The Salisbury Poisonings | Glass Houses | 1
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Bit of a weird one, Matt. The powers that be have got in touch and they want us to fill out this kind of psychological assessment, if that's cool with you. I guess so. It sounds a bit weird. I know. I've done mine. Have you ever done a Rorschach test? No. It's kind of like an inkblot test and you sort of just say what you see. Okay. So that's the first one. Cornish pasty. Okay. That's what it looks like. And that one.

My mum. Wow. It really looks like her. I've never met her. Yeah, okay. And finally, that one. Oh, that looks like the darkness that exists within us all, a howling void at the centre of humanity where I guess our consciousness should be something fundamentally dark. Right. I don't really feel like I've given you anything. It felt like three silly answers. Do you think I've passed? I'm just going to send them to HR.

March 4th, 2018, 4.15pm. The Maltings shopping precinct. Sergeant Tracey Holloway sits in her patrol car, surveying the slush-covered streets.

Her partner, PC Collins, has just returned with provisions and she's warming her hands on a piping hot steak bake when her radio fizzes into life. Offers us to attend an incident at Riverside Park. Two people collapsed. Urgent assistance required. Over. Dropping her pastry, Holloway picks up.

See, that was her first mistake. You treat these things with care. This is a steak bake. You can't respond to an urgent call over the radio if you've scorched your palate. It's piping hot, baby girl. This is Sierra for Echo. Headed there now. Hollins kicks the car into gear. Sirens blaring, they mount the pavement at speed along the River Avon towpath, sending geese and ducks flying. Across the park, Holloway spots a small crowd clustered round a bench.

There, pull over. Suspects, one male, mid-60s, one female, early 30s. Both unresponsive. Ambulance required ASAP. Over. Back now! Back now!

She's seen this many times with fentanyl overdoses, but on closer inspection, she notes something curious about the man's appearance. Boxer's physique, clean clothes, neatly trimmed hair. He doesn't fit the typical profile of an addict at all. She slips on a latex glove. Sir, can you hear me? I'm just going to put my hand inside your pocket, okay? She reaches into his jacket for ID, slips out a small leather wallet.

It's stuffed with scratch cards, a receipt for lunch at the nearby ZZ's just half an hour ago, and a driving licence. I need someone to run a name for me. Sergei Skripal. That's Sierra Kilo Romeo, India Papa, Alpha Lima. The phonetic alphabet is so cool. Beautiful. Anyone who grew up watching The Bill, phonetic alphabet was just such a big part of our childhood. You learnt the phonetic alphabet before you learnt the alphabet. Yeah.

Spell cat for us, Matt. We can sound it out. Charlie Alpha Tango. As she waits for a response, Collins hands her a passport plucked from the woman's handbag. Russian. Yulia Skripal. Presumably his daughter. Is that Christy Miller Road? She checks the man's licence. Yes. This is a do not stop. Repeat, this is a do not stop. Holloway shoots a look at Collins, whose widening eyes stare back at her.

"MI6?" Before she can reply, a wall of sirens erupts behind them. They spin round to see an ambulance hurtling over the grass and two further police cars belting up the towpath. Overhead, the air judders as a helicopter starts its descent. Then Holloway feels an elbow jab into her back. She turns to see a figure dressed head to toe in green rubber.

A thick tinted visor hiding his face as he shunts her aside to drape yellow and black tape around the bench. Then two more rubber men arrive, a white tent folded under their arms. A shiver courses up Holloway's spine as she realizes what's unfolding. This isn't an overdose. This is a chemical attack. And if she doesn't get the public out of this park and the perimeter secured now,

There's no telling who might be exposed or just how far this could spread. Hi, I'm Misha Brown, and I'm the host of Wondery's podcast, The Big Flop. Each episode, comedians join me to chronicle one of the biggest pop culture fails of all time and try to answer the age-old question, who thought this was a good idea? Follow The Big Flop wherever you get your podcasts.

Hi, I'm Lindsey Graham, the host of Wondery's American History Tellers. In our latest series, at the turn of the 20th century, rapid industrialization, urbanization, and political corruption were ravaging America. But soon, President Theodore Roosevelt and a diverse group of reformers known as progressives would fight back. Listen to American History Tellers on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts.

From Wondery, I'm Alice Levine. And I'm Matt Ford. And this is British Scandal, the show where we bring you the murkiest stories that ever happened on these odd little isles. British scandals come in many shapes and sizes. Some are about money, some are about sex, they're all about power. But when we look at scandals a bit closer, they turn out to be stranger, wilder, just plain weirder than we remember. So we're journeying back to ask who's to blame for what happened. And when the dust settled...

Did anything really change? So Matt, in British Scandal, I think that we have some fairly regular haunts. You'll often find us in the corridors of Westminster, hanging around at Belmarsh, loitering at the Old Bailey. But in my mind, I don't know if you'll agree.

