Pawser sat back in his seat and tried hard not to suppress a feeling he could only describe as smugness, 'Rollo and Ralfe tell me that the bags they grabbed yesterday contained £200,000 in cash and enough vouchers to stuff a life-sized reindeer.'

'Roll on Christmas,' chuckled Dirk.

Killerman stopped cleaning his revolver and contemplated the sum with a look suggesting he was trying to divide the sum by three in his head. At three pounds each he decided to move on. 'Where is it now?'

'Down in the Bonded Store.' Said Pawser. 'It should be safe in there for the time being.'

There was a short knock on the door

'Come,' shouted Pawser.

The door was flung open to reveal a surly looking individual with the countenance of an idiot who had yet to find his village. He looked around the room with a puzzled expression on his face. 'Male!' he announced.

'We're not questioning your sexuality, Flower.' responded Pawser.

'No Mail. Post!'

'Oh I see! Lob it over here will you.' Pawser took three envelopes from him and waited until he had disappeared back through the door.

'Ah Christmas Cards,' said Dirk expectantly.

Pawser held up his hand, 'Before you open your cards I have something to say. It falls upon me to remind you, gentlemen that despite the fact that the reception area is bedecked in more decorations than the annual Christmas Fayre in Munich and that rumours abound that this year Senior Management have received tickets for top London musicals and Middle Management, hampers from Harrods, our esteemed Chancellor of the Exchequer has informed us that these are difficult economic times and all the public sector should expect cut backs. While upstairs this economic cycle of peaks and troughs may have been misread pigs and troughs, down here it would be wise to just think pig's trotters.' He frisbee'd the cards across the room. 'One for me, one for you Dirk, and one for you Killerman.'

'So just the Christmas card then?' observed Dirk rather sourly opening his envelope. 'I have,' he said holding his card up for Pawser's and Killerman's benefit, 'a card depicting the Christmas fairy. The inscription inside reads, 'For whom so well beloved and merry, as the scarlet Holly berry.' He rummaged inside the envelope in the vain hope of finding a HMV voucher. 'Does the fairy remind you of anyone?'

He handed the card to be scrutinised by Killerman who exclaimed.' Blimey! It's a dead ringer for Mr Bentley. What are the chances of that?'

Killerman passed Pawser the card. It was indeed a pretty good likeness. The Christmas fairy was depicted prancing through the snow dressed in red tights, wearing a green tunic festooned with holly sprigs and from under its little green cap peered a face that was a sure likeness of Mr Bentley, the Head of Housekeeping.

'Well the fat fairy seems to have struck back! Look at this!' Killerman fished out his card which depicted a rotund King and his robust wife being rowed along a wintery river by a couple of serfs in leather jerkins. 'That King's got to be Jocko McBride in anyone's books,' exclaimed Killerman holding up his card with some relish.

'I believe it should read, 'King Cnut with his Queen Emma being rowed to Ely to celebrate Candlemas,' said Killerman,' but due to a horrible typographical error it appears that King Cnut was not as well respected in those times as he would have liked to believe.'

'Well I'm not sure I can better either you two,' said Pawser opening his card which turned out to be a picture of a traditional sprig of Mistletoe. 'Oh no, wait a moment, it comes with a little note as well. No doubt a personal message of support from our leader. It reads 'Be my Queen and I'll be your King. I'll see you at the Christmas party. All my love. Barry.'

'That'll be Barry in the post room, he's got a thing going with a lass in Infectious Diseases down at Porton Down. Looks like you've got the wrong card, Pawser.' remarked Killerman.

'That's a relief. I hope he washes his hands before and after he handles her. If he's opened mine he's probably holding my P45 about now. I hear Jocko McBride's on one of his efficiency drives again.'

Pawser collected the two cards from Killerman and Dirk and laid them on the desk in front of him. The styles of both were very different but the likeness to both Bentley and Jocko McBride was undoubtable, each face having been expertly grafted over the original print. The robustly Scottish Jocko McBride, the man everyone had marked down for the next Head of MI5 was known to dislike the savvy Mr Bentley with a vengeance. But for him to start sending Christmas cards mocking Mr Bentley seemed unlikely to Pawser.

He inspected the cards closely. Opening both cards Pawser scrutinised the typeface and confirmed they were not the same. On the back no maker was identified, making the source difficult to identify. Neither had been signed. So had the enmity between Jocko and Mr Bentley broken into open hostilities? It seemed unlikely. Jocko may be a megalomaniac determined to crush all in his relentless drive to the top. But he was no fool and to show his hand toward Bentley in such a way would be imprudent in the extreme. Bentley's relationship as Sir Berty's confidante clearly irritated Jocko. Nothing would have pleased Jocko more than to usurp Bentley and replace him with members of his own trusted family. And Bentley, the man who ruled with an iron fist was much too canny to be drawn into open conflict with Jocko McBride. Even with the support of Sir Berty, the head of MI5, it would be a risky move.

For a moment Pawser pondered on this, tapping his fingers absently mindedly on his desk before opening his bottom drawer and sliding the cards into it.

'So has it always been like this?' asked Dirk. 'Christmas I mean? You know cheap cards, Sir Berty up there in his ivory tower and the eternal conflict between Mr Bentley and Jocko McBride.'

