In the affair of the rogue rock a certain amount has to be taken on trust. The Russian Federal Security Service (FSB) insists that it has caught four British diplomats red-handed spying with the help of a small plastic boulder that they variously kick, peer at, pee near and eventually haul away. But the footage that the FSB released to a tame state-controlled TV channel is so pixelated that it could just as easily show a wildlife enthusiast caught red-handed stealing hedgehogs from a suburban park in Hemel Hempstead.
We must, likewise, take the FSB’s word for it that the documents it has released showing clandestine MI6 payments to Russian pressure groups are genuine. The head of the Moscow Helsinki Group, for one, says that they are not, and it’s fair to assume that the lavishly funded FSB has access to the sort of simple computer needed to fake a convincing receipt.
That said, the Russian version of this story could be entirely accurate, in which case Q should be considering his options. He could have obtained a more convincing and reliable rock from Hugh Hefner, the Playboy founder, who requires visitors to speak into one at the entrance to his Beverly Hills compound. Or he could have equipped the hapless Moscow Four with homing pigeons.
The dispiriting truth for the FSB is that the one foe it truly revered no longer takes the spying game that seriously. Where once the KGB feinted and parried with the people who inspired James Bond, its successor is stuck with slapstick spies whose acting skills wouldn’t get them a role as an espionage extra in another Austin Powers sequel. Back to the lab, gentlemen.