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August 1941, the Portuguese Riviera. Double agent Dusko Popov enters the hall of the packed casino Esteril. Under sparkling chandeliers, elegantly dressed men and women gamble big money on spins of the roulette wheels. Popov heads to the bar. He's wearing a Savile Row tuxedo and there's $38,000 in his breast pocket.
His German spy master gave him the money earlier this evening. Popov's supposed to use it to pay the two British spies he claims to have recruited for the Germans, but in reality, those spies are actually British intelligence officers and he's going to give the money to MI6 first thing tomorrow morning.
The bartender greets Popov. Good evening, Mr. Popov. The usual? Yes, please. As the bartender prepares his drink, Popov lights a cigarette and checks behind him. And, just as he expected, his new shadow is there. All evening, Popov's been tailed by a British naval intelligence officer called Ian Fleming.
Popov doesn't know why Fleming's following him, but he assumes he's there to keep an eye on the money headed MI6's way. After all, it is ten times what the average person earns every year. Popov picks up his drink and approaches the gambling tables. He sits at an oval-shaped table where people are playing a form of baccarat, known as chemin de fer. The croupier prepares for the next round. Banker is Dr. Block.
Popov looks at Block. He's a small, wealthy man with a reputation for arrogant play. Popov notices Fleming positioning for a clear view of the table. The croupier turns to Block. "'Banker to call?' Block sits back and folds his arms so that they rest on his ample belly. "'Bank open!' Popov's hackles rise. He finds Block's declaration of unlimited stakes offensive, an unsporting attempt to intimidate other players."
The croupier turns to Popov. The gentleman can play. Popov looks at Block, then at Fleming, and feels an impulse to make both of them sweat. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out the fat wad of dollar bills, and places it onto the green baize. The chatter of the people standing around the table stops. Everyone stares at the pile of money on the table. Popov declares his bet. $38,000. Popov glances at Fleming.
His mouth is wide open at his face ashen. Bloch squirms in his seat. Even by Casino Echdoril's high rolling standards, this is a monumental bet. A bead of sweat runs down Bloch's cheek and drips onto his shirt. Popov turns to the croupier. I presume the casino will back this man's bet since you did not object to his call of bank open? We never back player's stakes, sir.
Popov sweeps the money off the table in feigned indignation. The casino should prohibit such irresponsible play. It's a disgrace and annoyance to serious players like myself. Popov slips the cash back into his tuxedo pocket and walks away, leaving Bloch humiliated. He heads past a relieved-looking Fleming and flashes him a knowing smile. Popov leaves certain that he's made a strong impression on the British Naval Intelligence Officer.
Wondery Plus subscribers can binge full seasons of The Spy Who early and ad-free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app. From Wondery, I'm Indra Varma and this is The Spy Who. Beneath the veneer of the everyday lurks the realm of the spy. It's a dark, dangerous world full of shadowy corners, sinister motives and corrupted morals.
A place of paranoia and infiltration, sabotage and manipulation. On the last episode, Yugoslavian playboy Dusko Popov agreed to help his friend Johnny Jebsen by spying for the German intelligence service, the Abwehr. But Popov immediately went double agent, working with the British to feed misleading information to the Nazis.
Now, the Abwehr are sending Popov to the still-neutral USA to build a spy network and report on the defences at the Pearl Harbour naval base. This is The Spy Who Inspired 007. Episode 2, Warning Signs.
It's August 12th, 1941, and at the luxurious Waldorf Astoria Hotel in midtown Manhattan, Popov sits by the window and bites into a room service club sandwich. He's just arrived in the city, and with Manhattan stretching out below him, he feels an urgent need to get out and explore. Popov ditches the club sandwich and prepares to leave.
But after months of having his hotel room in Lisbon searched, taking measures to detect intrusions has become ingrained. He places the top secret papers the Abwehr gave him before he left for America into his jacket pocket. He'd rather they were on his person than left alone. Next, he takes a pencil and marks out the exact position of his suitcases in the closet with faint lines. Then, wincing, he plucks a hair from his head
He carefully places the strand of hair between the clasps of his leather Gladstone bag, then snaps the bag shut so that it traps the hair. Counter surveillance measures in place, Popov heads out the door. Popov strolls through Manhattan, feeling invigorated by the city's energy. He wanders the bustling streets, admiring the gleaming skyscrapers towering above him and breathing in the smells of the hot dog stands.