'When I joined Sir Digby Dashwood was the Head of MI5. He ran things very differently from Sir Berty.' Pawser reminisced fondly. 'He was old school, tough as a bag of rats, a first out of the trenches sort of guy. Always led from the front ,did old Digby. Twice wounded in combat, called the Queen Lizzy, you know. He was once caught by the police half way up Nelsons column in full bishop's regalia. Loved a good joke and had a fair eye for the ladies as well.'

'And was he a mince pie and Christmas cracker sort of a chap?'

'With Digby you always knew when Christmas had come. You'd hear the clump, clump of his wooden leg as he went from office to office, wishing everyone good tidings and when he arrived at our door there would be a small present for each of us, a bottle of wine or a box of cigars. Decent stuff mind you none of your rubbish. He'd always have a little bottle of lavender water for our wives if we were married. Then he'd wish us a Merry Christmas, we'd all line up to shake his prosthetic hand and he'd send us home early for the Christmas break. Then I would be off for Christmas with turkey, roast chestnuts and carols round the piano with Uncle John tinkling on the ivories. Later when our visitors had left I'd slip into my dressing gown and slippers and Penny would pour us both a large glass of brandy and we'd exchange presents in front of the open fire. After we'd opened our presents I'd have a cigar or a bit of rough shag while Penny gazed dreamily into the flames.'

'How very Dickensian,' remarked Dirk, 'remind me never to accept an invite round to your house for Christmas. I don't really fancy fighting over a turkey leg with tiny Tim and his relatives. Anyway I thought you would be a Three Nuns Navy cut not a Rough Shag sort of man, with your background.'

'You know what they say, in a foreign port you've got more chance of finding a decent rough shag than an unadulterated three nuns. In all my years at sea I found there never was a truer saying.'

'Advice we could all take note of, 'remarked Dirk rather dourly. 'Anyway whatever happened to Sir Digby Slashwood or whatever his name was?'

'Ah yes Sir Digby. He was attending a party at the French High Commissioners. The party had retired to the smoking room for a glass of port and smoke. The French Ambassador accidently caught his hand alight when lighting his cigar, terribly inflammable the old Indian rubber you know. Within a moment he was engulfed in a ball of fame and to make matters worse the Ambassador with the best of intentions threw his brandy over him to quell the flames. With that and the wooden leg he went up like a tyre factory on fireworks night. It was a terrible shock to everyone in the office. A huge loss to the service. He was never short of good cheer old Dashwood you know. '

'Sounds like he was short of a few good body parts though.' observed Killerman rather dispassionately. 'I bet it was the devil to get the smell of the burnt rubber out of the upholstery.'

There was a moment's pause whilst Pawser and Dirk reflected on the lives of past heads of MI5 and Killerman wondered if he'd still have time to get his carpets cleaned by Christmas.

'Speaking of Christmas cheer chaps,' said Pawser, 'I note that neither of you two are attending the Christmas Ball this year. What is it in your pressing social lives that could possibly take precedence over the MI5 festive extravaganza? Tell me, Dirk, what Bacchanal debaucheries await you while I'm enjoying the revelries of the Christmas do?'

'I tried my damnest to get tickets for Thursday Pawser. I pleaded, I cajoled, but to no avail. They appear to have sold out.' Dirk sighed and winked at Killerman.

'Sold out?' this seemed most unlikely to Pawser. The Christmas do was popular with the younger set but attendance was generally compulsory for Department Heads to shore up the numbers and to show solidarity. A sell out was unheard of.

'Yes indeed. Tickets having become rather elusive I will have to make do with my existing arrangement which is a visit to an unnamed club on the South Coast where my friends reliably inform me that the local natives are of the exotic kind. Their tops fall somewhat north of their bejewelled navels, little mascot hung trinkets tinkle around their ankles and they adorn their bodies with strange and mysterious markings and it is said the carpets are so soaked in beer that if you squeezed them it would quench the thirst of half the rugby clubs in England,' confirmed Dirk.

'You had me hooked right up to the carpets bit. So somewhere in deepest Essex then.' Pawser nodded. 'And you Killerman? Is it the annual Gun Muzzle Club annual Christmas do for you? Or perhaps you will be regaling the Dum Dum Bullet members with stories of your heroism while you were with Special Branch. If that's how you pass off shooting your workmates?'

'Not at all. It's the extremely civilised Territory Army do that I'll be attending.'

'Oh God an evening with your local branch Bank Manager, the grocer and some has-been banker whittling on about a dead cert investment opportunity you must put some funds into. You're a sucker for punishment Killerman, you know that. I'd take your gun so you can turn it on yourself before the evenings out should it all become too dreadful. Mind you, you could do the armed services a favour and shoot the others first.'

Killerman shrugged his shoulders and reached to pick up his revolver.

There was a loud bang, the noise ricocheted around the room like a crack of thunder. Killerman crashed backward out of his chair and disappeared from sight. A puff of white powder shot out of the wall above Dirks head. A bolt of pain stabbed Pawser's left ear, instinctively he ducked down and pressed his head close to his desk and then after a few heart-stopping moments, slowly raised his head to inspect the damage.