All language subtitles for Operation.Mincemeat.2021.2160p.WEB-DL.x265.10bit.HDR.DDP5.1-NOGRP

In any story,
if it's a good story,

there is that which is seen
and that which is hidden.

This is especially true
in stories of war.

There is the war we see,

a contest of bombs
and bullets,

courage,
sacrifice and brute force,

as we count the winners,
the losers and the dead.

Heave!

But alongside this war,

another war is waged.

A battleground
in shades of grey,

played out in deception,
seduction and bad faith.

The participants are strange.

They are seldom
what they seem,

and fiction and reality blur.

This war
is a wilderness of mirrors,

in which the truth
is protected

by a bodyguard of lies.

For the love of Christ.

We should have heard by now.

This is our war.

Dear God.

Pray.

"As I looked up
into the darkened sky,

"I made a vow.

"I would give the old country
another day.

"to fit me into something;

"and if nothing happened,

"I would take the next boat
for the Cape.

"It was then, as I was
fitting my key into the door,

"that I noticed a man
at my elbow.

"I'd not seen him approach,

"and his sudden appearance
made me start.

"'May I come in for a minute? '
the man said,

"steadying
his voice with effort."

And if it were us, omega,
would we let him in?

Depends on whether or not
he knew the code, agent Zed.

"No sooner
was he through the door..."

he did let him in.

"... and the odd little man
poured himself a stiff whisky.

"and drank it in three gulps.

"'Pardon, ' he said.
'I'm a bit rattled tonight.

"'You see, i happen
at this moment to be dead.'"

I think it's best
we keep reading.

Tomorrow's a day
of high adventure, agent.

I think it's best you sleep..

They're here.

Good night.

This gorgeous delicacy
is Afghan cheese,

made from the milk
of a long-horned

and lovesick sheep.

You must be a smuggler, Ivor.

Exotic cheese.
The rest of us on rations.

I could manage
your front office, you know.

At the Cheese Eaters' League.

Has my brother left you
unemployed, Hester,

- Now that he's retiring?
- Is that the rumour?

I hope that's not the reason
for this party.

Are you not retiring?

I've written a lovely speech
saying you are.

Well, then, i suggest
you write a lovely speech

saying that I am not.

This is simply a hiatus..

Naval supplies. He's off
to whip them into shape.

A noble contribution
to this ghastly war.

Maritime hardware.
I have a passion for it.

Ivor, Ewen.
I'm afraid it's that time.

That it is, darling.

I have prepared
a dazzling toast.

Mmm.

Though why we're not
cheering you

on your last night at home...

oh, don't be silly.
King's Counsel deserves

a proper send-off
into retirement.

Hester, will you tell my
husband his guests await him?

Absurd, isn't it?
This "retirement" bit?

When both of us know
my brother hasn't tried a case

in three years.

Well, gossip has it

he's been knee-deep
in intelligence for some time.

Ivor. .

A grown man,
gossiping like a fishwife.

Has he been
bumped over to MI5?

- Special mission?
- Oh, my cue. I see.

Surely he's taking you
with him,

whatever it is.

You really do have
an uncanny nose for cheese.

To my distinguished
friends and colleagues,

in whose honour we have
uncorked a vintage spam.

A devious cabal

of immediate family has
billed this as my retirement.

But you, my cherished guests,
are clever enough to know

that I will be buried
in my silks

before I will ever
hang them up for good.

So let us instead
consider this a cheers

to my now full-time post

as superintendent.

Of nautical rivets...

...and whatever nuts
and bolts may be required

by dear England
in her hour of need.

But the real tribute tonight
goes to Iris,

my brilliant wife,

who in the morning,
sails to less troubled shores

with our nestlings in tow.

Iris is wiser than Solomon,

stronger than Samson
and more patient than Job.

She has to be.
She's married to me.

In the
Moroccan city of Casablanca,

prime Minister Churchill
has held meetings

with President Roosevelt

to agree plans
for the next stage of the war.

As Hitler's Nazis tighten
their grip on occupied Europe,

a mighty host
of Allied troops...

excuse me. Thank you.

Excuse me. Thank you.

... and prepare
for a battle that will decide

the fate of the free world.

In the words of
President Franklin Roosevelt,

"The fascists asked for it,
and they're going to get it."

We work together,
if I'm not mistaken.

You're not mistaken.

Have you seen
the main feature,

confessions of a Nazi Spy?

It's, erm, based
on a real, erm, fBI agent,

leon G Turrou, t-U-R-R-O-U,

who tracked Nazi spy rings
in the United States in 1938

and went on, amazingly,

to arrest a number of Germans.

For espionage..

Sorry I'm late.

I'll let you watch..

... every man
under his command.

It was very gracious,
what you said tonight.

More gracious
than it needed to be.

I meant every word.

And I didn't mean for it

to hurt you this way.
My leaving.

It seems I'm always
the last to go.

Stronger than Samson.

We're off
first thing in the morning

and I haven't
finished packing..

Well, up you go, then.
Safe journey, my dear.

I will write to you.

We'll write to each other.

They have to go.

Of course they do.

If Hitler reaches London,

a Jewish family will be
the first on their list.

I would never expose Iris

and the children
to that danger.

A separation
made all the more painful

if it were
to become permanent.

She told you?

I've pleaded my case
many times...

for our family...
for the marriage.

Iris says marriages change,

that romance and love
belong to the young.

I don't believe that,
or feel it.

And the thought they may
never be coming back...

i know I can be remote...

and lost in my work.

Not as attentive
as I might be.

You're an imperfect person.
I doubt you're the first.

I want Iris to be happy,

even if it comes at the
expense of my own happiness.

I've never heard her
say a word about unhappiness.

That's because she knows

you'd jump
on a grenade for me.

Only on your good days.

Iris said if I really cared,
i'd come to America with them.

Oh, people say
all sorts of things.

She knows
your duty is to your family

and your country.

The nightmare marching
this way is only too real.

And Masterman has asked me

to serve
on the Twenty Committee.

So you must.

Starting tomorrow.

Goodbye, darlings.

All right, now.
That's it. That's it.

Godspeed, darling.

Our family manor will be
a freezing tomb without you.

Take care of your brother,
Ivor, and yourself.

It's cold.

I'll see to a fresh pot
immediately.

They will drag me back
to the bowels any moment.

Fresh air. Such a luxury now.

Let's walk.

Everyone but a bloody fool
will know it's Sicily.

That may be,
prime Minister,

but it is the only
path forward,

given that we must find a way
into Europe

and the most strategic path
is Sicily.

It leads to Rome.
France will follow.

A successful assault
on Sicily means

we would knock Italy
out of the war,

shatter Nazi morale

and spell the beginning
of their inevitable doom.

Inevitable?
Our losses mount daily.

You said yourself, sir,
sicily is the soft underbelly.

I know what I said.

I want to know
how it will be achieved,

convincing Herr Hitler
we're not going to do

what anyone with a bloody
atlas can see we'll do.

Hitler will need to believe

that our next target
is Greece.

Which, yes, will require
an elaborate deception.

A deception plan so complex,

i believe
it can only be handled

by the Twenty Committee.

Which is why
I shall focus

the Committee's attention
on the Trout Memo,

the document I compiled
a few years ago,

to which my assistant,

lieutenant Commander
Ian Fleming,

made some contribution.

"Intelligence is like
trout fishing.

"The trout fisher,
in tying his lure,

"attempts
to attract the fish..."

i detest fish.

Fish as metaphor,
in this case.

Er, the Trout Memo
is our definitive

blueprint for spycraft.

Prime Minister, the memo

in the hands
of the Twenty Committee

may, i believe, hold the key
to deceiving Hitler,

and while some of the ideas
may appear fantastic...

i applaud the fantastic.

It has many advantages
over the mundane.

But the more fantastic,

the more foolproof
the plan must be.

Our troops are near dead
from heat in Africa.

I gave Roosevelt my word
Sicily was next.

An invasion date of July
is now set in stone,

and right now,
thousands of our boys

already lie in Europe's soil.

If we do not fool the Nazis

and the enemy is waiting
for us on those beaches...

history herself will avert
her eyes from the slaughter.

Mother?

Mother, please do not touch

the dolomite
while I'm at work.

A lobe in one of the cams
is missing.

I don't have time
to find it now,

but haven't we learned

that an overhead camshaft
is virtually useless

without its properly
functioning mate?

