{ ... }

 

۞

  The agency, The Ademayiim, had employèd the veteran, a civil war 'cian, code-name Mister Magog, to do whatever he wantèd for the company. This was the title of Ipsissimus. In the business, Ipsissimus meant free-to-roam and disseminate whatever intelligence and disinformation he thought best. The Ademayiim trustèd him entirely with it. Because he did it the best. 

  It was a type of contradiction. Mister Magog was the master of the paradox. So long as The Ademayiim knew where Magog was, what Magog was doing, and receivèd regular observations, they knew they had the edge.  

  °Our enemies are on the inside° thought Sazzaz.  

  “So what's the aim of your organization?” came Magog again.  

  Mister Magog had interrogatèd Sazzaz a moment earlier with the exact same question, the method and same direct line of questioning. 

  “Was that the question?” snortèd Sazzaz. 

  “As if four times wasn't enough for confirmation?” interjectèd Kaiaphas,

  {with pressure}  

  Kaiaphas was trying to pressure an answer, encourage Sazzaz to make his own suffering easier.  

  Asif Akhbar was the dhimmitude meme of The Ademayiim. His code-name: Sazzaz. He may as well have been Ad-Dajjal posing as a djinn. The agency's genie in a bottle. Sazzaz was doing well under the conditions. The agency had administerèd Sazzaz a few electric shocks, exposèd him to light strain torture, stretchèd him a little while, and insertèd small severs along most of the main veins that ran directly back to the heart.  

  Sazzaz stuck to the party line so the agency trustèd him; he got the backing of the company.  

  “Okay, that's enough,” said Mister Magog, “take him out of it now. We can trust him. Code-name Sazzaz, you're going to join Sarai in Paris. A Logris briefcase is there.”  

۝