Tuesday is (occasionally) Book Promotion Day.
Meet Jay Sandak, a maverick private spy with a penchant for the good life.
In this debut novel, Sandak accepts an assignment from his former employer, the CIA.
Operating out of Monaco, Sandak becomes embroiled in an extraordinary rendition, intelligence jargon for kidnap and repatriation.
The target is Markham Fitch, a secretive billionaire who fled the United States for sanctuary in Switzerland years earlier.
Fitch leads Sandak to a strange German baron, a peddler of nuclear metals stolen from Russia, who believes his genius will bring about a New Age renaissance.
Sandak enters a gray zone of rival U.S. government agencies, supervised by risk-hating bureaucrats like Pikestaff, the spluttering operations chief at the CIA.
He struggles to complete his ever-evolving mission, always one cocktail ahead of latigue (a combination of jet-lag and fatigue) as he yo-yos the Atlantic.
Back in his favorite Monaco bar, Sandak plans the final phase of this intricate operation, certain he wasn’t paid nearly enough for his audacity.
“No one writes a funnier novel about modern day spying.”— Clair George, former Deputy Director of Operations, CIA.
“Insightful, fast-moving—and hilarious from beginning to end.”—Walt Perry, former Undercover Sting Specialist, IRS.
“Between subtle shading and the absence of light lies the nuance of illusion.”—Kryptos.
First pages:
I was sitting at the Alamo Bar, sucking on a bottle of Corona, no lime.
Judd the barkeep interrupted my thoughts.
I was thinking about the blonde in a black miniskirt and black stockings down the bar. “Who is it?”
“What am I, your secretary?”
Sassy bastard.
I lifted myself off a wooden stool, walked around the bar, grabbed the phone. “Yeah?” I took a swig of beer.
“Sandak? It’s me, Pikestaff.”
“Not you.”
“Yes, me.”
How’d you find me here?” I looked over my shoulder to see if one of Pikestaff’s spooks was trailing me.
“I can find anybody anywhere. You know that.”
Smug bastard.
“What do you want?”
“We have a job for you,” said Pikestaff.
“I’m not looking for a job.”
My job was sitting at the Alamo Bar, a dice throw from Monte Carlo on the Fence Riviera, sucking bottles of Corona, keeping an eye out for miniskirts and black lace stockings.
“Not a job, an assignment.”
“I’m not looking for an assignment.”
“It’s perfect for you. Come home.”
“I am home.”
Pikestaff harrumphed. It was impossible for him to believe an American could be home outside of America. “I’m arranging tickets to Washington at Nice Airport.”
“They’d better be first class.”
“Business.”
“I’m hanging up, Pikestaff.”
“All right.” Pikestaff sighed. “First class.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow.”
“Shit.”
I’d been planning to drink another few bottles of beer and chat up the blonde, fly her to Paris and check us both into George V for a round of rootle. Trust Pikestaff to screw up my plans.
I put the phone down.
“Who’s Pikestaff?” asked Judd, nosy bastard.
“None of your business. Put this beer on my tab. And tip yourself a franc.”
“Gee, thanks.”
Needless to say, this novel is (unabashedly) not politically correct.