I come from the ultimate Cold War family – daring escapes, backyard firing squads, communist snitches, bowlfuls of goulash, gargoyles, gray skies and bone-chilling cold. It’s no wonder I love thrillers, right? And it's now wonder I write them.
As a reader, I love anything by Raymond Chandler or Alan Furst. Bram Stoker’s Dracula, The Unbearable Lightness of Being, East of Eden, Child 44, The Alienist, The Man Who Was Thursday, Mickey Spillane is fun, The Captive Mind, most Greek Tragedies, The Name of the Rose, any Uncle Oswald story, Peter Mayle beach reading, Shantaram, London Boulevard, and too many mysteries and thrillers to name.
As a writer, my stories are true, made up and everything in between. They’re about spies, killers and dangerous pursuits, but they’re also about love. Love served cold. Of getting caught in history’s massive tailwind and blown to the other side of the world, yet despite everything, discovering the meaning of faith and love.