You might worry
about finding your own mate.

I hope to return
with sugar cubes.

And Robbie?

Have you had success
in bringing Robbie home?

I'm doing all that I can.

Pulling strings,
like you promised?

Every string within grasp.

A real-life war hero.

- And where is Chittagong?
- Bengal.

Good God.
What's he doing here?

Montagu? I invited him.

That was a mistake.

The main deception
that we'll feed

the Nazis will run as follows.

Our "12th Army,"
which does not exist,

with its 12 divisions,
which also do not exist,

will invade Greece
six months from now,

on the 10th of July.

We will develop
numerous tactics

to reinforce this deception.

Bogus troop movements.
Fake radio traffic.

Our agents will recruit
Greek interpreters,

buy up a sizable
cache of drachma.

All to take
the focus off Sicily,

the real target and the site

of the actual invasion
that same day.

And the centrepiece
of this deception?

As I just said,
commander,

the 12th Army
is the centrepiece.

It's not enough,
i'm afraid.

The tactics you just outlined
would point to Greece,

but if we are to get Hitler

to divert actual troops
from Sicily,

given her
strategic importance,

we would need
to provide him with proof

of our intention
towards Greece.

- Fake proof, of course.
- I agree with that.

And to that end, erm,

i've also been working
on a deception plan,

which I've dubbed
Operation Trojan Horse.

It's a ruse
taken from the Trout Memo.

- Idea number 28.
- Number 28.

A corpse carrying false papers

drops on the coast
from a parachute

that supposedly failed.

The Trout Memo is dead.

I believe
the Prime Minister

has an aversion to fish,
admiral.

He did not kill
the entire memo.

A corpse carrying
fake documents, hmm?

Of all the ideas
in the Trout Memo,

that one is by far
the most precarious.

Except the Germans will be
skittish on account of Spain,

where they recently failed
to follow up real papers

on the body of an airman
washed up in Cádiz.

So may I suggest
the timing is perfect.

- For Trojan Horse?
- Mmm.

A code name
a child could decipher.

And the Germans will be
expecting us to plant papers

precisely because of Cádiz.

Or the Nazis,
being linear thinkers,

will not want to make
the same mistake twice.

It's simply a version
of the Haversack Ruse.

Of which of course
I am well aware.

Then you will
also be aware

the ruse
has a good track record,

which is what I believe,
my friend...

er, flight Lieutenant
Cholmondeley,

c-H-O-L-M-O-N-D-E-L-E-Y.

...was trying to say.

For those of you
who don't know.

Lieutenant Commander Montagu,

he joins us
from the Old Bailey,

which means he's had little
time to spend in deception.

I've spent my days
in court, sir.

Hence, he is blind
to the obvious pitfalls

of tossing a letter-laden
corpse into the sea.

I'm simply saying

that for a deception
to reach Hitler,

it must have a channel.

Spain is neutral,

the ideal place
to launch such a plan

because she is crawling
with spies from both sides.

She has a vast coastline...

cHOLMONDELEY: and since
our agents in Madrid

have an elaborate network,

we could quite literally
float the documents

right into enemy hands.

Montagu and Cholmondeley
are clearly convinced

they have a direct line
to the Führer.

So let's wish them both luck

implementing
Operation Trojan Horse.

The rest of us will proceed

with the operation
I have outlined.

I have a vested
interest in this plot,

which is why I told M,
in no uncertain terms,

you'll need a secure space,
command centre, a staff.

But do we think it can work?

I know I just made
a case for it.

An eloquent case.
It's the Haversack Ruse.

It's tried, tested.
Deception needs a channel.

- Those were your words.
- They were.

I'm only imagining a dead body
hurtling through the air.

The plan is bold,
there's no question.

But it's ours now, regardless.
M's seen to that.

Although, what if the body
does disintegrate on impact?

Let's not
bring that up now, shall we?

And definitely
not in front of M.

Why do you call
Godfrey "M"?

Because I called
my mother "M."

The most terrifying,
most impossible,

most demanding creature
I've ever known.

What if
the plane with the body

is intercepted
before he's dropped?

So, mother
has no faith in this?

That's because
number 28

wasn't Godfrey's idea.
It was mine.

A plot I cribbed
from Basil Thomson's novel,

the Milliner's Hat.

- Have you read Thomson?
- I prefer Buchan.

What if the autopsy reveals

that he didn't die
of drowning?

Or if the briefcase
is returned to us

without the Germans
seeing its contents?

Charles, why on earth do you
keep poking holes in our plan?

I'm pre-emptively poking.

To ensure all the details
are properly thought through.

Because as Godfrey made clear,

our feet will be held
to the fire soon enough.

The plan will work
if we make it work.

He's put you down here.

We'll certainly be
removed from prying eyes.

Removed
from life in all forms,

even air.

Will you be joining us
down here, fleming?

I will likely stay upstairs.

But, "whomever
is equally industrious.

"will succeed equally well."

- The Milliner's Hat, no doubt.
- Oh.

Oh, well, the Twenty Committee

certainly has its advantages,
i suppose,

if you like spooks.

My friends think
I'm working in naval supplies.

My mother believes
I'm a clerk.

- And Robert Cholmondeley?
- My brother.

I did hear the news
from Chittagong.

My deepest condolences.

Oh, yes,
we've lost a real hero.

Leaving my mother with me,
the penguin.

RAF pilot and officer
with big feet and bad eyes.

Which means I'm,
in effect, grounded.

Flightless bird.

Well, what say we start
with the easy part

and find ourselves a corpse?

You can take your pick,
to be honest.

That goes
right down the corridor.

Right, you can go
straight through there.

Two, three. Lift.

You did say drownings?

Room 13.

- Coroner Birtwistle for you.
- Montagu.

This is
the same Official Secrets Act

you signed for Bletchley,

but this covers your work
with the Twenty Committee

and here in Room 13.

Male, of service age, drowned.

Now, tell me why you want him.

Where are his legs?

And are there 20
in the Twenty Committee?

No. "Twenty" is a joke.
Two X's.

Oh. The Roman numerals.

As in "double-cross"?.

You will use
your Bletchley skills

to fish for cues
in decoded chatter

about Sicily, greece,
enemy troops in those areas.

Is that understood?

The team in 102 are planning
fake training exercises.

106 are running double agents.

107 will be dropping leaflets
on Cyprus.

I don't know yet
what the leaflets will say.

And yet here we are
in a huge city

in the middle of a world war,

and we can't seem
to find ourselves

a single suitable corpse.

We need an insider.

We need Bentley Purchase.

And to what purpose
would the body be put?

A warlike operation.
It's really all we can say.

Although we can also say
that the body must be male,

of service age, intact,
and could pass for a drowning.

Intriguing.
But I'll have to demur.

Public confidence
in our office

would be irreparably shaken

if something like that
got out.

Like the Darby case?

You remember
the Darby case, Bentley.

I brought you in to give
the evidence a second look.

Your testimony won the case.

The case cemented
your reputation.

Which led
to your position here,

if I'm not mistaken.

In a nutshell.

The matter here is urgent.

It is top secret,

and it is approved
at the highest level.

It cannot be high enough.

Churchill has approved it.

Fresh as a daisy.

Transferred from St Pancras
Hospital yesterday.

What is your name, dear?

This is... was...
glyndwr Michael.

What is it you do
for work, glyndwr?

There is no occupation noted

in the man's chart.

It appears he was originally
from Aberbargoed.

But in London,
he was a vagrant.

No fixed address.

Cause of death
was chemical toxicity

from rat poison left on bread.

I want you to know
God forgives you, glyndwr,

for hating yourself so much
you'd take your own life.

Appears the man
ended his life

while of unsound mind.

Luckily for us,

the human body contains
a host of chemicals naturally,

so determining how he died,

should he be
immersed in water,

would require
a highly skilled coroner.

Where would you
be landing him?

Most likely
a small coastal town.

Where the local coroner,
if there's one at all,

won't have the foggiest idea

why this chap
kicked the bucket.

Do you have any relatives,
glyndwr?

Do you have a next of kin?

The body is unclaimed.

But, i must warn you,

our friend
will soon start to rot.

I can place him
in our coldest box,

which will
retard decomposition

but not arrest it,

meaning if Glyndwr Michael

is to be of any use
to you at all,

he must be in service
within three months.

In the real war,

there are constant reminders
of the brutality at hand.

