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Wondery Plus subscribers can binge full seasons of The Spy Who early and ad-free on Apple Podcasts or the Wondery app. October 13th, 1943. Noor Anayat Khan steps out of her apartment building on the Rue de la Faisandrie in central Paris. It's a cold, sunny morning. The sun is rising, the shadows shrinking, but Khan is tired.
Ever since she arrived in France, she's been losing friends and colleagues to Gestapo arrests. The collapse of the Prosper spy network has left Britain's Special Operations Executive almost totally blind in Paris. Only her radio transmissions provide London with fleeting glimpses into the occupied city. This is Khan's last day in Paris. Tomorrow she will catch the train to the airfield, where, under the cover of darkness, she'll fly back to the safety of Britain.
One day to kill, one day to survive. Khan pauses in front of a shop window and checks her appearance in the glass. In the new blue trouser suit, she looks like a model secretary. She checks the scene behind her in the reflection. A stocky man passes, then a woman with a pram. Satisfied, Khan continues walking. A car exhaust backfires, sending pigeons scattering into the sky. Khan flinches, then regains her composure.
Excuse me, excuse me.
Run, don't hide. That's what her SOE instructors told her. But even though she's fast, she won't outrun these two. Besides, there are dozens of shops. They'll assume she's taken a side alley. The newsagent? No, too small. The pharmacy? Too empty. Khan dives into a bakery. The shop assistant behind the counter greets her. Bonjour, madame. What can I get you? A croissant, please. Also, café au lait?
While the shop assistant prepares her drink, Khan ducks down, as if to adjust one of her socks. She glances up, and through the window she sees her two pursuers stride past, focused on what's ahead. It's a few hours later, and Khan's sitting at the back of a café a few blocks from her apartment. A lukewarm coffee sits on the table, still half full, and her fourth of the afternoon. The waiter approaches. "Mademoiselle, anything else? The bill, perhaps?"
"'Yes, of course. The bill. Please.' She bites her lip as she stares into the street. On the pavement outside, customers sit around tables playing chess, drinking coffee and reading newspapers. Life in Paris goes on, but Khan cannot relax. She could just get on the train that will carry her away from all of this, but her notebook is back at the apartment, and if the Gestapo get hold of it, all her contacts will be in danger.'
It's a risk she must take. She will be quick. Two minutes. Take the notebook, then get out of Paris. She places three coins on the table, steps into the frigid October air, and begins walking toward her apartment. 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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From Wondery, I'm Indra Varma, and this is The Spy Who.
In the last episode, the Gestapo used the radio of two captured Canadian agents to fool the SOE into exposing the surviving members of its spy network in Paris, only for Noor Anayat Khan to escape their clutches again. But now, Renée Garry, the sister of the head of the SOE spy ring in Paris, has told the Gestapo where Khan's hiding in return for 100,000 francs.
You're listening to The Spy Who Wouldn't Lie. Episode 4. Liberté. The afternoon of October 13th, 1943. Paris. Kahn creeps up the stairwell to her first floor apartment. She places her ear to the apartment's front door and listens. Silence. The corridor's empty. There's no sign of a forced entry. Kahn opens the door to her apartment and peers inside.
No!
The policeman grabs Khan's arm before it strikes. He tries to force her wrist down so he can cuff her. Khan lowers her head and sinks her teeth into his arm. The policeman shakes his arm, trying to force Khan to let go, but she only bites down harder. Get off me! He drops the handcuffs to the ground and, with his free hand, unholsters his gun. He thrusts the barrel into Khan's ribs. Let go or I shoot!
Khan steps back, his blood on her teeth and around her mouth. You animal! Fuck! The policeman glances at his arm. Blood is dripping off his hand and landing in crimson splats on the floor.
He nods towards the sitting room. In there, on the sofa where I can see you. Khan backs away, eyes full of fury. You're French, yet you work for the Nazis. You fascist pig, you traitor. Shut up. Just let me go. This time tomorrow, I'll be on a plane. This time tomorrow, you'll be in a prison cell and I'll be pocketing my bonus. As Khan licks his blood from her teeth, the policeman sidesteps towards the telephone on the sideboard.