It is the small towns of Britain where the heart of British scandal really lies. You know, you've got your canoe cons, your seat in Carew. You've got Liz Truss and Swatham. Do you know what I mean? I do know what you mean. So, that said, what do you picture when I say Wiltshire? Quintessential England.

England. The beautiful rolling chalk downs, the sites of ancient worship, whether it's the magnificent Druid Standing Stones at Stonehenge or one of our earliest cathedrals, it is a place where you can touch and feel a great nation's history unfolding in the landscape before you.

Salisbury Cathedral has the best preserved surviving copy of the Magna Carta, for God's sake. If you want Britain, this is it. I actually feel like I've tapped into your specialist subject. I could hear Land of Hope and Glory rising behind me as I said that. Everything that you've mentioned is exactly why the events of 2018...

were all the more shocking. Not only was Salisbury home to the Magna Carta, it was home to a Russian double agent. A Russian double agent who had royally pissed off Vladimir Putin. So we're doing the Salisbury poisonings. This is the script house. I've been wanting to do this for years since we did...

one of our earliest series on Litvinenko. You got a taste for poisoning way back then. So for a bit of background, in 2018, Salisbury was the scene of a botched assassination attempt using a deadly military-grade nerve agent, an attack on British soil that some saw as an attack on Britain itself.

And the ripples that spread from that picturesque park in Salisbury reached as far as Westminster, Washington and the Kremlin. This is a scandal that essentially exposed the terrifying reach of state-sponsored violence and it ignited a diplomatic firestorm we are still feeling today. And who can forget?

It was a huge free PR campaign for Salisbury Cathedral and its 123-metre spire. It really was, and that may come up. This is episode one, Glass Houses. 26 years earlier, December 1992, GRU headquarters, Moscow. Sergei Skripal stands at the foot of the glittering grey building.

The office complex of Russia's military intelligence unit, the GRU, the Glass House. He stares up at the flag, whipping around in the winter wind. Stripes of white, blue and red wave where the hammer and sickle once did. And it makes him sick to see. It's been one year since the Soviet Union collapsed and Boris Yeltsin swept to power. The communist revolution lies in ruin. Sergei has served his homeland all his life.

This is a complete betrayal of everything the Union stood for, which is why he's on his way to quit. Feeling a rush of righteous purpose, he marches into the building, straight to the door of his commanding officer. Colonel Skripal, please, take a seat. Sergei remains standing, his nerves alight. He's rehearsed this moment in his head a hundred times, but now he's here, he realises he's never dared say the words out loud.

Skripal, is something the matter? I wish to tender my resignation.

There is no resigning from the GRU. You know this. Sergei swallows as the general stands and paces towards him. My position has become untenable. Sir, the economy is in free fall. My wage no longer supports my family. If I do not find work that pays, we will be out on the street. But the general cuts in. Let me remind you, Colonel. You swore an oath to serve your country.

The way you are talking, Colonel, perhaps I ought to send you somewhere. A sharp sweat pricks at Sergei's neck, his mind flashing with thoughts of the gulag. Okay, let's take Siberia off the table. Can I just take all gulags off the table, wherever they are? The general turns, steps towards a map hanging on the wall.

With the Iron Curtain down, foreign agents are crucial to our modern intelligence operation. We need spies, Colonel. Eyes and ears. Out in the field. A smile plays on the General's lips. I cannot let you quit. But maybe I could relocate you. To Spain. Yes. Deal. Sergei stumbles. Shakes his head. Convinced he's misheard. Relocate? Relocate?

Leave Russia. A few years ago, he'd never have imagined that possible, much less desirable. This last year, though, he's dreamed of nothing else. He and his family have watched as others have fled to the West, built new lives. But his job has always kept them chained to Moscow. Sergei steps up to the map, a whole world of possibility opening up before him. He takes his finger and taps it on the capital. Very well, comrade.

How about Madrid? Four years later, summer 1996, El Corazon Flamenco Bar, Madrid. Sergey sits back and smiles at his wife Lyudmila as she sips her sangria, at his teenage son Sasha, furtively eyeing up the local girls, and at his young daughter Yulia, bouncing in her seat to the music.

The beautiful balmy evening causes him to reflect contentedly about how his family is thriving here in Spain. Sergei's reverie is swiftly dashed when the waiter brings the bill. Sergei gulps at the total. Yeltsin and his coterie of oligarchs have crashed the Russian economy even harder. Sergei's government paychecks, which were always sporadic, are now practically non-existent. He's been trying to get a few side gigs off the ground, business interests to supplement his income.

But his Spanish is poor and the locals are flaky. He needs something dependable to provide for his family long term. Which is why he's agreed to this dinner meeting tonight with a British businessman. A tanned, neatly manicured hand reaches across the table and plucks the bill from him. Allow me. Instinctively, Sergei tries to snatch it back. But Sebastian waves him away. Please, I insist. Consider it a redistribution of wealth.

