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Goodies and Freebies

“Goodies and Freebies”

When you joined my email list I had said that I would let you know when I had some exciting offers for you. I want to let you know that I appreciate each and every one of you. It is so fun communicating with you.

First: FREEBIES

Many of you learned about my books through a Facebook post and my offer to send you Part 1 of the Arrows of Islam USA or UK

As a thank you I am going to send each and every one of you who qualify a FREE digital download of any one of my books. There are two ways to qualify.

1. Leave a review on Amazon

2. Get 5 people to sign up for a FREE download of my Arrows of Islam

Part 1. They can sign up at http://www.spencerhawke.com

All you have to do is email me at spencer@spencerhawke.com together with the information as to the review you posted or the names of the 5 friends who signed up. It’s that easy!!!

Second: Goodies

Do you think authors ever get writer’s block? My problem is that I am a little demanding of myself. When I start a book I don’t have a preconceived outline. I just start writing and let it go where it takes me. Very risky, because you keep reaching the end of the current idea and have to look for inspiration again.

But I have just finished the first 5000 words of the sequel to

The Forgotten USA or UK

The Ari Cohen series continues with our protagonist embarking on another adventure. This book is titled “The Violinist”. It has not been published, I am no where close to the end. But I would like to send my loyal fans the chapters as I finish them. I would love your input, whether it be grammatical, editorial or suggestions as to where the story should go.. Anybody who helps will get a FREE digital copy upon release, at which time a review, your opinion, would be most welcome.

As a SPECIAL I am including the first two chapters. Please let me know what you think. I will keep writing to make sure I have new content for my next blog. If you think this is a terrible idea I would like to know that to. Please SHARE with your friends. As much input as I can get will only make this a better read and GREAT ENTERTAINMENT for you.

The Violinist

By

Spencer Hawke

Chapter 1

He stood on the observation deck high above the sea on the ferry ‘Tassili’. The boat had slowed to a crawl. He no longer needed to hold onto the handrail, the rough crossing was over. The aromas of the clean Mediterranean breeze giving way to the faint scents of land coming on the gentle breeze from the south. Diesel, fish and something else he struggled to identify. He inhaled analytically again, trying to place the aroma. With a slight nod of his head, he affirmed that he had recognised it. Cinnamon…… cinnamon mixed with something else….. nutmeg.

His slight nod changed to a frown as the thought of the last time he had smelled that combination of spices. Zanzibar. His frown of concentration changed. It was as if the weight of the world was suddenly etched on his persona, even his demeanor was altered. His stature seemed to diminish and bend slightly. Katarina had still been alive then. Imperceptibly his head shook from side to side. If only…..

He looked up from the deck of the ship, at the town in front of him. The glistening white of the buildings surrounding the port, so bright he had to squint. Another older settlement rose up the steep hill behind the port area and its modern facade. Standing at the summit of the steep hill, as if maintaining a vigil over the old and new, stood a casbah. Behind the casbah, the Atlas Mountains.

The ferry blasted its horn, precipitating a flurry of activity onboard as deck hands secured messenger ropes on the bow in front of him to throw to waiting hands lining the quay. The southerly wind already carried the heat from the desert behind the mountains. He took off his raincoat, folded it over his arm. His expression changed from sadness to determination. He turned around, walking purposefully towards the disembarkation area.

The decrepit arrival facility added one more combination of smells to the list he had noticed on board the ferry, sweat. Bitter acrid male sweat mixed with stale tobacco. A local official growled at him in a language he did not understand.

He looked at the official, a week’s worth of stubble lined his greasy face. His wrinkled uniform badly in need of the services of a competent laundry, though he doubted this person had ever walked into one. His dark hair escaped out from under his official cap at all different angles. It was as if each cluster was in a panic to escape the purgatory inside.

The official realising that this was a tourist who did not understand his language waved him over to his tiny kingdom behind a disheveled stand that served as a desk. He extended his hand. The new arrival gave him his passport.

The visitor tried to stifle a laugh, but a wide grin did smuggle through. This was straight out of the movie ‘Casablanca’. The official gave his passport a precursory examination, even shaking the paperwork expectantly, hoping a more thorough search would reveal a hidden bribe. Frustrated, the passport was tossed back to the visitor.

“Welcome to hades,” the tourist said under his breath.

Exiting the terminal area he walked over to a taxi, bent down to look through the passenger side window at the driver. The middle aged man was asleep. Prompted by a grunt from the visitor, the driver woke up, turned his shaven head to look with hawkish eyes at the intruder. The visitor recalled slightly, that acrid smell of sweat and tobacco again. Through thin lips the driver asked in French.

“Where to Monsieur”?

“The casbah”.

He got into the back seat of a very rundown Renault. The aromas in the arrival terminal were bad, but were a perfumery compared to the inside of his ride. He wound down the window to avoid suffocating.