A quarter of a million
lie dead in battle,

an unspeakable horror

with no end in sight.

I'll be at my club.

And I shall be up to no good.

As usual.

While in the other war,

the war of shadows,

normal life appears
to continue,

itself an act
of canny deception.

In this war,
real lives are also lost.

And even fictional lives
can meet an untimely end.

I believe my guests
have preceded me, Teddy.

They have, sir,
and ordered their drinks.

Thank you.

And once
in a great while,

the laws of nature
reverse themselves entirely

and the dead
are made alive again.

We were just discussing
our chap.

Crucial thing is
that he must be real.

As real as you or I.

He must have parents,
for example.

Rank, regiment, bank accounts,
love of theatre.

Nicotine habit.
He attended Oundle.

Flew kites as a boy.

And on a blustery day,

you'll still find him kiting
in Dulwich Park.

The thing is,
the Germans will scrutinise

every detail
of our fallen man,

so the slightest
inconsistency...

mONTAGU: ah, Teddy, thank you.

- Martini.
- Thank you.

- Gin and lemon for the lady.
- Thank you.

Even the slightest
inconsistency

will signal the ruse.

So, to create a real fake man
from a real dead man,

we start by...

by giving him
a real real name.

John would be solid.

James. George. Robert is good.

That's my brother's name.

Of course.
Forgive me.

- But William could work.
- It could.

And William would be
a Royal Marine.

An officer
in the Royal Marines

if he's carrying
secret letters.

Exactly right.

An officer
in the Royal Marines

with a common British name,

so that when the Germans
check the navy lists,

it will be harder
to track down a...

major William Martin.

With your
identification number.

How very clever.

So if the Germans
do follow the name...

cHOLMONDELEY: Ewen will be
the first to know.

There it is. As if I were him.

Now all we need
is his photograph.

In Royal Marine blues.

No, no, marines travel
in battle dress,

and our marine
will be travelling.

And the uniform
cannot appear new.

It must be broken down.

It must have exactly
the right patina of wear.

As if I were him.

There must be
a love story.

If Major Martin's life
is to be believable.

Objection.
Creation of a material fact.

A real life
need not be a romantic one.

He would carry a letter
from his betrothed

professing her deep love
for him.

That's very good.

That's precisely
the level of detail we need.

And he would carry
her photograph.

Yes.

We clearly read
different novels.

Well, why not ask
some of our female colleagues

if they might be willing
to submit snapshots?

And perhaps
we can find a partner

for our Major Martin.

That's not a risk?

Picking a girl
working in the Admiralty?

She's an anonymous girl
washed up on a distant shore.

She might even be thrilled

to find herself in the middle
of a dangerous plot.

Lives at stake.
Countries at war.

Her lover torn away
by duty and fate.

You want me to help you?

And by
extension, help your country.

Yes, you know
all the girls in the office,

and, erm, i've seen the way
you go about your work.

You're very clever
and, er, meticulous and...

- You've been watching me.
- No. No, not...

certainly there's nothing
untoward. I simply...

if you could
point me to a girl

who would give us
her photograph.

But what would her photograph
be used for?

Well, i'm afraid
that's classified.

But, erm,
by donating her image,

she'd be involved in
and on the ground floor

of a significant operation.

Operation Trojan Horse?

It's been renamed.
Something less obvious.

Operation Mincemeat.

Due to the dead body.

You surmised that
rather quickly.

- I already knew the plot.
- Ah.

Would something like this do?

Taken by my husband
a long time ago.

Your husband?
I didn't realise.

Erm... well, it...
it's lovely. It's perfect...

it could be my contribution
to the mission.

First of many, perhaps.

My photograph in exchange
for a seat at the table.

Very well.

I'm all ears.

Well, we've managed
to find a body.

Pretty as a picture.

And the process
of transforming him

into Major William Martin
is underway.

Bloody hell.

Let's just not attempt to
make him smile again, please.

It does none of us
any favours.

Because he looks dead,
Bentley.

Whatever we do.
Just deader and deader.

It's hard to come alive for
one's close-up in this state.

If we bungle one tiny detail,

a droopy eyelid, an open mouth
instead of a smile,

we might as well
telegraph Berlin ourselves

it's all a hoax.

Then may I suggest
a live face?

That looks just like
the dead face?

In a city of nine million,

surely someone
resembles our friend.

Do we think he'd be dancing,
major Martin, if he were here?

Well, he is an officer.

Well, not all officers dance.

I doubt our Bill
gives two figs for dancing.

- No. Too full in the face.
- Without the moustache?

His brow is too heavy.

Why don't we try something
easier, for God's sake,

like looking
for tits on a bull.

Forgive me.
That was uncalled for.

No. I saw the photographs.
It's called for.

As for dancing, i suspect

the major's not much
for a foxtrot,

but could clear the floor
with a tango.

Our progress to date,

major Bill Martin
is an industrious chap,

occasionally forgetful,
habitually tardy,

but also clever.

- Amend that to brilliant.
- And he's not good with money.

So we should include
an overdraft letter

in his briefcase.

And is he happy?
Is he a happy man?

He wants to be.

He started out
with such promise,

a sense of hope about
the world, about his future.

But now it all seems dark,
uncertain.

He is in the middle of a war.

Exactly right. He signed up
for the Royal Marines.

But once commissioned
was consigned to a desk,

which he despised.

Because the life
he really wanted

was one of daring
and intrigue,

and so he escaped and
he switched to the Commandos,

where he distinguished himself
in technical matters...

specifically the mechanics
of landing craft.

Yes, and he predicted
that the Dieppe Raid

would be a catastrophe.
And how right he was.

He sounds like a character
from Sir John's latest novel.

Masterman?
He's writing a novel?

A spy novel.

Apparently he thinks of me
as his muse.

Well, then he may be
in for a duel,

because you're
Major Martin's muse now.

The girl I was at 20
is his muse.

Nevertheless
it's your photograph

that will be pressed
to his heart

when he washes ashore.

Yes, wallet litter
is what you are..

Not as in rubbish.

That's just spy parlance

for the bits and pieces that
one finds in one's pockets.

- And do I have a name?
- Pam.

Not five weeks ago,

the major looked across
a crowded room...

across a crowded room?.

The major sat at a small table
in a strange bar

and found himself with a woman

both known and unknown to him
all at once.

Within days, something deep
and unexpected had blossomed,

culminating in a diamond ring
slid onto Pam's slim finger,

as Bill revealed himself
to her as a changed man.

Jean?

Jean.

- There you are.
- I've had him down as a guest.

Yes, under Lieutenant
Commander Montagu's name.

Thank you.

- Please, sit.
- Thanks.

Suppose it's very fashionable
these days,

marrying an American.

Who me? Oh, no,
that'd be my lucky day.

Jean and I only just met.

But, uh, well, so far,
she tolerates me well enough,

- So I guess there's hope.
- I'm a widow.

So, this is my friend,
sergeant Roger Dearborn.

It's nice
to meet you all.

Jean said you wanted
to talk to me?

Or you didn't
wanna talk to me?

No, we did. Because we were
discussing something,

a top secret project.

A study.

Profiling American servicemen

and how they might integrate
with British troops.

That's top secret?

You should see the havoc
the Nazis wreaked

with the radio antenna.

Well, i'm not sure
what that has to do...

what... what we're wondering
is whether you would care

to participate in the project.

It wouldn't take
much of your time.

Just answer a few questions.

Allow us to take
your photograph.

We could arrange for you to
come round to the Admiralty.

Say, tomorrow.

Go on. It'll be fun.

- Okay, then.
- Very nice to meet you.

So I'll see you tomorrow.
See you soon.

What do you think? Will he do?

I know he's not
a perfect match, but...

a gift horse. He will do.

A toast.

To Pam, our secret weapon,

who's already managed to see
what we could not.

No, i think it was
after university

that Bill took up the bass.

Actually,
i think it was the trumpet.

Which was frowned upon
by his mother Antonia,

a devout Catholic
who at all times

kept a candle lit for St Jude.

Every piece
makes a whole.

Our man is a mosaic.

Will you wake your family,
getting home so late?

My wife is in America
with the children.

Hester told me
just this morning

she'd taken a job there with
British Security Coordination.

Hester told you?

May I just say.

I was very sorry
to hear of your husband.

I've been alone
for many years,

which is why it pleases me

to see Bill and Pam
so madly in love.

