Sexus Tunc Collectae. A Memoir. Part XII. Secret Intelligence Service |

Secret Intelligence Service

Sexus Tunc Collectae

A Memoir

Part (XII)

London

Supplement to Part X (part II); ‘A Lull Before the Oncoming Storm’

Maria il Rossa-Gagliardi. ‘Magda’

During much of the next day and prior to my getting ready to attend the theatre to watch Magda’s performance and see her again for the second time I spent many hours just sitting alone drinking coffee, while allowing my mind to wander over this spectacular new relationship, this lesbian affection. My doing this (sitting alone, pondering) was a habit I would engage often and cherish because it really did help me to arrive at an understanding of many things, during this my solitude. I had little inclination toward the documents Rodney had left for me to read. No, I was asking what did loving a woman physically mean for me? What did the overwhelming intensity of feeling for her in this respect suggest? And as I have said and was told; I could make love with her in thought, here, now, but there was nothing that could prepare me for the magnitude of the act, an act not at all of the ordinary world. Making love with her . . . What of her fragrance as it would colour my eyes with a vision of paradise, immortal? What as it would fragrant my body with the traverse of star light through the heavens? Might I not endure the pleasure’s enormity and die? I didn’t know the answer to the latter. We were to meet in Edinburgh while she was there for three days and later, following my attendance at military school I would travel to Italy and live with her at her home for a short while. For a short while . . . . In a few hours I would have to begin preparing myself for the evening.

I don’t know whether or to what extent writers of memoirs re-experience all of the content as their living portrait is being created, but gosh, what is so passionately personal to me is so very vivid too, as I am there, having never left. Needless to say, what I am writing tells of what cannot ever be left. No, but allow me to continue because there is something of immense importance I have to introduce.

Rodney arrived at about 17.00 hrs. if I remember rightly and I mention the time because he wanted to prepare me and I shall explain what that meant. I have touched on what I want to say with regard to the first time I met Magda in her dressing room that I did suspect, and later it was revealed, that I had been the recipient of a suggestive (hypnotic) technique used often then (and now). It kind of predisposes one’s determination, one’s senses in totality in favour of the one who is in command, I mean Rodney. But with regard to the second occasion he would give me a drug similar to Scopolamine, but not nearly as potent and in a sustained release form (I wouldn’t feel the effect immediately). Scopolamine and other similar acting substances are used during interrogation (in ‘pharmacologic interviews’ to use parlance) because the inhibitions are completely released and combined with hypnotic suggestive techniques, the result is one of an incredibly susceptible and predictable euphoria. Predictable in the sense that how one subsequently performs is how one has already been so predisposed. Hey, presto !

Briefly for now because I am to detail what lay in store, and in so doing emphasise that the experience was intensely meaningful long after, actually up to this day but the true reason why is not apparent yet but suffice it to say that the intensely meaningful ran in tandem to the assistance from certain ‘third parties’, the objective being achieved in their respect, yes and I will explain what I mean.

Rodney also encouraged me to travel to Edinburgh, Scotland, the day after and meet with Magda there. I would also see her at her London hotel tomorrow evening. While I was in Scotland for the three or four days and nights he would be at Aldermaston.

He also reminded me of my commitment for military training that could not be missed, irrespective. This was to be a basic military training course but enhanced in certain respects (special skills), yes, nothing was ever straight forward and there would be more courses at regular intervals throughout the early years of my career. I had been well briefed on what to expect, I mean very specifically how to appear, what to tell others about myself and so on and so forth. I was looking forward to it actually, but when he told me that I would be in Italy (Trieste) not long after to live with Magda for three weeks I was delighted.

Now, to say that ‘things’ quickly shifted into an extreme of the unexpected is understatement.

I had tried my best to display myself as a woman who was the epitome of confidence, colourful, elegant, as expected as an emissary for the service. I was to mingle among the theatre-goers who as prior a good many of who would be similarly attired. Yes, I wanted to impress Magda with my pink silk dress and netted hat, my earrings and shoes that had been a huge indulgence at Selfridges. I didn’t eat even though Rodney insisted I did and he gave me a drink of strong black coffee made in my kitchenette. I drank it while putting finishing touches to my makeup.

