17 Midnight Disguised well in indigenous robes, Prime Minister Churchill exited the privately-registered, non-governmental black Rolls-Royceblackout headlights, hood mascot taped blackand entered the ancient mosque with three armed Egyptian bodyguards dressed in brown suits and claret fezzes. The driver guarded the car with a submachinegun. A trusted and vetted Imam led them down the long spiral stairs to the sub-sublevel and opened a heavy wooden door with a well-worn bronze key. Churchill bowed slightly and muttered an old proverb: Know the world in yourself. Never look for yourself in the world, for this would be to project your illusion. One of the guards translated, and the Imam bowed slightly in return, recognizing it from his youth. In the dim oil lamplight, shadows danced along the intricate painted tiles and gold leaf of the magnificent octagonal-domed chamber that smelled sweet of incense and the ages. Attending to a small arabesque altar inlaid with ivory and rare woods was Aleister Crowley, dressed elegantly in a sharply-pressed oatmeal linen suit with a gold sash around his neck; it suspended a medallion, a rising sun symbol with the Templar hooked X in the center, an ancient symbol of higher knowledge kept secret. He looked tired, despondent. Churchill sat while the guards stood by the doorway, arms crossed, pistols covertly drawn under their tight double-breasts of fine wool. Precious moments of stillness passed. Its dangerous to meet here…but here I am, said Crowley, sweating in the heat. He dabbed his bald head with a red silk hanky and replaced his black pillbox hat. His eyes were dark, with bags under them sagging from struggle with the world and underworld. Cigar was lit. Hows your health? Crowley coughed. He had lost much weight. Sustainable.