He reaches Broadway and he sees a glamorous woman in a bright yellow rayon sharkskin dress heading in his direction. He tips his hat as she passes and then watches her saunter away. But a second later, he spots something he finds even more alluring. In the window of a car showroom, there's a maroon Buick Phaeton convertible. Popov stares at it transfixed. Unable to resist, he heads inside and finds the nearest car salesman.
I'm interested in the car in the window. The Buick? The salesman leads Popov towards the car. It's a great choice, sir. The best Buick yet. Coil springs, sliding roof, 15% more miles per gallon. Popov settles into the red leather driver's seat and runs a hand along the walnut dash. The salesman smiles. She's a beauty, isn't she, sir? She certainly is. I'll take her.
Popov leaves excited. His new Buick will help maintain his cover as a wealthy European playboy. And it's all the sweeter for knowing that the Nazis will be the ones footing the bill for his new ride. Half an hour later, Popov returns to his room at the Waldorf Astoria. But the moment he checks his suitcases, his good mood vanishes. The suitcases no longer line up with the faint pencil marks he made before going out.
Someone's entered the room and moved them. He tries not to overreact. It could just be a valet tidying his room, but there's a way to make sure. He bends down and carefully examines his Gladstone bag. The hair he placed in the clasp of the bag is gone. He thought he'd left this behind in Lisbon. But he's been in America less than 24 hours and the cat and mouse game of surveillance has already begun.
Two days later, on the 44th floor of the Rockefeller Center in New York, Popov enters the private office of Sam Foxworth, the head of the FBI field office in New York. Mr. Popov, pleased to meet you. They shake hands, but nothing about Foxworth's manner suggests he's pleased to see Popov. After the Abwehr decided to send Popov to America, British intelligence alerted the FBI to his status as a double agent.
The British also agreed to let the FBI run Popov as its agent during his time in the US. So now Popov works for the FBI for as long as the Abwehr want him in America. And it's fallen to Foxworth to oversee this double agent on loan. OK, Mr. Popov, let's see these German documents you've brought with you. Popov hands Foxworth a bunch of papers from his bag.
Something like that. Have your experts look at it.
There's no code in these letters. I'm sure of it. All right, enough games. Where's the information? Popov smiles.
May I suggest you fetch a microscope? The codebreaker fetches a microscope. Popov picks up one of the letters and angles it close to the bright light of the desk lamp. See how the light reflects off that full stop? Uh-huh. Look at it under the microscope. Foxworth places the letter under the microscope and looks down the viewfinder. His jaw drops. Well, I'll be damned. Whole pages hidden in a punctuation mark.
It's called a micro-dot, and the Germans are using it to send information secretly. All of the questions on that micro-dot are about the Pearl Harbor naval base. They must be planning some sort of attack. Foxworth gives Popov a doubting look. I'm not so sure. These questions are far too detailed. It smells like a trap to me. Popov frowns. He's sure his friend Johnny Ebsen would have warned him if the Abwehr were setting a trap for him. This interest is real.
"'My most trustworthy source in the Abwehr would have warned me if it was some hoax. "'You need to tell your superiors in Washington about the Axis powers' interest in this base.' "'Foxworth looks down the microscope again. "'These microdots are amazing. "'I need to take this to Washington, to Mr Hoover myself. "'He's going to be real interested in this. "'And you'll also make him aware of the German and Japanese interest in Pearl Harbor?'
Sure. Also, at some point, I must go to Hawaii so I can convince the Germans that I went to Pearl Harbor. Naturally, I will also need fake but verifiable answers to the questions they've given me. Yeah, yeah. We'll be in touch when I get instructions from Washington on what to do with you. Popov leaves the meeting worried that Foxworth seemed too focused on the microdot technology and not the threat to America's Navy. But he pushes his concern aside.