He had planned his incursion well. His destination was a small dentist’s office in old town. But he would start his approach at the Casbah, change out of his western garb, then walk downhill to his destination, to the man who would tell him where he could find ‘The Bedouin’.

He had changed, he now looked no different than the local people. This was one of the reasons he had been so successful in the Mossad. He could blend in, almost anywhere. His professional code name in the Mossad was ‘Raincoat’. Although he frequently sported a raincoat, he gained the moniker because of his ability to change his appearance as easily as one would change a coat.

A few minutes after leaving the Casbah he entered an open area. He moved to the side, sat on a large stone to reconnoiter the old town in front of him. He was now high above the modern city, to one side the Casbah or old fort, that had been home to many a Barbary pirate. Down the hill, beyond old town lay the modern city and the Mediterranean.

After verifying that he was not being observed he allowed himself the luxury of relaxing a bit. The sounds of the old quarter began to register. Hawkers in open bazaars peddling their wares. The alleyways so narrow, full of merchants displaying their goods, partially blocking access. He spotted the street he was looking for, ‘Rue Sidi Abdellah’.

He entered the centuries old alley, passed stalls selling colorful linens, clothes, burqas, trinkets, carved ivory and food of every description. He moved to the side of the alleyway, he was close. He passed another stall displaying various cuts of goat meat. He had been warned that this was a look out for the Dentist. He brushed the swarming flies away. When the guard was distracted with a customer he detoured into the alleyway.

At the end of the alley he could just see a door. In the middle of the door, a cracked and stained glass, with the drawing of single molar tooth. He stepped around two very old and wrinkled beggars, who simply lifted their hands, hoping for a dinar before arriving close enough to hear
two people arguing inside, both speaking French…

“Non, Monsieur, we cannot do this”.

“I’ll pay you……..”.

The stranger boldly pushed open the door. He was met with silence. In the quiet that followed the door to an inner office opened to reveal a man in a stained lab coat.

The stranger didn’t hesitate, he walked across the reception area to the inner sanctum. The dentist so surprised he willingly retreated back into his office.

The stranger towered over the little dentist, he leaned forward and whispered something in his ear. The look of uncertainty on the dentists face was replaced by incredulity and fear.

“I can’t do that, he will….”

“You don’t have to worry about that. Where is he?”

The dentist backed up, his hands to his side until he reached the far wall.

“Where is he?”

Chapter 2

Blair House – Two Weeks Earlier

In 1942, Blair House was purchased by the U.S. government for use as a guest residence for visiting dignitaries. Between the 1950s and 1980s, Blair House was internally reconfigured to seamlessly attach it to the nearby Lee House and Peter Parker House, as part of the creation of the President’s Guest House complex.

Many have often speculated that Blair House was attached to the White House as part of the underground complex designed to allow the President some privacy and as a secret exit should it ever be needed. Wonder no more.

During the presidency of Harry Truman, Blair House served as the temporary residence of the President of the United States, while the interior of the White House was being renovated. An ideal time to extend the reach of the White House underground complex.

The President of the United States lay in bed next to a man. As lovers often do, they were whispering to each other.

“It’s been almost a year. We have to find him.”

The President’s lover leaned over, kissed her lovingly before responding, “I know. After Katarina died in South Africa… He has not been the same. I don’t know. He hasn’t been back to his house in Georgetown for more than 6 months.”

He turned over to lay on his back. He extended his right arm, the President eagerly snuggled up on his arm with her head under his chin. The man reached up to itch his nose and pushed a few strands of her hair to the side. They were both deep in thought, concerned for their friend.

“I’ve had our people keep an eye on his bank accounts, credit cards, nothing. He has become a ghost. When Ari wants not to be found, he can disappear.”

The President’s face grew even more concerned, the frowns deepening.

“David, we have to find him.” She said with determination.

“I could go operational again, I could go do it. I’ll go talk to Athena, they must be worried too.”

Jade McQueen lifted her head to look at her husband with a very serious look.

“If anyone ever found out that the husband of the President of the United States was involved in this debacle I would be impeached.. Imagine if they kidnapped you? I can’t have you involved.”

David continued as if the President of the United States had not spoken, “There might just be a way to find him, just perhaps, perhaps. Jade looked inquisitively at her husband again.

“If he has gone deep underground, we might be able to find him.” Her husband hesitated a little too long. Jade McQueen slapped him on the chest to hurry him up.

“He never goes far or for long without his mistress. If if his mistress isn’t with him he will find a way to borrow one.”

At first Jade frowned, then as understanding dawned on her she smiled.

On the top right of this blog is a sign up form for you to input your details if you intend to provide feedback to me and get your early release version of the Violinist.

Thank you, Spencer

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