‘How we appear to others is everything’, he had told me often and I hoped he approved. He always had approved in the past so I took it as given. I wanted him to gently massage my shoulders and continue the conversation about the theatre, how its form is a pure, living exhibition of unadulterated art. I knew that I couldn’t be a performer on the stage, many people scrutinising my exactitude or lack thereof, no, I would require immense confidence in what I was doing. I could sing a little but that was far, far from even what could be considered adequate. Therefore those who could were quite remarkable, I thought. There was a huge amount to learn from watching performers, I know is understatement, but what I mean is that I could take certain elements be they motions of the eyes, facial expressions and bodily movements and incorporate these into my own repertoire of la femme fatale, her carnal charm, the devastator of the virility of men. Ha! Of course, this evening was very peculiarly female so did the same apply? Of course, but there was much to learn from this virgin time, yet to be spent.

Rodney was whispering into the back of my head. The effect was to relax me in the extreme. I touched his hand upon my shoulder.

“You are going to feel love deeper and more profound than any other ever, and you will give her completeness. While you are in her presence you will share an infinitude of possibilities that you both will never step beyond. The days and the nights will be an enchanted space where all of what you see and what you feel will contain her.”

I loved what he was saying to me. I loved his deeper understanding of things and how he had made my relationship with Magda possible, in my enchanted garden of red roses and wherein was the ultimate in her earthly form; Rosa Rossa. Was I naive?

“Darling daughter, dearest darling, be calmer . . . calmer . . . calmer, sleep in my embrace . . . yes, relax.”

I fell quickly into the very sleepy state he was requesting, he was guiding me through my enchanted garden on a beautiful day that never ended.

“Dearest beauty mine . . . you must kill her.”

The strangest thing was that what he had just told me had no effect at all, it was merely added to the enchantments which in their power were intoxicating me. There was no differentiating between love and the death of love.

“Rosa Rossa has abused our trust in her, and I will tell you in increments in what way and why. When you are in possession of what we need to know you will kill her. You will have to because it is certain she will in time suspect you.”

I could hear words, flowing as if carried in a breeze and their meanings were all the same to me and then they would become oh, so very fraught with significance but then that significance would very quickly dissipate.

“You will kill her.”

“Yes, ” I managed to say. Then, “Yes,” with determination. “I will kill her.”

“Forget this for now and when you wake you will continue in the love most extreme. Wake up, beautiful one, wake up.”

Note that this was what Rodney whispered to me while I was in an acutely vegetative state and the coffee I’d drank not moments prior had contained a pharmacologic substance that would reverse this and its latent effect would soon turn the evening into complete hysteria.

I had no recollection at that time (note – at the time) of having agreed with his order that I kill Magda and I mention it because agreeing or otherwise would not have been possible and which sounds like a contradiction but it’s not so simple to picture in this mind state that does actually live in the affirmative condition and which does not exist in one’s normal, common-sense world. There are theories such that that the technique’s all powerful influence resides latent, deep in the subconscious and can be lived out in spite of its antithetical orientation (killing who one dearly loves).

Amore . . . Amore . . . Rosa Rossa. Mia cara rosa rossa cara dell’estate Ti amo interminabilmente, ma devo finire la tua vita, la coazione è dentro di me per trasformare il sole estivo in una notte buia e vuota.

Rosa Rossa. My darling cherished red rose of summer I love you interminably, but I have to end your life, the compulsion is within me to turn the summer sun into a dark empty night.

I was ready to leave. I took a last glance at my reflection in the mirror and then received Rodney’s gentle kiss upon my check. He whispered and I turned to look into his eyes,

“I love you, daughter of the sun, “ he said. “Nothing will ever change.”

“I know,” I told him.

“I have made you into a woman all-powerful and who now sits at the foot of Britannia herself. Never forget, pretty one, never forget.”

“I won’t forget I told him and I almost said, “I can’t forget,” and the compulsion, the feeling to say that was consuming me, the words were heavy, heavy thoughts. I can’t forget. I can’t forget . . . I can’t forget how our beautiful children went yonder to die for us. I can’t forget that we, in their glorious image, are the exemplar for all worlds because we are a continuation of them.”

It was as if the words of my silent soliloquy were not silent at all, no, that he had put the words there and he could also take them from me because I was, in sameness, his child. He was looking into my eyes and into my one thought; that I would fight against losing him, I would fight to the death.

“Yes,” he said. “I know,” and we embraced. It was a long embrace.

