There's more ... Lashings of news!

These offers/gifts are FREE and not available anywhere else - a small gesture on my part that I am grateful for your interest and that you have signed up for our richardlynttonbooks newsletter.

The first three readers who can spot the "not-so-deliberate" discrepancy/mistake in this sample cover will receive a free ePub book or audiobook of your choice in the richardlynttonbooks library. eg. (Fiction) North Korea Deception (not audiobook), Hyde Park Deception, (Non-Fiction) From Cottage to Palace, This Was Our Malvern.

Shoot me an email: richard@richardlynttonbooks.com with the answer and tell me which book or audiobook you would like, and which email to send it to, if you are one of the first 3 readers to get the correct answer!

Meanwhile, there are 15 chapters for your enjoyment on Kindle Vella. Read Leningrad Deception, Book 3 in The Deception Series, on your phone as we edit and post each chapter. (Currently on available in USA).

It was a beautiful day on the island of Capri ... wasn’t it always? He might have thought otherwise had he known about the murder in cold blood about to take place a few hundred yards away up the stone steps on Via Mulo (pedestrians only) that crisscrossed the steep, hairpin-bend road, Via Marina Piccola. Both streets lead up to Capri town proper.

The sun did its very best, and he couldn’t imagine Capri without it. Perhaps it was because Vincenzo Alfonso had never set foot on the luxury island during winter months when even the ferries and island-hopping boats were sometimes unable to make the short journey from Naples to Marina Grande because of winter storms and treacherous waters. Vincenzo Alfonso wasn’t one to sunbathe but that didn’t mean he couldn’t enjoy God’s heat on his widow’s peak forehead and the warm, salt-scented air wafting off the Tyrrhenian Sea in the Campanian Archipelago.

He reached the bottom of the eternal set of steps that he had attempted to count—for fun—but gave up halfway down. The descent on foot to Marina Piccola was easy—but he thought he might take the local Capri transport authority bus, or even treat himself to an open-top taxi to get back up to Capri town that sat majestically—almost medieval-looking—atop the island.

His cassock was a problem ... his pet peeve. He couldn’t exactly strip off and reveal his puny chest—covered with only a smattering of curly black hairs—and his white T-shirt and lavender-colored boxer briefs. On reflection, none of the day-trippers and families, local and tourists alike, would give two chalices if he stripped down to his underwear. Most of them, apart from the waiters and bar staff on the beach, were wearing far less for all the world to see. The tourists—just like in “Mad Dogs and Englishmen,” his favorite Noel Coward song—were busy soaking up rays in the midday sun, determined to get their money’s worth.

Vincenzo sat on the wall outside the small, white Chiesa di Sant’Andrea—Saint Andrew’s Church—built by local fisherman in 1900. He was disappointed he did not have time to enter for spiritual nourishment, not to mention a cooldown. In the high heat of summer, one of his secret habits during official Vatican trips was to dip into a quiet local church, enter the confessional, take off his cassock, and sit in peace and tranquility. Not only was it a chance to sit and pray, but he considered this his way of getting his own back on the archaic dress code he found profoundly unfair given that nearly every other profession in the modern world—except the military, perhaps—seemed to have adapted to contemporary fashion and today’s more frequent European heat waves.

“Bonjourno,” said a young boy who flip-flopped past him with a large yellow Lilo—inflatable mattress—that was so tightly inflated it looked set to burst. The boy’s parents were close behind and smiled, seemingly thankful their ten-year-old had shown respect for one of God’s servants.

“Bonjourno,” replied Vincenzo with one of his best godly smiles, perfected in the mirror over the years. That was definitely one of the perks of his trade, so to speak. People he had never seen or known before, people he would probably never see or hear of again, nearly always smiled ... at him. Ever since he had joined the priesthood—first as a Jesuit priest and then more recently as one of the most senior advisers to Pope Karl himself—humanity at large smiled at him every day.

Vincenzo eyed the orange and white awning of Ristorante Marina Piccola and wondered if the carbonara was good. It was an Italian cliché, but it was still his favorite dish. He might stop at the restaurant after his mysterious meeting, which was about to take place on a luxury yacht anchored close to shore. But then again, he was sure the Russians would offer him a bite to eat. He might even allow himself a shot of vodka, although that was strictly against Vatican rules. But if he couldn’t break the rules on a boat in the Tyrrhenian Sea, when could he? Second thoughts ... Forgive me, father. You are always watching.

The priest leaned back slightly, straightened his legs and crossed them, folded his arms, lowered his eyelids, and allowed the gentle sea breeze to stroke his face. God’s hand, he thought. The waves in the near distance crashed at the shore and muffled the jovial shrieks and cries that might otherwise have spoiled the moment. Vincenzo was good at being in the moment. That, he had learned, was another perk of his spiritual vocation.

Oleg Stepanovich Pugacheva had spent two days casing the joint, as the Americans would say. Most of his KGB colleagues and brethren would never have chosen this location for an execution, but Oleg was no ordinary field officer. He was determined—literally—to rewrite the KGB playbook one day. And in some ways, he had already begun the first draft. Some of their Soviet espionage methods and practices were so absurdly antiquated and impractical, he lamented often. It was as if Lenin himself was still in charge. This operation was a simple delete-and-insert, he called it, almost as simple as if he was tapping away on his clunky computer keyboard in his soulless KGB office back home and had misspelled a word. Tap-delete-insert.

The operation that, at least for Oleg, meant the start of Cold War 2.0, when so many others had their disloyal and despicable hearts already set on the end of Cold War 1.0. This would be an utter travesty of geopolitics and modern history. His loyalty to the motherland and depth of Soviet philosophical and intellectual belief in his country was unquestionable. Oleg was clear where he stood on these matters. But many of his Soviet comrades seemed ambivalent.

