They had arrived at Jockos office at the end of the hallway. A brass plaque announced that they were about to enter the preserve of the 'Head of Interdepartmental Liaison Group, Quango Controls Group, Inter Department Relations and Human Resources.' It was evidently designed strictly in line with the Civil Service Brief on the use of titles that indicated that they should be written in such a manner to support the private sector in particular the substantial engraving community that had grown up around Thames House that craftily charged by the letter.

Jocko didn't so much as open the door as kick it down before throwing his voluminous coat over the coat stand and slumping irritably into his leather chair behind a monumentally sized walnut desk. He dismissively waved a hand at the chair in front his desk into which Pawser carefully lowered himself with due regard for his damaged Cojones.

Pawser took it that the incident in the lift must have unbalanced Jocko's normally benevolent nature -for the next five minutes they sat in silence while Jocko sulkily reorganised his desk furniture and slowly stewed.

Pawser couldn't really see his problem, a little light banter and he seemed totally put out. After all it wasn't Jocko sitting there nursing a couple of throbbing strangled testicles. Pawser looked around the room for a diversion to pass the time until Jocko deigned to talk to him. Finding much to his irritation that his chair was set at an unusually low height he began jiggling up and down on the chair in an attempt to locate the height mechanism.

Apparently satisfied with the ascetics of his desk furniture Jocko picked up his phone and barked 'Where's my coffee. I've been here five minutes and nothing.' Slamming the phone down with such force the pencils on his desk almost exited the jar they were residing in. He turned to Pawser. 'Stop fiddling Bingham. Sit still dam you.'

Having regained Pawser's attention Jocko sat back and slowly flicked through a stack of memos on his desk glancing at each one before placing it back on the pile.

Fiddling with the chair was, Pawser had concluded, a waste of time. It was clearly nonadjustable. No doubt chosen by Jocko to ensure his eye line was always higher than the chairs occupant. Looking round the room Pawser had to concede that Jocko had managed to wheedle himself a dam fine room, with its huge desk, sumptuous red carpet and two small sofas placed around a coffee table, it gave visitors an excellent view through the low slung windows back over Horseferry Road Street, the river and the City beyond.

A tap of the door preceded the arrival of a suitably apologetic secretary bearing a substantial mug of steaming coffee, a plate of shortbread biscuits and this morning's post which Jocko grabbed before unceremoniously dismissing her from his presence. The secretary paused briefly and looked expectantly at Pawser.

'Nooo he'll not be wanting anything. You can go.' remarked Jocko glibly from behind his mail.

One of the envelopes caught Jockos eye. He pulled it out and carefully laid it on the gold and red embossed ER leather blotter of the desk. He fumbled under his desk to produce a large paper knife which with shaking hands he gently slid under the base of the envelope and cut along the bottom edge. The contents were a single piece of paper which he read with a look of trepidation across his face before gingerly laying it back on the desk. Looking somewhat upset he reached for the phone, punched in a number and whispered, 'Leatherbottom get up here, another one has just come in.' For a moment his placed his head in both his hands. Then with the realisation that his was not alone he rose and walked quickly to the window. For a moment his shoulders sagged and he let go what Pawser might have believed in anyone else but Jocko, a noise remarkably similar to a sob.

Pawser, sensing an opportunity in this fleeting diversion, stood up, stretched across the desk, flipped the letter over and read its contents. He then picked up the memos on the desk and reviewed these whilst keeping one eye vigilantly cast over Jockos back.

Pawser quickly resumed his seat to ensure his flagrant disregard for Jockos privacy went unobserved. After all, it was all justifiable given that Pawser was a signatory to Official Secrets Act. Anything he found of interest in Jocko's mail would of course remain strictly confidential. As he sat back down he was surprised to feel a tug on his tie as it slapped heavily against his chest.

After couple of minutes quiet reflection Jocko turned unhurriedly to face Pawser, slipped back into his seat and still, rather distracted picked up his mug of coffee, peered into it before displaying its contents to Pawser.

Remarkably it was empty.

Pawser was as baffled as Jocko was. Pawser looked at the cup and looked bemused whilst trying to excise from his mind a rather odd sensation emanating from the area around his midriff.

Jocko briefly cast around his desk for any evidence to explain his coffee's mysterious disappearance before his eye fell back with a look of deep suspicion on Pawser.

