conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first five paragraphs for a book with the title 'A Most Wanted Man'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A Most Wanted Man
  A miniature disc player to improve on her old tape recorder, classical discs of Rachmaninov, Tchaikovsky and Prokofiev, and—because Erna thinks of everything—spare batteries.
  The yellow van stood where it had dropped her. The same boy was at the wheel. Erna Frey was still sitting in the passenger seat. She had the car radio on and was listening to Tchaikovsky. Annabel slung her bike in the back and the rucksack after it, jumped in and slammed the doors shut behind her.
  The Tchaikovsky was still playing over the radio, but the reception seemed strangely ragged, until Annabel recognized the sound of Issa clumping round the loft in Karsten's moccasins, singing discordant tenor at the top of his voice. The tiny but immaculate garden was groomed in the Romantic manner, with a rose shrubbery and a lily pond fed by ornamental frogs. The house itself was small but very pretty, a Snow White house with rustic pink roof tiles and whimsical chimneys, set beside one of Hamburg's most desirable canals. The time was precisely seven o'clock in the evening. Bachmann knew the importance of punctuality. He was dressed in his best bureaucratic suit and carrying an official briefcase. He had polished his black shoes and, with the help of Erna Frey's spray, flattened his rebellious mop of hair into temporary submission.
  In the eighteen or so hours since Erna Frey had marched Annabel off to bed, Bachmann with Maximilian's help had laid siege to the Service's central computer for all the Karpovs known to man, phoned a contact in the Austrian Security Service and obliged him to unearth the unhappy history of Brue Frères of Vienna in its declining years, buttonholed Arni Mohr's prickly head of street surveillance concerning the perceived lifestyle of the bank's surviving principal, dispatched a researcher to storm the archives of Hamburg's finance office and—by midafternoon—assailed Michael Axelrod of Joint for a full hour on the encrypted line to Berlin before calling up all files on a highly respected Muslim scholar living in north Germany and known for his moderate views and pleasing television manners.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Add another sentence about Wisteria, timbered.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A Most Wanted Man
  A miniature disc player to improve on her old tape recorder, classical discs of Rachmaninov, Tchaikovsky and Prokofiev, and—because Erna thinks of everything—spare batteries. 
  The yellow van stood where it had dropped her. The same boy was at the wheel. Erna Frey was still sitting in the passenger seat. She had the car radio on and was listening to Tchaikovsky. Annabel slung her bike in the back and the rucksack after it, jumped in and slammed the doors shut behind her. 
  The Tchaikovsky was still playing over the radio, but the reception seemed strangely ragged, until Annabel recognized the sound of Issa clumping round the loft in Karsten's moccasins, singing discordant tenor at the top of his voice. 
  Wisteria overhung the timbered porch. The tiny but immaculate garden was groomed in the Romantic manner, with a rose shrubbery and a lily pond fed by ornamental frogs. The house itself was small but very pretty, a Snow White house with rustic pink roof tiles and whimsical chimneys, set beside one of Hamburg's most desirable canals. The time was precisely seven o'clock in the evening. Bachmann knew the importance of punctuality. He was dressed in his best bureaucratic suit and carrying an official briefcase. He had polished his black shoes and, with the help of Erna Frey's spray, flattened his rebellious mop of hair into temporary submission. 
  In the eighteen or so hours since Erna Frey had marched Annabel off to bed, Bachmann with Maximilian's help had laid siege to the Service's central computer for all the Karpovs known to man, phoned a contact in the Austrian Security Service and obliged him to unearth the unhappy history of Brue Frères of Vienna in its declining years, buttonholed Arni Mohr's prickly head of street surveillance concerning the perceived lifestyle of the bank's surviving principal, dispatched a researcher to storm the archives of Hamburg's finance office and—by midafternoon—assailed Michael Axelrod of Joint for a full hour on the encrypted line to Berlin before calling up all files on a highly respected Muslim scholar living in north Germany and known for his moderate views and pleasing television manners.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me five more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Dr. Abdullah wistfully fingered the paper before him and, fixing his gaze on Brue once more, relapsed into his thoughts.
  Returning to his car, Brue discovered that the sweat had drenched his shirt and made a wet band of the collar of his jacket. As he reached the autobahn, his two minders fell in behind him, grinning like idiots. Brue didn't know what he had done to amuse them. Or when he had hated himself more.
  Ever since Brue's departure from Abdullah's house eight hours ago, Erna Frey and Günther Bachmann have barely exchanged a word, although they are sitting only inches apart behind Maximilian's bank of screens. One screen is linked to the signals intelligence center in Berlin, another to satellite surveillance, a third to a motorized five-man team of Arni Mohr's watchers.
  At 15:48 hours, in dead silence, they had listened with half-closed eyes to the Brue-Abdullah exchange as relayed by Brue's listening fountain pen to Lantern's watchers in the garage across the road, and passed through to the stables after encryption. Bachmann's one response was a soundless clapping of his hands. Erna Frey made no response at all.
  At 17:10 hours came the first of a string of intercepted phone calls from Abdullah's house. A simultaneous translation from Arabic into German scrolled down the signals intelligence screen. For Bachmann, the Arabic speaker, the translation was redundant. For Erna Frey and most of Bachmann's team, it was not.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: At Bachmann's approach, Arni Mohr assumed an expression of studious detachment and needed to make a phone call that required him to walk away down the road, but Newton with his spade of new black beard stepped affably forward to greet his old mate.
  But as Newton drew nearer to Bachmann, and saw his smashed arm and disheveled state, and the wild look of accusation in his eyes, he realized he had mistaken his man, and came sharply to a halt.
  He had spoken these last words in English, but Bachmann in his dazed state failed to get his mind round them.
  A crisp night wind was whisking off the lake, bringing a smell of oil from the harbor. Annabel stood at the center of the forecourt, peering down the empty street after the departed minibus. Brue stood next to her. Her scarf had fallen round her neck. Absently, she lifted it over her head and retied it under her throat. Hearing a footstep, Brue turned and saw the driver of the smashed taxi hobbling towards them. Then Annabel turned also, and recognized the driver as Günther Bachmann, the man who made the weather, standing ten meters from her, not daring to come nearer. She scrutinized him, then shook her head and began to shudder. Brue put his arm round her shoulders where he had always wanted to put it, but he doubted whether she knew it was there.
  Yassin Musharbash of Spiegel Online, for his tireless and painstaking researches; Clive Stafford Smith, Saadiya Chaudary and Alexandra Zernova with the U.K. charity Reprieve* and Bernhard Docke† in Bremen for their legal wisdoms; the writer and journalist Michael Jürgs of Hamburg, for his fruitful introductions and close reading of the early drafts; Helmuth Landwehr, former private banker, for initiating me into the ways of his less-scrupulous erstwhile colleagues; Anne Harms and Annette Heise of flucht•punkt,* Hamburg, for allowing me to create in Sanctuary North a fictional sister organization to their own, complete with fictional staff and fictional clients; and the writer and Middle East expert Said Aburish, for his wise promptings. And Carla Hornstein who, by an accident of life, started me on the journey and provided me with invaluable introductions and advice.