Excerpts From The Book

PROLOGUE

OFFICE OF THE DEPUTY DIRECTOR OF OPERATIONS [DDO]

U.S. FEDERAL BUREAU OF INVESTIGATION

Date/Time:  █████ 19██/ 1530 hours

TOP SECRET – EYES ONLY

TRANSCRIPT of Internal Inquiry Concerning the Events of the Assassination of Thomas Hawley [Portions Edited and Redacted]

**************

[DDO] Well, we all know why we’re here. I just got off the phone with the White House, and the President wants us to take over an investigation and provide daily updates. He thinks the Secret Service is responsible for the failure to protect Congressman Hawley and is furious that they have made no progress in their investigation in the two days since the incident. What is the latest from the Service—just give me what they have so far.

[Agent █████] They’ve released a briefing for the press that reports that Hawley was killed by gunshots on Tuesday, May 12, at approximately 1500 hours in a suite at the Washington Hilton Hotel. One Secret Service agent attached to him as bodyguard was also killed and another seriously wounded. They have not released any detailed information on the killing, but state that the Service and the DC police suspect student activists. Hawley was a hawk and the target of many anti-war demonstrations and threats whenever he appeared in public.

[DDO] That sounds highly unlikely. Do we have their internal reports? What do we make of them—what do the findings say about the sequence of events?

[Agent ███-████]. The congressman was scheduled to give a fifteen-minute address to the DC Republican Club Conference in one of the hotel ballrooms at 1600 hours that day. The address was scheduled on the second day of the two-day political meeting.

Twelve hundred people were registered for the conference. All were checked against the registry of paid attendees, and all wore name tags. Business formal attire was required. At the time of the assassination, the audience was listening to a presentation by the Director of the Office of Management and Budget.

Hawley and his agent bodyguards were attacked in Suite 1216. There was a single killer, and the sequence of events seems clear. Hawley and the agents were standing in the suite’s living room, the congressman with a drink in hand. The agents were taken out first, one with two rounds to the chest. He had not drawn his weapon. The other was wearing a Kevlar vest, but was not carrying his gun. The killer must have seen the vest and he placed both shots in the junction of the thigh and groin, trying to destroy the femoral artery for a fatal kill. Only a skilled assassin would know this method for a kill. He missed the artery, and the shots instead shattered the agent’s thigh and hip bones. The agent fell and was probably unconscious from the massive wounds when the congressman was shot. Hawley dropped his drink and appeared to have raised his hands to ward off the assassin. The assassin shot him twice in the chest, one round passing first through the congressman’s left hand. He fell onto a coffee table and was then shot twice in the back of the head—the usual Russian sign of an assassination.

[DDO] Did they collect any evidence? Were there any clues to the identity of the assassin?

[Agent █████] There was a liquor cart in the living room, fully stocked. Lying on one of the napkins was an ID badge of a hotel manager. It was a fake. Next to the badge was a Russian Makarov pistol with an empty eight-round clip.

[DDO] He left an emptied pistol—leaving him unarmed?

[Agent 2] That’s likely the case—reduced the risk of discovery if he was searched. This is a confident assassin—a professional.

[DDO] Was there any other evidence? He used the false hotel manager ID to gain entry. How did he leave? Did anyone see him? Was he actually an attendee at the conference?

[Agent █████] There were no fingerprints on the gun or doorknob, and it appears he touched nothing else. He left the room and was spotted by a room service attendant who noticed him but paid no attention to his appearance. She did say he had a conference ID badge, but only noted that he was otherwise unremarkable—she estimated his height as average, said his hair was brown and was certain he was Caucasian. If it was the assassin, he put on the badge before he left the suite.

They think he then got on an elevator and rode down to the lobby, where he pulled a fire alarm to create confusion, and walked out of the hotel in the crowd. A search of garbage receptacles outside the hotel did not turn up the badge. The badge was probably fake as well—none were unaccounted for.

It’s likely the assassin was on the site on the first day of the conference to lay out his operation, including the false hotel ID and badge. He was probably on the street within ten minutes of the kill.

[DDO] With all of that, the Secret Service clearly must know that the assassination wasn’t the work of student activists—a ridiculous proposal that just points to their incompetence. Does the Secret Service or the President know that Hawley is  the subject of an FBI investigation? What is the status of that?