Pam is very lucky
to have you cheering her on.

And Bill you.

Thank you for walking with me.

I can see you
all the way home.

Actually,
i think I'll stay.

What, in there?
Alone?

I couldn't possibly.

I'm perfectly capable
of taking care of myself.

Who would argue otherwise?

It's Bill and Pam's
favourite song.

Whoo!

It was more like
a lethal Lindy Hop.

You flattened every male
of fighting age in the place.

I was testing it out.

Ah, secret weapon
against the Nazis.

Pam's secret weapon.

Her way
of forgetting her woes.

Major Martin will need
the stamina of an ox.

She's a surprising woman,
though, isn't she, pam?

At a crossroads in her life.
Still young.

Probably hasn't quite
found her stride.

Is she younger than Bill?

I hadn't pictured them
that way.

Well, bill's hardly old.

If you say so.

What I think Pam sees in Bill,

beyond the dashing figure
he cuts

when he walks into a room,

is something deeper.

And Bill suspects
the same in her.

But at first, all he sees

is a woman
of fierce intelligence,

uncommon grace,
a demon on the dance floor.

A woman ready to take wing.

I think she's already
on her way.

A happy story.

Except that he's off to war.

Which is tomorrow's work.
And I'll need your help.

I'll wait here till you're in.

I'll be fine. Thank you.

Good night.

Writing sample number five.

Standard blue/black,
in leather wallet in pocket,

soaked overnight in seawater.

Seawater from...

it does matter, Hester.

Disposal shut down the road
in all directions.

Child found an unexploded
fire bomb in her garden.

Oh, dear God.

And the word
from Bletchley?

Nazi command
still expects us to launch

a naval assault on Europe.

But they suspect

a massive deception operation
is underway.

They still believe
Sicily will be the target.

So, two months of work

and we've managed to deceive

the enemy
of precisely nothing.

The one bright spot is
I found a hydrographer.

I'm meeting him now.

Well, i hope it's not Hespers
from Naval Operations.

The man is
an incorrigible skirt-chaser.

My skirt can defend itself.

But I could use
your expertise, commander.

Very well.

- Room 13.
- That is his rank.

- Lieutenant Commander.
- Of course.

They were just less formal

when I saw them
a few weeks ago.

Dancing at Rainbow Corner..

Lieutenant. Admiral Godfrey.

Admiral.

So where are we
with Mincemeat?

We're on a solid footing, sir.

Yes, major Martin
is as real as you or I.

He has hobbies, debts, a girl.
They're to marry.

- We have a ring.
- Huh. Touching.

We believe Major Martin

should be delivered
by submarine,

rather than air dropping
and risk dismemberment.

And we are convinced
that Spain

is still the best place
to float him ashore,

given the fascist
network there

and Spain's neutrality.

And we believe the plan
is ready to present, sir.

To the prime minister.

I agree.

You...

well, er,
that's excellent news.

I'll present it to Churchill
this afternoon.

I'll need a brief.

Well, we've prepared
one for you, sir.

You'll be more than ready.

And your partnership
with Montagu. Please.

How has that fared?

Nothing short
of first rate, sir.

Montagu and I think
with one mind. We, erm...

we've developed a shorthand,
become good friends.

Hmm. So you've met
his brother, then, Ivor?

No, no. Montagu rarely
speaks of him.

Were you aware
he's a communist sympathiser?

Montagu's brother?
Well, it's absurd.

Our intelligence
suggests otherwise.

Why would our intelligence
be watching Ivor Montagu?

Whatever Ivor may
or may not be,

his brother
would be unaware of it.

It's always sound policy

to keep one's ear
to the ground.

Don't you think?

Thank you.

I shall look forward
to good news

from the prime minister, sir.

I only mention it
because Charles

asked me out
to dinner tonight.

Did you invite him to join us?

I didn't say
I was going with you.

I sensed
he'd be upset somehow.

But that's silly.
The man's not a child.

Oh. I almost forgot.

What do you think?

It's beautiful.

Charles and I ducked out
at lunch yesterday.

He preferred the round cut,

but I prevailed
with the marquise.

Let's see it on.

The only place this belongs
is in the safe.

- Admiralty property.
- Yes, of course.

You think Pam will like it?

I think she might.

This should be in the safe.

Yes. I was about
to put it back.

Wanted to show it to Jean.

- You gave it to Jean?
- I showed it to her.

I wanted to see
what she thought of it.

If you're so concerned,
stow it away yourself.

In matters of protocol,

it seems bad practice,
sloppy even,

for us to be going off
as separate pairs.

Like you and Godfrey?

He called you in alone
just now, didn't he?

Why was that?

Godfrey is only happy

when he's stirring up
suspicion and discord,

- As you well know.
- Room 13.

Bentley Purchase for you.

Yes, Bentley, what is it?

I've had
an unexpected visitor.

Miss Michael heard
of her brother's passing

from staff at the hospital.

A kindly nurse
who cared for him then

took it upon herself
to find his kin.

God bless her.

Please accept our deepest...

we only had each other.
You know?

He needed looking after,
glynnie.

But I let him go to London.

And then...

stamps. Tickets.

An unwrapped mint.

It's called
wallet litter, sir.

Yes, i know what it is.

But it's the letters
in the case

that are key to this
deception, are they not?

They are.

Military correspondence

indicating that we will
invade Greece

while hinting
that our cover plan is Sicily.

Yes. The brief contains
details of the correspondence.

What happens
when the ink washes off

as the letter bobs in the sea?

They need to use
waterproof ink.

Only someone planning to drown
writes in waterproof ink.

Yes, that's true, but, er...

cHURCHILL: a detail
your men clearly understand,

as they state here
that further testing

of undetectable
waterproof inks

remains to be done.

Yes, good boy.
Come here.

Given how little

you appreciated this plan,
admiral,

rufus and I wonder why
you're endorsing it at all.

I am not endorsing it,
prime Minister.

My advice is
that Mincemeat is killed

before it sees
the light of day.

Our other deception plans
are strategies

designed to confuse the enemy,
throw him off balance.

Mincemeat, on the other hand,
is an outright lie,

a lie that if detected

would expose every single
other deception as false.

The Germans would know
unequivocally

we were landing in Sicily.

I think that's too big a risk.

Nonetheless,
i would like to keep.

Mincemeat running
a little longer.

It may yield intelligence
on Ivor Montagu,

whom we suspect
is a Russian spy.

You would put the fate
of one Russian spy

over tens of thousands
in Sicily?

With respect, prime Minister,

i'm trying to look
at the bigger picture.

Russia may be our ally
at the moment,

but she was until recently
in a pact with Germany.

I believe she will soon be
our enemy again.

If Ivor Montagu is spying
for Moscow,

he can be turned.

Or, if necessary, eliminated.

This is the problem when
one is dealing with spooks.

You do see it?

The corkscrew thinking
required to manage spies

sometimes twists
one too many turns

until one finds oneself
charging forward

while at the same time
looking out of one's own arse.

I assume
you're referring to me.

Russia is tomorrow's war.

The Nazis are expecting
a deception.

Which means that our effort
must be unbelievable enough

to make it believable.

The plan is risky.
It's also highly implausible.

Meaning that all the reasons
it shouldn't work

are the same reasons

the Germans
might believe it's true.

So when can it be ready?

Er...

- Immediately?
- Correct.

Gather your resources.

Put Mincemeat
in the works as of now.

Of course, sir.

Do you think
we can get him buried soon?

Not that anyone's
waiting for me at home,

but a simple service
might be nice.

The truth is,
glyndwr is employed now.

Employed?

In the service of his country.

He's not dead?

He is engaged
in a top secret mission.

As what?

You do know that Glynnie
was never right in the head?

Well, that may be
your experience of Glyndwr,

but, erm, people are often
one way with family,

a different way entirely
out in the world.

One minute Jekyll,
the next Hyde.

- Where is he?
- We have Churchill's approval.

As you just heard,
miss Michael,

the prime minister
has approved

the plan to make
your brother a hero.

We do understand that

this is the most
enormous sacrifice.

But his service...

he can save
literally thousands,

tens of thousands of lives.

What did you do to him?

Did you carve him up
for experiments? Or rations?

Maybe you should tell
the police

about what you did
to my brother.

Miss Michael,

in acknowledgement
of his service,

and empowered by
His Majesty's government

and by Glyndwr himself,

it is my honour to offer you
this generous remuneration.