At this point it slowly dawned on Pawser what had happened. As he had been stretching across the table rummaging through Jockos' particulars, his woollen tie must have settled in Jockos coffee cup and leached its contents slowly dry. A full half a pint of coffee had now taken up residence in its new home which ran from Pawser's naval all the way round to the back of his neck. Pawser smiled reassuringly at Jocko and shrugged his shoulders innocently at the display of the empty vessel that Jocko was now holding expectantly toward him.

Jocko carefully checked a few of the drawers on his desk before evidently coming to the conclusion that more rather more mystifying forces were at work than could be explained by the despicable individual who sat across the desk from him. He looked at Pawser steely across the table.

Pawser braced himself for the worse.

'What's this I hear about you taking Miss Fangle to the Christmas party tonight?'

Pawser judged by Jocko's countenance and tone that he was evidently very displeased. Pawsers tie was now slowly leaching out its contents into his shirt, a warm damp patch of coffee was beginning to distend its way across Pawser's chest.

'Where did you hear that sir? 'Pawser needed time to think. Perhaps he was here because of this, rather than either of the shootings.

'Never mind that Bingham. Is it true?'

'Well yes as it happens it is. I have the pleasure of Miss Fangle's company tonight.'

'Never mind the, 'have the pleasure bullshit Pawser.' It's not the friggin Royal Command Performance .You know as well as I do that you never should invite her to any party here.'

'Why's that?'

'You bloody well know why Bingham, after last time. It's an unsaid understanding, everyone knows.' Jocko waved his hand irritably across the desk.

'The problem with unsaid understandings, it's that they are, well, unsaid. So how was I to know?' Pawser responded weakly.

'Don't be obtuse man! You'll just have to uninvite her.' Jockos face flushed an angry red.

'I'm not sure I can do that.' In fact Pawser was sure he couldn't. Lucy Fangle would not let him. She had an assured grip on events and those events having just been caught in the demonic contraptions downstairs could not endure any further demands on them at this time. Pawser reflected briefly on this together with the cold coffee that had now settled around his midriff. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

'Find a way; you're in the intelligence services. Show some initiative for once.' Jocko picked up a report left on his desk and began signing various memos, presumably a signal to indicate the interview had now ended and Pawser was presumably to go and terminate his liaison with Miss Fangle.

Pawser rose to leave.

'Stay.' growled Jocko as if he'd been throwing biscuits to his dog. 'What do you know about Christmas cards?'

'Well I believe it's a Victorian thing, pagan beliefs and all that.'

'You know what I'm talking about. Have you received any?'

Pawser looked around the room. There were no Christmas cards. 'It's no reflection of popularity. I won't be worried.'

'I get plenty of cards Bingham. I think it a waste of time, the whole thing. Did you get any unexpected ones?'

'I had one that said Happy Birthday. That was rather a surprise.' Pawser suspected that Jocko's aversion was to Christmas was probably more deep seated than he cared to admit. On Christmas Eve whilst everyone else was singing, 'Away in a Manger,' down at their local village hall, Jocko was no doubt ensconced in the dungeon in his castle in the highlands sacrificing small squealing haggis's to the Prince of Darkness in order to secure his advancement to the top job in MI5.

'Pah, I'm wasting my time!' blasted Jocko and forgetfully picked up his cup which still remained miraculously empty. He studied its emptiness for a minute, then looked warily at Pawser again.

Pawser was now conscious that his shirt had now reached maximum capacity. His tie's contents were now pooling temporarily into his belly button before slowly cascading off into the front of his trousers.

Jocko pulled out a buff file from one of his drawers, glowered at Pawser, extracted two pages of closely written typeface within and studied them. Occasionally he stopped, made a hrrmmh sound and looked despairingly at Pawser across the table.

Again sensing what seemed to be an appropriate point to make his exit Pawser rose slowly in an attempt not to catch Jockos eye with any sudden movements.

'Wait, I haven't said you can go have I. Sit.'

'This,' Jocko announced stabbing at the paper on the table with a stubby finger, 'is a report on the Impact, Endurance, Essence, Volume and Time utilisation in your Department.'

'A what?' Pawser thought it was pushing it to refer to him, Killerman and Dirk as a Department.

'A productively report man.'

The P word was enough to shock Pawser to the core. The throbbing in his testicles receded with some rapidity to be replaced by an inexorable throbbing in his head.

