By Don Winslow
Prepare to satisfy the world's most deadly guy . . .
Nicholai Hel-genius, mystic, and the suitable, ambitious assassin-was first brought to readers in Shibumi, the vintage number 1 bestseller through grasp storyteller Trevanian. Now severely acclaimed writer Don Winslow keeps Hel's tale for the 1st time during this all-new, blockbuster thriller.
It is the autumn of 1951, and the Korean struggle is raging. Twenty-six-year-old Nicholai Hel has spent the final 3 years in solitary confinement by the hands of the american citizens. Hel is a grasp of hoda korosu, or "naked kill," is fluent in seven languages, and has honed notable "proximity sense"-an extra-awareness of the presence of chance. He has the talents to be the world's such a lot fearsome murderer and now the CIA wishes him.
The american citizens provide Hel freedom, funds, and a impartial passport in alternate for one small provider: to visit Beijing and kill the Soviet Union's commissioner to China. It's very likely a suicide venture, yet Hel accepts. Now he needs to live on chaos, violence, suspicion, and betrayal whereas attempting to in achieving his final aim of satori-the danger of real realizing and concord with the realm.
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Extra resources for Satori
I really am, honey. " "I see. It never occurs to you to think about me when you're making all your plans, does it? Oh, no! " "I won't be tied up too long Sunday," I said. "Maybe until eleven o'clock or so. Why don't you come over and wait for me like you did tonight? " Her eyes flickered, but she didn't break out with a lecture like she must have wanted to. She motioned for me to move so she could get up; and then she got up and began dressing. "I'm awfully sorry, honey," I said. " She pulled her dress over her head, patted it down around her hips and buttoned the collar.
I don't know it! I don't know anything of the kind! " "Why, that's plumb crazy, honey. " "B-because. Oh, Lou, darling, I've been so miserable. . " "Well, now that's a right foolish way to act, Amy," I said. She went on whimpering about how miserable she'd been, and I went on holding her, listening—you got to do plenty of listening around Amy—and wondering how it had all started. To tell the truth, I guess it hadn't started anywhere. We'd just drifted together like straws in a puddle. Our families had grown up together, and we'd grown up together, right here in this same block.
I carried my dishes into the kitchen, washed them up and took a long hot bath. Then I turned in and slept like a log until ten in the morning. While I was having breakfast, I heard gravel crunch in the driveway; and looking out I saw Chester Conway's Cadillac. He came right in the house without knocking—people had got in the habit of that when Dad was practicing— and back into the kitchen. "Keep your seat, boy, keep your seat," he said, though I hadn't made any move to get up. " "Thanks," I said.
Satori by Don Winslow