[Agent 2] No, sir. To our knowledge, they don’t know that we have an open file on Hawley for betraying national security information.

[DDO] I thought that operation was still in surveillance mode. Give me the update.

[Agent █████] Hawley chairs the House Intelligence Committee, with oversight over all of the intelligence agencies, including the FBI. For the past year, there have been leaks of our naval exercises with NATO allies. These have resulted in Russian interference in the maneuvers, blocking routes and practice war engagements. The Russians have been very aggressive in these operations, likely in response to the destruction of their Ukrainian Objeckt 825 sub pen base by the CIA.

Review of his movements and bank accounts has shown little evidence of his activities, but we’ve planted false information into summaries that only he sees on a daily basis. Over time, we’ve been able to see a definite connection between the false data we planted and the Russian strategies. The evidence is now beyond question. 

Covert tracking of a congressman is difficult, and we’ve been unable to determine how Hawley passes the top-secret files to the Russians. We hoped to find evidence of the contacts and payoffs before arresting him.

A complicating factor is that French and British intelligence agencies suspect a leak. They’ve conducted their own internal investigations and have complained that they believe the leak originates in American intelligence.

[DDO] Where do we go from here? Is there a plan? Can we identify the assassin?

[Agent ███-████]. This looks like the work of a top assassin, either an agent of a European intelligence agency or a freelance killer hired by one. We think the assassination was conducted or ordered by French intelligence and made to look like a Russian hit. However, we can’t rule out that the Russians were worried that Hawley was unreliable and had him eliminated despite the value of his product. Three or four active assassins are based in Europe, but we have no indications that one of them was hired as the killer. 

[DDO] So we have no idea of the identity of the assassin—this is already a closed case. If the assassin was a professional, he is already out of the country. We might as well arrest some college students, hold them until the press moves on to something else, and then release them with suspicion but a lack of evidence. Is that the plan?

[Agent █████] Well, we have one lead on the identity, but we don’t know how valuable it is. The surviving agent says that he thinks he recognized the killer—a fellow soldier in the same small international commando unit for a couple of months in Cambodia. The soldier was the unit sniper, top-rate but a true loner. He spoke English, but during his break in Saigon, he was so fluent in French that some thought he might be French Army. The agent thinks his last name might have been “Burke” and his first name “Jonathan” or “Nathan.”

We have access to the British and French Army records and neither contains any listing of anyone with those names. 

So, we seem to have reached a dead end—bits of evidence pointing to the Russians and French, and a questionable identification of a British or French soldier from years ago.

[DDO] There are no dead ends--WHO IS JONATHAN BURKE?    

End of Trancript _________________________________________________

TOP SECRET – EYES ONLY

From Chapters One and Two

“We hunt to kill, and we eat what we kill. We do not kill without purpose. Do not forget this lesson—I’ll show you how to be a good hunter, but more importantly, I’ll teach you how to be an exceptional killer.”.

.

At age seven, the Colonel gave Jonathan the 20-gauge shotgun he had been given in his childhood. After a few lessons in loading and cleaning the gun, he had Jonathan start shooting gourds from the top rail of an old wooden fence. Within days, the recoil had tattooed his shoulder and chest with bruises. Tiring of working salve into the boy’s shoulder every night, Valeria finally convinced the Colonel to outfit him with a shooting vest with a padded shoulder.
  In the spring, when Jonathan was eight, the Colonel took him out to a distant field and had Jonathan shoot clay pigeons, which he launched with a Remington spring-loaded thrower. He stood behind Jonathan so the boy could not anticipate the direction or height of the throws, which expertly mimicked the flights of different game birds. In a short time, Jonathan learned to use his peripheral vision to pick up the clays early, turning his shoulders and raising his shotgun in the same motion, and leading the target slightly to shoot at the right moment. After a few dozen sessions, Jonathan was consistently shattering ninety percent of the clays.

That fall, the Colonel woke him just as the sun was rising.
  “It’s time, Jonathan. I shot my first bird when I was eight. This morning, you will have your chance. We leave for the fields in twenty minutes.”
  Within an hour, they flushed and killed several birds. Gathering the bloody birds did not affect Jonathan—he had hunted and 

now killed, just as the Colonel had described. At breakfast later that morning, Jonathan’s mother saw the carcasses on the sideboard.
  “Have a good shoot?''