Sergei lets go, smiles graciously. "That is extremely kind of you." "Not at all. It's kind of you to invite me to dine with your delightful family." He watches Sebastian pull a stack of notes from his pocket, peeling them off one by one for the waiter, adding a generous tip. Nothing at all like the greedy Western bogeymen Sergei had been brought up to despise.

Right then, Sergei. How about you and I retire to the bar for a nightcap? Talk turkey. Sergei stands, squeezing Lyudmila's shoulder as he passes. Vodka? A Rioca, please. Sebastian raises his eyebrows approvingly and orders two. So what line are you in, Sergei?

I work for the embassy, a diplomatic attaché. A smirk plays about Sebastian's lips. Oh, come on, Sergei. I'm not stupid. The hairs on Sergei's arms prickle, afraid his cover has been compromised. What's your real line? You steal guy? Oil? I'm told there's a killing to be made in Russian oil right now. I'm afraid I have no interest in helping that pig Yeltsin sell off any more of Russia's resources.

But I think there is money to be made in Russia. Importing wine. Sergei lifts his glass, stares into the inky purple. Spanish wine has been a revelation to me. We Russians have mastered music, art, but wine? He's got a point. It's not up there, is it? I've never gone for dinner and said, have you got any Russian wines? He grimaces theatrically. Sebastian laughs. No one ever went broke betting on Russians' love of booze.

To his amazement, Sergei sees Sebastian actually considering the prospect. Under his seat, he loosely crosses his fingers. Sergei needs this to come good. If it doesn't, he has no idea what he's going to do or what he's going to tell Ludmilla and the kids. All right, Sergei, if you're serious, I think you might have something here. A swelling sensation spreads through Sergei's chest. A smile breaks across his face. He can't believe it.

Finally, a proper business partner. It's a surreal feeling, getting into bed with the kind of capitalist monster he spent his whole life fighting. And he's surprised to find it isn't a bad one. So he grasps Sebastian's hand and shakes. Two weeks later, El Retiro Park, Madrid.

Sebastian leans against the payphone as his boss continues to chew his ear off. And now I've got this expense request for 10,000 cases of Spanish wine. We didn't send you to Madrid for a piss-up, Sebastian. You're supposed to be working. Sebastian wipes his brow. The midday heat is absolutely stifling. I promise it's legitimate. I've got this guy on the hook. He's the real deal. I'm sure of it.

I just need a little more time to... You've had time. Reel him in or we let you go. I knew something was up and I cannot believe that Sergei, a trained Russian intelligence operative...

has been so uncynical about meeting a decadent Western pig who just wants to throw money at his silly wine idea. I totally know what you mean. And I do feel like he should be more discerning and have much more of a defence built up. However, everybody that got out of Russia that was in a kind of similar position to Sergei was sort of doing this. You know, this was your opportunity to have a side hustle, make some money. And so there were these interactions, right?

Some of them legit, maybe some of them with an ulterior motive. Sebastian looks down at his watch. He's late. Weaving through the crowds, he heads to the meeting spot in the centre of the park. There's a guy sat patiently on the bench by the boating lake, as Sebastian expected. But instead of approaching him, Sebastian holds back, hovers in his eyeline, waiting to be called. Sebastian, good to see you again.

Sebastian turns. The next two minutes are going to be absolutely crucial. Sergei, hi. Thanks for meeting me. Sorry I'm late. I... He lets his voice drift off as he sits next to Sergei, then sighs. Sergei, I don't quite know how to tell you this, but I made a few inquiries with some associates over in Moscow and...

Sebastian leans in, lets Sergei come to him. When were you going to tell me about your ties to the mafia? He feels the bench rock as Sergei bolts back, confusion all over his face. Sebastian's hit the nerve he was aiming for. It's a lie, of course, but this routine never fails. I don't need the people I work with to be angels, Sergei.

But bloody hell, the Mafia. Sorry, I'm out. He stands, starts to walk away. Sebastian, wait. He stops. I don't know who is telling you these things, but I am not Mafia. Please, sit. Sebastian stalls for a second longer, then slides back into his seat. I did, for a time, work in the military. Your military?

Technically, yes. But Soviet military? Jesus Christ, Sergei. I'd rather work with the mob. Sebastian starts to stride off again and is thrilled to feel Sergei lurching after him. Okay, okay. I will give you the truth. Sebastian acts like he's still planning to leave, but the desperation in Sergei's voice keeps him fixed to the spot. I tried to quit. They stationed me out here instead. And now...

I have been cut loose. They no longer pay me. Sergei looks down at his lap. Please, you met my family. I am just looking for an opportunity for them. It's all Sebastian can do not to punch the air. Yeah, don't do that. Yes. Sorry, that's about something else. Just think about all that ryoka. This is even better than he dared hope. An undercover military man disillusioned with Yeltsin in dire need of money.

Now more than ever, Sebastian is convinced Sergei is the man he wants to be in business with. And he's certain his boss will think the same. Two minutes later, Sergei can feel himself starting to sweat through his suit. When Sebastian called him here to meet, he'd expected to be discussing export tariffs, not getting grilled on his past. So, what are you?

