In a move that has sent shockwaves through the intelligence community and caused several career diplomats to spontaneously develop nervous tics, President Trump has appointed a man whose primary qualification appears to be an intimate knowledge of suburban basements as the new Director of National Intelligence. Yes, the same man who once described the CIA as 'the guys who always know when you've had too many gins' is now in charge of the entire American spy apparatus. Whitehall is reportedly in a state of 'controlled panic,' which in civil service terms means someone has spilt their tea and not apologised.
Sources close to the situation describe the new spymaster as a 'loyalist' which is Washington-speak for 'will not ask awkward questions about the size of the President's nuclear button.' The man, whose previous experience includes landscaping and a brief stint as a weatherman, is said to have a 'natural instinct' for intelligence gathering, which apparently means he can spot a Russian agent from the way they order a latte.
The British assessment is grim. MI6 analysts are reportedly working overtime to decipher whether this is a brilliant feint or a catastrophic blunder. One anonymous source was overheard muttering, 'We spent decades training spooks to be invisible, and now the Yanks have put a bloke who thinks 'tradecraft' is a type of woodworking in charge. We're doomed.' The official line from Downing Street is one of cautious optimism, but the subtext is a frantic scramble to identify which of Trump's other golfing buddies might be next in line for a sensitive post.
The real fear, however, is not that this new spymaster will be incompetent. The fear is that he will be too competent at following orders. The orders, presumably, from a man who thinks 'covert operation' means hiding the truth from his wife. The intelligence community is bracing for a string of embarrassing leaks, accidental nuclear launches, and possibly the declassification of the recipe for the President's favourite steak sauce.
But let us not be too hasty in our judgement. Perhaps this estate agent has a hidden genius for espionage. Perhaps his experience in selling houses with 'good bones' will translate into an ability to identify weak points in the Kremlin's defences. Or perhaps, and this is the likelier scenario, he will spend his tenure accidentally revealing the identities of deep-cover agents while trying to negotiate a better price for the new HQ.
Either way, it is a glorious time to be alive and a terrible time to be a professional spook. The gin supply at MI6 has been doubled, and the sound of nervous laughter echoes through the halls of Langley. The only question that remains is: will the new spymaster remember the password for the nuclear football? Or will he have to call the President and ask for a hint?