'We are in the twentieth century now. There's noooo room for the likes of Ebenezer Scrooge types here any longer Bingham, constantly being visited by the ghost of Christmas past. Times have moved on since you joined the service, the ways you have operated in over the last twenty years now are outmoded man. Today it's all about productivity, efficiency and VFM.'

'VFM?' queried a confused Pawser.

'Value for Money, Bingham. Of which your Department, seems to offer little.'

'I wasn't aware that the Service was under review.' grappled Pawser. There hadn't had a change in Government for seven years, and reviews were things promised by new governments. The whole thing seemed incomprehensible to Pawser. Pawser looked down; a large dark stain had appeared around his crutch and was advancing slowly toward his knees.

'We're not. You are. It may have gone over your head but there was a detailed review of a sample of Departments in July prior to a bigger review next year. Your Department was reviewed and this analysis showed your outputs to be far lower than acceptable. It's a bad reflection on you Bingham, and an even worse reflection on me!' McBride slapped the file down on the table as if to prove his point.

Pawser racked his brain for any out of the ordinary visits he had received in July. 'Oh that wasn't based on the little girl from the consultants that came to see me one morning .Com'on Jocko she looked barely out of school.'

'She was my niece, and for your information she has a 1st in music and she is a very intelligent girl. Hence her employment by a major City consultant.'

'If I'd known she had a musical background I've have got the guys together in a three piece ensemble and done a few numbers for her, me on trumpet, Dirk on drums and Killerman on skittle board. Might have done wonders for our productivity.' The coffee having no where left to go had started pooling into his seat. On the upside his tie felt much lighter on his chest indicating that it had now completed it exercise of dumping all its contents into Pawser's corduroys. He was becoming increasingly desperate to make his exit.

Jocko, clearly taking a dim view of Pawser's repartee slowly closed the file. Placing his hands flat on the table he assumed the aspect of a man in some depths of despair. He released a deep sigh before addressing Pawser in a sympathetic tone Pawser was not familiar with.

'Have you ever considered a change Pawser; you strike me as a man with considerable skill that any organisation might snap up. An alternative career perhaps, it's not too late, you know even at your time in life. Something in publishing perhaps, you seem like the literary sort.'

'That's very kind of you Jocko but I didn't think MI5 were about to opening a publishing arm, it's probably a bit outside their remit seeing that all its members are signatories to the Official Secrets Act. I suppose we could publish in America to get around it.'

'Actually I meant outside the Service. I could arrange an excellent reference for you. With your contacts you'd snap something up I'm sure.'

On the strength of one of Jocko's references Pawser could see himself wearing a little blue uniform collecting stray trolleys outside his local supermarket. A step up from some of the work he was doing at the moment perhaps but Jocko was hardly guilding the lily.

Jocko continued. 'I'm just saying maybe it's time to step aside give a chance for someone younger to show their mettle. Dirk seems like a bright chap, have you ever considered you're holding him back?' Jocko perceiving his opportunity was slipping away and looking for a possible alternative solution had picked up his paper knife and was handling in such a way that suggested he was considering leaning forward and ramming it up Pawser's nose to impale his brain.

'I feel in this case experience would outweigh mettle,' Pawser sniffed. 'Is this an official discussion Sir?'

His use of the word 'Sir' jolted Jocko who muttered something under his breath, picked up Pawser's morning paper and began to read it.

Pawser took this as his long overdue cue to leave. As he rose his sodden trousers unstuck themselves from the chair with a soft squelch revealing a large damp patch of coffee pooling in the seat. Adopting a cowboy's swagger he strode stealthily toward the door his hips thrust as far forward as his knees to avoid contact between the cheeks of his buttocks and the rear of his cold coffee soaked trousers.

'I heard you had a bit of a result yesterday,' declared a voice from behind his paper.

Pawser's blood froze.

'£100,000 of cash and a holdall full of hooky vouchers,' echoed the voice. 'I expect the report on my desk first thing tomorrow.'

Pawser slid slowly through the door, knees bent, rear end following at a respectable distance. Pulling the door to the door knob vibrated in his hand as the door was hit on the other side with a loud thump, a noise Pawser took to be the sound of a large paper knife being thrown across the room to impale itself in the wood where a moment before he had been standing.

£100,000 of cash? There was something wrong with that figure. Very, very wrong.

Hey ho, you've come even further. Can I remind you to vote if you like it - before you plunge further into the abyss