With a gun pointed at her, he lifts the receiver and squeezes it between his cheek and shoulder. Khan watches from the sofa as he dials the number for Gestapo headquarters. Someone on the other end of the line picks up. Forked, I've got her. Yeah, she matches the description. Be quick, she's feral.
Half an hour later, Gestapo headquarters, 84 Avenue Foch, Paris. Keep still! Sal Bosh! Release me! ...is taken four agents to escort Khan 700 meters from her apartment to here. Someone grab her legs. We'll carry her up. Khan kicks violently at her captors, but they overpower her. Each man grabs one of her limbs. She is tired.
Her limbs ache, and as the adrenaline begins to subside, she feels the bruises forming on her legs and wrists. She lets her body relax to form a dead weight. She isn't going to make this easy. As she's carried up four flights of stairs, Khan looks up at the intricately decorated ceiling. "Damn Nazis," she thinks, taking over every good and beautiful thing in this world.
They lead her in handcuffs, her body still shaking in anxiety and dismay, into a plush office. Inside, a man in his early forties sits at a long desk beneath a glittering chandelier. A guard shoves her into the chair on the opposite side of his desk. The man smiles at Kahn. Welcome, Madeleine. Or should I call you Jeanne-Marie? I am Ernest Faucht, the Gestapo senior interrogator.
"'You have given us quite the runaround.' "'Khan spits in Fawkes' direction. "'A globule of her saliva lands on the desk. "'He glances at it with distaste. "'He looks back at Khan and notices the dark patches of dried blood on her dress. "'Well, that is not becoming of an English lady. "'You are an English lady, are you not?' "'Khan glares at Fawkes without answering. "'You fight well, I'll give you that. "'The policeman will need stitches.'
"'But it's over, Noor. Yes, we know your real name. We also have your radio.' Forked pats at the leather suitcase containing Khan's radio equipment, which is now positioned on his desk. Beside it, she spies her notebook. Forked notices her agitation. "'And yes, your very useful notebook too. You know nothing.' "'On the contrary. I know a great deal.'
"'Your friend Norman told us everything, and even if he hadn't, Henri Derricourt works for us. We knew about you the moment you landed and buried your little pistol. Oh, you don't believe me? See here, he photographed every letter you gave him to send home to your mother.' Forked slides a sheaf of letters across the desk toward Kahn. She recognises her own handwriting. Tears gather in her eyes. She squeezes them away.
The more you tell me now, the less I will have to hurt your friends later. So let's start at the beginning. When were you assigned the codename Madeline? Khan stares at Forked with stony eyes. I will tell you what you want to know. But first I will clean myself up. I need a bathroom and a towel. Forked smiles. He stands and walks around to the front of his desk and helps her to her feet. Good.
Cooperation is kinder on us both. Follow me. Forked leads Khan to the bathroom. He opens the door and stands back to allow her to pass in front of him. Inside the doorway, Khan turns to face her captor. Are you planning to watch, you pervert? Forked furrows his brow. He is uncertain of the protocol for female spies. After a moment's deliberation, he gives a short, sharp nod and closes the bathroom door to give Khan some privacy.
Inside the bathroom, Khan takes stock of her surroundings. She turns on both taps, then steps across the bathroom to the window. She peers down. From the fourth floor, it's a long drop. But there's a sizeable ledge and on the floors below, similar potential footholds. Khan gives the window a push. It creaks open. Khan squeezes out of the window and places her feet on the ledge below. "Ahh!"
From outside, the drop seems higher. If she slips, she will be unlikely to survive the fall. She shuffles along the sill, trying to peer far enough over the side to see whether she might be able to safely drop down to the ledge on the floor below, but it's three meters down and too narrow to fall onto safely. As she ponders her next move, a window a little farther along the wall creaks open. Forked leans out.
"No." Kahn looks between forked and the ground below. The Gestapo interrogator extends his hand through the window, close enough for her to reach. "Take my hand. Let's talk this through." "No. Think of your mother. Shut up." "Think of the officer who will have to visit her and tell her what you did and how you fell to your death." "Think of her face when she learns the news." "There is another way. Take my hand." Kahn stares at the pavement far below. One step, then oblivion.
No more secrets left to share. But then she hesitates. She thinks of her mother, of her brother Villayet and sister Claire, of the home in which she grew up just a few miles from here. She thinks of the Paris she once knew, free of the scourge of Nazism, and of how this is a Paris that might return after the war. She tentatively extends her hand towards Forked.
