Olga Smitz, Personal Assistance to Sir Berty, Head of MI5, was a stunningly beautiful woman but from her outward appearance you would never have known it. With her long ashen blonde hair swept back into a stark bun and her dark suits concealing a body best described as athletically muscular, Olga fitted perfectly the Arian typeset so favoured by a certain Teutonic master race from the last century.

Unfortunately Olga's life had been blighted by tragedy. Arriving in the late seventies with her young husband, Helmut, a tin miner from Bavaria, the newlyweds had settled quickly into a mid-terrace house close to the centre of Milton Keynes. The tin mining industry in Milton Keynes not having flourished to the level Helmut's meticulous research had led him to believe, Helmut found himself unable to gain employment, leaving Olga to secure a lowly paid job in central London. Helmut soon found consolation in two mynah birds, Adolf and Eva who he kept in an aviary in the garden. There he would spend long hours sitting in a deckchair teaching the birds to speak German.

One May afternoon in 1981 having just taught Adolf to sing 'I love Munich in the springtime,' in Austro-Bavarian, a frozen block of urine crashed through the aviary roof killing both Adolf and Eva. An accident the neighbours would later, rather unkindly, refer to as the Chunter in the Bunker. Helmut, stricken with grief, unable to identify the origin of the passing plane in order to bring closure to this tragedy, died of a broken heart a week later.

The half completed Airfix model of the scuttling of the Bismarck that lay incomplete on the kitchen table convinced Olga that Helmut would have wished his ashes spread at sea. Unfortunately as Olga stood upright in her hired rowing boat in the middle of the Solent and prepared to spread Helmut's ashes, she was clipped by the Isle of Wright ferry and dragged it all the way to Yarmouth, Olga trapped between the rowing boat and the ferry's hull. With typical Germanic resourcefulness she survived the accident but from that day on, out of respect for both Adolf and Eva and of course Helmut, Olga assumed the persona of a nun at a friar's stag night, dressing only in black and hiding her radiant hair in a small tight bun in order to discourage the advances of any potential suitors.

Taking pity on her situation, a friend had managed to get her a job in the typing pool at MI5 and from there with rigorous Teutonic efficiency and cool determination of the type that could only have been found of a German U boat commander on the news that his crew had got galloping diarrhoea and could not surface for three days, Olga steered her course through the petty jealousies of the typing pool and over the next ten years rose to become the Director of MI5's PA.

Luckily she'd had the sense to change her surname from Smitz to Smits on her original application form to wrong foot the vetting teams. So the fact that her grandfather was once known as the 'Butcher of Bavaria,' never became apparent. Although the reference was in fact due to before the war when he had run a significant schnitzel distribution business in southern Germany. But Olga, being entirely pragmatic about these affairs, could not afford any misunderstandings to affect her new career. She was, after all, German.

Olga's telephone buzzed. 'Smits,' she snapped into the receiver.

'Ms Smits .This is Admiralty reception, you have a visitor. Mr Steel.'

'I'll be right down, Mr Grace,' said Olga.

Having signed himself in at the Admiralty reception of Thames House as 'Steel,' Pawser had immersed himself in the latest addition of Plastics and Rubber Weekly in order to appear as anonymous as possible as directed by Sir Berty and to avoid the steely gaze of Gracie who stood by the door, arms folded over his barrel chest glaring at Pawser.

'Mr Steel?', Olga asked entering the small reception area, extending her hand and grabbing Pawser's in a vice like grip so hard it made him wince. 'If you could just follow me, I'll show you to the Directors office.' Having taken the back stairs they exited the fifth floor through the fire door. Olga marched Pawser swiftly down the corridor into her office.

Pawser looked at Olga's desk -a paragon of neatness. Staple, ruler and paper clips lined up on one side and a small photocopier on the other side. The back wall was occupied floor to ceiling by A4 boxes each neatly inscribed in Olga's bold italic script. Olga opened the interconnecting door to Sir Berty' office and led Pawser through to the Directors room, a large oak panelled room dominated by an enormous glass table.

