conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a description for a book titled Prince of Fire about ISBN, BRAND, Exactly with the genre: Literature & Fiction, Genre Fiction.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: BRAND NEW, Exactly same ISBN as listed, Please double check ISBN carefully before ordering.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me a plot for a book titled Prince of Fire.. Start with the sentence 'Prince of Fire: After terrorists bomb the Israeli embassy in Rome, agents at Israel's intelligence service —better known as the Office— struggle to determine a precise motive for the attack'.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Prince of Fire: After terrorists bomb the Israeli embassy in Rome, agents at Israel's intelligence service —better known as the Office— struggle to determine a precise motive for the attack.\nThe investigation uncovers a CD filled with highly sensitive information about Gabriel Allon, a legendary hit man for the Office.\nNo longer safe outside of Israel, Gabriel returns reluctantly to his homeland with Italian girlfriend and fellow Office agent Chiara Zolli.\nLev, the current director of the Office, has long resented Gabriel's close ties to Ari Shamron, former director of the Office, as well as his recent clandestine work for Shamron.\nLev demands that Gabriel officially rejoin the Office so he can benefit from the protection of other agents.\nHowever, Gabriel and Shamron also recognize that Lev seeks to control and curtail their secret operations.\nLev instructs Gabriel to remain in Israel and assigns him a research team to investigate the bombing and its link to Gabriel.\nThus, Yossi, Dina, Yaakov, and Rimona come under Gabriel's direction.\nDina connects a series of seemingly random terrorist attacks and attributes them to Khaled al-Khalifa, a mysterious descendant of Palestinian warlords.\nIndeed, Dina points out, Shamron and Gabriel each led operations against Khaled's relatives.\nThough adopted by Yasser Arafat as a child, Khaled grew up abroad and never became a visible force within the PLO.\nDina proposes that, hidden behind a carefully constructed European identity, Khaled has masterminded brutal attacks against Israel, including the recent embassy bombing.\nIn fact, all of the attacks seem to commemorate the murders of Palestinians, including Khaled's father and organizer of Black September, Sabri al-Khalifa.\nDina suggests that another attack is imminent: she anticipates an act of terror to commemorate the Israeli razing of Beit Sayeed, the hometown of Khaled's Palestinian ancestors.\nOnly twenty-eight days remain until the fiftieth anniversary of that event.\nThe reader learns that Khaled lives as a prosperous and renowned French archeologist under the identity of Paul Martineau.\nHe organizes terror attacks through an Arab associate in Marseilles.\nThe reader also discovers that the arrangements for Khaled's next attack are underway.\nAs Gabriel and Chiara settle into a new life in Israel, Ari recommends that Gabriel dissolve his marriage to Leah and marry Chiara.\nHe also presses Gabriel to meet with Yasser Arafat to learn of Khaled's whereabouts.\nAri's son Yonatan, a member of the IDF, escorts Gabriel to the Mukataa, Arafat's compound.\nAlthough the Israeli and Palestinian traditionally work for opposing ideologies, Arafat consents to the meeting because Gabriel once saved his life.\nGabriel sees through Arafat's evasive answers and lies and concludes that Khaled did indeed plan the bombing of the Israeli embassy.\nGabriel also learns that Tariq al-Hourani worked for Arafat, and the car bomb that killed his son and maimed Leah was also meant to end his own life.\nYaakov later introduced Gabriel to Mahmoud Arwish, a reticent Palestinian informant.\nArwish confirms that Khaled contacts Arafat regularly and uses a female collaborator to relay important phone messages.\nBecause the most recent of such phone messages came from Cairo, Gabriel travels to Egypt.\nThere, he meets Mimi Ferrere, a polyglot and social butterfly whose voice matches that of Khaled's collaborator.\nHe bugs her phone, intercepts a message from Khaled, and matches the phone number to Marseilles.\nAboard the ship Fidelity, Gabriel meets with his team and Ari Shamron to plan Khaled's murder.\nHowever, Khaled anticipates their attack and leads Gabriel into a trap: he must put himself into Khaled's hands or Leah will die; Gabriel abandons his team to save his wife.\nKhaled's instructions lead Gabriel to the Parisian Gare de Lyon, and Gabriel realizes too late that Khaled plans to bomb the train station and pin the crime on Gabriel and Israeli intelligence.\nWith only seconds to spare, Gabriel kills two of Khaled's three bombers and rescues Leah.\nThey return safely to Israel, but Khaled and Mimi leak photographs of Gabriel to the press that link him to the bombing at Gare de Lyon.\nAlthough she still suffers psychiatric trauma, Leah regains a piece of herself and begins to communicate with Gabriel for the first time in thirteen years.\nChiara decides to leave Gabriel and returns to Venice.\nUltimately, Gabriel locates and kills Khaled at an archeological excavation in southern France.\nHe then returns to Israel and art restoration.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the first four paragraphs for this book.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Prince of Fire
  On the Via Condotti he bought a new suitcase and spent the next hour purchasing clothing appropriate to his next destination. He returned to the safe flat long enough to pack his new bag, then went to lunch at Nino on the Via Borgognona. At two o'clock he took a taxi to Fiumicino airport, and at five-thirty he boarded a flight to Sardinia.