KGB? No. KGB no longer exists. I... GRU then? Look, this is all in the past. I will tell you my whole life story when we have made our first sale, I swear. But this is what I am wanting to leave behind. There's silence. Sergei sees Sebastian's back straighten. And he worries his brusque Russian manner may have offended him.

But then Sebastian reaches into his pocket and pulls out an ornament, a small stained glass model of an old English cottage, dangling from a string, thatched roof, window boxes, ivy climbing the walls. Sergei stares at it, glistening, bemused. I have a secret to share too. Sebastian offers him the ornament. Sergei takes it delicately. The truth is...

I'm not a businessman at all, Sergei. But I do have a proposition for you. Sergei blinks, struggling to follow. I work for British intelligence, MI6. And we're looking for someone to help us get to grips with the new power structures in Yeltsin's Russia.

Sergei feels his sweat turn cold. A spy! We need someone on the inside to keep us updated on the changing moods within the corridors of power. He shakes his head, flustered. No, I am not an inside man. I am thousands of miles away from Moscow. I have not set foot in any of those corridors in years. But Sebastian doesn't seem deterred. Don't be mistaken, Colonel. I've done my homework.

I know exactly who you are. Naturally, we would pay you. A monthly retainer of £3,000, laundered through our wine business, plus £5,000 per meeting. Meetings like this one, if you're interested. Could we meet every day? And can we agree that the meetings are an hour and there is no small talk? It's all business. How are the kids? No, no, no. 59 minutes left, mate.

Sergei's eyes bulge at those figures. The retainer alone is multiple times his salary. His senses start swimming. What Sebastian is suggesting here is treason. If Sergei is caught even entertaining this idea, they'll throw him in jail. And that's just for starters. But still, he can't shake the temptation. It's not just the money. This could also be his chance to help avenge the Soviet Union.

to undermine that crook Yeltsin. Sergei fills his eyes, returning to his gift, the small spinning cottage on a string. "Why this trinket?" Sebastian smiles. "There's a saying in English, 'An Englishman's home is his castle.' If you want, MI6 will be your home. We can protect you." Sergei stares at it. He likes the saying, and Sergei is assured by Sebastian's promise.

But what he sees in this sparkling little ornament is his endgame. A proper escape for him and his family. Away from their squalid apartment in Moscow. Away from the GRU-rented villa here. This house is a way to finally cut himself free from the tendrils of the failing Russian state. This is the glass house he wants. He's going to join MI6.

Last year, law and crime brought you the trial that captivated the nation. She's accused of hitting her boyfriend, Boston police officer John O'Keefe, with her car. Karen Reid is arrested and charged with second-degree murder. The six-week trial resulted in anything but resolution. We continue to find ourselves at an impasse.

I'm declaring a mistrial in this case. But now the case is back in the spotlight, and one question still lingers. Did Karen Reid kill John O'Keefe? The evidence is overwhelming that Karen Reid is innocent. How does it feel to be a cop killer, Karen? I'm Kristen Thorne, investigative reporter with Law & Crime and host of the podcast, Karen, The Retrials.

This isn't just a retrial. It's a second chance at the truth. I have nothing to hide. My life is in the balance and it shouldn't be. I just want people to go back to who the victim is in this. It's not her. Listen to episodes of Karen, the retrial exclusively and ad free on Wondery Plus.

Lamont Jones' world is shattered when his cousin dies in custody just weeks after entering prison. The official report says natural causes, but bruises and missing teeth tell a different story. From Wondery comes Death County, PA, a chilling true story of corruption and cover-ups that begins as one man's search for answers, but soon reveals a disturbing pattern.

Lamont's cousin's death is just one of many, and powerful forces are working to keep the truth buried. With never-before-heard interviews and shocking revelations, Death County PA pulls back the curtain on one of America's darkest institutional secrets. This isn't just another true crime story. It's happening right now. Follow Death County PA on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge all episodes of Death County PA early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus.

September 1998, Sunday afternoon, Madrid. Sergei sits up from the sofa at the sound of his daughter Yulia bounding into the living room, showing off the clothes she just bought with her new weekly allowance. As she spins around in a pink halter top, Sergei considers just how much she's grown since leaving Moscow. She's becoming a young woman, and it fills his heart to see. Yulia runs off to change into her next outfit as Sergei hears the phone ring.

Hello? Colonel Skripal. Command wishes to see you. A matter most urgent. What time? First thing tomorrow. Where? Here, in Moscow.

But I am in Madrid. I couldn't possibly... You are booked on the overnight flight. Of course, comrade. See you tomorrow.

Fourteen sleepless hours later, Sergei's footsteps echo across the cold marble floor of the glasshouse. It's the first time he's stepped foot in the imposing Soviet-era building in nearly six years. Taking a seat in the director's office, he feels his flesh fidget under his skin. But outwardly, he remains perfectly still. Colonel Skripal, thank you for joining us at such short notice. Tell us, how have you found Madrid?