For a moment Pawser studied the clutch of silver framed photographs that occupied the top of the small bureau by the door from which beamed at younger, slimmer version of the Sir Berty he'd met only an hour earlier. Berty at school balancing a football on his head, surrounded by a group of cheering school boys. Berty in his whites, Captain of the Cricket team happily receiving the inter school trophy from his Headmaster. A relaxed looking Berty with a pint in one hand, an attractive young lady in the other, his neck festooned with ribbons, in a frame labelled '1972 All England Rowing Champions.'

'The Directors downstairs at the moment,' Olga said in a loud voice, 'and the others have not yet arrived.'

For a moment they stood staring at each other.

'Pawser Bingham, I didn't think I'd ever see you in this building again!' Olga exploded.

'It wasn't my fault Olga, I didn't know we had the wrong house. It was that idiot Killerman who shot the dog.'

'Sir Berty was furious, he's had two meetings with the Deputy PM over the incident. McBride's been given a right old roasting over how he allowed it to happen. Jack Springer's been over from Scotland Yard wanting the rest of the evidence passed across to them. He and McBride had a right old ding dong and Springer left empty handed.'

'I'm sorry Olga, I didn't mean for it to work out like this. All this trouble,' Pawser took her hand.

Clasping Pawser's hand tightly in hers, Olga swiftly pushed Pawser back, spun him around and pinned him expertly against the wall. Pawser gasped in surprise at the sudden shock of pain running up his arm.

Olga put her month up against his ear, he caught the faint aroma of Bratwurst and onions on her breath. 'Oh Pawser, you so remind me of Adolf. You've always known that, haven't you? Your rampant hair, your broad frame, those big rough hands.'

'Don't you mean, Helmut?'

'Did I say Adolf?' Olga shook her head, 'I mean my greatest love, Helmut. So cruelly taken from me before we could ...' She lowered her voice, 'say something in German, Pawser.'

'Oh, Olga. I thought we were past all this.'

'Say it! 'Olga twisted his arm and he let out a little yelp 'Bloody hell, are all you women going on a course or something? I can't get into this building without one of you trying to rip one of my limbs from its socket or squeezing the life out of my fruit fancies.'

'Say it!'

'Sie halten meinen Mittagessen-Kasten zu dicht,' Pawser yelped. Pawser felt Olga's grip lessen slightly.

Olga closed her eyes, 'Oh God Pawser, you sound just like him.'

'Helmut?'

'No, Adolf the parrot, he always had a slight English accent. You must come to my house, I can teach you more German and you can show me more of your linguistic skills. We can lie together on my pelzdecke eating Kastanien, drinking Glühwein and playing suchen die pinkel together. Just like Helmut and I used to do when we first met. Oh Pawser. It will be wunderbar!' Olga exclaimed happily patting him on his behind.

'I can't Olga, Penny....' exclaimed Pawser wondering how suchen die pinkel might be played out.

Olga tightened her grip, 'Promise it Pawser.'

'Olga I can hear someone coming. Let me go' Pawser wriggled desperately to break free.

'Promise it! '

'OK, Ok. I promise, just let me go,' Pawser hissed.

Olga smiled. A smile of grim determination. A smile she had acquired when Helmut had died, leaving her alone in this country, filled with its weak willed humourless Anglo Saxons and their disappointingly bland cuisine. She needed a man like Pawser, tall, broad, with luxuriant hair like a raiding Viking. A man who was both slightly dangerous but mature, with unfulfilled needs like herself. Penny would mean nothing to him after a passionate night with her and experienced the brutal efficiency of her lovemaking. She relaxed her grip and Pawser stepped to one side.

'Pawser. Good. You're here!' Sir Berty strode in with Killerman and Dirk trailing behind at a respectful distance. 'Killerman, Dirk take a seat. Horatio's just behind us. You all know Olga my Personal Assistant don't you? Olga you'll do the honours will you, when Horatio gets here. I haven't eaten this morning so perhaps some coffee and a few of those mince pies, you know the ones with the icing on top. And a bit of Christmas cake as well, maybe some biscuits just in case. After all it is still the festive season eh? Ah, here's Horatio.'

