What to do about Iran's nuclear ambitions?
The CIA has a clever cyber-war program to shut them down. But things never
go according to plan. Meet Aydin Llewellyn, computer genius, deadbeat and
accidental spy. Can he and his ex-girlfriend make it to Tehran and save
the day? Find out in this fast-paced, amusing, twisty tale of travel and
An Alternate History!
5 stars, Timely and fun!
This is a fun
quick read, well written, and made interesting by the current events going
on in Iran. Clearly the author has an imagination, and a knack for telling
a great story. I was engaged throughout and completely surprised by the
intriguing ending. Maybe the CIA should read this book!"
—Born to Run, amazon.com
5 stars, Great Read!
I thoroughly enjoyed this very well written, very funny, fast paced spy novella. ...reminds me, in structure, of the classic film Rashoman, where each character sees the same event very differently. The event here could not be more timely.
—Sage Divide, amazon.com
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I don’t like being woken up in the middle of the night.
Not usually. Sometimes a barking dog will get to me. “Damn it, Sammy, it’s
just a raccoon, no real threat to us...” I’d yell and then I’d be right back
asleep. There was that one time when the firemen axed down my door at three
in the morning and dragged me from a burning building. That was way back
in college. I’ve slept pretty soundly since then, all those years ago. No
amount of traffic, trash trucks or wayward kids coming home from the local
bar could rouse me anymore.
But that particular night was strangely familiar. The door broke open in
an instant; Sammy didn’t even get the chance to bark, and they were upstairs
a few seconds later, standing around my bed like some abducting aliens dressed
in SWAT gear.
“What the hell?” was all I could stammer, startled out of a sleepy stupor.
“You’re under arrest,” one of the men said. Another cuffed me.
“You’re the IRS?”
The arresting officer managed a smirk. He pointed to another man who turned
his back towards me. There it was: “IRS” silk-screened in huge yellow letters
across his Kevlar vest.
It was a pretty short ride to the office. That’s what they called it, “the
office.” Two of the agents argued briefly over whether it was better to take
the tunnel or the 59th Street Bridge. It seemed like a pointless argument;
either way, the city was dead quiet. A cold spring rain came down in sheets
and there was no traffic except for a few parked cabs, idling, and some absurdly
early delivery trucks. I was un-cuffed and offered coffee and donuts in the
back of the Escalade. Except for that act of kindness conversation was absent.
They took me to a high-rise at the far end of Broadway, whisked me up to
the fifteenth floor and sat me down in a small windowless conference room.