Sergei has been trained to never lie in interrogation, only to tell necessary truths. It has been a challenge, comrade, but a rewarding one. The director nods. How does it compare to Moscow? Sergei maintains his steely poise, even though his insides are going like a milk churn. Russia is my home. Nothing can ever replace it. It is pleasing to hear you say so, colonel.

Or rather, Colonel General. You're being promoted to Director of Personnel. Blood rushes to Sergei's head, almost causing him to faint with relief. Here in Moscow. Effective immediately. The words hit him like a sledgehammer. His mouth falls open in horror. You seem shocked, comrade. Sergei is shocked. He doesn't want to return to Moscow. But then Sergei realizes what this means.

Working right in the heart of Russian intelligence will elevate his standing within MI6. He can use this new position to cut himself a better deal with the British, make himself invaluable, earn some serious money and expedite his escape plan. Sergei's solemnity breaks into a smile. Forgive me, comrade. I was not expecting such a great honor. Thank you. I accept.

Nine months later, the glasshouse, Moscow. Sergei stares at the file on his desk in disbelief. Then up at the door in front of him. It's ajar. Bolting across his office, he puts his eye up to the crack, peers out into the harshly lit hallway. And when he's sure the coast is crystal clear, presses gently, listening for the click of the latch. He looks up at the clock. It's 4 p.m.,

He's meeting with his commanding officer at five to discuss the file in front of him. The field agent directory, a highly classified list of every foreign spy on the GRU payroll. Since moving back to Moscow, Sergei has been wary of contacting MI6. Surveillance at the glasshouse is increasingly sophisticated and the risk of his cover being blown grows every day. But now he's hit the motherlode.

With this file, he could unmask Russia's entire intelligence network. He just needs to keep his nerve and find a way to sneak this damn document past the guards at the front of the building. Question, why doesn't he have one of those spy devices, which is the kind of long rectangular cameras that slide out that you see in a spy film? Yeah, or like shoes that have knives inside them or laser sight. Or pens that do more things than normal pens do.

He glances up at the door again, his pulse quickening. Sergei slings his briefcase onto the desk, searching in vain for a pocket big enough to hide a file this thick. But there's nothing. Then his eye catches something. He pushes back his chair, reaches to the lowest drawer of his desk, and retrieves his old field kit. He rummages through the gadgets,

The belt buckle camera. You called it! I knew it! And I was being sarcastic. The fountain pen microphone. Come on! They've got it all. Before settling on a tiny vial of liquid. Not a time to drink, mate. From his briefcase, he takes the book he's been reading. Tolstoy's classic Anna Karenina. Carefully, he opens it on his desk, balances the directory on his lap, and dips his pen in the liquid.

His hands shaking, he copies the first entry into the book's margin, then stops, watches the wet ink soak into the page and disappear completely. Sergei's heart leaps. His invisible ink still works.

They really do use invisible ink. I had a fun fax, which I think we've talked about on this show before, the kids' version of Filofax, and it had a little insert that you could put in, which was how to become a spy. So all of this, this is already up here. Don't worry, I know all this stuff. You're basically fully qualified. I'm ready to go. I'm just waiting for the call-up. It'd be a heck of a ruse, wouldn't it, for a foreign intelligence agency to embed...

an operative, firstly at Radio 1, then in a Global Smash podcast. Emboldened, he starts frantically scribbling further lines and soon hits a pleasing rhythm, falling almost into a fugue state, entranced by the sound of his pen scratching page after page until a voice snaps him back. General, what are you doing? Sergei jolts up in his seat, slams the book shut.

Are you out of your mind? Defeating Tolstoy? You wish to rot in a gulag, comrade? Just notes, my wife and I have book club tonight.

A mass of nerves, Sergei stands slowly, slipping the directory from his lap into the lower drawer of his desk, shutting it with his shin as he stands. Come, we talk on the way to my car. Under the eye of his commander, Sergei packs Anna Karenina into his briefcase, the scent of the chemicals still tickling his nose.

It should be odourless as well. Surely. Should be undetectable in any way. Yeah, it's no good if it's invisible on the page but absolutely rancid smelling. The problem with invisible ink is it reeks. Of lies. Invisible ink is all he can smell as the two ride down in the lift together. As they stop for inspection at the security checkpoint and cross the car park in the cold evening air. To Sergei, the stench is overpowering and incriminating. He's sure someone is bound to spot it.

But as he waves his commander off in his blue Lada Riva, it's clear no one has. Sergei almost collapses on the spot with relief. Somehow he's just smuggled some of the GRU's most sensitive intel out of the glasshouse. Now all he needs is a way to get it out of Moscow and over to Madrid. Two weeks later, Plaza Mayor, Madrid.

Sebastian skips between the sightseers and street sellers of the city's centre square, searching for Café Rosa. After almost a year of agonising radio silence, Agent Skripal has finally surfaced and called for a meeting. As Sergei's case officer, Sebastian has been fighting constantly with his bosses to keep him on retainer. The top brass has been itching to relocate the funds to other, more talkative defectors.