- You're bribing me.
- Your brother is going to war.

He's trying to do the
right thing for his country.

His country is trying
to do the right thing by you.

Please.

May Glynnie's poor,
suffering soul rest in peace.

No thanks to you.

May God forgive us all.

I miss Spain already.

There's a reason we stay

as far from headquarters
as possible.

Yes, we envy you. Daily.

I must congratulate you,
if I may, captain Ainsworth,

on The Night Starling.

I grabbed a copy
at Hatchards yesterday.

I've not been able
to put it down.

You're very kind.

My God.
Who isn't writing a novel?

Admiral.
Our naval attaché in Madrid,

captain Ainsworth,
is here today.

And this is assistant naval
attaché, also from Madrid,

lieutenant Commander
Gomez-Beare.

Captain. Commander.

Good to know we can still
reel you gentlemen in

from our far-flung outposts.

Montagu and Cholmondeley
will run the briefing today.

The operation is theirs,

and, being theirs,
is now theirs to fuck up.

Quite a vote of confidence.

Our story begins

in the Spanish
fishing port of Huelva,

on the Gulf of Cadiz,

where Major William Martin,

a British officer
bearing classified letters,

will wash up on shore

after his plane
has been tragically lost.

The officer is not an officer.
The papers are false.

The plane crash
will not have occurred.

Instead, we will release
our man from a submarine,

in order to exploit
the Nazi spy trail

which begins in Huelva,
don Gomez-Beare's territory,

and then moves to Madrid,
captain Ainsworth's turf,

and ends in the heart
of German intelligence,

the Abwehr, in Berlin.

We will need to move
these fake documents quickly,

with the help
of two key German operatives,

karl Kuhlenthal in Madrid

and his right-hand man
in Huelva, adolf Clauss.

Clauss is an exceptional spy,

and if a body washes up
in Huelva with papers,

adolf Clauss will get
his hands on those papers.

Clauss reports
to Karl Kuhlenthal,

in Madrid,
where Kuhlenthal is seen

as a golden boy by the Abwehr.

But MI5 have found Kuhlenthal

to be a one-man
espionage disaster,

gullible, incompetent,

and he happens to be
one quarter Jewish,

where, under Hitler's regime,

even a drop of Jewish blood
means death.

Although,
luckily for Kuhlenthal,

he was recently cleared
as a "good German,"

and he is now desperate
to impress his superiors

before Berlin remembers
that he is Jewish after all.

So we need Clauss
because he is a good spy

and will get the papers,

kuhlenthal because
he is a bad one

and will believe them.

Together, they ensure
the best chance

that our documents
will land in Berlin.

Where success depends
on another key figure,

hitler's favoured adviser,
colonel Alexis von Roenne.

Von Roenne controls
military intelligence

at Nazi High Command,

and Hitler will not
believe anything

without Von Roenne's blessing,

which is a challenge for us

because Von Roenne
is brilliant.

A real spy's spy.

Although,
there have been rumours...

and at this point,
only rumours.

...that Von Roenne
has turned against the Führer,

and that he and a group
of anti-Nazi plotters

are trying to destroy the Nazi
war machine from within.

We've heard rumblings

of this anti-Hitler
faction before.

We judge it to be a ruse

to infiltrate
our inner circle.

So we will proceed as planned.

The prime minister
wants all resources employed

to make Mincemeat
so convincing

that Von Roenne believes it,
hitler believes it

and even we believe
we are landing in Greece.

To that end, we are preparing

the fake documents
for the briefcase now...

...the key one being
an off-the-record letter

between Generals Nye
and Alexander,

and in that letter, the lie
about Greece is planted.

Of course we'll get
our letter approved tomorrow.

But you simply must sit
on Q-Branch

to deliver our canister.

And then on to the submarine.

Dear God, what about
the bloody submarine?

How are you getting on
with Eisenhower?

Cut and dried. The letter
must have a natural tone.

"Hope all is well.
The general sends his best."

Hmm. Can't have them
cackling like two hens.

Archie Nye and Harold
Alexander are old friends.

I've had letters from the
bank manager with more zing.

It's a first draft.

We can't allow personal
flourishes to distract

from the military
misinformation

we need Hitler to swallow.

No. Unless we want
to bore him to death first.

And now, Hester has asked me

if she can write
the love letter

we're putting
in Major Martin's pocket.

She should write it
and then submit it

to your withering gaze.

Do you know where Jean stands
with Sergeant Dearborn?

- The American?
- Yeah.

I think she's moved on.

Did she tell you that?

You do see Jean
outside of work, don't you?

We will occasionally
work over dinner

to iron out
Bill and Pam details

for verisimilitude's sake.

Verisimilitude.

For instance, tonight, we are
placing the ticket stubs,

as agreed, next to the receipt
for Pam's ring

in the major's breast pocket.

Trouser pocket.

His breast pocket is where
he keeps her photograph.

Sorry, we're late.
It's bedlam out there.

It's true.
We're all like moles now,

scurrying around in the dark.

"When one blind man
leadeth another,

"they both fall in a ditch."

You out again tonight?

My reputation as a slouch
must be upheld, even in war.

And you, busy writing away.
Writing what?

Supply requisitions mostly.

Uh-huh.

"Do you take the same size hat.

"or a larger size
like Monty's?"

Good, isn't it?

Spartan general,
big head, bigger ego.

It's a joke.

This is hardly
the place for jokes.

Everyone feels it could do

with alterations
and improvements.

Everyone?

The Twenty Committee,
chiefs of Staff,

naval Intelligence, q-Branch,

mI5, mI6.

To retard decomposition,

the body must be
tightly sealed.

The canister's double skin

will be made
from 22-gauge steel,

then insulated with
asbestos wool and dry ice.

Heat and oxygen.
A corpse's deadly enemies.

And the watch?
What does it do?

Buzz saw.

Buzz saw?
Is that code for...

for buzz saw.

The bezel's edges are filed
into razor-sharp teeth.

We'll all be
lit up as the Strand was.

Only more, much more.

And before
the party's played out.

They will fetch
the fire brigade out.

To the littest uppist scene
you ever saw!

So what
I'm asking, lieutenant Jewell,

is whether or not
your submarine

can accommodate
a six-foot thermos.

Technically, i suppose.

But my crew on the Seraph
are a sharp lot.

What would I tell them?

Tell them it contains
top secret

meteorological
reporting apparatus.

Sounds like
the stuff of fiction.

You're not a writer as well,
are you?

We're surrounded by them,
you know.

- Germans?
- Writers.

"Please ask your ADC.

"to send me
some oranges if possible."

General Nye can't be made
to sound like a scrounger.

Even to the Germans.
Especially to the Germans.

But he does need
to sound like a human,

which is what I have
rather artfully achieved.

Millions of lives
are at stake.

The letter will be revised
until everyone is satisfied.

- Draft...
- Fourteen.

With the day still young.

We're out of time.

Jewell can hold the submarine
for the next fortnight only.

And the Seraph is in Scotland,
docked at the Holy Loch.

Not Siberia?

You know the irony
of this preposterous stalemate

is that if Archie Nye were
composing this letter himself,

he'd write it any damn way...

he pleased.

It's dull as ditch water.

General Nye
is dull as ditch water,

which is why a charmless

and utterly
boring letter is perfect.

And the general
was only too happy

to put pen to paper
once I asked.

And far be it from me
to point out,

but his version
is a near carbon copy

of my very first draft.

There is a chain of command,

and for you
to go directly to Nye...

whatever punishment you deem
fit, sir, i will fully accept.

Although,
general Nye did ask why

we hadn't come
to him straightaway.

Admiral,
major Martin is overripe

and must be launched
on April the 30th,

the next waning moon,
only two weeks away

and the only window where
we have access to the Seraph.

And in keeping
with the chain of command,

it is you alone who can
grant us approval to proceed.

To the most
satisfying moment...

hear, hear!

...of the last two months.

- Cheers.
- Cheers. To us.

And Pam's letter, Hester,

how many revisions
has that gone through?

Oh, many,
but I think I finished

a passable version today.

Well, then,
we must hear it.

Ladies and gentlemen,
we have a love letter.

It's your moment to shine,
Hester.

A dry run
before Fritz has a look.

Oh, i'm not one
for the spotlight.

Oh, what spotlight, hes?
It's just us.