When I had stepped away from him my vision became slightly blurry, but what bothered me more was the moving in and out of a vertigo sensation, I felt that I was rocking back and forth on my heels but I wasn’t. It really was very odd. I wondered if I was suffering the effects of not eating and for some reason the sheer gravity of my new relationship was coming upon me. Could I be the lover of a very beautiful and talented woman or merely her friend, worse, an amorous admirer? I hadn’t felt the latter doubt until now and I hated it along with the confusion it brought because prior there had been certainty in this respect. I was certain, wasn’t I? Why would I not be certain?

I was feeling a little nauseous. There wasn’t the time to eat and I dearly hoped we could make time along the way.

I didn’t want to mess up the evening by telling Rodney I wasn’t feeling well. Then the sensations abated and thankfully. I walked to my refrigerator and took out a doughnut; one covered in chocolate chips and icing sugar and took a bite, then another. I was messing up my lipstick and teeth but it was of no matter. I felt better still and my vision was normal. Perhaps I had merely been imagining that and the vertigo? I took a further bite of my doughnut and he watched me, approvingly nodding his head and I should have taken his advice about eating. He was always right.

Might I place a quick note here just to say that ‘certain’ of what transpired at the theatre during the performance I have written in hindsight, yes, gleaned from pieces of information I received subsequent and from scattered residues (reliving) of the experience.

At the Theatre

The theatre where Magda was performing in The Threepenny Opera was not far from my place of abode, my safe, protected and warm haven in the midst of the most incredible city in the world. I had felt more or less fine during the short ride, save for a few pangs of nausea, but on getting out from the taxi my knees almost buckled. My falling flat on my face would have been a disasterous start, bloody knees and all. Fortunately I didn’t and Rodney had firm hold of my arm.

We had a seat closer to the stage than the previous night and I thought it was a much better position to experience the energy of the drama soon to begin. My mouth was very dry and it was not convenient to get up, but I would have to. On standing the vertigo hit me hard. Stationary objects were now twisting and some were moving around. Were they really moving? Again I wanted to tell Rodney I was in the early throes of feeling terrible. When I sat down the world around me appeared stationary, which is how I wanted it to be. Quite literally, I hadn’t enjoyed watching objects moving by me.

I put my head on Rodney’s shoulder and he accomodated me. This was how I would watch the performance. I didn’t want to move, I wanted to hang on to very peculiar associations. Yes, I was imagining that I was telling my mother I was in love with a woman and the conversation was extremely vivid, really, as we were together in our living room overlooking the Bay. The warm California evening always contained a sweet aroma. Such hadn’t entered my mind until now. None of my prior short and very surface relationships were worthy of even remembering because I was a woman of the same-sex passion kiss, I told her so, and she listened intently. “I love a woman dearly and she has the reddest hair you have ever seen and there is a way about her that causes me paroxysms of desire. I am intoxicated by the very thoughts of her. I am a lesbian, mother . . . I am a lesbian.”

“Is everyone a spy?” I asked him because I was very suddenly compelled even though the contents of my thoughts were in a different place entirely.

“Sweetheart, why do you ask?”

“Everyone is watching me.” I told him.

“No, darling-heart they are not.”

“They are!” I was adamant about this because I knew how sneaky they were. I tried to turn to face the people spying from behind but couldn’t. I looked at the person seated beside me and said, “You, stop watching me, you Russian.”

“Shhhhhh. Pretty Things. Shhhhhh.”

“I was telling my mother I was a lesbian and Magda Gagliardi was my lover. I was telling her . . . I was. We are going to Edinburgh. Har. har, har … The spies have arranged it.”

I was going to stand and shout but my body would not follow the decision, my body was a jelly body. I should shout, and shout . . . So I tried but my voice was strangely silent.

“Whores anybody and I am a spy. I work for the Queen. ******* everybody is spying on me.”

“Will you be quiet!”

Now everything was doubled. When the performance began I was seeing two of everyone. The beginning of the evening’s production had an effect of calming my mind from its prior hyper-manic state. I wasn’t interested in any of the other performers, I only wanted to watch Magda. I wanted her beautiful red hair. I wanted her in totality. Maria il Rosso-Gagliardi. Maria il Rosso-Gagliardi . . . Now her name was flying as a projectile through my brain. If I thought about her it did that, but if I thought about the Golden Gate Bridge it stopped.

Then I was watching her in singularity, performing upon the stage. She calmed me considerably. Her movements were so very precious to me, I had to save them. Covetous I wanted them for my own.

