Agent Milton Quotes

Group,” the second man said into the headset microphone. “This is Control. Comms check.” “Copy that Control, this is One. Strength ten.” “Eight, also strength ten.” “Twelve, copy that.” “Ten, strength ten.” “Eleven, same here. Strength ten.” “Five. Ditto for me.” “Eleven, what can you see?” The agent code-named Eleven was standing at the bar,

Milton knew how well he had been trained—he would have gone through the same programme as he had, after all—and he was able to anticipate all of the variables that he would be considering. First, he would assess the threat that Milton posed: significant, but limited as it stood. Second, he would confirm that the surroundings were suitable for an elimination: perfect. Once those quick assessments had been made to his satisfaction, he would carry out his orders. It would be quick and efficient. Milton guessed that he had a handful of seconds. A minute if he was lucky and could muddy the waters. He would not go down without a fight. If there was a chance, a half-chance, he would take it. He assessed the situation himself. Six feet separated him from Twelve. Another indication that the agent was good; not enough to compromise his aim but enough to make sure that Milton could not attack before he could fire. Milton explored his own body, his posture, tensing his muscles and assessing how quickly he might be able to move. The position of his feet. The angle of his hips, of his shoulders. He would need to be decisive, but even then, he knew that his chances were slim. He would certainly be shot before he could reach him, and even if he was not, he did not fancy his chances in unarmed combat with Twelve. He was younger, his muscles more pliant and less damaged and scarred than Milton’s.

He watched as Milton sat down. His eyes were implacable. He looked a little shabby, a little worn around the edges. Control recalled him when he joined the service. He had sported Savile Row suits, shirts from Turnbull & Asser, and was perfectly groomed at all times. He did not seem to care for any of that any longer. Control didn’t care what his agents looked like, so long as they were good at their job, and Milton was his best; that was why this latest misadventure was so troubling.

Control got up and poured the tea, watching Milton as he did so. One did not apply for a job like his, one was chosen, and as was his habit with all the operatives who worked for him, Control had selected him himself and then supervised the year of rigorous training that smoothed away his rough edges and prepared him for his new role. There had been moments when Milton had doubted his own suitability for the position, and Control had not so much as assuaged the doubts as chided him for even entertaining the possibility that his judgment might have been awry. He prided himself on being an excellent judge of character, and he had known that Milton would be the perfect field agent. He had been proved right. Milton had started his career as Number Twelve, as was customary. And now, ten years later, all his predecessors were gone, and he was Number One.

In order for a new agent to be admitted to the Group, a raft of assessments were required to be carried out. The slightest impropriety—financial, personal, virtually anything—would lead to a black mark, and that would be that, the proposal would be quietly dropped and the prospective agent would never even know that they had been under consideration. Milton had been no different. MI5 were tasked with the compilation of the reports, and they had done a particularly thorough job with him. They had investigated his childhood, his education, his career in the army and his personal life.

Author's Note: NSDD 84 indicates that John Lear, Robert Lazar, Bruce Macabbee, Stanton Friedman, Clifford Stone, and many others may be active government agents.

Right or wrong, the world is covered with agents of the Illuminati who are attempting to cause that evolutionary jump THEIR WAY, utilizing evil, non-consensual treachery and piracy.. We have not been taken into their confidence.

President John F. Kennedy was murdered by the Secret Service agent who drove his car in the motorcade and the act is plainly visible in the

In 1936 or 1937 each of the Kronenberg detectives was openly assigned to a local church as observer, to report on the "loyalty" of the sermons. In addition this the detectives were not supposed to know, but they did - there was a Gestapo agent assigned to report on the fidelity of the detective's report. One day, at the height of the Church-Party struggle, Hofmeister was ordered to inform Pastor Faber, whose sermons he reported, that he must not read the pastoral letter sent out by the Protestant bishops to be read from the pulpits on the following Sunday. To Policeman Hofmeister's horror, Pastor Faber coldly told him that the Church, not the State, would decide what was to be read from the pulpit. Hofmeister tried to "reason" (he puts it this way, fifteen years later) with the clergyman and told him that there would be a Gestapo agent present and that they would both, Faber and Hofmeister, get into trouble if the pastoral letter were read. Faber said that Hofmeister would have to look out for himself, and rose, ending the interview. To my amazement, Hofmeister, who had by no means been an ardent Nazi, still, fifteen years later, resented the pastor's defiance of the "law," that is, of the authorities. He no more admired Faber's heroism - the letter was read from the pulpit - now than then. He himself, Hofmeister, had violated the "law," that is, what his superiors told him to do, by revealing to the pastor that there would be a Gestapo man present, and the pastor was willing to jeopardize an innocent man along with himself. "It was like a slap in the face/' said Hofmeister, and I saw that even the policeman might have a hard time of it in the police state.

On 10 March, ten days after the attack, Gubbins received the sweetest news of all. He received a message from another agent at the plant, describing the visit to Norsk Hydro of General von Falkenhorst, the commander of the occupying German forces in Norway. ‘At the sight of the ruined plant, he smiled and said: “This is the most splendid coup I have seen in this war.”’42 A consummate professional, he admired the saboteurs’ work and conceded that they had pulled off a dazzling act of destruction. Once he had inspected the damage, he ordered the release of all the Norwegian civilians who had been rounded up. He then issued a second order: that all the German sentries on duty that night were to be arrested.

As the late economist Milton Friedman once stated,

His decision was preordained, and derived from a perverse quirk in his mentality. At his deepest, most essential level, Hack knew himself for an insipid mediocrity, of no intellectual distinction and no particular competence in any direction. This was an insight so shocking that Hack never allowed it past the threshold of consciousness, and he conducted himself as if the reverse were true. So, while his innermost elements winced and grimaced, Hack, outwardly easy and composed, made plans to cope with the situation.