- No, no, i can't.
- Yes, you can.

- You can. Please.
- Please. Please.

Well, if you're
all so keen...

- JEAN: yes, we are.
- We are.

You read it.

"The Manor House, marlborough,
wiltshire, sunday 18th.

"My dearest Bill,

"I think seeing one's beloved
off at the railway.

"is the poorest form
of sport.

"A train going out can leave
a howling gap in one's days.

"and one has to try madly
and quite in vain.

"to fill it with the things
one used to enjoy."

"Why did we have to meet
in the middle of a war?

"For if it weren't
for this madness,

"we might be married by now,

"and I wouldn't be
in this dreary office.

"typing minutes all day.

"That last lovely golden day
we spent together,

"I never wanted it to end.

"And I know
it has been said before,

"but I do wish
that time could stand still,

"even for just a minute.

"So don't let them
send you off into the blue.

"the horrible way
they do these days.

"Now that we've found
each other.

"out of the whole world,

"I don't think
I could bear it.

"All my love.

"Pam."

Wait.

You have an eyelash.

I'll see you tomorrow.

For you. From upstairs.

So you agree, then?

Ivor Montagu is spying
for the Russians?

His file seemed
to indicate that he is.

He's not yet revealed
Mincemeat to the Soviets.

We would have picked it up
at Bletchley if he had.

But that's not to say
that he won't.

There is nothing to suggest

that Ewen discusses anything
with his brother.

And nothing to prove
that he doesn't.

Now, we could send Ewen
to America

to be with his wife
and children.

Might make it easier
to keep an eye on his brother.

You'd get the credit for
Mincemeat, should it succeed.

It was your idea, after all.

Or we could keep him here.

You are asking me

to spy on a man
I work beside every day.

I'm asking you to assess
the danger to your country.

You also have a brother,
don't you?

Had a brother.
Fallen in Chittagong.

Hmm.

And your mother's desperate
to have his body brought home.

I've knocked on many doors,
but so far, nothing.

Until now.

Fold the letter,
but each fold only once.

Then we'll photograph
the folds.

If the letter is returned,

the wear to the fibres
will show

whether or not
it's been opened.

Then the eyelash idea,
which is a good one.

What eyelash idea?

We place an eyelash
in the fold.

If the lash
is gone upon return,

it's another sign
the letter's been read.

The bigger worry is ensuring

that the letter
arrives in Berlin.

If it lands
with the Spanish navy,

there's a good chance
they could return it to us,

unopened and unread.

That's if the letter
arrives in Spain at all.

It's a big sea.

Many detours await
one little briefcase.

Pam's letter.

New love, so handled, worn.

And the photograph.

And the briefcase.

Let's slide him in
and seal him up.

He doesn't look like
a driver for MI5.

Looks like Errol Flynn.

What drink is he on?
His fifth?

Sixth, i think.

Last round, Teddy. And then
we really must cut him off.

It'll be an
interesting drive to Scotland.

You should give
Jock Horsfall a wink.

He may be pickled,
but he's also single.

Except you're seeing Roger.

No, i haven't seen
much of Roger.

Not now we're so busy.

We were just friends.

Oh, well, his loss.

See you tomorrow.

So, jock, how many times

have you made
the trip to Holy Loch?

Oh, i can do it
with my eyes closed.

Sometimes have to

if my astigmatism's
playing up..

But dead of night's
a jolly time to drive.

And you'll have my van.
Customised V8.

She can run
upwards of 125 miles per hour.

I was there, you know,

when you thrashed those
six BMWs at Donington Park.

That was my black car.

MI5 make me garage her

now that
I'm an official chauffeur.

Say she's a menace
on the road.

But I do miss her.

I'll give you a moment.

So, this tin can of yours.
What's in it?

Hmm? Oh, optical equipment.

Bollocks.

You know how high
my clearance goes?

It's a dead body.

We're going to play
a humiliating trick on Hitler.

Is he even capable
of driving now?

I fear we're about
to find out.

Anyway, erm,

since it's Major Martin's
last night...

it seems strange, doesn't it,

sending our dear major
off to die?

You do know he's already dead?.

In a way, yes,

but in another,
he's very much alive,

our clever, dashing man.

Which is why I'd like
to thank you, Charles.

It's been a grand adventure.

For the two of you.

For all of us.

We gave Bill a life

one Glyndwr Michael never had.

We gave him Pam.

I wanted Pam.

I only mean
that our imaginings

often surpass what is real,
don't they?

I come home every night
to a bereft mother,

pining for her favourite son.

Hester lives
a spinster's life,

working round the clock
rather than face an empty bed.

Ewen's real life
is off in America,

where he must worry
about the safety

of his wife and children
until they return.

Or did he not
mention that to you?

He said something
about America.

It's all a game
to him, you know.

You do know that?

All the dinners
and dancing...

not that I blame him.

Who wouldn't want
the attentions

of a beautiful woman?
But, erm...

there's even talk of Ewen

joining Iris and the children
in America.

Families should be together
during wartime.

Don't you think?

I think I stepped on your toe.

Oh. Well, at least
it wasn't me for once.

I've got such a busy day
tomorrow.

I really must go.

Jean. Jean,
you're not leaving?

I am, obviously.

But why?
Jean, what has happened?

I have been overcome
with embarrassment

at my own stupidity.

This game we've been playing,

bill and Pam,
the young lovers,

as if you and I were...

as if this weren't a real war.

Do you not realise
people are talking about us?

Is this about gossip?

What does it matter
what people say?

We both know
there's nothing going on here.

I don't... i don't mean
"nothing" as in...

i left behind childish games
many years ago, Ewen.

The day I buried
the man I loved.

And while my life
may not look like much to you,

i have made my way, alone,

with the occasional admirer
to pass the time.

It's certainly easier,
and safer, so...

you'll be late for your drive,

and I'm going home.

No dallying, ladies.

We've a clock to beat,

and we'll have to feel our way
along, thanks to the blackout.

I saw you talking
to Jean tonight.

What were you saying?

I was apologising
for my dancing.

It's easier to accept death
when you can't see it coming.

You stupid eejit!

It's curious.

About your brother.

My brother?

You never speak of him.

He does live with you,
doesn't he?

He travels mostly.

Although I'm not sure why
that's any of your business.

Or why you would say something
to upset Jean tonight.

Godfrey thinks
Ivor's a communist.

You've spoken to Godfrey
about Ivor?

Godfrey brought him up.

Well, godfrey despises
eccentrics.

Aren't all spies eccentrics?

Ivor is a dilettante,
an inveterate ne'er-do-well

who founded the Cheese Eaters'
League in Cambridge

and the International Table
Tennis Federation in London.

And his trips to Moscow?

My brother joined
the British Socialist Party

for five minutes.

About as long as his interest
in anything lasts.

Down here.

Excellent timing.

Well ahead of schedule.

But, then,
i'd expect nothing less

from His Majesty's finest.

Finest what?

I think my testicles dislodged
somewhere near Dumfries.

And good news,
lieutenant.

I was able
to honour your request.

Much appreciated.

I know it was last minute.
Thank you.

What request?

Jewell was good enough to
find me a bunk on the Seraph.

What do you mean,
on the Seraph?

Someone should
accompany Major Martin

to his final resting place.

That would be Spain.

Yes, where the Seraph
is headed.

Are you out of your mind?

We didn't get clearance
to go to Spain with him.

We didn't even discuss it.

Don't you think that one of us
should show some respect

for a man who gave his life,

and who now serves us
and his country so nobly?

If unwittingly.

Don't you think
at least one of us

ought to do the right thing?

We're going straight through
back to London. Now.

I'm driving..

Do you know what time it is?

I just need a moment.

There's an apology
I must make to you.

And then I promise I'll go.

I wasn't being honest
with you, or even myself,

when I said
there's nothing between us.

In fact,
the very opposite is true.

My life is complicated.

It's not an excuse

or a defence
or anything, really.

Only to say...

that my feelings for you
are real.

I should have realised that
a long time ago.

Perhaps I might have
spared you

the embarrassment
of last night.

- Because if I in any way...
- You didn't.

I know you have
a wife and family.

I do.

And you and I,
we have a war to win.

Major Martin
is in dangerous waters now.

He'll need us more than ever.

I hope you're able to sleep.

I left my Bible
below decks.

"In the twinkling of an eye,

"at the last call:

"for the trumpet shall sound,

"and the dead
shall be raised incorruptible,

"and we shall all be changed."

