In a move that sent shockwaves through the corridors of power (and the gin-soaked crevices of my liver), Tulsi Gabbard has resigned as Director of National Intelligence. The news broke like a cheap champagne cork at a Tory fundraiser, leaving Washington in a froth of speculation and Westminster in a paroxysm of diplomatic buttock-clenching. For those of you who haven't been paying attention – and why would you, with the price of peanuts what it is – Gabbard’s tenure was a rollercoaster of conspiracy-laced briefings and bewildering press conferences. Now she’s off to, presumably, start a podcast about chemtrails or join the cast of ‘The View’.
But the real headline, the one that’s made the mandarins at MI6 choke on their afternoon Earl Grey, is the immediate announcement that Britain’s spooks are strengthening liaison with her successor. Because nothing says ‘special relationship’ like a hastily arranged handover of classified material before the new chap’s even had a chance to choose his desk plant. I can imagine the phone call now: ‘Hello, is that the new Director of National Intelligence? Marvelous. Listen, we’ve got a few dozen files marked ‘Top Secret: Don’t Tell the Yanks’ – but since you’re a Yank, we’ll let you have a peek. Just don’t mention the Falklands.’
The timing, as any self-respecting satirist will tell you, is exquisitely absurd. Gabbard’s resignation comes amid a flurry of leaks about NSA surveillance programmes, which apparently included monitoring the bowel movements of every MP with a Twitter account. MI6, ever the eager beaver, have decided that now is the perfect moment to ‘deepen collaboration’ with the US intelligence community. Because nothing builds trust like a sudden change of leadership during a global espionage crisis. I suspect the MI6 liaison officer’s brief will include learning how to say ‘We’re not the CIA, honestly’ in 12 different accents.
The real question, however, is whether this liaison will actually achieve anything other than generating a mountain of paperwork and a few awkward cultural exchanges. Will the new US intelligence chief – possibly a retired general who thinks a ‘phishing email’ is something to do with fishing – understand the nuances of British intelligence? Will they appreciate the subtle art of the double entendre when discussing dead drops in Hyde Park? Or will we end up with a situation where MI6 are forced to explain the difference between ‘a spot of bother’ and ‘a nuclear incident’?
Meanwhile, Tulsi Gabbard is probably already shopping her memoir, tentatively titled ‘I Was Right All Along: A Conspiracy Theorist’s Guide to Intelligence’. I can only hope the publishers include a free tin foil hat. And as for the rest of us, we’re left to ponder the eternal question: when intelligence agencies ‘strengthen liaison’, do they mean they’ll share more secrets, or just that they’ll poach each other’s best agents? Stay tuned, dear readers. The gin is running low, but the absurdity is inexhaustible.
In conclusion, this is a story that proves, yet again, that the world of international espionage is just a pantomime performed by people who take themselves far too seriously. Gabbard’s out, the new bloke’s in, and MI6 are already angling for a seat at the grown-ups’ table. I’ll be watching from the bar, cocktail in hand, ready to file my report when the next twist – probably involving a rogue agent with a grudge and a very expensive watch – inevitably occurs.