He grasps at her wrist, then firmly draws her toward him and the open window. "That's it. This way. Two more steps." Forked hauls her inside and sets her down on the floor. Then all of the stress of the past four months rises in her chest. She sees the faces of the friends and colleagues who have disappeared. She imagines Norman bound to a chair under the hot light of interrogation. She feels a stab of guilt. She should have stepped off the ledge. "Coward.
All the pent-up emotion breaks and she silently sobs. Four days later, the offices of the SOE Baker Street, London. Maurice Buckmaster, the head of the French section, raises an eyebrow as the agency's top cryptographer, Leo Marx, enters his office. "What is it, Marx?" "It's about Norsa, and I'm afraid it's bad news." Buckmaster sinks back into his seat. "What now?"
Her message said she'd missed the plane. Not a problem. She'll get a place on the next flight. She sent another message. What? Why? We told her not to transmit. I'm not sure it's her. The transmission is flawless, as usual, and the style is like hers, but... But she included an 18-letter phrase in her message. That was our failsafe, and only she and I knew of it. An 18-letter phrase means she's either transmitting under duress or that someone's impersonating her.
I know, Noor. She wouldn't do this by mistake. Buckmaster frowns. He recalls Khan's dummy interrogations in England. The mistakes she would make when sending her signals. The long discussions about whether she was up to the job. You're overreacting, Marx. She is under pressure. Who wouldn't make a small mistake like that in those circumstances? No, sir. She doesn't make mistakes anymore. And even if she did, she knows not to make that one.
I think she may be compromised or captured. Perhaps it's not her sending us messages, but the Germans. Let's suppose you're right. What then? It's not like we can break her out of a Gestapo cell. Keep the line of communication open until we can be sure. She's asked for equipment. Fine, just don't send any secrets. Marks nods and leaves. Buckmaster is probably right. There isn't much else to be done.
but it doesn't loosen the knot in his stomach. Nice! Yes!
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After a few moments, she hears the muffled response. Khan doesn't have any paper to jot down the incoming letters, but in her mind she transforms the sounds into letters, the letter into words, and the words into meaning. The next-door prisoner is a Frenchman, an officer in the resistance, Colonel Fay, someone she can trust. When his tapping stops, Khan takes a moment to compose her reply. Then she begins to tap out the letters. E-
After a few days of tapping out messages, Khan has established a three-way communication with Colonel Fay and a British SOE agent named Captain Star who is in the cell opposite hers. The trio have also figured out a way to covertly exchange notes, which is a safer means of communication than tapping out messages in Morse code, which could be overheard.
Kahn heads to her cell door. "Guard, I need the bathroom." "This way." In the stall of their shared bathroom, Kahn lifts the lid of the toilet cistern. Tucked inside, away from the water, she finds a small folded note. She folds it into the waistband of her navy blue slacks and flushes the chain to mask the sound of her replacing the lid. Later that night, Kahn reads the message in the moonlight from the small barred window in the ceiling of her cell.
It's a message from Captain Star. There is a small window in the ceiling of my room. Three iron bars attached to a wooden frame. It's loose. Screwdriver. Stool. Khan looks up at her own skylight. The bars above her head are also attached to a frame. If they could get a screwdriver, they could loosen the plaster that holds it in place. A few days later, the cellmates hear the whir of an industrial vacuum cleaner trundling back and forth in a nearby corridor. Bloody thing.
Captain Star and his cellmates listen as the cleaner attempts to restart the vacuum. "Damn, it's really cold this time." Captain Star presses himself to his cell door. "Guard! Excuse me, guard!" Captain Star has convinced the Gestapo that he's a model prisoner.
They trust him so much that they now ask him to check the English in the messages they plan to send the SOE in London on the radios of captured agents. What do you want, Star? That machine. The vacuum. I can fix that for you. A handyman as well as a spy. Wherever do you find the time, Star? The guard watches Star as he rifles through a toolbox, then fiddles with the insides of the cleaner. Star leans across the floor to plug the machine into a nearby socket.
As he does, he covers a small screwdriver with his leg. "Impressive! Do you repair Panzer tanks as well?" Star looks up at the guard with a broad smile. As he replaces the tools into the box with his right hand, he pockets the small screwdriver with his left. It's several nights since Star swiped the screwdriver. Now he, Khan and Faye are chipping away at the plaster that holds the bars on their ceiling window in place.