The British were skeptical about him at first, too. He's sure his revelations about microdots and the interest in Pearl Harbor will win him the FBI's trust. We get support from Dove. Hey, everyone. This is your girl, Kiki Palmer, host of the Wondery podcast. Baby, this is Kiki Palmer. Listen up, because there's some messed up stuff we got to talk about. Currently, race-based hair discrimination is still legal in some states in the U.S.,
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My friend's still laughing at me to this day. Not everyone gets B2B, but with LinkedIn, you'll be able to reach people who do. Get $100 credit on your next ad campaign. Go to linkedin.com slash results to claim your credit. That's linkedin.com slash results. Terms and conditions apply. LinkedIn, the place to be, to be. Two weeks later, Park Avenue, New York. In his new penthouse apartment on the 22nd floor, Dushko Popov's hosting a small dinner party.
Popov chose the place to match his image as a European playboy. Its balcony overlooks Central Park, the bookshelves are lined with first editions and fine art hangs from the walls. But tonight's dinner is about more than impressing his guests. It's also about helping the FBI catch spies. On the guest list are two suspected German agents that the FBI hopes to entrap.
and that includes Terry Richardson, a young English brunette who Popov's taken a shine to. She eyes the cocktail Popov's had made for her. Darling, what is in this? I always like to know what I'm drinking before I try it. It's a dry martini. Six parts gin, one part vermouth, and shaken until it's ice cold, not stirred. Richardson takes a sip. It's divine!
Let's drink to New York. To New York. And getting to know you better. Popov notices the military man sat opposite, looking at him with disapproving eyes. Everyone else here thinks he's a US Army colonel. But Popov knows he's really an FBI agent who's trying to trick the guests into revealing themselves as German spies by being indiscreet. The fake colonel offers up some bait for Richardson.
Miss Richardson, you must be relieved to be away from Europe, now that Hitler's taken most of it by storm. Well, of course. I am glad to be here. Popov cuts in. Terry, have you ever been to Hawaii? I haven't, no. The FBI colonel tries to regain Richardson's attention. Still, I must say that, as a military man, I do admire the way Hitler's armies have successfully pushed on through so many countries.
Popov doubts she's a spy. He's more interested in getting her into bed. Besides, he needs a cover story for his trip to Hawaii, and a romantic vacation with Richardson would do nicely. I've been told Hawaii has some of the best beaches in the world. The FBI colonel interrupts again. I've heard the war is likely to spread further still. Richardson feigns interest while focusing on Popov. Do you think so? Popov leans towards her.
He needs her for this trip. And if she's a spy, he can deal with that. I'd like to visit Hawaii. What do you think of that idea, Terry? Maybe we could see it together. The FBI colonel clears his throat to speak, but Richardson speaks over him. Hawaii sounds wonderful, Dushko. Popov smiles. Richardson's the perfect cover.
He'll be able to tell the Germans his trip aroused no suspicion because he went there with his latest fling. And, with Richardson by his side, he'll get to have some fun while pretending to collect information about Pearl Harbor. It's the morning after the dinner party. Popov sits alone in his apartment, surrounded by the debris from the previous evening. In his hand is a freshly delivered letter.
He can tell from the handwriting that it's from his best friend, Johnny Jebsen, the man who saved his life and recruited him into the Abwehr. Popov clears space at the dining table and uses a knife to open the letter. He's eager for word about how his family back in Yugoslavia are faring since the Nazis invaded the country. Popov starts to read Jebsen's words. "'My dear Dushko, I must warn you, I write with mixed news about your family, which I know you are anxious to hear.'
Popov tenses. The Nazis have installed a fascist Croat government in Yugoslavia. It shows no mercy to opponents, and Popov's not had word from his family for months. The good news is your parents and brother Ivo are safe. But with a heavy heart, I must tell you that your uncle Jovan has been killed. Also his wife and your two cousins. Popov closes his eyes for a moment, then reads on. Your cousin died brutally.
They crucified him on a barn door. He took four days to die. Popov slams a fist on the table. He finishes reading the letter and then pours himself a stiff drink. And then he pours another. He drowns his sorrows and swears to himself that he will not stop until he's done everything he can to destroy the Nazis. Early September 1941. In the corridor of a midtown Manhattan hotel, Popov knocks on a room door.