“Yes, Jonathan killed a few birds—it was a successful morning.”
A moment later, the Colonel interrupted their conversation.

“He did miss a few.”

From Chapter Four

“Don’t think of what will happen tomorrow, the next day, or the next year. I am here with you because I want to be with you on this beautiful evening. Will you stay with me and see how the night turns out? Look at me, Jonathan, and say yes like you mean it."

With that, she touched his cheek—softly, deliberately, and then kissed him. It was the lightest touch of lips, but it silenced every voice in his head.
“Yes, I want to see how the night turns out.”
“That bench on the pier is waiting for us. Let’s go there now, OK?”

He nodded. Words felt clumsy in his mouth.
She is saying that she wants to spend her last evening with me!

He didn’t know what would happen next, only that he wanted to find out.

They walked the last stretch of the pier, the silence between them no longer awkward but full of expectation. The wooden boards beneath their feet creaked with age. Forty yards ahead, a weathered bench waited like a stage at the sea's edge. The night air was still, the stars above shining, the moon glowing.

Elle had a script. He just had to follow her lead.

When they reached the bench, she paused, turned toward him, and let her hair down to fall free around her shoulders. Slowly, deliberately, she unbuttoned his shirt and then placed her hands on his face. She kissed him again—slowly, deeply. It was a kiss with meaning—a woman’s kiss.

Her lips lingered along his jawline, then his cheek, then returned to his mouth. He couldn’t steady his breath. His hands trembled.

She opened the front of her dress and, without a word, guided his hands to her body. She moved with confidence, control, grace. When she touched him in return, he inhaled sharply and reached instinctively for her legs.

She stopped him gently.
“Jonathan, stay calm a bit, darling. I have an idea of how we should do this. Trust me.”

Her voice soothed him.
“I can see you think you’re ready—but we’re not. Not yet. You feel like a stallion. But you’re not a stallion. And I’m not a mare. We’re dancers tonight. We’ll make our own rhythm, take our time. Let’s enjoy each moment. The stars aren’t going anywhere—they’ll wait for us. D’accord?”
“D’accord,” he whispered.

From Chapter Seven

PSYCHOLOGICAL EVALUATION

In summary, He appears to be a prime candidate. He has the qualities that have defined successful recruits. He is self-centered and has no interest in long-term emotional attachments. He is practical and pragmatic with little capacity for regret or empathy. Violence is part of his landscape. He is a killer—fortunately loyal to Her Majesty.

.

They often called him “the ultimate cool killer.” He shrugged off the compliment—he didn’t understand it. He’d grown up gutting game in the woods; killing men didn’t strike him as fundamentally different. Where others lost sleep over their kills, Burke’s nights were undisturbed.

He had seen soldiers die—some within feet of him. He could recall every detail in post-op debriefs but rarely felt more than a flicker of regret. He knew this was part of the job. To others, he appeared cold. In truth, he had never seen the faces of those he killed. He never lingered on the damage, never asked about their lives or families. He treated targets as game. The key to survival, he’d learned early, was not to care.

The simple fact was that Burke was most comfortable when holding his preferred handgun, the Walther PPK. The handgun’s fit and weight were perfect, like an extension of his hand. The recoil felt to him like snapping his fingers. Sighting down the barrel gave him a feeling of calm and confidence.

Should I feel something for a man I’m about to kill but have never met? On missions, the target is just game. That’s how I learned to survive. I know I’m distant—but that doesn’t mean I don’t care. I loved my mother. I loved Marie and Hildie. I love Grandma Elke, Jean, and Pilar. But there’s something in me that stays removed...

From Chapter Eleven

The Russian moved first—fast for his size, charging low with a growl and an underhand strike meant to lift and gut. Burke sidestepped, letting the blade skim the fabric of his fatigues. He countered with a tight, brutal stab to the Russian’s shoulder, but the blade glanced off bone, not quite finding its mark.

The Russian pivoted and slammed his shoulder into Burke’s chest, knocking him off-balance and opening a small cut on his arm.

Burke rolled with the momentum into a kick stance and drove the Russian back with a boot to the hip.

