, Aklan. They're hunting him. Limor freezes. If the secret police know about Aklam and have his picture, they could arrest him at any moment. He's already helped transport dozens of Ethiopian Jews to safety. Now he must get Aklam out of Sudan as well. The next morning, Lamour drives Aklom towards Khartoum airport. For the past year, Nemour has been charming a young woman who works for Swissair by bringing her regular gifts of European chocolate. Now he's cashing in that goodwill. The more has convinced her to sneak Aum onto the VIP list for a flight to Switzerland and make arrangements to ensure his papers won't be checked before boarding. With the secret police hunting him, this is a's only hope of escape. Both men tense as they approach the airport's traffic barrier. If the guard demands to see Ackland's papers, he will almost certainly be arrested. Lamour flashes the car lights, just as the Swiss Air woman said to do. After a tense moment, the barrier raises to let them through. Lemour guides the car to the VIP gate, but before he gets out, Acklam turns to him. Danny, thank you for what you've done for our people. Now Vere, thank you as you who started everything. I promise you I'll continue the mission and we'll meet again in Israel. Acklom smiles, tears coming to his eyes. Next year in Jerusalem. The two comrades pause for a moment. Then Acklam opens the car door and heads towards the waiting plane and to freedom. One year later 1981 the Red Sea coast, Sudan Lamour maneuvers his jeep through the desert as another Mossad officer struggles with a map and compass. They've been driving for days. Their new mission is to find a location from which the refugees can be evacuated by sea. There are simply too many to sneak out on commercial flights, but so far all they've managed to do is bake in the desert heat and dig their car out when it gets stuck on a sand dune. The car crests a hill, and both men sit bolt upright in their seats. The Mossad officer with the map blinks in disbelief. What the hell is that? And the boss. At the bottom of the hill, nestled on the shore of the sparkling blue sea, are several dozen buildings. But these aren't traditional Sudanese houses. Instead, they resemble Mediterranean vacation chalets with red tiled roofs and whitewashed walls. Limour gives the officer a quizzical glance and rolls the car forward. Limour drives down into the out of place settlement. The two men get out of their vehicle. They look around in complete bewilderment. It's like someone has built a French Riviera village deep in the desert wilderness. An old Sudanese man walks out from behind one of the buildings. Lamar waves him over. Hello. What is this place? The old man leans on his cane. This is Arus. Arus. Okay, but what is it for? Some Italians built it. They thought Europeans would come here to dive in the sea. The Europeans never came, so the Italians left. Now I take care of the place. Limo claps his hands together. It's perfect. The other officer spins around. What do you mean it's perfect? Danny? What are you planning? Lamore gives his fellow officer a mischievous smile. What am I planning? I'm gonna buy the place.
- [43:19]
Raza Jaffrey
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- [43:47]
David Kimchi
Have you got a spy story you'd like us to tell? Email your ideas to the spy whoanderee.com from Wandery this is the first episode in our season, the Spy who Ran Mossad's Fake Hotel. 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 Mossad Exodus by Gad Shimron and Red Sea Spies by Rafi Berg. The Spy who is hosted by me, Raza Jafri. Our show is produced by Vespucci with writing and story editing by Yellow Ant for Wandering for Yellow Ant. This episode was written by J.S. raffaelli and researched by Louise Byrne, with thanks to Guy Bahia. Our managing producer is Jay Priest for Vespucci. Our senior producers are Ashley Clevery and Philippa Geering. Our sound designer is Ivor Manley. Rachel Byrne is a supervising producer. Music supervisor is Scott Velasquez for Frison Sink. Executive producers for Vespucci are Johnny Galvin and Daniel Turkan, Executive producer for Yellow Ant is Tristan Donovan. Our senior producer for Wondery is Theodora Leludis, and our senior managing producer is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Chris Bourne and Marshall Louie.