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Hi, Matt. Hi, Alice. You don't look all sound very happy. You okay?

Yeah, I guess. I just... You know, when you take on a job and it sounded great and it seemed

like a really brilliant opportunity. And then when you get into it, you're in too deep,

you're like trapped, you just realise the truth that it's just sort of like your own living hell.

No, I've never felt like that. What's happening? No, just I guess, like hypothetically, it kind of

pollutes your private life. It ruins your work, like you can't stop thinking about, you can't

sleep because it's just so bad. But you thought it was going to be paradise and then it's actually

just the pits. Hang on. Are you saying what I think you're saying?

What do you think I'm saying? Do you want out? What was that?

I was supposed to be smoking, I was going to disappear. No, you just made a noise. I can see you.

This is awkward. 10th January 1963, Bay Root.

Nicholas Elliott hurries past a busy street cafe. Glances over his shoulder to check no

ones following, then slips under the archway of a tall, soundstone building. He's just blown in

from London and it's important no one knows he's here. Elliott quietly enters an apartment,

watches a small team of MI6 technicians tape hidden microphones under the sofa and coffee table.

They run thin wires under a rug and out to the kitchen. It's mad to think that now you could

surveil someone with an iPhone more discreetly and more effectively. Back then, how did people not

see just like reams and reams of wires and microphones? Going under their bowl into their cereal

out along the spoon and up their shirts leave. Elliott puts his head around the kitchen door

as stenographer adjusts his headphones and glances up at him. Everything working, we're ready for him,

...