My world became even more bizarre.

I was not anywhere that I was familiar and everything was fading from a red colour into a bright blue light. Was I looking at the sky, somehow? No, the blue was solid, there were blue coloured walls of a small room and the furniture was unfamiliar. The furniture was moving up and down by itself and I was terrified of the red colour because it was going to kill me. Yes! Oh . . . . I was going to die. The fear was unique. The heat from my body was immense. Was I on fire? No, I was wet with perspiration and the effort in protecting my life was super-ordinate, it was fraught with extreme panic. I loved her immensely and she was going to kill me. Non sei niente per me. Non sei niente per me . . . La puttana . . .La puttana . . . My orders were to kill her first and I loved her. I loved her . . . I loved her . . . Oh, I loved her so very much . . . Her voice was touching my face but her expression was not the one I had come to cherish. No, where had the love gone? How could she not love me? How? How? “You will kill her . . . You will kill her . . .” Now the voice was the familiar one; it was shooting into my body and giving me surety that I could fight against a greater force. “She had the names of our agents in the field, she has betrayed us, and you must kill her now.” I knew how to kill her. Yes, I did, there were ways they had taught me at my home, my home . . . my friends there, my lover who was my father and whose protection I knew as the ultimate passion.

There was a noise outside, it sounded like voices, yes there were voices, singing . . . singing. Why were they singing in German?

I recalled the scribbled list of those who had given Magda information. The traitors. The bastards. They were liquidated now and there was Magda whose true love lived beyond the Iron Curtain. Oh . . . Magda. I read through everything she kept private. They told me where to look. The tiny book hidden in the loop of the curtains. And their was our perfumed bed, the pillows and the sheets that held her flavour most potent. And the red birds were in a mist of a winter morning, from a balcony they were colouring my emotions with a love made from red. And there was my lover’s red hair being shifted by the breeze.

And they had told me where to look for the list. And they had told me how to search through everything she owned. And they had told me how to remember the faces of those with whom she liaised, how to copy her letters and documents, how to place clandestine devices, how to use a designated drop (to pass information on to London Central), how to conceal items in my body. While in that austere room, while in that very large London building, when Rodney had taken me there.

Had I been in slumber? It seemed to me that time had moved very slowly but in fact it had moved extremely quickly to this new point, while in my refuge fraught, my liaison with death in that . . . that dream state . . . Was this the opera finale? I had seen it the prior evening when here. Yes. Was I away from that ‘place’ now? Where had it gone, the memory of the time in that difference was moving to a vacuous haze, partial red, not the intense red of before. Could I even remember that?

My head was against Rodney’s shoulder. I hadn’t seen anything at all of the performance and what point was there in attending to the last part? There she was, the darling with the red hair. Red. Red. Red. Her presence was upon me, within me, immersed I became, in her presence.

Why had I been dreaming? Why had I been asleep at all? Why?

I could feel Rodney’s breathing on my face, it contained the familiar, he was whispering to me.

“I held you while you were asleep. I left you there. It’s all right.”

“I feel awful,” I told him and meant it.

“Don’t worry,” he said. “My darling, please don’t.”

I was trying to recall the details of my dream so I could tell him, but couldn’t. It was very difficult, it was a blank.

I would need a bathroom (toilet). Then the full impact of the reason I was here came upon me. I would be seeing Magda in her dressing room. How on earth could I forget? How could I be otherwise preoccupied?

I watched her on the stage and wished I hadn’t been asleep of all things. Her presence was far too meaningful for merely that. What an inadequate person I was.

I felt a pang of something altogether unpleasant, akin to an awful pain, but I couldn’t make out what it was nor where.

Gosh my mouth was extremely dry. My head was beginning to pound and I think it had waited for me so to hit me with all it had.

I needed a bathroom more urgently now.

Amore . . . Amore . . . Amore . . . came the ethereal voice that was not coming from the stage. No, it was reaching out from my dream gone hitherto, it had escaped somehow. She was reaching out to me. Beautiful Red Rose, the perfect love . . . Amore . . . Amore . . . Amore . . . So it was her I had dreamed about.

I could recall nothing of the content of the dream but I held on to the words, the words spoken by her. This, while I watched her during what was now the closing stage of the opera. I gazed oh so longingly at her body and at her expressive attire, peculiarly hers, and let it all wrap tightly around my heart.

