“Alex decided he’d had enough. He put down his knife. “All right,” he said. “You’ve made it pretty clear that you don’t want to work with me. Well, that’s fine. Because I don’t want to work with you either. And for what it’s worth, nobody would ever believe you were my mom because no mom would ever behave like you.”
“Alex…,” Carver began.
“Forget it! I’m going back to London. And if you’re Mr. Byrne asks why, you can tell him I didn’t like the jelly, so I went home to get some jam.”
“What happened?" he demanded. "I heard an explosion!"
"Yeah.That was me. I set the boat alight."
"What?"
"I set fire to the boat."
"But we're on the boat!"
"I know.”
“Your name?"The movements of the man's mouth didn't quite match what he was saying, so seeing him speak was a bit like watching a badly dubbed film.
"Alex Gardiner," Alex said.
"Your real name?"
"I just told you."
"You lied. Your real name is Alex Rider."
"Why ask if you think you know?”
“Strange though it is,Sarov still cares about you. He told me to leave you alone. But I think, this time, I must disobey the general. You are mine! And I intend to make you suffer..."
"Just talking to you makes me suffer," Alex said.”
“He looked from the phone to the unconscious figure of the Salesman. "What did you do to him?" he asked.
"He got the wrong number," Alex said.”
“Let me tell you, Alex. He's a crook. He's based here in Miami. He's a nasty piece of work."
"He's mexican" Troy added.”
“But then, he thought, most politicians are small and shabby, the sort of people who have been bullied at school.
That's why they become politicians.”
“He was a commander in the Russian army at a time when the Russians were our enemies and still part of the Soviet Union . This wasn't very long ago, Alex.The collapse of communism. It was only in 1989 that the Berlin Wall came down." She stopped. "I suppose none of this means very much to you."
"Well, it wouldn't," Alex said. "I was only two years old.”
“Whatever you say, old boy. Just look after yourself. And whatever you do, don't swallow the gum!”
“The CIA agent looked more dead than alive. Alex wondered if he had been hit, but there was no sign of any blood. Perhaps he was in shock.”
“By any rights, he should be dead. He was involved in an explosion with a bomb, which he happened to be carrying at the time. Conrad is something of a scientific miracle. There are more than thirty metal pins in his body. He has a metal plate in his skull. There are metal wires in his jaw and in most of his major joints."
"He must set off a lot of airport alarms," Alex muttered.”
“Sun worshippers? No. These people were here because they worshipped themselves.”
“Everything had been beaten down and baked by the sun”
“to move. More gunfire. Although his vision was dimmed, Alex saw two more grenades arc through the air. They landed next to one of the ships and exploded, a huge fireball of flame. Two of Sarov’s men were lifted into the air. At the same time, two or even three machine guns began to chatter simultaneously. There were screams. More flames. Conrad loomed over him. He seemed to have forgotten what was happening in the shipyard. Or perhaps he didn’t care. He tossed aside the metal rod, then slowly pulled up his sleeves. Finally he dropped down so that he was sitting on Alex’s chest, one knee on either side. His hands closed around Alex’s neck. Gently, enjoying what he was doing, he began to squeeze. Alex felt fingers as hard as iron clamp shut on his throat. He couldn’t breathe. There were already black spots in front of his eyes. Straining past Conrad, he saw something moving toward him. It was the magnetic disc. Conrad had left the controls on in the cabin in his haste to get over to Alex, and the arm of the crane was still swinging around. There was a sudden, loud clang. The”
“After inside upheavals, it is important to fix on imperturbable things. Their imperturbableness, their air that nothing has happened renews our guarantee. Pictures would not be hung plumb over the centres of fireplaces or wallpapers pasted on with such precision that their seams make no break in the pattern if life were really not possible to adjudicate for. These things are what we mean when we speak of civilization: they remind us how exceedingly seldom the unseemly or unforeseeable rears its head. In this sense, the destruction of buildings and furniture is more palpably dreadful to the spirit than the destruction of human life.”
“Is it possible to want everything to change and nothing to change, all at the same time?”
“Did you know that wasn’t me, the other Max?” I asked.
“Yeah.”
“When?”
“Right away.”
“How?” I persisted. “We look identical. She even had identical scars and scratches. She was wearing my clothes. How could you tell us apart?”
He turned to me and grinned, making my world brighter. “She offered to cook breakfast.”
“Ik begon te beseffen dat ik in een nachtmerrie zat toen het tot me doordrong dat ik niet wakker werd: dat alles echt gebeurde, hoe onmogelijk en ongelooflijk dat ook mocht zijn.”
“As soon as he was out of sight, Gui pulled the macaron mixture towards him, and took a deep breath. He whipped it back and forth, beads of sweat springing on his forehead as his arm muscles released and contracted. When it was almost ready, he reached up for the shelf where the spices and colors were kept. Carefully, he brought down the bottle of 'creme de violette,' the jar of delicate, dried violets, their petals sparkling with sugar.
In tiny drops, he measured the purple liqueur into the mixture. He was acting on impulse, yet at the same time he felt certain, as though his first teacher, Monsieur Careme, was with him, guiding his steps. The scent reached up as he stirred, heady and sweet as a meadow, deep as lingering perfume in a midnight room. Hands shaking, he piped the mixture onto a tray in tiny rounds, enough to make six, one for each day that he and Jeanne would have to make it through before they could be together for the rest of their lives.
Maurice was delayed talking to Josef, and by the time he returned, Gui was putting the finishing touches to his creations, filling them with a vanilla cream from the cold room, balancing one, tiny, sugar-frosted violet flower upon each.”
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