This is something of an experiment for me. Firstly it is intended - at least in part - as an HR story although Ruth doesn't appear in the first few chapters. Secondly while I've used various characters and references from the series it is an AU story featuring the more ebullient Harry of the earlier episodes. As this year happens to be a Shakespeare century and over the next few weeks we are likely to be barded stiff (sorry couldn't resist the pun) this is my effort to pay homage by basing the story very very loosely on the problem play 'Measure for Measure'. I'm not sure how frequently I'll be able to post but having published a chapter I will have an incentive to try and update within reasonable time.

'A very superficial, ignorant, unweighing fellow.' (Act 3 Scene 2 line 151)

The Home Secretary's Office: early afternoon

He'd made it. Finally. After all the years of struggle, the careful networking, the judicious shafting of likely rivals, not to mention the hours spent in the seemingly eternal cycle of boring meetings he'd successfully seen off all comers, and now he was basking in the enjoyment of his well earned, thoroughly deserved reward.

Sinking backwards into the soft leather comfort of his desk chair the newly appointed Home Secretary emitted a self satisfied sigh. As his eyes idled their way across the room, he was taking time out to gloat over the material symbols of his success. The expensive foot deadening pile carpet, the oak lined walls, the rich red damask curtains softening the stark wooden frames of the long windows through which the warming rays of spring sunshine were tracing their gradual daily progress. Noting that the crystal glasses and decanters placed upon a discreetly positioned side table were standing to a sparkling attention although tempted he rejected the idea of indulging in yet another celebratory snifter. He had a meeting scheduled and he'd been advised, with more than a hint of malicious pleasure by the outgoing incumbent, that when dealing with this particular individual he needed to keep his wits about him.

Personally he thought the advice superfluous. In addition to outmanoeuvring his predecessor, now summarily despatched to enjoy an unwanted retirement in the politician's graveyard, aka The House of Lords, he had also, against all the odds, and as a total outsider, arrived at the near pinnacle of his career. Beyond this building, within the so called real world habitually ignored by the inhabitants of the Westminster bubble -until it was time to canvass votes - the public was becoming increasing weary of a government dominated by an endless parade of glossy public school boys, squawking their grave insistence that as 'we are all in it together' belts must be tightened. Out of touch snobs, every last one of them, especially when, as the possessors of substantial private incomes, they themselves were amply cocooned from the cold winds of the austerity they were so smugly advocating for everyone else. Which probably accounted for his three days since appointment being hailed by members of the usually hostile press with supposedly complimentary headlines. His immediate kneejerk reaction to such descriptions as, 'The common man triumphs' and 'The rough diamond shines', had been to consider accosting the journalists responsible for these demeaning statements and demand what the hell they meant by categorising his august self as 'common' and 'rough'. While his solid lower middle class 'first in his family to go to Oxbridge' background meant that he lacked the conspicuous polish and privileges of the dominant Eton coterie, anyone reading those words could quite have easily mistaken him for one of the union sponsored oiks who populated the opposition benches. He'd strategically abandoned that plan when his own private spin doctor, after an exhaustive combing of the ubiquitous social media, had advised him that, judging by the bell weather comments of the Twitterati, being depicted as the token prole wasn't doing him any harm at all in the eyes of the permanently discontented mob who formed the electorate. Safely ensconced in this office, he was now revelling in the knowledge that he was a popular choice. His only superior was the prime minster, and well... no one went on forever. Enticing images of the possible future began to dance across his consciousness... The sun was shining, the birds outside were singing in tuneful chorus. All was well in his world.

Then Harry Pearce walked through the door.

Half an hour later, as the door snapped shut behind his visitor, the sun had dimmed, the birdsong was now resembling a pneumatic drill of the noisier variety, and, as he blindly groped for the migraine tablets, one of his predecessor's more welcome legacies, he was assailed by the nightmare thought that he might - excluding the victims of the Phoenix Park murders - go down in history as the shortest holder of office on record. Confronted by the bulldozer that was Harry Pearce he'd been unable to argue, not least because of the jaw dropping nature of the shockingly audacious plan presented for his nominal approval. He should have said no, he knew he should have insisted upon an alternative scheme, but Pearce's choice, underwritten by a no doubt equally bullied DG, didn't allow for that option. Until now he'd been under the impression that government officers took their instructions from him, instead he'd found himself blindly obeying the orders of yet another public school boy, the chief one of which was to maintain absolute secrecy from his cabinet colleagues. While, given the circumstances vouchsafed, he was more than willing to hold his tongue - exercising control over his anal sphincter was likely to prove more troublesome - he had an uneasy presentiment that which ever way you looked at the situation he was, to use the popular vernacular, stuffed.

a) If he rejected the scheme and the theory presented to him later proved correct the entire future of the country could be undermined, for which he would be blamed.

b) If the scheme as presented went horribly wrong, and in a sane world, ie not that MI5, such a madcap idea would have been instantly rejected as possessing all the hallmarks of a disaster in the waiting. In which case he'd be blamed.

c) Even if the suspicions outlined proved a chimera and everything returned to whatever passed as normal he'd be living in daily fear of blackmail by the security services every time they wanted an agreement. Their threat: a historic leak would reveal the spying plan he'd just agreed to. The price he'd pay: never mind the comforts of bomb stricken Coventry, politically speaking he'd be heading for the icy wilderness of a metaphorical Alaska.

d) If Pearce pulled it off and was proved accurate, the Prime Minister and his exclusive inner circle, forced to confront a scandal in their midst, would close ranks and blame him, as if he were the malefactor.

Crunching down the pills he began to sigh with nostalgia for the squashed anonymity of the back benches, coupled with dread of the mockery that would greet his almost certain ignominious return to that green leathered obscurity.

Floundering in the sinking sands of his career only one certainty remained. He'd just met the man for the first time, and he already hated Harry sodding Pearce.

I haven't given the HS a name as he's a generic politician and probably won't appear again in this story. Incidentally I drafted this before the current ructions over politicians and tax avoidance.

Thanks for reading. If you have a moment a review would be appreciated.