  As Gabriel's plane was taxiing toward the runway, Amira Assaf rolled up to the front gate of the Stratford Clinic and showed her ID badge to the security guard. He inspected it carefully, then waved her onto the grounds. She twisted the throttle of her motorbike and sped down the quarter-mile gravel drive toward the mansion. Dr. Avery was just leaving for the night, racing toward the gate in his big silver Jaguar. Amira tapped her horn and waved, but he ignored her and swept past in a shower of dust and gravel.
  Staff parking was in the rear courtyard. She propped the bike on its kickstand, then removed her backpack from the seat storage compartment and left her helmet in its place. Two girls were just coming off duty. Amira bid them good night, then used her badge to unlock the secure staff entrance. The time clock was mounted to the wall of the foyer. She found her card, third slot from the bottom, and punched in: five-fifty-six a.m.
  The locker room was a few paces down the hall. Amira went inside and changed into her uniform: white trousers, white shoes, and a peach-colored tunic that Dr. Avery believed was soothing to the patients. Five minutes later she reported for duty at the window of the head nurse's station. Ginger Hall, peroxide blond and crimson-lipped, looked up and smiled.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me four more paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: A bell chimed, and the doors screeched open. Amira wheeled the chair into the carriage and was greeted by the overwhelming stench of urine. As she sunk toward earth, she pondered the question of why the poor piss in their elevators. When the doors opened, she thrust the chair into the lobby and drew a deep breath. Not much better. Only when she was outside, in the cold fresh air of the quadrangle, did she escape the odor of too many people living too close together.
  There was something of the Third World village square in the broad quadrangle that lay at the center of the four large housing blocks—clusters of men, divided by their country of origin, chatting in the cool twilight; women bearing sacks of groceries; children playing football. No one took notice of the attractive young Palestinian woman pushing a wheelchair-bound figure of indeterminate sex and age.
  It took precisely seven minutes for her to get to the St-Denis station. It was a large station, a combination RER and Métro, and because of the hour, crowds were streaming out of the exits into the street. She entered the ticket hall and immediately spotted two policemen, the first evidence of the security alert. She had watched the news updates and knew security had been tightened at Métro and rail stations across the country. But did they know something about St-Denis? Were they looking for a disabled woman kidnapped the previous night from a psychiatric hospital in England? She kept walking.
  The tickets were in her hand; she had to answer truthfully. "The RER," she said, then added: "To the Gare de Lyon."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Give me the last five paragraphs.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: At ten minutes past twelve, he heard a faint knock and looked up to find Sophie Vanderhaus leaning against the doorjamb with a batch of files clutched to her breast. A former student of Rosner's, she had come to work for him after completing a graduate degree on the impact of the Holocaust on postwar Dutch society. She was part secretary and research assistant, part nursemaid and surrogate daughter. She kept his office in order and typed the final drafts of all his reports and articles. The minder of his impossible schedule, she tended to his appalling personal finances. She even saw to his laundry and made certain he remembered to eat. Earlier that morning, she had informed him that she was planning to spend a week in Saint-Maarten over the New Year. Rosner, upon hearing the news, had fallen into a profound depression.
  She peered into his coffee cup and pulled a sour face. "Why do you insist on putting out your cigarettes in your coffee?"