Oleg had chosen this section of the steps because of its scenic beauty—he wanted his target to be off guard, never dreaming—as he took in the Campanian Archipelago’s sparkling, turquoise canvas—that this would be his final moment. During the day, the chances of passersby on this section of the steps were minuscule. Oleg had surveilled and observed over the past two days. Even if someone were to stumble across him as he pulled the trigger on his target, one more hit would be just a blip on the big picture future, and well-being of the motherland he dreamed of.

It was true, he conceded, Capri was an exquisitely beautiful island. The sea’s velvet hue of deep blue-green reminded him of Yalta on the Black Sea, where he promised himself he would one day build his own luxury villa when (not if) all went according to life’s plan. But this business trip was no sightseeing tour, and he would command life to pan out as he saw fit. For Oleg, there was no God’s plan. Life was what he would make of it.

At 2:21 pm, the local Capri-Marina Piccola bus stopped at the bus stop above his location on the stone steps. The Russian diplomat got off and descended the last section of steps before reaching Marina Piccola as per Oleg’s instructions. Oleg hated to liquidate one of his own—such a waste—but some things were more important than others in this world. Oleg had chosen this section of the twisting, winding, steps because it provided a good line of sight in both directions, and the wall on the west side was less than six feet high. He had researched the Russian diplomat’s weight and height and was confident that, using his boxer-like strength, he would be able to shoot Arkady Gregorovich, pick him up, and manhandle him over the wall into the undergrowth of this local Marina Piccola vineyard.

Oleg stood under a lemon tree whose branches dipped over the wall of the garden it belonged to. Arkady’s guard would be down. He was a harmless Soviet cultural diplomat and had no connection to the security services, and this was a midlevel “cultural exchange” meeting with the Vatican representative no less. The weather was perfect, and Arkady was sure to have helped himself to a hearty breakfast he knew the Russian embassy’s expense account could handle.

“Hello, comrade,” Oleg said in Russian. “Thank you for coming and for following your instructions. You will go far in our Communist universe of brotherhood and unity.” He smiled his best weasel smile. Teeth were visible, the corners of his mouth turned upward, but Oleg’s eyes were blank. He showed zero emotion, so much so that no one, not even his masters at the Lubyanka in Moscow, were able to assess what he was really thinking most of the time. Many of his superior officers, he had been told, thought this was a good thing.

Arkady did not smile and registered instantly that Oleg’s presence was not part of the plan. And if it was not part of the plan, what was it? “I don’t understand, Oleg Stepanovich, I saw you in Leningrad?”

“Change of plan. Didn’t they tell you?” As he drew his Makarov with a silencer, Oleg said, “I promise to file a report.”

Oleg pulled the trigger. One-shot to the forehead was all he needed. Arkady’s straw hat blew off and tumbled down the steps as he crashed to the ground. The Ray-Bans he’d spent a month’s salary on at Rome airport crunched as his head hit the ground. As though part of his daily exercise routine, Oleg squatted and lifted Arkady in one precise motion like a world-champion weightlifter. He pushed Arkady Gregorovich up the wall scraping the man’s face and torso against the mottled texture of the cement. There was a faint trail of blood but not enough that anyone would notice. Arkady’s head, the heaviest part of his body, dipped over the top of the wall and, as planned, made it easy for Oleg to push the Russian diplomat’s legs and feet up and over. Oleg heard a thud as the body hit the ground.

The location of the vineyard meant that there were no houses close by that might contain witnesses. No one had seen anything. It would take a few days for anyone to discover the body in the undergrowth on the other side of this wall. It would probably be the smell of a rotting corpse in this summer heat that would attract attention first, but that wouldn’t be for a couple of days, he thought.

The voice came from the lower side of the steps. What had the boy seen? Oleg had not expected any foot traffic from the lower direction that led up from the sea. No one was leaving the beach at this time. Except for this boy.

He saw a ten-year-old boy with a large yellow Lilo coming up from the beach—probably heading back to a vacation apartment. “Yop tvayou matz—” Fuck it.

“That’s good to hear.” The corners of Oleg’s mouth turned up but, as usual, there was no emotion behind his eyes. Pointing at the yellow inflatable, he said in Italian, “That’s my favorite color.”

If you would like a FREE copy, in exchange for an honest and fair review on Audible, send me an email: richard@richardlynttonbooks.com and I will send you an Audible Hyde Park Deception FREE book code. All I asked is that you do this following:

3. Confirm when you will REDEEM your code. (I only have so many FREE codes - so if you don't redeem by the date you tell me, I will give it to another listener.)

4. Confirm the date you will listen and post review. (It's a 2-3 hours listen). I would kindly ask that you listen and post within two weeks. Thank you.

Down Wind and Out of Sight is a genre-bender. It’s a highly original suspense thriller, populated with unforgettable characters, loaded with bizarre twists and quirky science, that takes the reader on a roller-coaster ride from the Australian outback to a top-secret US government research facility and into the astonishing electronics lab of an adolescent autistic savant. The novel is a compassionate and moving exploration of the unique emotional bonds forged by an improbable cast of damaged and marginalized characters linked by the drive to survive.

Big news this week is that 'From Cottage to Palace' is now on Audible narrated by yours truly. If you would like a FREE copy, in exchange for an honest and fair review on Audible, send me an email: richard@richardlynttonbooks.com

3. Confirm when you will REDEEM. (I only have so many FREE codes - so if you don't redeem by the date you tell me, I will give it to another listener.)

Look out for 'This Was Our Malvern' Worcestershire & Malvern History Series Book 2 - being released this week! (If you buy the Pre-Order, you will not have to wait until the Amazon Pre-Order September 1, 2022 release date). We are way ahead of schedule on this one and already at #1 Best Seller in "Spa Travel" on Amazon! LOL