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.

Icabalde disliked Devon. His disliked his grey slacks and his tan slip on shoes. He disliked his red polo neck jumper with his Ralph Loren blazer causally open at his midriff. He disliked the fact that Devon always turned up at his office looking like he'd just left his country club, sporting a wholesome tan, flashing an expensive watch and large gold signet ring. He could smell Devon's scent, an expensive eau du homme of a type Icabalde particularly disliked. Most of all he disliked the fact that Devon's Brother in Law was Alexander Waverley who would make life difficult for Icabalde when he decided to give Devon the Heave Ho.

'I had the Commissioner of Scotland Yard and the Head of Special Branch on the phone this morning and they tell me it was your operative that shot the pink poof's poodle. So let's not have all that bollocks about who told who what shall we, Devon?' Icabalde was feeling his temperature beginning to rise.

'I think you will find it was the poodle that was pink sir, not the poof,' stated Devon casually before returning to his fingernails.

'I don't give a dam who was pink, the poof or the poodle,' snarled Mayheme slamming his hand down on the table and was gratified to see Devon jump a few inches off his chair. Even the impossibly fat Sir Berty left his chair for a second. 'If we'd had PMs Questions this morning in the House, the Opposition would have had a heyday. It's bloody lucky for you both that Parliament is in Christmas recess. If you think your actions will allow us to become a laughing stock you are very much mistaken gentlemen. Not on my watch.' Icabalde banged the table again and gleefully watched as Sir Berty momentarily defied gravity for a second time.

'So,' he leaned forward and glared at them both. 'Who fired the shot?'

'We're investigating that as we speak,' Sir Berty had taken up the mantle.

'I'm not asking you to identify who was in the library repository with the snipers rifle. Who fired the bloody shot!' raged Icabalde.

'The matter is covered by the Officials Secrets Act at this time. Sir,' interjected Devon pointedly.

'I'm the frigging Deputy PM, Devon. Don't bullshit me. Who is responsible?'

'As I said. Sir. It's Special Branch's responsibility and MI5 will defend its position robustly,' asserted Devon.

'I'll bet you will, using the DDP and an investigation run by your brother in law that will take years to run at public expense and will see you both exonerated and retiring on ample packages funded by the public purse,' blasted an exasperated Icabalde.

Sir Berty sat silently on the edge of his chair and waited while Icabalde blew off steam. He knew from experience this was the best thing to do. Every time his visited Mayhems' office, Miss Timble give him one of these silly little seats to sit on. He didn't think Miss Timble liked him. She was skinny and skinny people he found generally didn't like people like him. He knew some of the staff in the service called him Bountiful Berty which was rather disrespectful. She was probably one of them. He was what he was and there was nothing he could do about it. Berty shifted anxiously on the edge of his seat, trying to take as much weight off it as possible by bracing his legs. Already he could feel the muscles in the back of his ankles beginning to tremble under the strain. Small bands of sweat were starting to appear on his shirt around his midriff under this concerted effort. He self-consciously pulled his jacket over his stomach to try to conceal them. He hated coming to Mayhems office. Mayheme always barked at him, thumped the table and was constantly chasing him for reports, action plans, updates -the list was endless. Mayheme didn't seem to understand Sir Berty was a Civil Servant. His life before MI5 had been one long round of briefings, consultations, talks, reviews, reviews of reviews, social networking and entertaining. He'd tried to explain this to Mayheme but he was having none of it.

Sir Berty considered dolefully that if he'd stayed in his old job he'd probably have a diplomatic role travelling the world by now. He could be sitting in Moscow looking forward to an evening at the Bolshoi ballet reclining in a gilded theatre box quaffing Russian Champagne with the new muscovite elite, nibbling at caviar canapés served on giant silver platters bearing the crest of the Tsars by long legged Russian beauties. Or perhaps something in India, He'd always fancied India. Meeting with fabulous wealthy Indian princes in exotic grand palaces, drinking tea, nibbling delectable fruit fancies whilst discussing the best time for fly fishing in Scotland or truffle hunting in Tuscany. Yes, that was what he should be doing, not this. This was almost degrading, being balled out by some self-important upstart who thought it was he and his Party that ran the Country. He casually pulled up his sleeve and surreptitiously checked the time.

'You late for a lunch appointment, Sir Berty? Are my questions interfering with a sumptuous lunch you've got planned with your chums over at the Home Office? Got a little snack booked down at the Ivy or one of your mate's private clubs?' snapped Icabalde. He could see the sweat on Sir Berty's forehead and the acrid aroma of perspiration filled his nose.