Popov's FBI handler, Charlie Landman, opens the door. He sticks his head out and checks the corridor's empty, then pulls Popov inside and shuts the door. Popov sits down and waits for his latest debrief to begin. Landman stares at Popov for a moment, then breaks the silence. "Popov, you're tripped her wise off." "What? You can't! I've got to go there!" "Don't you realise that?"
If the Germans find out I never went to Hawaii, they'll never trust me again. You know that. We can't sanction your trip to Hawaii. Not least because Miss Richardson...
who's clearly keen to go with you, may well be a German spy. We can't have the two of you running around together. You forget that being a wealthy playboy is my cover. If I go to Hawaii alone, I will arouse suspicion. If I go with a girl, I won't. And if she's a spy, she'll blow your cover wide open. If she's a spy, I'll kill her myself. That would be murder. Then I'll take her to South America and do it there.
I have to go to Hawaii. I need to send the Germans some sort of answers to their questions or they'll get suspicious. Landman looks away for a moment. Look, Dusko, this decision, it comes from the top. There's nothing I can do about it. So what am I supposed to do? Nothing? Sorry, but my hands are tied. Just take it easy for a while. Popov glares at Landman. Fine. If you want me to take it easy, I'll take it easy.
Popov stands and storms out. The FBI might be able to stop him getting to Hawaii, but they're not going to stop his and Richardson's vacation plans. Two weeks later, Miami Beach, Florida. On the private beach of the Pancoast Hotel, Popov and Richardson lie on their beach towels. It took a three-day drive to reach this grand lakeside hotel with its white stucco walls and red roof tiles.
But now they're in their bathing suits, soaking up the sunshine. Drowsy from the heat, Popov closes his eyes for a moment. Seconds later, he feels a shadow fall across his suntan torso. He opens his eyes. In front of him are two men in suits, blocking out the sun and looking out of place on the beach. Mr. Popov, we need a word. Popov glances at Richardson. She's asleep.
He decides against waking her and follows the men to the hotel gardens. They lead Popov to a quiet spot and flash their FBI badges. Popov rolls his eyes. I don't need to see your badges. You two couldn't blend in less if you tried. Mr. Popov, we're here to inform you that you're in breach of the Mann Act. It is a federal offence to transport a woman across state lines for immoral purposes. Popov raises an eyebrow. You mean Miss Richardson? The FBI man nods.
Popov tries not to laugh. You're saying it's a crime to go on holiday with my girlfriend? That's crazy. You can't expect me to believe something so ridiculous. This is no joke, sir. Our orders are to have you send Miss Richardson away immediately. And what happens if I say no? You could face a year in prison for taking my girlfriend on holiday. For violating federal law, Popov stares at the FBI men in disbelief.
But it's clear they're not joking, and that someone higher up the pay scale sent them here to end his vacation by any means necessary. Popov returns to Richardson and breaks the news that their vacation is over. She thinks it's just some elaborate excuse to break up with her and flies home that night. But Popov's more worried about the FBI than her now.
He's been in America for weeks, and instead of helping him, they are actively blocking and endangering his efforts to maintain his cover. And he knows that if things continue like this, it won't be long before the Abwehr get suspicious about what he's really up to in America. Wow! Nice! Yeah!
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September 24th, 1941. The FBI field office in the Rockefeller Center, New York. Popov steps into the office of Sam Foxworth, the FBI's top man in New York. But instead of Foxworth behind the desk, there's a thick-set, jowly man with receding hair. Popov recognizes him immediately. It's FBI Director J. Edgar Hoover.
Popov stretches out his hand. Mr. Hoover, I'm glad to finally meet... Sit down, Popov. Popov sits down and notices Foxworth sitting quietly to one side. Hoover stares at Popov with barely concealed disgust. Now listen to me, Popov. I am running the cleanest police organisation in the world. But then you arrive. From out of nowhere.
You install yourself in a Park Avenue penthouse, you chase women all around town, and then you break the morality laws. I am telling you that I won't stand for it. Hoover glares at Popov for a second and turns to Foxworth. Foxworth, he can go now. Popov doesn't move. His family's in danger, his country ruled by fascists, and now the Nazis are invading Russia.
To him, Hoover's nothing but a roadblock stopping him from doing anything to help with the fight back against the Nazis. Popov lights a cigarette and then looks at Hoover. You don't have any objection to my smoking, do you, Mr. Hoover? Or is that also on the list of things you can't do in this country of yours? I said we're done here! You might be, but I'm not. I came here to help.