Horatio Haggard, Lord Vice Admiral Western (rt'd). Chief of MI6 the Foreign Intelligence Services. DSO, MVO, KCB, Companion of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath, Order of Suvorov First Class, Baron Western of Piggott's Hill, five times married country gentleman, bounder, blaggard and sexual predator, strode into the room the room looking like a man who had just stepped on something nasty and was looking for a place to wipe it off.Ignoring Pawser, Dirk and Killerman with the casual ignorance of a man the Chief of the NATO Fleet had once assessed as, 'Painstakingly steady but as stupid as a headless duck and with the same social skills to boot,' he dropped his woollen duffle coat casually into Olga's outstretched arms. 'I'll have a cup of tea, with two sugars and some chocolate biscuits thanks, lassie.'

Olga pulled a face at Sir Berty before disappearing through the door. Pawser was surprised Haggard hadn't slapped her on the arse as she turned and went on her way.

Looking like he'd spent the last three months out in the Australian outback the red faced, bushy bearded Haggard eyed Sir Bertys prize table contemptuously before pulling a flimsily file from his attaché case and slapping it down on the glass. The words 'Top Secret. Not to leave Vauxhall Cross,' were conspicuously stamped across its face.

'Horatio, Horatio, how nice of you to come over. You visit us so rarely,' exclaimed Bertie with the over exuberance that he reserved for someone he could not stand the very sight of.

'I wouldn't have had to if you could have kept that woman Ferker-Rose under control,' spat Horatio waving away Sir Berty's extended hand. 'Let's just get on with it, Berty. I'm I busy man. Just tell me what this lot are going to do about your problem. It is this lot isn't it or have they just brought in this glass monstrosity? If so, kick e'm out and let's get on with it.'

Sir Berty looked visibly pained at the assessment of his glass masterpiece. Haggard reminded Pawser of the sort of old sea dog he'd often see on tins of the Navy's Best Old Shag with his weathered face, unkempt beard , submariners roll neck jumper and baggy navy cut trousers .

'Horatio, I think we should do the introductions before we begin. Don't you?' Sir Berty suggested deflecting Haggard's obvious irritation.

'If they don't know who I am Berty, they can get out now,' Haggard puffed. 'Where's that woman with my tea? You know she smells of carbolic soap and what's that other smell?'

'Bratwurst?' offered Sir Berty.

'Right. Some foreign nosh. I can't stand foreign food .You should know that Berty. Nothing wrong with good old fish and chips, that's what I always say. You should sack her and get a looker in.'

'I'll bear that in mind Horatio. Why don't we all sit down and we can begin?'

'Don't mind if I do, Berty,' said Haggard dropping into one of Berty's glass seats. 'You. Yes you, the one with that thing crawling across your top lip. You might as well start. And make it snappy, I'm a busy man.'

Killerman who had been standing to attention now strained even further, his eyes bulging white and his moustache bristling alarmingly. He performed a remarkably elaborate salute. 'Killerman, sir. Code name Wilkes Booth, Lord Admiral, sir. Intelligence Officer, three years army service, ten years Special Branch, three years with MI5. Expert in electronic and physically security, kidnapping, house breaking, theft and procurement of wherever is needed,' he added with a flourish and snapped his hands down to his side.

'Which Regiment were you with, Killerman?'

'6th Rangers. Sir,' Killerman looked surprisingly confident.

'Rangers?' Haggard looked taken aback. 'That's what my niece does. They all put on little brown dresses and run around shouting dib, dib, dib or some such nonsense. It that your game Killerman? Meeting with your mates down the park, wearing little brown dresses and showing each other your woggles. Should have joined the Navy, we'd have made a man of you.'

Haggard turned expectantly to Dirk. 'You man, you're not in one of those poncy army outfits as well are you. Well, speak up.'