They pass the screwdriver back and forth between them via the lavatory, each spending a few nights chiseling away at the plaster in their cell before passing it on. Tonight, it's Khan's turn to use the screwdriver. She's shorter than the men and struggles to reach the frame in the ceiling. She stands on tiptoe on the edge of her bed, working the screwdriver back and forth as plaster dust falls onto her face. Khan stretches higher, loses her footing and falls from the bed, landing hard on her ankle.
What's going on in there? My ankle! What happened? I'm just so depressed. I want to end it. Typical. I can't even do that properly.
It's a few days later, and after a month of preparation and planning, the bars on the ceiling windows in all three cells are now loose enough to be pulled free, and three prisoners have agreed to escape tonight at 2am. Khan sits on the edge of her bed and checks her watch. It's time. She carefully steps onto the bed and reaches up. At full stretch, her fingers can just close around the bars.
Shit. Noor, I presume?
We did it! Not quite. Fate, do you have the bedsheet rope? Good. Keep low and follow me. The three agents creep along the rooftop.
Suddenly, an air raid siren begins to scream. Starr slaps his head. Blast! Did the RAF really have to choose this precise moment to attack Paris? They'll check our cells. They always do after an air raid. You're right. We must move. Starr stops and points. Down there, an open window. The agents tie their makeshift rope to a piece of masonry.
Faye lowers himself down until he reaches the ledge of an open window in the hallway of a building adjacent to the Gestapo's HQ. He swings his body forward and hoists himself inside. Star and Khan follow. The three escapees tiptoe down the apartment building's staircase. In the ground floor hallway, Khan cracks open the front door and peeks outside. "Damn it! The police are blocking the road. No exit at the other end. It's a cul-de-sac. We're trapped!"
You! Stop where you are!
Faye shouts to the others as police and Gestapo officers rush him. Run! But it's already too late. Within seconds, the Gestapo surround all three agents, their weapons leveled. Hi, we're Big Little Feelings. You know what else is big and little? Bad.
Early 1944.
Pforzheim Prison, southwest Germany. In a cell, French resistance member Yolande Lagrave and her two cellmates are knitting to pass the time. They've just got back from their morning walk around the prison yard, and Lagrave's spotted something unusual. Did you see? Outside cell one? One of her cellmates sits up. Yes, a tray. I knew someone was in there. Why do they never let her out? Whoever she is, she must be so alone in there. I know.
La Grave's cellmate nods and focuses on her knitting. She looks at the metal needles, and then at the empty soup bowls that the guards have yet to collect. "What if we scratch a message to her on the bottom of one of these bowls? It might take a few days, but eventually the bowl will end up in her cell and she'll get our message. She could write back the same way. Genius! We must do it. She needs hope now. The war can't last much longer. She just needs to hang on."
The women use their knitting needles to scratch out a message on the bowl. There are three French women in cell number 12. After a few days, they get a message back. It reads, "You are not alone. You have a friend in cell 1." Several weeks later. "Quick! Come look! They're opening cell 1!" La Grave's cellmates rush to join her at the window of their cell. They huddle, straining to catch a glimpse of the mysterious occupant of cell 1.
The three women watch as the guard steps aside and Noor Anayat Khan shuffles out of her cell. She's emaciated and dressed in sackcloth, her ankles and hands chained together. God, poor thing. She can hardly walk. See the sores on her ankles? They never take the chains off. She's tiny though. How dangerous can she be? They are animals. Let's give her some encouragement. La Grave starts to applaud.
The others join in. Keep going! Don't give up! Khan looks up towards the source of the applause and smiles. March 1944. SOE offices, Baker Street, London. Chief cryptographer Leo Marx is in his office decoding a message from an agent when there's a knock at the door. Come in. Sir, I have grave news. France Antelme and the other agents we flew out to France last night, they were arrested on arrival.
The Germans knew they were coming. I see. Give me a moment, please. Very good, sir. As the officer leaves, Marx rests his head in his hands. He knows what this means. Last night's flight was arranged via radio communications with Kahn. His hunch was correct. Whomever the SOE has been communicating with over the past few months is not Kahn.
