conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled Night Soldiers about War, Fascism, Bulgaria with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: 'the author's intelligent, ambitious, absorbing novel charges along from the rise of Fascism in Bulgaria, to Spain during the Civil War, to France and back to Eastern Europe as World War II draws to an end. The history is deftly incorporated; the viewpoint civilized; the characters and the settings picturesque; the adventures exciting; the writing pungent.' New York Times 'Night Soldiers has everything the best thrillers offer -- excitement, intrigue, romance -- plus grown-up writing, characters that matter, and a crisp, carefully researched portrait of the period in which our own postwar world was shaped.' USA Today 'Exceptional. Best of all is the chilling trail of treachery and betrayal, as the Russian Revolution -- in the guise of the NKVD -- devours its adherents.' Washington Post
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for this book.. End with the sentence ' As the nightclub show unfolded, he nudged Herbert with an elbow and rumbled with baritone laughter.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Night Soldiers
  One such, on the fourteenth of September, was a rising political star called Prideaux. Had he been in Paris that evening, he would have been having drinks at Fouquet with a Spanish marquis, a diplomat, after which he could have chosen between two good dinner parties: one in the quarter clustered around the Palais Bourbon, the other in a lovely old mansion up in Passy. It was destiny, Prideaux believed, that he spend his evenings in such exalted places. And, he thought, if fucking destiny had a shred of mercy left in its cold heart he would just now be hailing a taxi. Fucking destiny, however, had other things in mind for the future and didn't care a bit what became of Prideaux.
  The senator was in Cap Ferrat, wouldn't return until the third of September, and Prideaux sweated through hot August nights of temptation. Sometimes he thought he might resist, but the forces of catastrophe were waiting and they wouldn't wait long: his wife's ferocious lawyer, the shady individuals who'd loaned him money when the banks no longer would, and his cruel mistress, whose passion was kindled by expensive wines with expensive dinners and expensive jewelry to wear at the table. When unappeased she was cold, no bed. And while what happened in that bed was the best thing that had ever happened to Prideaux, it would soon be only a memory.
  Slim, well-dressed, quiet, Herbert made no particular impression on anybody he met, probably he was some kind of businessman, though he never quite got around to saying what he did. Perhaps you'd meet him again, perhaps you wouldn't, it didn't particularly matter. He circulated comfortably at the mid-level of Berlin society, turning up here and there, invited or not—what could you do, you couldn't ask him to leave. Anyhow, nobody ever did, and he was always pleasant. There were, however, a few individuals in Berlin—those with uncommonly sharp instincts, those who somehow heard interesting things—who met Herbert only once. They didn't precisely avoid him, not overtly, they just weren't where he was or, if they were, they soon had to be elsewhere and, all courtesy, vanished.
  Lothar was fiftyish, fat and jolly, with tufts of dark red hair and a red face. Like Herbert, he'd been a junior officer during the Great War, the 1914 war, but they never met in the trenches—with five million men under arms an unlikely possibility—but found each other later, in one of the many veterans' organizations that formed in Germany after the defeat of 1918. They fought a little more in the 1920s, after joining a militia, killing off the communists who were trying to take over the country. By the early 1930s Herbert had discovered his true vocation and enlisted Lothar as his second-in-command. A wise choice—Lothar was all business when it mattered but he was also good company. As the nightclub show unfolded, he nudged Herbert with an elbow and rumbled with baritone laughter.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The one-eyed monster brought fresh mastika, the shouts grew louder, the accordion played on. At last, the horse found its courage and, having galloped around the girl a few times, stood in back of her on its hind legs with its hooves on her shoulders. The girl never missed a beat but then, when the horse covered her breasts with its hooves, and to the absolute delight of the audience, she blushed, her face turning pink, her eyes closing. As the horse began to move in a rhythmic manner familiar to all.
  A little after ten o'clock, a white-haired man with a skull for a face entered the nightclub and peered around the room. When Herbert beckoned to him he approached the table and stood there a moment while the attentive one-eyed monster brought a chair and an extra glass. "You would be Aleksey?" Herbert said. "The Russian?"
  Herbert's shrug was eloquent, they did what they wanted to do. "In security work," he said, "it's important to take precautions."
  From Herbert, a nod of approval. To the question he'd asked, an oblique answer was apparently the preferred answer. As General Aleksey poured himself some mastika, Herbert met Lothar's eyes and gestured toward the door. To Aleksey he said, "We have an errand to run, when we return we'll tell you where to go. Meanwhile, the floor show should start up again any time now, you may find it amusing."
  No answer. Out in the harbor, a ship sounded its horn. From the room above, the floorboards creaked as somebody moved about. Finally, whoever was in the hall again tapped on the door. Prideaux opened it. The man in the hallway was slim and well-dressed and not a desk clerk. Gently but firmly, the man pushed the door open, then closed it behind him as he entered the room. "Monsieur Prideaux?" he said. "May we speak for a moment?" His French was correct, his accent barbaric. He looked around for a chair but there was no such thing to be found, not in this room, so he settled at the foot of the bed while Prideaux sat by the headboard.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.. End with the sentence ' Herbert counted out two thousand Swiss francs, General Aleksey put the money in his pocket, wished them a pleasant evening, and walked out the door.'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: It took a few seconds—Prideaux had to get control of himself—then he said, so quietly that Herbert could only just hear the words, "Under the bed."
  Herbert slid the valise from beneath the bed, undid the buckles, and peered inside. "Where are your personal things?" he said.
  Herbert closed the valise and pulled the straps tight. "Well, we'll see. I'm going to take this money away and count it and, if you've been honest with me I'll be back, and I'll give you a few hundred francs—at least something for wherever you're going next. Shall I tell you why?"
  Herbert let this sink in. It took some time, but Prideaux eventually said, "What if I'm... far away?"
  Herbert left Lothar to watch the hotel, likely unnecessary but why take chances. Prideaux, he thought, had taken the bait and would remain where he was. Herbert then returned to the nightclub, told General Aleksey where to find Prideaux and described him, in his pajama top and underdrawers. Thirty minutes later, as the canvas horse capered and danced to the music of the accordion, Lothar and the Russian returned. Herbert counted out two thousand Swiss francs, General Aleksey put the money in his pocket, wished them a pleasant evening, and walked out the door.