In a move that has left the intelligence community reaching for the smelling salts and the nearest bottle of something stiff, President-Elect Donald Trump has reportedly selected a housing official to lead the CIA. Yes, you read that correctly. A housing official. The sort of person who used to worry about subsidence and damp, not subsidence and defection. MI6 is, I am reliably informed, currently reviewing the implications, by which they mean ringing their counterparts at GCHQ and asking, with some urgency, whether this is a wind-up.
Let us pause to consider the sheer, almost operatic lunacy of this appointment. The CIA, that hallowed institution of spies, assassins, and men with black turtlenecks, is to be placed in the hands of someone whose primary expertise is ensuring that rental properties have working smoke alarms. The mind boggles. It does not just boggle; it does a full interpretive dance of bewilderment in a tutu made of shredded redacted documents.
Now, I am no expert in the dark arts of espionage. I have trouble finding my keys in the morning, let alone a sleeper agent in Minsk. But even I can spot a category five clusterfluff when I see one. This is not a promotion; this is a category error. It is like appointing a zookeeper to conduct a symphony orchestra. Yes, both involve large groups making a racket, but the skill sets do not readily transfer.
MI6, or the Secret Intelligence Service for those of you not fluent in acronyms, is presumably having an emergency meeting in a windowless room. They are likely running simulations: 'How does this affect our handling of the Syria file? What about the North Korea situation? And for God's sake, has anyone checked the gimlets?' Their American counterparts are probably already spinning up the Kremlin for the inevitable laugh track.
This is not a joke. Or rather, it is a joke, but it is being told by the President Elect with a straight face and a signed executive order. The implications are staggering. Imagine being a junior CIA officer, expecting a briefing on Russian election interference, only to be told that your new boss will be giving a presentation on fire safety standards in low-income housing. The morale will plummet faster than a drunk off a barstool.
The whole affair reeks of the sort of surrealism that would make Salvador Dali spit out his lobster. It is a kind of bureaucratic Dadaism, a performance art piece where the punchline is global security. One almost expects to see a man with a pineapple for a briefcase giving a lecture on geopolitics at the Royal Institute of International Affairs.
I am not saying the housing official is incompetent. I am sure he or she can spot a dry rot outbreak or a breach of tenancy agreement from a mile away. But the CIA's remit is slightly broader. It covers, oh, I don't know, preventing nuclear war, for a start. Will this new spymaster be able to identify a dead drop? Or differentiate between a brush pass and a property chain? The mind reels.
In conclusion, Britain should be very, very worried. The American intelligence apparatus is now being steered by someone who probably has a clipboard and a keen interest in rental arrears. The Special Relationship is about to become a special kind of awkward. I suggest we all stock up on gin. We are going to need it.