  It was common knowledge in Amsterdam that the famous café on the Staalstraat was his favorite haunt. And Rosner was hardly inconspicuous. Indeed, with his shock of white hair and rumpled tweed wardrobe, he was one of the most recognizable figures in Holland. The geniuses in the Dutch police had once suggested he utilize some crude disguise while in public—an idea Rosner had likened to putting a hat and a false mustache on a hippopotamus and calling it a Dutchman.
  Rosner glanced at the three faces, committing each to memory, before setting off in the direction of the drawbridge. When a sudden gust of wind stirred the bare tree limbs along the embankment, he paused for a moment to bind his scarf more tightly around his neck and watch a plump Vermeer cloud drift slowly overhead. It was then that he noticed one of the painters walking parallel to him along the opposite side of the canal. Short dark hair, a high flat forehead, a heavy brow over small eyes. Rosner, connoisseur of immigrant faces, judged him to be a Moroccan from the Rif Mountains. They arrived at the drawbridge simultaneously. Rosner paused again, this time to light a cigarette he did not want, and watched with relief as the man turned to the left. When the man disappeared round the next corner, Rosner headed in the opposite direction toward the Doelen.
  He took his time making his way down the Staalstraat, now dawdling at the window of his favorite pastry shop to gaze at that day's offerings, now sidestepping to avoid being run down by a pretty girl on a bicycle, now pausing to accept a few words of encouragement from a ruddy-faced admirer. He was about to step through the entrance of the café when he felt a tug at his coat sleeve. In the few remaining seconds he had left to live, he would be tormented by the absurd thought that he might have prevented his own murder had he resisted the impulse to turn around. But he did turn around, because that is what one does on a glorious December afternoon in Amsterdam, when one is summoned in the street by a stranger.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Swap the first and the last sentence.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: But he did turn around, because that is what one does on a glorious December afternoon in Amsterdam, when one is summoned in the street by a stranger. A former student of Rosner's, she had come to work for him after completing a graduate degree on the impact of the Holocaust on postwar Dutch society. She was part secretary and research assistant, part nursemaid and surrogate daughter. She kept his office in order and typed the final drafts of all his reports and articles. The minder of his impossible schedule, she tended to his appalling personal finances. She even saw to his laundry and made certain he remembered to eat. Earlier that morning, she had informed him that she was planning to spend a week in Saint-Maarten over the New Year. Rosner, upon hearing the news, had fallen into a profound depression.
  She peered into his coffee cup and pulled a sour face. "Why do you insist on putting out your cigarettes in your coffee?"
  It was common knowledge in Amsterdam that the famous café on the Staalstraat was his favorite haunt. And Rosner was hardly inconspicuous. Indeed, with his shock of white hair and rumpled tweed wardrobe, he was one of the most recognizable figures in Holland. The geniuses in the Dutch police had once suggested he utilize some crude disguise while in public—an idea Rosner had likened to putting a hat and a false mustache on a hippopotamus and calling it a Dutchman.
  Rosner glanced at the three faces, committing each to memory, before setting off in the direction of the drawbridge. When a sudden gust of wind stirred the bare tree limbs along the embankment, he paused for a moment to bind his scarf more tightly around his neck and watch a plump Vermeer cloud drift slowly overhead. It was then that he noticed one of the painters walking parallel to him along the opposite side of the canal. Short dark hair, a high flat forehead, a heavy brow over small eyes. Rosner, connoisseur of immigrant faces, judged him to be a Moroccan from the Rif Mountains. They arrived at the drawbridge simultaneously. Rosner paused again, this time to light a cigarette he did not want, and watched with relief as the man turned to the left. When the man disappeared round the next corner, Rosner headed in the opposite direction toward the Doelen.
  He took his time making his way down the Staalstraat, now dawdling at the window of his favorite pastry shop to gaze at that day's offerings, now sidestepping to avoid being run down by a pretty girl on a bicycle, now pausing to accept a few words of encouragement from a ruddy-faced admirer. He was about to step through the entrance of the café when he felt a tug at his coat sleeve. In the few remaining seconds he had left to live, he would be tormented by the absurd thought that he might have prevented his own murder had he resisted the impulse to turn around.At ten minutes past twelve, he heard a faint knock and looked up to find Sophie Vanderhaus leaning against the doorjamb with a batch of files clutched to her breast.