I had required Rodney’s assistance to move me out of the auditorium and very quickly. I was holding off allowing the nausea to take its course into the outside world. I didn’t want to be seen throwing up in public. What a terribly humiliating state of affairs.

I had felt a certain respite during the latter stage of the performance but now I was beginning to hallucinate . . . again. Was it that I had done this (hallucinated) before? I had no will whatsoever to question.

It was essential that I be guided to the nearest bathroom. I could not walk with surety nor anything approximating and I knew there were people studying me, close, much too close.

There was a notice on the door (Ladies) but I couldn’t read the letters. Could I cope alone? I really wanted to cope, so I summed up all the strength I could muster otherwise I would have a male chaperon.

Now Rodney was three people because the two escorts (for want of a better description) from the Security Service (MI5) had expectedly joined us. I took little if any notice of their scrutinising me. I just knew they were not the two from last evening. Last evening . . . it felt like that was eons ago.

I almost fell into the bathroom (Ladies) and headed straight for the nearest cubicle. It took me no more than five seconds to be bent over the bowl and throwing everything I had ever consumed in my life therein. That was how it felt. I didn’t feel any better for doing it either. I remained in that position for about five minutes and then with the assurance I still had my new and treasured 60s vinyl handbag in my possession, I stood. After a few more minutes, I opened the cubicle door and met others who in their lively conversing I hadn’t been aware of until now.

Often times I carried a toothbrush with me, a habit from way back when, but I knew I hadn’t one and I needed to attend to my face. What I saw in the mirror was not reassuring because my pupils seemed to be extremely dilated. The closer I looked, the more they appeared that way. Perhaps the artificial light was the culprit. I used the tap water to clean my mouth and after drying myself with one of the paper towels from the dispenser on hand, I reached for the lipstick in my bag. I was not precise in my hand movements and the lipstick was quite untidily applied.

What was I going to do? Was I in a fit state to do anything? The two MI5 personnel would want to deliver me to Magda’s dressing room and they would have the envelope that would make me appear the veritable doting fan, just as before. What on earth had been wrong with me? What?

Magda would be expecting me. Yes, she surely would be, while sitting in her gown, her fabulous red hair hanging loose and surrounded by all manner of theatrical paraphernalia. I had enjoyed being in that enclosed and eccentric, nay creative space. I would enjoy it again, I felt determined. How to overcome what most surely had the capacity to overcome me as an avalanche was anyone’s guess and it was down to fate whether the absolutely awful condition that seemed to have abated some would return.

I knew if I was any longer they would come looking for me and really it was surprising they hadn’t.

I tried to smile. I thought the harder I made the attempt the better I would appear. I had no idea what their assessment of me was. The two Security Service personnel hadn’t seen so much of me and Rodney, well, in hindsight knew what was wrong because he had caused it. Anyway, and again in hindsight, it was certain the two escorts from Millbank (MI5) were well briefed on exactly what the programme I was a part of was meant to achieve and most of which I would never know.

Whatever, I dearly wanted to see her, I needed to reassure myself that I was a woman whose qualities placed me in the warmth of her embrace, that I owned personae that deemed me to become a worthy companion.

But did the two who were quickly guiding me to her dressing room, judging by their assessment of me, think I was capable of anything? It’s not possible to say whether they would have carried on with the task at hand irrespective of what their perception of my condition was, its extent.

Now the vertigo had reappeared, with it a spinning sensation and difficulty focussing but the strangest thing was that I also felt I was responding to an overwhelming and pulsing sexual urge. This urge was turning me into a nymphomaniac and focussed on Magda with precision and unstoppable force. My whole body was aching for sexual acts and their capacity to feed the unbearable privation of my prior hours. This feeling was new to me and I found it impossible to control it. There would be no warming words of greeting; I stood poised to literally attempt raping her and which could lead to a disaster, a show of the worst possible disrespect. I reasoned this much. With requirement of protocol would I be able to curb this and speak sensibly? The vertigo was worsening and the two had to prevent my walking into the walls we were passing and not to forget other people. The envelope felt very heavy though at first it had been light whereas my treasured plastic handbag did not. I thought I heard one of them say to ‘abort this caper’ and I didn’t like him, not at all. I swore at him and the response I received was a tightening of his grip of my arm.

