conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the first five paragraphs for a book with the title 'The Bourne Identity'
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The Bourne Identity
  Kill the controls and use the kills to call off the hunt. Any kind of hunt. How many men had done it before, thought Alexander Conklin. He had. There had been a source-control in the hills of Huong Khe, a maniac issuing maniacal orders, certain death for a dozen teams of Medusans on a maniacal hunt. A young intelligence officer named Conklin had crept back into Base Camp Kilo with a North Vietnamese rifle, Russian caliber, and had fired two bullets into the head of a maniac. There had been grieving and harsher security measures put in force, but the hunt was called off.
  There had been no fragments of glass found in the jungle paths of Base Camp Kilo, however. Fragments with fingerprints that irrefutably identified the sniper as an Occidental recruit from Medusa itself. There were such fragments found on Seventy-first Street, but the killer did not know it—Delta did not know it.
  Webb gone, the Monk gone, the Yachtsman and his wife... who could deny the instructions Delta received, since these four alone relayed instructions to him? He had removed the millions and distributed them as ordered. Blind recipients he had assumed were intrinsic to the Monk's strategy. Who was Delta to question the Monk? The creator of Medusa, the genius who had recruited and created him. Cain.
  The conversation was over; the embassy man would call back after hearing from Bourne. Conklin got up from the chair and limped across the room to a gray filing cabinet against the wall. He unlocked the top panel. Inside was a stapled folder containing a sealed envelope bearing the names and locations of men who could be called upon in emergencies. They had once been good men, loyal men, who for one reason or another could no longer be on a Washington payroll. In all cases it had been necessary to remove them from the official scene, relocate them with new identities—those fluent in other languages frequently given citizenship by cooperating foreign governments. They had simply disappeared.
  They were the outcasts, men who had gone beyond the laws in the service of their country, who often killed in the interests of their country. But their country could not tolerate their official existence; their covers had been exposed, their actions made known. Still, they could be called upon. Monies were constantly funneled to accounts beyond official scrutiny, certain understandings intrinsic to the payments.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: five more paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: Conklin separated the folders on his desk until he found the one he was looking for. It had no title, only an initial and two numbers followed by a black X, signifying that it was the only folder containing the origins of Treadstone.
  Dr. Morris Panov walked through the double doors of the psychiatric ward on the third floor of Bethesda's Naval Annex and approached the nurses' counter. He smiled at the uniformed aide shuffling index cards under the stern gaze of the head floor nurse standing beside her. Apparently the young trainee had misplaced a patient's file—if not a patient—and her superior was not about to let it happen again.
  The aide giggled; the nurse shook her head in exasperation. The phone rang on the desk behind the counter.
  Suddenly Panov and the nurse were aware that he was being paged, the wide-eyed trainee at the desk speaking into the microphone.
  The trainee stared at Panov's ID card on his white coat; she blinked and replied. "A Mr. Alexander Conklin, sir."
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: ". Alexander Conklin, sir. "A Mr.
  The trainee stared at Panov's ID card on his white coat; she blinked and replied.
  Suddenly Panov and the nurse were aware that he was being paged, the wide-eyed trainee at the desk speaking into the microphone. The phone rang on the desk behind the counter.
  The aide giggled; the nurse shook her head in exasperation. Apparently the young trainee had misplaced a patient's file—if not a patient—and her superior was not about to let it happen again. He smiled at the uniformed aide shuffling index cards under the stern gaze of the head floor nurse standing beside her. Morris Panov walked through the double doors of the psychiatric ward on the third floor of Bethesda's Naval Annex and approached the nurses' counter.
  Dr. It had no title, only an initial and two numbers followed by a black X, signifying that it was the only folder containing the origins of Treadstone.Conklin separated the folders on his desk until he found the one he was looking for
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: the last four paragraphs
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: The killer surveyed his work. Satisfied, he knelt down by a large, stagnant pool of blood and moved his index finger through it. He then pulled out a square of dark cloth from his left sleeve and spread it over his handiwork. He rose to his feet and rushed out of the room, unbuttoning the white caftan as he ran down the dim hallway; the robe was open by the time he reached the door to the cabaret. He removed the razorlike knife from the cloth and shoved it into a scabbard on his belt. Then, holding the folds of cloth together, his hood in place, the lethal weapon secure at his side, he pulled the door back and walked inside, into the brawling chaos that showed no sign of lessening. But then why should it be different? He had left it barely thirty seconds ago and his man was well trained.