'Dirk Maine sir. Code name Ring Bearer,' Dirk did his best to slouch to attention. 'Intelligence analyst, transferred in from GCHQ. Specialism, electronics, eavesdropping, code breaking, human physiology and psychology.'

'Are you wearing makeup man?' Haggard inspected Dirks face closely.

'Sir?'

'Your face, it looks too brown to me. Are you wearing women's make up. Come on man, speak up!'

'No it's a natural tan sir. I live in Essex,' Dirk asserted looking sideways at Pawser.

'Bollocks it is, you look like squirrel nutkin. Get it sorted before I see you next. What's that you're fiddling with, come on hand it over,' Haggard held out his hand .Dirk handed across the ring. 'Where's this from?' Haggard held the ring up to the light.

'Brighton sir. It was a present from my ex-wife.'

'Thank God for that I thought it was one of those cock rings things. Disgusting! Put it away and stop fiddling with it,' he threw it back at Dirk.

'And you what about you, or have they just sent you up to clean the windows?' Haggard turned to Pawser and screwed his nose up in displeasure.

'Pawser. Intelligence Officer, code name Velvet Fox. Sir.' Pawser had decided that his CV looked decidedly lightweight next to the others so was going to go for the economical approach which hopefully would leave Haggard little room for manoeuvre to pick holes in.

'Pawser joined us from Admiralty a number of years ago, Horatio,' interjected Berty helpfully. 'He has a naval background a bit like yourself.'

'No one's got a background like mine, Berty,' Horatio barked ,' but at least he's done a bit in a real man's world. What you're telling me Berty is that his has no specialist skills.' Haggard tugged his beard as if to ensure it was not working loose.

'Well. Yes, that's it,' Pawser answered uncertainly, shrinking down into his chair.

'Destined for Management eh?' remarked Haggard.

'Yes sir, hopefully sir,' Pawser perked up,' just honing my skills sir looking for the next opportunity up the ladder sir.'

Dirk rubbed his nose and surreptitiously mouthed the words, 'brown nose' and 'arse' to Pawser.

Pawser studiously ignored him.

'Good for you. I admire ambition in a man.' Haggard seemed impressed. 'Mark my words, Pawser if you want to get to the top in the intelligence services don't go out there developing lots of skills otherwise you'll end up as the head of some grotty section like Overseas Intelligence, spend the rest of your life working in a shithole of an office answering stupid queries raised by some upstart MP in Parliament and then find you've been used as a flimsy pretext to invade some gad dam far off banana republic that no one's ever heard of. Then you'll spend the rest of your days sitting in front of Government Enquiries having you arse ripped out by the same guys who misinterpreted your information in the first place. Isn't that right? Eh Berty, eh, eh?'

Pawser nodded sagely at receiving this excellent advice.

'To get into senior management in the Services you just need an overview, not too much detail or you're sunk. Bloody hell, half the Admirals I've worked with couldn't tell one end of a destroyer from another. Does it matter? Of course not! Eh, eh?' Haggard seemed to think his advice had run its course and took a big slug of his tea and turned to Sir Berty. 'Where's Mayheme?'

'He's delayed Horatio. He said start without him and he'll catch up when he arrives. Christmas cake anyone?' Berty eyed the tray Olga had slipped onto the table with evident relish.

At the mention of Mayheme's name Pawser caught Dirks eye. Mayheme, the Deputy PM? Events were becoming more serious by the minute. Sir Berty, Haggard and Mayheme together. Surely the poodle shooting couldn't have caused this many problems? He looked at Killerman, who having survived his interrogation by Haggard remained oblivious to it all and was happily cutting up the Christmas cake.

'Well, you've got a right bunch of shifty bastards here, Sir Berty. Do you think they're up to the job?'

'Just the men in my opinion, Horatio,' Berty appeared relieved at Haggard's assessment.

'I don't want your opinion, Sir Berty, just the facts,' Haggard scowled. 'Have you briefed them yet?'