At her door I stumbled on my heels but was prevented from falling into it full force. After the knock made on my behalf, it was opened and I was shuffled into the space barely sufficient for three to stand side by side. They said nothing to her or to me, and after I felt their grip disappear I gazed at her in silence. I don’t know how long the silence lasted before ending on my knees with my head upon her. I felt a sense of well-being for being there but I wanted her, I passionately wanted her but like this? She was speaking to me.

“Cose Carine . . . Cose Carine . . . La persona delle spie . . . Cose Carine. “

The person of the spies, yes, but what was I really? It was very strange because I was examining the question as though it were written upon a wall. What was I really? What? And then I took heed of something infinitely more potent and this was her fragrance. I had my face upon her leg. I tried to look up at her, the first attempt failed but the second contorting of my body was a success. I met the grey colour in her eyes and her red hair with a smile.

Then suddenly, I knew there was a complimentary influence – complimentary to the compulsion placed in me, what I had brought and yet something very much different. Yes, I was walking with beauty incarnate in a warm wisp of air wetted by the sea. In my grasp of her hand I was enveloped with her in its perpetual music. I was gazing at her eyes and in that untouchable and moving vision I was held.

My senses were overwhelmed by the sheer power of her presence and in this I would never encompass the infinitude of her. She was far, far more than me, a mere unruly child presented as a gift. In the gaze of her eyes I was feeling an exaggeration of my prior condition, which had not gone away as I had assumed. I wouldn’t move from her and I could feel her hand on me, I responded to where she touched.

She had moved into my drug-induced, made-susceptible (hypnotically affected) mind and its consequent delirium. She was commandeering all of my senses. Was I merely imagining this? Most would say of course I was, I do realise. At the time I neither knew whether it was the case or not, nor could I engage the question, only acknowledge the profundity of my experience, its subsequent influence on my life in full. Hours later, when feeling well, I would recall that I had held a particular magic and try and leave it at that, though I could not. No and I never have been able to leave. The later conclusion I came to then was that I was part of an intricate and immensely complex science, a drama woven of phenomenal art, symptomatic of being left vulnerable and lonely in the universe. I say the latter for the first time because my being cast away by my newly found and treasured father and family, my losing of their love and support had become a meandering fear and this had begun just before we’d left earlier for the theatre. I had tried to ignore this but it was there, as never before.

Here is what I could recall of her holding influence, there, as I was, with my head upon her leg, my hand upon hers. Again, this is the constituent of what remains very personal to me; of my intimate state, my euphoria.

As a sporadic and red speckled mist there were roses and because they were just below the surface of everything they appeared to be charging the air with a protestation; ‘We are here in pageantry of red and take the light of the sun and weave wonders for all to see.’ Their red was in my hair, and upon which the sunlight in the blue sky weaved the same spectacle. ‘Rosa Rossa, Rosa red, to be fed by showers of rainbows bled and the blue and the silver, but red, red and the red, always the red of her hair.’

Then I heard her voice and I write this from altogether disjointed pieces I have subsequently added together, because I could still hear it hours later.

I mean, her words didn’t attach together unless I took one and added it to the next. It was really very odd while in a blank space sounds were dancing alone, then fragments of meaning began to reveal themselves and I thought I could see what she was saying to me (as images in my mind). It’s a trite long, but this is the gist of it. As I said, I continued hearing her voice while I was away.

“The world . . . What of it, what of the colluding of others? I say there is no importance attached to them in their vastness of number, as they try and pertain to me, to us. My place of intimacy, my castle grand has the power to thwart all who intrude whether by thought or deed.”

“Cose Carine . . . Cose Carine . . . I should point to our difference in the vast scheme, because at the core of our difference is extraordinary beauty and beauty does transcend all things because it is the essence of all things. But if there is what insults beauty then so be it, the assertion falters. Such only invites my contempt should I ever know of it. I do because I take more notice of the ebb and the flow, the urgency that oils the actions of most and which is not beautiful, is the opposite and binds to the world. Even what is often peddled for susceptible ears to hear and eyes to see and which owns the appearance of beauty can very well be a vulgar pretence. Therefore let us together continue in the personification of the super-ideal whereby others who do not own our attributes, are human beings, deservingly stumble before us.”

Pierinae

“All is made by us, a place for you to live and wander free. When we have gone our authority will remain within, all powerful in our capacity.”

MI6. SIS

Part (XIII) go to

XI return to

Secret Intelligence Service

United Kingdom

MMXX

Adversitate. Custodi. Per Verum

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