He's really had to stick his neck out for Sergei, so is relieved his loyalty's paid off. But as Sebastian approaches the cafe and scans the customers sat out on the pavement, he sees something's wrong. There's no sign of Sergei, only Sergei's wife wearing huge sunglasses. He approaches cautiously. Ludmilla, lovely to see you again.

Where is Sergei? Is he joining us? Ludmilla frowns. He did not tell you? Sebastian frowns in return. No, he just told me to meet here. Is everything okay? A knot starts to form in his stomach. Sergei has been detained. In Moscow. Sebastian lurches forward, knocking the table.

Detained? That is the word. He is unable to have holiday. Security measure. For a new job. Sergei is very important general now. But he ask I give you this. Sebastian tries to study his nerves as she places a dogged paperback on the table. He takes it. Anna Karenina. Gingerly he flicks through it, but sees nothing. No pen marks, no code. Just Russian type.

Is this, um, all he's given me? Lyudmila looks crestfallen. I'm sorry, I told him it was strange gift, but he insisted you would take much from it. He said there is great deal of wisdom to find in original Russian. That old classics always best. Sebastian furrows his brow, picks the book back up, holds it up to the light, but still sees nothing. Then he realises...

The old classics. He dives up out of his chair. Ludmilla, it's perfect. Thanks, Sergei, for me. Throwing 2,000 pesetas onto the table, he leaves and runs all the way to his office. Ten minutes later, he places the book down on his desk, heads to a cabinet filled with equipment. Taking a ball of cotton wool in tongs, he soaks it in a clear chemical, squeezes off the excess, then lightly brushes it across the page.

It takes a second, but Sebastian's eyes grow wide as he sees faint markings unfurling along the margins. He tries the next page and the same thing happens. His whole body begins to vibrate with excitement. As he brushes page after page, more and more intel keeps spilling out. It's names, numbers and addresses. Top level classified information. Sergey hasn't just come good.

He's exceeded every expectation that he or his bosses ever had. Sebastian holds in his hands everything MI6 needs to start dismantling Russia's international spy network. It's a hell of a job, but that's exactly what he's going to start doing. Four years later, March 2004, Moscow. Vladimir Putin grabs his security guard by the lapels, yanks him forward.

Twisting his wrists, he lifts the guard clean off the ground, then hurls him straight over his shoulder. The guard sails through the air, falling hard to the floor. Putin spins, drops to one knee, then brings his clenched fist straight down on the guard's chest, stopping a centimeter above his sternum. Putin stares hard into the guard's eyes. The guard stares back, winded and wheezing. Then Putin hears a voice behind him.

Excuse me, Mr. President. Putin spins again to see General Nikolai Petrushev, head of the Federal Security Service, hovering over him. He scowls. Everyone knows judo practice is not to be disturbed.

Putin returns to his partner, ready to spar again. But Petrushev remains. It is most urgent, sir. Putin clenches his jaw. One day off. That's all he asked for. But even that, it seems, is too much.

Love that he's doing judo on his day off. Just kick him back. Sit in the garden, Vlad. Chill out. Put a wash on. In the locker room, a large screen shows the lunchtime news. A special report on voting irregularities in yesterday's national elections. Putin jerks his head up, a snarl on his lips. He turns to his entourage. What is this filth?

A panicked lackey rushes to the screen, starts mashing the buttons until the TV retunes to Russia 1. A huge portrait of Putin fills the screen, a caption uncritically celebrating his landslide 72% vote share. Calm returns to Putin. He sits, smiles, unknots his honorary black belt. Congratulations once again, Mr. President.

So this is the urgent matter? You interrupt me at my dojo to kiss my ass? Petrushev looks to the door, then drops his voice. Mr. President, there is a serious security situation developing at the Glass House. It appears British intelligence has learned the identities of a number of undercover GRU agents.

Putin tugs off his trousers moodily. You don't want to be in that changing room. There are certain guys that will cover themselves up with a towel. There are others that kind of strut about. I think he's leg on the bench, towel between the legs. That motion, you know, the back and forth. Don't use the hair dryer for that, mate. What number? Two? Three? Petrushev clears his throat. Three hundred, sir.

What? How is this possible? I want to know which rat did this!

It is hard to identify. The leak is historic. Dates back many years. Under Yeltsin's watch. Also, can you just cover yourself? I don't know where to look. Um, Mr. President, it's just very confusing for me. What a swinging. Putin lashes out, kicking his locker, but secretly pleased to know it was his predecessor who dropped the ball. But we have a lead, a GRU man who was stationed out in Madrid, known to make deals on the side of his official duties.

leveraging his position to make extra money. Putin grabs a towel, slings it over his shoulder. Then stop wasting my time. You know what to do. He dismisses Petrushev and heads for the shower, but then pauses. Putin realises he can't risk any confusion over this matter, not with Russian security at stake. General, it is imperative we find this leaker and make him an example. Let's breed more rats.