Have we heard anything?

Not yet.

I thought
I might take a moment.

Say a prayer to St Jude.

Shall we pray
for Major Martin?

For Major Martin.

For the success
of our mission.

For those we love.

Paco..

And so
the hidden war continues.

Lies are whispered anew.

Shadows still flicker.

Even the ground
refuses to steady

in this wilderness
of illusions.

A man dies.

Another begins his journey...

and waits
for his story to be told.

But in the conventional war,

the wheels of combat turn,

the forces of men
and machine swell,

until suddenly
the die is cast.

There is no turning back.

US, canadian
and British forces

will strike 26 beaches

over 100 miles
of Sicily's southern shore.

We'll be mobilising
100,000 plus men,

3,000 freighters
and sweepers

with 1,800 heavy guns,
4,000 aircraft...

pATRICIA: commander,
if I may.

Does the build-up continue
despite our intelligence?

Intelligence that shows
the Germans

continue to reinforce Sicily?

The prime minister
still hopes to turn the tide

and convince Germany
that our target is Greece.

He is now relying
almost entirely on us.

So we have work to do.

- Morning, Charles.
- Morning.

Charles. You don't look
any the worse for wear.

I should.
There's a reason tall men

don't serve
on small submarines.

Hitler's still
reinforcing Sicily.

That can only mean
the other pieces.

- Of our deception plan...
- Have missed the mark.

But Major Martin
has washed ashore.

Gomez-Beare has been
called by the Spanish police.

Our plan proceeds.

The fate of the free world

dependent on a corpse
in a donkey cart.

The critical task now

is to make the Germans think

we are frantic
to reclaim the papers,

while guiding the papers
right into their hands.

Sí.

On the ground,
our assistant naval attaché,

don Gomez-Beare,
is with the body now

and will make sure
the documents

get to the German police.

Also known
as the Spanish police.

Once the autopsy
is complete...

...we will work our end

through David Ainsworth

at the British embassy
in Madrid.

British Admiralty
on the phone, sir.

The Germans
have bugged the phones there,

so any message
we pass to the embassy

is essentially
a message to Berlin.

Oh, they asked that you use
the unsecured line.

Ainsworth.

Captain,
is your line there secure?

Of course.

Good, because
we've just received news

that one of our own
may have washed up in Huelva.

Carrying
top secret documents.

General Nye's camp
is very anxious to recover.

I'll begin inquiries
right away.

But, of course,

the fact that we're looking
for papers at all

must remain classified.

Understood.

Burial is set
for 0800 hours tomorrow?

Only because

the expert pathologist
from Madrid

nixed the autopsy,
thank Christ,

not a moment too soon.

The bad news is
the Spanish navy in Huelva

has the case
under lock and key.

Then our only hope

is helping Adolf Clauss
get his hands on it.

Before the case
makes its way

to Admiral Moreno's office
in Madrid.

The dung beetle
will surface soon enough.

No,
we need him to surface sooner.

We'll jolt him
with an unencrypted

cable sent to your office
tonight.

"Make casual request
to Spanish navy.

"to return case
and papers. Stop."

"Do not alert German interests.

"to the necessity
of securing these documents.

"back into British hands.
Stop."

Unless you expect a thank you
from Herr Clauss,

i think our work here tonight
is done.

I just saw the name. Montagu.

Ewen's wife, iris.

She and I correspond.

We've known each other
for years, of course.

Jean.

Jean.

Goodness. Roger.

I am so sorry.
I've been meaning to...

no, no, it's okay.

I'm just disappointed,

since it feels like I barely
got to say hello to you

and now I have to say goodbye.

The boys and I are shipping
out in the morning.

In the morning? Where?

I'm not at liberty to say,
but, er, well,

i don't know when we'll
see each other again, so...

wherever it is, roger,
i do hope you'll be safe.

- May I write to you?
- Of course.

Please, write.

Goodbye.

Adolf.

What a pleasant surprise.

Quite the turnout for our man.

So Adolf Clauss turned out

to be two steps behind.

Because the briefcase
has landed in Madrid.

Dear God.

Which means it will be

in Admiral Moreno's office
shortly.

Then let's hope
that Kuhlenthal

can't be far behind.

And since we've bugged
every office

in naval headquarters...

not every office.
Not Moreno's.

We need to know
what Moreno's up to,

david, so you'll
have to improvise.

Time to look up old friends?

I heard

the whole conversation.

Moreno denied
having the papers

while Kuhlenthal insisted
he did have the papers.

Did Kuhlenthal
get hold of the case?

Unfortunately not.

Moreno
wasn't open for business.

Dear God.

It's hard to see
who's more up a tree

with this,
us or the Germans.

I would say Kuhlenthal is
desperate enough for us all.

The bug in his office
caught him

eviscerating Clauss

for not snatching
the papers in Huelva.

So he should.

And the Spanish navy can't
seem to stop reminding us

how neutral they are.

They won't let the Germans
anywhere near our briefcase.

Colonel Cerruti could get hold
of the papers.

Cerruti? Spain's secret police

are beyond treacherous.

They are,
but he's a keen fascist.

He's devoted to Hitler.

And we have no other choice.

We have to get the papers
to Kuhlenthal.

Colonel Cerruti ran me

as a double agent years ago,

without ever realising I was
a triple agent for our side,

but I've steered clear of the
colonel for some time now.

He's gone dry?

He requires...

careful handling.

We sympathise, david,

but Churchill has
put his money on us.

We cannot tell
the prime minister

that we've hit a dead end now.

I need some air.

There's no mention
of Cerruti or Kuhlenthal

in any of these transcripts.

We don't know
if Cerruti met with Moreno

or if he even took the case
or if he read the letter.

We are utterly in the dark.

Is that what Charles
and M were discussing?

Charles and Godfrey? When?

Yesterday. I saw them
outside talking alone.

And you're telling me
this now?

I wasn't aware I was supposed
to tell you, or anyone.

He can be like this
when he's under pressure.

You mustn't take it
personally.

The waiting's
driving us all mad.

Why does Ewen's wife
write to you

and not to him?

Every marriage
has its difficulties

and disappointments.

Haven't we all had our hearts
broken over the years?

What's hard to understand
about Ewen,

hidden beneath
all the bluster

is his very deep
sense of duty.

I only say this because
I'm so very fond of you.

And him.

And her.

Moreno's on his way
to the embassy.

And Kuhlenthal
has just left for Berlin.

So, the moment of truth.

The seal hasn't been touched.

Meaning the letter
hasn't been read.

Let's not hang ourselves
just yet.

One can, with great delicacy,

remove a letter without
fully opening the envelope.

If the gum has been dissolved
in solvent.

- Or seawater.
- Yes, yes, seawater.

It is possible

to insert here,
grab the edge of the letter

and then ever so gently twist.

So it is possible
they removed the letter?

Twisting like this
causes the pages to curl,

but once back
in the envelope,

of course,
the letter will lie flat.

So how is a curl
we cannot see helpful?

Erm... it isn't.
It isn't.

Unless we wet the paper again,

dry it
and see what happens.

It looks as if the eyelash
has gone.

We are not sending
100,000 men

into battle
on a missing eyelash.

So it has been opened.

This letter has been removed
from the envelope

and it has been opened.

Which means it's been read.

Teddy.

What on earth... why...

why am I not at the club?
I don't work there anymore.

Strange, isn't it,

to find an old photograph
of you

amongst Major Martin's papers?

I don't recall seeing him
at the Gargoyle, jean.

Or do I call you Pam?

"Dearest Bill.

"Why did we have to meet
in the middle of a war?

"Or if it weren't
for this madness,

"we might have been
married by now."

I don't understand
what you're doing.

There are Germans,
good Germans,

in positions
of great influence,

that are allied in their
desire to see the Führer fall.

But these men have been
rebuffed by your superiors,

labelled the anti-Hitler hoax,
which is a shame,

since we both
are on the same side.

My German friends
need to understand

what's happened here.

So you will tell me
about Major Martin

and the letters in his case

or I will pull out my gun
and put a bullet in your head.

We've just got this,
the latest intercept,

sent by General Jodl,
nazi Chief of Operations.

It says, and I quote,

"Enemy landings
on a large scale.

"are expected in Greece
in the very near future."

"In Greece."
It came through

at the highest level
of encryption.

