Wonga!

23 MI5's Top Men

Icabalde Mayheme stood at his window at Number 11 staring aspirationally along Downing Street to Number 10 as he often did after Cabinet meetings. After todays he felt that perhaps he was one step closer to moving from Number 11 to Number 10, for it was clear that the Prime Minister was beginning to lose his touch.

As far as Mayheme was concerned being the Deputy PM made him the Heir Elect despite any aspirations the insufferable upstart Hugo or Tourette's Jenny may have. Icabalde's time was coming. He could feel it. Every day that went by another snippet of bad news appeared in the press about the PM and gradually the PM's support was drifting away. The PM's fickleness over the seating plan at Rex's funeral said it all. Icabalde would have to let the Chief Whip know, confidentially of course. That way it would seep into the press as it always did, the Chief Whip was notoriously indiscrete. Another leak, another defection. It would not be long now. Slowly, slowly, catchy monkey.

Icabalde watched as a Police Officer let a white unmarked van through the metal gates into Downing Street. It bounced slowly over the cobbled stones and drew up outside Number 10. A figure in a white hooded paper suit wearing a cotton facemask exited the van, approached the officer, had a brief discussion and then began to prod around the planter with a trowel and slowly fill up a black plastic bin liner. That bastards Hugo's man no doubt.

Icabalde returned to his desk and finished reading the buff file in front of him, closed it and placed it back on the red leather blotter on his desk. He slowly turned his chair and stared contemplatively over the snow covered roofs.

After a few moments a short cough from one of the occupants of the two chairs set out on the carpet in front of his desk by Miss Timble earlier drew his attention. He swung his chair slowly back so his face caught the light and the full disgust of what he had just read could be seen clearly by both occupants.

The personages of the corpulent, Sir 'Wild Bill' Berty Poon and his slippery assistant, Devon 'Snake Oil' Piper, the two cowboys who were running MI5 when Icabalde came into office shifted nervously in their chairs under his distasteful gaze.

'I can't make head or tail of this report,' Icabalde said sourly picking up the file and throwing it across the table at them. 'It looks like it has been written by a dyslexic spider with a GCSE in bullshit. Would either of you like to illuminate me further?'

'That would be me, sir.' Sir Berty shifted his immense frame nervously in his chair and brushed his damp hair away from his forehead.

Icabalde wished he'd not had Miss Timble put his Queen Anne chairs out. He was concerned that the elegant legs could withstand Sir Berty's weight. 'What would? You're the author of the document or you're going to illuminate me on its contents?' Icabalde drilled. He wondered if the legs would explode outward or just implode, dumping Berty straight down on the floor.

'Ah,' said Berty tugging at his tie to loosen it as he thought for a moment. 'Both, I think.'

'Forget it, Berty. You blew it. You do it!' Icabalde snapped. He pointed at Devon who up to this point had been assiduously studying his manicured fingernails.

'Well sir, may I call you, Icabalde, sir?' Devon asked impertinently.

'Only my mother, father, my personal physician and those I consider to be of equal or greater intellect do I allow to call me by my first name Devon. And the PM of course. So what do you think?' Seeing that this was all too much for Devon he added. 'Just stick with sir and get on with it man.'

'Well, Deputy PM,' said Devon clearly opting for a choice that had not been offered, much to Mayhems irritation. 'The fact of the matter is, that this was a Special Branch operation and had not been cleared by MI5. So clearly the responsibility lies with them.' Devon nodded to Sir Berty with a 'there's how you do it,' look.