Every big moment starts with a big dream. But what happens when that big dream turns out to be a big flop?

From Wondery and At Will Media, I'm Misha Brown, and this is The Big Flop. Every week, comedians join me to chronicle the biggest flubs, fails, and blunders of all time, like Quibi. It's kind of like when you give yourself your own nickname and you try to, like, get other people to do it. And the 2019 movie adaptation of...

cats like if i'm watching the dancing and i'm noticing the feet aren't touching the ground there's something wrong with the movie find out what happens when massive hype turns into major fiasco enjoy the big flop on the wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts you can listen to the big flop early and ad free on wondery plus get started with your free trial at wondery.com slash plus

You know those creepy stories that give you goosebumps? The ones that make you really question what's real? Well, what if I told you that some of the strangest, darkest, and most mysterious stories are not found in haunted houses or abandoned forests, but instead,

in hospital rooms and doctor's offices. Hi, I'm Mr. Ballin, the host of Mr. Ballin's Medical Mysteries. And each week on my podcast, you can expect to hear stories about bizarre illnesses no one can explain, miraculous recoveries that shouldn't have happened, and cases so baffling they stumped even the best doctors.

So if you crave totally true and thoroughly twisted horror stories and mysteries, Mr. Ballin's Medical Mysteries should be your new go-to weekly show. Listen to Mr. Ballin's Medical Mysteries on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Spotify or Apple Podcasts. September 2004, MI6 headquarters, Vauxhall Cross, London.

Sebastian hears a file slapped down on his desk. He looks up to see a colleague looming over him, a grave expression on his face. He picks it up cautiously. A Russian agent, just been ID'd in a military hospital in Moscow by his wife. Body's in a horrible state. The file falls open in Sebastian's hands to an autopsy photo. One of ours.

Guy was based in Madrid. The ragged cut suggests he was alive when they came off. But Sebastian is no longer listening.

With his pulse rushing in his ears, he turns the page once more and sees the lifeless face of the agent. Relief floods his body. It isn't Sergei. It's some other poor bastard. But that's no cause to celebrate. This mutilation is intended as a message, a warning to other agents. Putin knows there's a mole and he's cleaning house. Sebastian grabs up the file and heads to a secure line.

Twenty minutes later, a phone pressed to his ear. He finally hears Sergei's voice. You should not be calling. Sebastian steadies his nerves. We're pulling you. Moscow is no longer safe. Your colleague in Madrid is dead and there's no telling what he might have let slip. We have no choice but to assume you've been compromised. There's silence over the crackling line. Impossible. I trained with these men. I will know when they suspect me.

Sebastian can feel his heart rate rising. Sergei, do not be a hero. You've given us more than enough. Let us bring you in. The crackling seems to intensify. The delay is interminable. Nietzsche, if I leave Moscow now, they will be suspicious. It will bring attention to my family. I need to stay until the heat dies down. Sebastian runs a shaking hand through his hair.

"Sergey, please, I'm sparing you the details of what happened to the body. I..." But Sergei interrupts. "Do not call again." The line goes dead. Sebastian pulls the phone from his ear, stares at it. He cannot sit idly by and leave him at the mercy of Putin's forces. Sergei is MI6's most valuable Russian asset and Sebastian's responsibility. He will not let him die.

He's going to have to pull every string he can to make sure he gets to Sergei before Putin does. December 2004. The Skripals apartment, Moscow. Sergei is clattering around his bedroom, pulling open all the drawers. He can't believe he's forgotten where he put it.

Surely spies know where they leave stuff. Haven't you just got one drawer with all of your fake identities in? Your invisible ink, your little mini camera, etc. There's sunglasses that have mirrors in so you can see who's coming from behind. From the kitchen, he hears Ludmilla calling through. Darling, what are you doing in there? Sergei hollers back. Nothing, beloved. Just looking for something. He gets to his hands and knees, sticks his head under the bed. The dust causes his nose to tickle.

He yanks an old suitcase out, clicks open the locks, lifts the lid, and there it is. His .22 pistol. Oh yes, that's the other thing you need. Invisible ink, special glasses, guns. He picks it up, feels the weight of it in his palm, checks the safety, and pulls back the slide. Still smooth. Then he picks up a piece of paper it was sat on. His gun licence. This is what he was after.

It expires this weekend, so he has to get it renewed. He can't risk a single blemish on his record. He replaces the gun in the suitcase, shoves it back under the bed, and slips the license into his pocket. I'm just heading out. Seventeen floors down, Sergei steps out onto the street, the bitter cold biting through his jacket. He rubs his hands and walks forward, but he's barely taken ten steps before he notices a shadow across the street.