Do we believe this?

General Jodl. We couldn't ask
for a more credible source.

And if the Nazis
were moving troops

from Sicily to Greece,

it would be Jodl
that's moving them.

Q-Branch.

Yes, yes, he is.

Yes, i'll tell him right away.

The man
served us drinks every night,

Ewen, it was your club.

You don't think
I vetted

every single employee
in and out of the Gargoyle?

You don't think I'm aware
always of everyone around me

who might be listening?

Well, you know, we can't ask
Teddy what happened

because his flat's been
searched and he's vanished.

Every Nazi operative
within our borders

has either been turned
or eliminated long ago.

We monitor everyone who might

remotely constitute
a fifth column.

We have eyes
on every blackshirt...

well, then,
who is this man? Who is he?

Jean, are you sure that
he didn't give you a name?

He didn't indicate
who might have sent him?

Just... just the Germans
fighting against Hitler.

- I assumed it was a lie.
- It most likely was a lie.

Well, he was trying
to get you to talk.

He would have said anything.

But I did talk.

I said, "Yes,
i worked at the Admiralty."

And the officer that died,
he was using an alias,

travelling with a fake
dossier, he was a spy,

but that he was
also transporting

real classified material,

real letters.

It was ridiculous,
but what could I say?

He had the photograph.

- I gave you that photograph.
- Jean, this is not your fault.

They know the photograph
isn't real.

They'll suspect
everything now.

We don't even know
who "they" are.

You're not safe here.

I have a guest room.

You can stay there
until we all sort this out.

You would bring her
to your own house?

Have you no shame?

After you've jeopardised
this entire operation?

You're the one
who approached Jean.

You're the one who insisted
on using her photograph.

You were so busy
seducing her

that you took your
eye off your own brother.

You think I told Ivor
about Mincemeat?

How do we know
he's not behind all this?

I tell my brother nothing.
I show him nothing!

Because you know he's a spy,
in bed with the Russians.

Don't you tell me what I know
and don't know.

You don't think
I imagine myself

at his funeral every day,

my own brother,
tried and hanged for treason?

How fucking dare you!

I am not the one who is
running a covert operation

with a spy under my roof.

No.

No, your brother's a war hero.

And I envy you that.

Whatever went wrong,
it wasn't Ivor.

You are a careless bastard,
montagu.

You're careless with Jean,

you're careless
with your brother,

and you're careless
with your own wife.

I don't need you
to remind me of my sins.

I only wonder how you
reconcile yourself with yours.

Did you strike
some sort of deal?

Spying on me?

My hide in exchange for...

what?

I need to look after Jean.

Everything depends
on finding out

who sent that man and why.

What if it was Von Roenne?

More than anyone else
in German intelligence,

von Roenne would need to know
if Mincemeat is true.

So he could decide

if what he's whispering
in Hitler's ear

is fact or fiction.

Because Von Roenne
may be the one

who is fighting the other war.

The secret war.

The war dedicated
to seeing Hitler destroyed.

Either that's true
or it's a fiction

that we want to be true.

What's fact is that

you know I suspected
my brother of spying

and refused to turn him in.

So you know enough
to see me ruined

and my brother hanged.

So the next move
is yours, Charles.

What's it to be?

What we know for certain...

is that within our borders

our eyes and ears
miss nothing.

German spies,
nazi sympathisers,

we know where they are,
we know who they are.

Which means
that whoever this man is,

it's not something
we've encountered before.

That's your excuse

for using a photograph
of one of our own operatives?

The photograph
was my error, sir.

I was the one who insisted

on choosing someone
within our ranks.

The woman's
beside the point.

I wish I could find
even a sliver of satisfaction

in having predicted this
fucking disaster months ago.

We're still
receiving intelligence

the Germans are preparing
for our invasion of Greece.

Intelligence
that could be a ruse.

It's obviously a ruse,

given the operation's
been revealed.

Although,
not necessarily, sir.

Montagu and I
have been racking our brains,

trying to decode the message
behind this contact with us.

Why did this man
reveal himself?

If he's an agent
for the Abwehr,

why would he
deliberately signal

that he'd discovered
our deception?

It doesn't add up,

which is why the troop
movements to Greece

may not be a ruse after all.

Why would the Nazis
continue to act

on information
they know to be false?

Because Von Roenne
is telling them to act on it.

There's not a shred of proof

of this so-called
anti-Hitler plot.

We don't know
that it isn't true either.

Christ.

Admiral, this man
came out of nowhere.

Perhaps he's the proof
of the anti-Hitler plot.

And he contacted us

so that we would know
the plot is real,

and as German troops continue
to move towards Greece,

we would continue
to plan for Sicily.

So that Von Roenne
can reinforce

that misinformation
with Hitler,

leaving Sicily undefended.

That is our instinct.

That is your instinct?

The fate of the world
at stake,

the Nazi killing machine

waiting for us
on Sicily's shores,

and...
you two with your instinct.

If it were up to me,
i would postpone Sicily

and have you drawn
and quartered.

No doubt the prime minister
has been informed?

What does he want to do?

The prime minister does not
want to postpone Sicily.

I pray we can all live
with the consequences.

Jean?

Jean?

He's coming home.

Robbie's coming home.

Thank you, my son.

And this is
a posting, where?

- They haven't told me yet.
- They?

Special Operations.
I was accepted today.

I suspect because Masterman
put it in a good word for me.

Hopefully, i'll find
my way overseas

as a courier
or a radio operator.

I see.

I can never forgive myself

for placing
our operation in peril.

I won't hear it. What happened
is not your fault.

Regardless,
it'll take the grace of God

and nerves of steel

to land Mincemeat safely now.

The kind of fortitude you have
demonstrated every single day.

I've played my part

in the Bill and Pam story,
Ewen.

It's time for me to go
where I'm needed.

You're needed here.

- With us.
- I have to go.

You will have
your own story, then.

You will fight your own war.

You will serve bravely.

Our country will be lucky
to have you.

And I...

you'll be reunited
with your wife and children.

A better man.

A man you brought
back to life.

I will miss you so terribly.

The invasion fleet
is now assembled.

The Seraph
will be the lead vessel

in the first wave of the
US assault on Licata beach.

Our job will be to set
the sonar homing buoy,

to guide the others to shore.

A great
many others, we hear,

on many beaches.

The largest amphibious assault
the war has seen.

Do you believe we have Fritz
where we need him?

It seems the enemy has fallen
for the deception.

We expect
resistance to be limited

to Italian coastal divisions.

Then our fighting men
thank you.

I will see you
on the other side.

I may vomit.

I may vomit with you.

Every, er,
piece of intelligence says

that the Nazis
are waiting for us in Greece.

And every
piece of intelligence

may be the greatest deception

the Nazis have ever played
against us.

Why do you think Churchill
still believes this can work?

Because he has to.

Jean has gone.

Yes, i heard.

You've had another letter
from Iris.

This one's for you.

It is only fitting
that the two wars

finally converge in darkness.

The target
is no longer hidden.

The points are set.

And the forces gather.

Brave men, their lives
hanging in the balance,

their fate unknowable,

their part
in history unwritten.

Action stations!

Action stations!

Move yourselves!
Move, move, move!

But who
in these last hours

will bear witness
to the hidden war?

Unseen by history.

Locked away
in a buried file.

Its tragedies
and triumphs unspoken.

Its heroes unsung.

In God's name,
fleming, what are you writing?

Spy story.

It is in this moment,

this suspended moment,

that my story
waits for an ending.

As if fate herself...

were a blank page.

Medic!

An ending
redeemed in righteousness?

An ending graced with mercy?

"Allied forces have landed."

"Limited casualties."

"Enemy retreating."

"Troops met
with minimal resistance."

"Beaches held."

There's another one,

from Churchill.

"Mincemeat swallowed...

"rod, line and sinker."

An ending...

filled with light.

We saved some lives today.

Some lives, not all.

It can never be all.

We don't seem
to have saved ourselves.

And those that did make it...

- Glory will be theirs.
- As it should be.

We fooled the Führer,
murderous bastard.

There's some glory in that.

My brother has come home.

We'll bury him tomorrow.

It was the deal
I'd struck with Godfrey...

in exchange for spying on you.

Then I'd like to be there.

I need to go home and finish
a letter to my wife.

But first I need a drink.

Let me buy you a drink.

Eight in the morning.

Surely someone
will take us in.