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 intrigue...

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

, 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




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.
“For what?”
“Tax evasion.”
“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.

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