Sergei subtly turns his head, spots a man across the road making a strange, discreet gesture to a nearby doorway. He glances around, but when he turns back, the man has vanished. A short spike of adrenaline hits him. His back straightens, alert. Sergei picks up his pace. He takes a sharp right down a side street, then another. He darts into a tobacconist, feigns an interest in the newspapers and snacks, while keeping half an eye on the door.

After a few minutes with no one having passed, Sergei re-emerges onto an empty street. He looks left. He looks right. Starts to feel himself relax. Curses himself for being paranoid. He's just about to step out across the road when he hears a screech of tires. A blue van comes skidding around the corner, pulling to a halt right in front of him. Sergei's feet freeze to the spot. He pulls his fists from his pockets.

But as he goes to fight the masked men racing towards him, he feels his jacket go up and over his head. He's thrust into darkness, his arms trapped above him, flailing. He feels his feet leave the ground. Three sets of hands grabbing his body, his legs, his hips, his arms. He lashes and bucks, trying to set himself free, but it's no use. Seconds later, his back slams against the inside of the van. He slumps to the floor.

The door slides shut, the lock clicks, and Sergei wriggles out from his jacket. It's dark. He's alone. Briefly, he wonders if this is the work of MI6, staging a kidnap to extract him against his will. But that thought vanishes almost as soon as it arrived. When out of the darkness, a face appears at his shoulder, and a thick, Russian accent mutters in his ear. We've got you now, traitor.

Follow British Scandal on the Wondery app, Amazon Music or wherever you get your podcasts. You can binge entire seasons early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. Before you go, tell us about yourself by completing a short survey at wondery.com slash survey.

Hey, I'm Mike Corey, the host of Wondery's podcast, Against the Odds. In each episode, we take you to the edge of some of the most incredible adventure and survival stories in history. In our next season, it's 1980, and in the Pacific Northwest, the long, dormant volcano Mount St. Helens is showing signs of life. Scientists warn that a big eruption is coming, but a restricted zone around the mountain is limited by politics.

On May 18th, hikers, loggers, reporters, and researchers are caught in the blast zone as the volcano erupts. They find themselves pummeled by a deadly combination of scorching heat, smothering ash, and massive mudslides. The survivors have to find their way to safety before they succumb to their injuries.

or face another eruption. Follow Against the Odds on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. Binge the entire season ad-free right now only on Wondery+. Start your free trial in the Wondery app, Apple Podcasts, or Spotify today. ♪

From Wondery and Sammers.audio, this is the first episode in our series, The Salisbury Poisonings. A quick note about our dialogue. In most cases, we can't know exactly what was said, but all our dramatisations are based on historical research. If you'd like to know more about this story, you can read The Scripple Files by Mark Urban,

Spy Swap by Nigel West. Or you can read Bellingcat's investigations into the poisoning of the Scribbles at bellingcat.com. If you've got a scandal you'd like us to cover, get in touch. British Scandal at wondery.com. British Scandal is hosted by me, Alice Levine. And me, Matt Ford. Written by Chris Lockery. Additional writing by Alice Levine and Matt Ford. Our story editor is James Maniac.

Sound design by Rich Evans. Our engineer is Jai Williams. For Samistat, our producer is Redsy Bernard. Our assistant producer is Louise Mason. Our senior producers are Joe Sykes and Dasha Lisitsina. For Wondry, our senior producer is Theodora Leloudis. And our senior managing producer is Rachel Sibley. Executive producers for Wondry are Estelle Doyle, Chris Bourne and Marshall Louis. Wondry.

This is Nick. And this is Jack. We're best friends, ex-finance guys, and resident 90s experts. And every week on our podcast, The Best Idea Yet, we're bringing you the untold stories behind your favorite products. For instance, can you guess which billion-dollar fashion company went viral thanks to a rhinestone-covered tracksuit? Or which cartoon turned four turtles into a global toy empire by accident? It started as a joke. Last one, which cold beverage was so hated by Starbucks

they actually ended up acquiring it. Spoiler, the Frappuccino. Howard Schultz apparently thought cold coffee was super lame, and then he bought it. From Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles to Juicy Couture to the Orange Mocha Frappuccino. Join us every week to learn how your favorite things got made. Follow The Best Idea Yet on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. And you can listen early and ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus. And if this podcast lasts longer than 45 minutes, call your doctor. Ha ha ha ha ha!

Behind the closed doors of government offices and military compounds, there are hidden stories and buried secrets from the darkest corners of history. From covert experiments pushing the boundaries of science to operations so secretive they were barely whispered about.

Each week on Redacted Declassified Mysteries, we pull back the curtain on these hidden histories. 100% true and verifiable stories that expose the shadowy underbelly of power. Consider Operation Paperclip, where former Nazi scientists were brought to America after World War II, not as prisoners, but as assets to advance U.S. intelligence during the Cold War.

These aren't just old conspiracy theories. They're thoroughly investigated accounts that reveal the uncomfortable truths still shaping our world today. The stories are real. The secrets are shocking. Follow Redacted Declassified Mysteries on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen to Redacted early and ad-free right now on Wondery+.