'No, no. Not at all Sir,' replied a dismayed Berty.

'I'll be referring this matter to the PM, so don't think you're out of this. Either of you,' Icabalde snapped. Inwardly Mayheme cursed. It seemed that his chance of kicking both these incompetents out was slipping away. But maybe.....maybe there was another angle.

'This investigation into Ferker-Rose's dairies. How's that going?'

'Well Sir .We've put one of our best men on to it,' Devon gave Sir Berty a sidelong glance.

'One of your best? I hope it's your best, for your sakes. If you cock this up and what Ferker-Rose knows gets out, half the present Government will be for the high jump and that includes you two.'

'Can't you have a word with her?' implored Sir Berty. 'Publishing her diaries is really most unbecoming for an ex head of MI5.'

'Oh, believe me, I'd like to but it appears nothing's going to stop Ferker-Rose getting an investigation into her allegation that there's a highly placed Russian operative in MI5. If that proves to be true then we're all screwed, especially the PM with the Americans. That special relationship he's got with that right wing dimbo they've got in over there at the moment will go right down the pan.'

'A smear campaign to discredit her?' suggested Devon hopefully.

'The PM won't hear of it,' deflected Icabalde.

'An accident then?' Devon added with a sinister leer.

'I take it you're thinking of something the other side of fatal, Devon? Got something particularly nasty lined up have we? Oddly enough the death of the Ex Head of MI5 might be treated as suspicious. But seeing that you've evidently come up with something suitably terminal you must let me have it. I've got a Deputy Head of one of my Departments that needs taking care of.' Icabalde paused for a moment to let this sink in. 'Let's tackle this from another angle shall we? Is there a Russian operative in MI5 Berty?'

'Oh believe me sir, it all seems rather unlikely,' said Berty scornfully.

'Unlikely, unlikely!' Mayheme hit the desk so hard his Montblanc pinged off and hit the wall. 'This isn't some game of chance, Berty. We're not playing spin the bloody bottle for who gets to kiss Miss Specky. If there's a mole in MI5 we need to find out and we need to stop Ferker-Rose's diaries being published. What the hell are you doing about it?'

'We're bringing in the Head of MI6 to help us investigate,' answered Sir Berty.

'Oh Christ, not that idiot Haggard? He couldn't find a Russian sub in a paddling pool,' despaired Icabalde.

'We've got Olga organising the briefing,' said Sir Berty.

'Well that the first sensible thing anyone's said. I hope she's keeping you little boys in line. That sexist pig at MI6 needs a good kick up the arse.'

'I'm sure the PM wouldn't approve of you talking about Lord Admiral Haggard in that manner,' interjected Devon.

'I don't know. You should hear what he calls you two. So don't be so presumptuous,' Icabalde stared hard at Devon, 'So who have you got?'

'Gerald Deveroux.'

'Hmm. I suppose you could have done worse. If he can get past his rampant narcissism he might do a half decent job. What's his brief?'

'Get hold of Ferker-Rose's diaries and bring them to us.'

'And the mole?' quizzed Icabalde

'What mole?' asked Sir Berty earnestly.

'All right Berty. I get the drift. There is no mole. But you better be sure. And Deveroux had better come up with the goods. Where is he now?'

'Just finished a job. He's on a bit of R&R at the moment so he'll be on the case from Monday,' confirmed Devon.

'OK, get out both of you. And Berty, don't forget to keep me in the loop. Devon, if one word of this gets out to your brother in law...'

'Alexander has far too much integrity,' sniffed Devon.

'He made you the Deputy Head of MI5 Piper, so let's not talk about integrity shall we?'

There was a gentle knock on the door and the reassuring face of Miss Timble peered into the room, 'Your car is here, Deputy PM.'

Icabalde stood up to leave and glared at Devon and Sir Berty. 'Well get on with it then. And I want a name, the name of the poodle shooter. You understand?'

In the hallway Miss Timble helped Icabalde on with his coat and passed him his ministerial case with his timetable for the day. Discretely sizing her up Icabalde concluded she would look pretty handsome in a bikini. As they walked down the steps together Icabalde said in the most casual manner he could muster. 'Will you be seeing your parents at all this Christmas, Lesley?

'No, Deputy PM.'

That seemed pretty positive thought Icabalde, 'Any particular reason?'

'They're both dead, Deputy PM,' said Miss Timble patiently.

'Ah,' said Icabalde and jumped into the waiting car a little quicker than he would normally have done.