The Russian recovered and came again, slashing in rapid arcs meant to force Burke backward. A glancing cut opened Burke’s thigh—shallow, but hot. He responded with a feint and a sidestep, then launched upward in a brutal upward stab. His blade punched under the Russian’s ribs—deep and decisive.

The Russian gasped, staggered, but didn’t fall.

From Chapter Seventeen

He stood just five intimidating feet away from her as they removed their ski caps and goggles.

“Those were your tracks I just followed down?”

“Yes. Did you follow me?”

“No, I didn’t see you. I didn’t know when the tracks were made, but I’ve skied the area before and was surprised to see tracks this early in the day. You’ve skied here often?”

“Yes, many times. And you?”

“Not recently, but I remember it from when I was much younger. It’s a little more difficult than I remember, but I enjoyed it. You looked like you handled it well.”

“Yes.” 

 CEDAR started to walk away, uninterested in further conversation.

“I’m surprised an older woman could handle it that well.” 

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“Well, it isn’t the most difficult area off-trail, but you mastered it, I must admit.”  

Burke looked at her with his most condescending look.

CEDAR took up the challenge. She mimicked his sarcastic tone.

“And which is the most difficult area, if I can ask?”

From Chapter Twenty-three

Burke quickly disassembled the Walther, setting the pieces on the seat next to him. In a few minutes, the train passed through a marsh. As planned, Burke tossed the pistol parts and silencer through the open window, waiting a few seconds between each toss. He then closed the window, opened the attaché case, and took out The Times, which he pretended to read while remaining alert to anyone entering the car.

Burke departed the train at the Lisle station, three stops west of Virginia Waters. He had already purchased a ticket for the London-to-Sussex train a few days prior. He stood on the station platform pretending to read The Times while looking for any sign of discovery or recognition. Satisfied that he was unnoticed, he boarded the train that arrived a few minutes later and soon arrived back at Harrow station. He walked purposefully to the Bentley, just as a busy business executive would. He started the Bentley and, on a rare impulse, turned on the radio. He drove back to London at a businessman's speed, listening to newly released Bossa Nova music about a mountain and "quiet nights of quiet stars."
Something about this song was oddly rewarding. 

That evening, Burke dined at the club. He began at the bar, where the bartender, familiar with his routine, prepared his preferred vodka martini—three ounces of chilled Stolichnaya, a half-cap of Dolin dry vermouth, and six quick stirs over large ice cubes. The martini glass was chilled, a large lemon peel resting on its edge.

Burke twisted the peel over the glass to release its citrus oil, dropped it in, and raised the glass to eye level. Satisfied with the sheen of oil on the surface, he took the first sip. One nod to the bartender signaled it was perfect. He finished the first martini in four swallows, welcoming the rush, and ordered a second to sip slowly.

Replaying the operation in his mind, Burke found nothing lacking. Every step had gone precisely to plan. He felt a rare sense of satisfaction.

Although the dining room was sparsely populated, Burke chose to eat at the bar, avoiding conversation. He didn’t need a menu.
"I'll have the sole with the caper and anchovy brown butter sauce. Let's match that with potatoes dauphinoise and roasted asparagus. I’ll take the steward’s choice on the wine.”

Burke's dinner arrived soon. The bartender had put the wine, an Austrian Grüner Veltliner, in an ice bucket behind the bar, and now filled Burke’s glass.
When he had finished the meal, and while he took the last sip of wine, Burke looked forward to giving the details of the kill to N. 

He declined dessert and coffee, called for the tab, and left for home, humming off-key a song about quiet nights of quiet stars.

From Chapter Twenty-seven

Burke parked the XKE two hundred yards from the cottage. The tree-lined lane was quiet and almost entirely in shadows. He pulled the slide on the Walther and put an extra clip in his pocket. He walked slowly down the lane, pausing every few steps to look for anyone who might be watching his approach. A barking dog suddenly rushed up to a fence, and Burke barely managed to stop shooting it. He paused and caught his breath. He walked past the cottage and noticed nothing unusual except the open front door. He turned back and approached slowly, Walther at arm’s length.
As he walked up to the front door, he noticed no activity. He knew that the open front door was an invitation—a trap. He had no alternative. He walked into the entryway and scanned the main room. He saw no one, but the door to the studio he had never been allowed to enter was open. He approached cautiously, peering around the edge of the door.
“Welcome, Burke. Come in, come in.”