I brought you a serious warning about the possibility of a Japanese attack on your naval bases. I showed you how German agents smuggle information in and out of your country using microdots. Information that will help you catch enemy agents. I can catch spies without your help. What have you even done since you got here?
waited in vain for your instructions. Hoover jabs an accusing finger in Popov's direction. You're like all double agents. You only want information to sell to your German friends to fund your extravagant lifestyle. Mr. Hoover, I am a man who has always lived well. Besides, the Germans believe I work for them for money. They expect me to live the way I do and will be suspicious if I don't.
Hoover scowls and gets up from his chair to signal that the meeting is over, but Popov stays put. Mr. Hoover, I've already warned you of a potential threat to the security of your country, but I can't continue to bring you such information if you fail to provide me with material to send back to the Germans, because without that, my whole operation will be put at risk. Hoover turns to Foxworth. Foxworth, this man is trying to teach me my job. Popov stands.
Mr Hoover, I don't think anyone could teach you anything. Popov stares directly at Hoover while he stubs out his cigarette in the ashtray. Then Popov turns and strides out the door. November 1941, Rio de Janeiro, Brazil.
Dusko Popov gets out of the cab and heads towards the entrance to modern offices of German electrical manufacturer AEG. It's been two months since Popov's showdown with Hoover. But now, after weeks of frosty relations, the FBI finally seems to be listening.
Popov's convinced the Bureau to back the construction of a radio transmitter that will make it easier to communicate with the Abwehr in Lisbon. So Popov's flown to Rio to receive instruction from an Abwehr agent on how to build and operate the transmitter. He enters the office building and approaches the receptionist. I'm here to meet Alfredo. Von Karsthoff sent me. My name is Ivan. The receptionist sits up.
Alfredo's the codename for the Upfair's top agent in Brazil, and she's been told to expect a man called Ivan. Popov is quickly ushered into Alfredo's private office. Alfredo greets Popov warmly. I'm pleased to meet you. I've heard you did an excellent job for us while you were operating in London. Thank you, but America isn't England. No, but it too will bow to the Reich.
Total victory is in sight. Russia will fall this year, England the next, then we'll bring the United States to heel without firing a single shot because the Americans lack the stomach for a fight. Popov ignores Alfredo's overconfidence and steers the conversation to what he came here for, the radio transmitter. Alfredo teaches Popov how to construct a radio transmitter and provides him with information on wavelengths and communication signals.
He also hands Popov a micro-dot with all the technical details, but Popov needs more than blueprints. "But how do I get the equipment without raising suspicion?" Alfredo smiles. "The equipment will be sent by steamboat to Canada. It should arrive there in a month. Once it is there, I'll send you a message. Thirty days after you get that message, go to Quebec and await instructions." Popov looks disappointed.
He's had enough of sitting on his hands in America while the world burns. That's another two months. Don't worry. In the meantime, we have other work for you to do. The Americans have representatives here in Brazil looking for uranium mines. We need you to find out how much uranium the Americans have in stock and how they are processing the ore. Popov's interest wanes. All he knows about uranium is it's used to make coloured glass.
This feels like a demotion to commercial espionage, a demotion caused by the FBI's failure to provide him with faked intelligence to send back to the upfair. But with his radio equipment still two months away from arrival, Popov feels there's no urgent need to get back to New York, so he cancels his return flight and books passage on a cruise ship instead. A week later, the Caribbean Sea.
Popov stands on the deck of SS Uruguay as it approaches the port of Spain, the capital of Trinidad. The city's colonial buildings shine bright and white against a backdrop of mountains. Popov wraps an arm around the petite French ballerina he met soon after the cruise ship left Rio. Doesn't it look wonderful, Dora? Let's find somewhere to eat, then go explore. A walk first. I must watch my figure.
Popov pulls Dora close, ready to kiss her, but then he notices a pilot boat tearing through the water. It pulls up beside the ship to allow a man to climb aboard. He's a redhead with freckles and sunburned skin. Dora peers at him. He looks English. The sunburned man heads straight for Popov. "Mr. Popov, may we talk privately?" Dora wrinkles her nose and walks away.
