The secret diary of . . . Ian Fletcher, spy boss

23:07, Mar 29 2013


At approximately 1800 hours I stepped into the west elevator and went up to level eight, whereupon I stepped into the east elevator and went down to level five, then climbed the stairs up to level 15, whereupon I hid in the back of a broom closet until approximately 2100 hours.

Time flies when you're trying on women's clothing. The pleasing click-clack of my pink and black Mi Piaci heels resounded through the hallway as I walked to the west elevator and went down to the car park.

I hid in shadows until I saw the signal - a man in a trenchcoat lighting a cigarette.

He winked as I walked past. Amateur, very amateur.

I drove to the dairy and bought a packet of Cheezels which had been positioned behind a packet of Twisties.


Back in the car I poked my tongue through the hole of each Cheezel until I dislodged a ball of paper.

I unwrapped it. A single word had been written on it: "Yes."

I drove to John's house. The guys from the diplomatic protection squad opened the gate. I knocked on the door. He opened it in his shirtsleeves. He'd taken his tie off, and had changed out of his leather shoes into a pair of loafers.

He said: "Do I know you?"


John sugared a grapefruit and said: "My head! How much did we drink last night?"

I buttered a scone and said: "Heaps. Too much. Fun, though! Haw, haw!"

He sipped his tea and said: "The look on your face at the door! ‘Do I know you?' Haw, haw!"

I salted an egg and said: "You bastard. Haw, haw!"

He tied his laces and said: "I better run. Busy day. How about you? What've you got on today?"

I padded my bra and said: "Chanel No 5".


Busy day. Got in the best minds from the department, and we brainwaved for hours until we solved nearly half of the newspaper's cryptic crossword.

I was walking to the cafeteria with some of the guys when I ran into John.

I said: "Hello, Prime Minister."

He said: "Do I know you?"

I said: "Ian Fletcher, director of the Government Communications Security Bureau intelligence agency."

We shook hands, and he said: "Oh, yes. Of course. Good to see you again."

He didn't wink, or smirk, or express the slightest flicker of amusement. Professional, very professional.

John understands the need for secrecy. Our long friendship has to remain under wraps.

It's one of the reasons I don't mind the elaborate disguises, and the efforts I have to make to avoid being followed whenever we arrange to meet.

Also, I think I look good in stockings.


Ran a background intelligence check on Dame Susan Devoy. Wanted to see if she had any background intelligence to qualify her as the new race relations commissioner. Nothing so far.


At approximately 0700 hours I climbed into my rabbit suit. I said: "How do I look?"

John said: "What?"

I said: "How do I look?"

He said: "What? I can't hear you. You're wearing a rabbit suit."

I hopped around the room. That got a laugh, and convinced me that I really looked the part of the Easter Bunny.

I tested the surveillance recording device in the fibre-optic wires in my whiskers, and John said: "OK. Listen. We really need you to get some dirt on him today. I'm sick of the guy. He's making us look like fools."

I said: "We're not fools."

John said: "What?"

Arrived at the mansion in Coatesville at approximately 0900 hours. The security goons opened the gate, and said the treasure hunt for the kids would start soon.

Kim Dotcom came out of his house. He was bigger than I imagined. He was carrying some sort of stick.

He walked right up to me and said: "We've had a tip-off. You're Ian Fletcher, director of the Government Communications Security Bureau intelligence agency."

I know how to get myself out of a tight spot. I said: "No, I'm not!"

He said: "What?" He held up a Taser.

Twitter: @SteveBraunias