  The killer-priest ripped the caftan away from his body and the hood from his head. In the wild revolving lights his face looked as macabre as any in the frenzied rock group. Heavy makeup outlined his eyes, white lines defining the shape of each, and his face was an unnatural brown. "Go in front of me!" he commanded the peasant. He dropped his costume and the Uzi on the floor next to the door while removing a pair of thin surgical gloves; he shoved them into his flannel trousers.
  For a cabaret in the Golden Mile to summon the police was not a decision easily arrived at. There were heavy fines for poor management, stiff penalties for endangering tourists. The police knew these risks and responded quickly when they were taken. The killer ran behind the peasant from Canton who joined the panicked crowd at the entrance screaming to get out. The coarsely dressed brawler was a bull; bodies in front of him fell away under the force of his blows. Guard and killer burst through the door and into the street, where another crowd had gathered shrieking questions and epithets and cries of bad joss—misfortune for the establishment. They threaded their way through the excited onlookers and were joined by the short, muscular Chinese who had waited outside. He grabbed the arm of his defrocked charge and pulled his priest into the narrowest of alleys, where he took out two towels from under his tunic. One was soft and dry, the other encased in plastic—it was warm and wet and perfumed.
  Inside the dimly lit corridor the proof was there. The slain guard lay in a river of his own blood, his weapon gripped by a hand barely attached to his wrist. Within the conference room itself, the proof was complete. Five bloodied corpses were in spastic disarray, one specifically, shockingly, the focus of the manager's horrified interest. He approached the body and the punctured skull. With his handkerchief he wiped away the blood and stared at the face.
conversations.from: human
conversations.value: Reverse the sentences.
conversations.from: assistant
conversations.value: With his handkerchief he wiped away the blood and stared at the face.. He approached the body and the punctured skull. Five bloodied corpses were in spastic disarray, one specifically, shockingly, the focus of the manager's horrified interest. Within the conference room itself, the proof was complete. The slain guard lay in a river of his own blood, his weapon gripped by a hand barely attached to his wrist.
  Inside the dimly lit corridor the proof was there. One was soft and dry, the other encased in plastic—it was warm and wet and perfumed. He grabbed the arm of his defrocked charge and pulled his priest into the narrowest of alleys, where he took out two towels from under his tunic. They threaded their way through the excited onlookers and were joined by the short, muscular Chinese who had waited outside. Guard and killer burst through the door and into the street, where another crowd had gathered shrieking questions and epithets and cries of bad joss—misfortune for the establishment. The coarsely dressed brawler was a bull; bodies in front of him fell away under the force of his blows. The killer ran behind the peasant from Canton who joined the panicked crowd at the entrance screaming to get out. The police knew these risks and responded quickly when they were taken. There were heavy fines for poor management, stiff penalties for endangering tourists.
  For a cabaret in the Golden Mile to summon the police was not a decision easily arrived at. He dropped his costume and the Uzi on the floor next to the door while removing a pair of thin surgical gloves; he shoved them into his flannel trousers. "Go in front of me!" he commanded the peasant. Heavy makeup outlined his eyes, white lines defining the shape of each, and his face was an unnatural brown. In the wild revolving lights his face looked as macabre as any in the frenzied rock group.
  The killer-priest ripped the caftan away from his body and the hood from his head. But then why should it be different? He had left it barely thirty seconds ago and his man was well trained. Then, holding the folds of cloth together, his hood in place, the lethal weapon secure at his side, he pulled the door back and walked inside, into the brawling chaos that showed no sign of lessening. He removed the razorlike knife from the cloth and shoved it into a scabbard on his belt. He rose to his feet and rushed out of the room, unbuttoning the white caftan as he ran down the dim hallway; the robe was open by the time he reached the door to the cabaret. He then pulled out a square of dark cloth from his left sleeve and spread it over his handiwork. Satisfied, he knelt down by a large, stagnant pool of blood and moved his index finger through it.The killer surveyed his work