The man introduces himself. My name is Walter Wren. I'm the MI6 station chief here. London wants me to debrief you on your trip to Rio. Wren clocks Popov's wistful glance at Dora. Don't worry. She'll find something else to do. I was more worried for myself. The substitute company isn't quite so appealing. Two hours later, Popov's in a waterside colonial mansion eating a lunch of prawn creole on rice...
Ren listens as Popov recounts his meeting with the Abwehr in Rio. Nearby, Ren's secretary Jane takes notes. "The Abwehr will send my radio equipment to Canada on a Portuguese steamboat. Once it arrives, they'll expect me to send intelligence. But I doubt the FBI will give me anything worth transmitting." Ren nods. "I'll ask London to apply some pressure in case that helps. Any idea why the FBI are being so unhelpful? They don't think like an intelligence agency."
They think like police. All they care about is locking up German spies. Also, Hoover disapproves of me. Why? Who knows? He seems to resent my lifestyle and success with women. Popov makes eye contact with Jane. She pretends not to notice. Maybe he's jealous. Also, I stood up to him. Imagine that went down badly. Very. Be careful with Hoover.
He's indiscreet and a publicity seeker. Meantime, don't tell the FBI about the steamboat captain. Why? Canada is one of his majesty's realms. It's our field of action. Besides, we don't need the Yanks throwing the captain in prison. We can find better uses for him. Wren checks his watch. I need to file an initial report to London. Jane will entertain you until I return.
As Wren drives away, Jane walks over to Popov and leans against the table right next to him. Mr. Popov, do you pursue the girls because you are a secret agent? Or are you a secret agent because you like to pursue girls? Popov stands. Only when they're impertinent girls. December 7th, 1941. The North Atlantic. Three days' sail from New York.
On the SS Uruguay, Popov and the rest of the passengers make their way to the first-class lounge as a voice speaks over the public address system. Attention passengers, attention passengers. Please assemble immediately in the first-class lounge for an announcement from the captain. Popov enters the lounge. The place is packed. He joins the throng and sees the captain enter. There's a solemn look on his face. The room grows quiet as he stands before them.
The captain takes a deep breath and then addresses the room. Earlier today, the Japanese launched a surprise attack on the US naval base at Pearl Harbor in the Hawaiian Islands. This means the United States is now on war footing and there is a possibility of further attacks on US shipping. The mood in the lounge is now one of serious concern. But Popov's unperturbed,
he's sure that the Americans will have been ready to repel this attack thanks to the information he provided. With the Japanese humiliated and the US now dragged into the war, he's sure Nazi Germany's days are numbered. But then the captain speaks again. Details of the attack remain unclear, but reports are of heavy American losses with several battleships sunk and hundreds, maybe thousands, of lives lost. Oh, my God!
Popov blinks in shock. He can't understand how this could have happened. He brought the Americans clear evidence of a possible attack on Pearl Harbor. The US Navy should have been ready and sent the Japanese packing. The only explanation Popov can think of is that the information he provided never reached the right people. And that's because the FBI don't trust him. Popov fumes quietly.
He's had enough of the FBI tying his hands and ignoring his advice. It's time to get back to New York and raise hell. A quick note about our dialogue. We can't know everything that was said or done behind closed doors, particularly that 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've used many sources to make this series, including Into the Lion's Mouth by Larry Loftus, Codename Tricycle by Russell Miller and Spy Counterspy by Dushko Popov. The Spy Who is hosted by me, Indira Varma. Our show is produced by Vespucci with writing and story editing by Yellow Ant for Wondery. For Yellow Ant, this episode was written by Lizzie Enfield and researched by Marina Watson and Louise Byrne.
Our managing producer is Jay Priest. For Vespucci, our senior producer is Thomas Currie and our sound designer is Matt Peaty. Matt Willis is the supervising producer. Music supervisor is Scott Velasquez for Frisson Sync. Executive producers for Vespucci are Johnny Galvin and Daniel Turkin. Executive producer for Yellow Ant is Tristan Donovan. Our managing producer for Wondery is Rachel Sibley.
Executive producers for Wondery are Estelle Doyle, Jessica Radburn and Marshall Louis.
