{ ... }

۞

  Down in South Ossetia.  Oh, Georgia.  A hardcase to crack.  He keeps his briefcase on him at-all-times.  As long as the Home Office know about it.  It is it.  Call it what you want.  End game.  The terrorist has an arm.  Scatter-bomb.  Cluster-fuck.  There was nothing the agency could do.  One got through and the company did not find out who got it through.  Too many code-names, too many callsigns, too many personalities.  The agents of agencies had renderèd themselves non-entities.  

  Lamed told the others in the company that whoever had got that last Logris had made a copy of the dirty words on the USB storage facility and was moving it rapidly.  The agents called them dirty words in the company.  Dirty intelligence, dirty hands.  The agents thought that they had the goods on most of them.  They left the rest of them to the rest of them.  

  “Down with the rest of them, up with the best of them,” toastèd Lamed.  

  “Bottoms up, skirts down,” jokèd Sarai.  

  The end was in sight.  USA.  USB.  University of South Carolina.  USC.  University of South Dakota.  USD.  USE.  Recurringly.  

  {terrorists move quickly}  

  Kaiaphas had instructèd all the major airports in the United States of America, or the tribe of Dan as he callèd them colloquially, to conduct a series of searches of everyone's luggage for USB sticks.  The same went for Israel, Benjamin and Yehoudah.  

۝