The Germans have her radio. And her codes. So it follows, they have her. He whispers a prayer for her and the captured agents. September 1944, South East Germany. Kahn stares from the train window. It's dark outside, but the outline of the Swabian mountains is visible against the starry sky.
Her eyes refocus on her reflection in the window. Ten months chained in solitary confinement in Pforzheim prison have taken their toll. "Your food." Khan's attention snaps back into the carriage. A German guard places a tray of food on the table. She's sitting with three other women, all captured SOE agents like her. One of them, who Khan trained alongside in England, distributes the plates among the group. "Bon appétit," Khan can't muster a reply.
Months in solitary have robbed her of the ability to make small talk. The woman who handed out the plates notices her stupor. She places a hand on Khan's arm. It's the first kind-hearted human touch Khan has had in months. The woman looks into Khan's eyes. "We're in this together. Thank you." Another of the agents hands Khan a cigarette. Khan places it between her lips, and the agent lights it for her. She takes a long drag.
As the women resume their conversation over the light meal, none of them notice the smokestacks of the crematorium rising on the horizon as the train pulls towards Dachau concentration camp. Three years later, 1947, an interrogation room in Hamburg, Germany. Vera Atkins lights a cigarette and offers one to the German man sitting opposite her. Cigarette? Sure. The war is over and the SOE has been disbanded.
But for Atkins, the former assistant to the head of the SOE's French section, there's unfinished business. She wants to know the truth of what happened to Noor Anayat Khan. During the past three years, she has received dozens of reports, many conflicting, many incorrect. This much is certain: Khan did not survive the war. And yet, Atkins cannot leave the matter alone.
She has come to Hamburg to interrogate Christian Ott, a Gestapo officer who was friends with some of the guards at the Dachau concentration camp. Atkins places the photographs of four women on the table in front of Ott. Tell me about the British women who were taken to Dachau. You must have known about them. Atkins taps the photo of Kahn. She was one of them. What happened to her? I know nothing. Once again, I am not here to investigate war crimes.
The Nuremberg trials are over. I simply want to bring some closure to the families. I wasn't there. Even so, you would have read the reports. Four British spies. Women at that. One with Indian heritage. Word would have travelled. Besides, it was your job to know. Ott rolls his eyes belligerently. What do you want me to say? The truth. We can't save her now, but perhaps we can save her story. Give us a chance. I'm begging you.
Ott studies Atkins' face as if assessing whether she is genuine. He leans forward. "Like I said, I wasn't there. But I did put her on the train to Dachau. An officer named Rupert dealt with her there. The other three, they died quickly. I heard he took his time with her. She didn't survive." Atkins takes a slow breath. Finally some answers. She was very brave. Yes, she was defiant until the end.
They told me her last words. Atkins grips the sides of her chair to steady herself. Liberté. Despite the reservations of her superiors at the Special Operations Executive, Noor Anayat Khan made a significant impact as an Allied spy during the Second World War. As the first woman radio operator in Paris, she transmitted crucial information back to Britain while evading Nazi detection amid deadly conditions.
Following her capture, Kahn refused to reveal any sensitive information during Gestapo interrogation and torture. In recognition of her bravery, the British government posthumously awarded her the George Cross. She also received several French medals for her contributions to the resistance, including the Croix de Guerre. In 2014, she featured on a Royal Mail postage stamp.
The impact of Khan's espionage work extended beyond her wartime efforts. Her multicultural background and unwavering commitment to freedom and justice exemplified the unity, resilience and determination of those who fought against Nazi tyranny in the Second World War.
From Wondery, this is the fourth episode in our series, The Spy Who Wouldn't Lie. 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've used various sources to make this series, including Madeline by Jean Overton Fuller. On the next episode, we'll find out more about Noor's legacy and the role of radio operators during World War II with Anita Anand, historian, author and co-host of the Empire podcast.
The Spy Who is hosted by me, Indra Varma. Our show is produced by Vespucci with writing and story editing by Yellow Ant for Wondery. For Yellow Ant, this episode was written by Simon Parkin and researched by Marina Watson. Our managing producer is Jay Priest. For Vespucci, our senior producers are Natalia Rodriguez and Emma Wetherill. Our sound designer is Matt Peaty. Thomas Currie 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. Wondery.