Which, by the way, is something I highly recommend for you. Then I will come back in six months to be retested…". I think you should see the urologist. Four months then, said Louis. What warning? He had already been warned this morning by his doctor. I have had enough warnings for one day, said Louis. Louis held up the tiny glass filled with crimson liqueur. First tell me what we are drinking. And welcome back to the Boufa, said Samad. Your home away from home.
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Samad smiled, and his gold teeth flashed. Louis turned as best he could and raised his glass again. Your brandy is delicious, Moamar. Moamar had turned his back on them and was squatting over a small heap of glowing coals. He lifted the lid off the tajine and stirred the stew. Moamar carried the tajine to where the two men sat and set it on the low brass table between them. A few glowing embers clung to the clay pot.
Moamar lifted the cone-shaped lid, and the aromas of the stew enveloped them. Samad and Louis took turns naming the smells. Lamb, said Samad. His eyes were closed, and his nose was raised into the air. And danger, said Moamar. Always an ingredient in any Algerian stew.
He took a piece of flat bread from the basket and scooped up some of the stew. Louis and Moamar followed suit. And saffron, of course, said Louis. I love your father. But it is your cooking that brings me back to Algiers and the Boufa. If you want me to find another hotel, then stop cooking so well. Despite his effort to look fierce, Moamar finally let a smile sneak around the corners of his mouth. He poured three glasses of red wine from a pitcher. To life, he said, and lifted his glass. You were our first American, when you and I were young, said Samad, and Moamar was not yet born. This man was the second.
He stayed three nights, said Moamar. He was out all day every day. When I went to make his bed each morning, his room was empty, except for his toiletries, which were all in their kit, and his clothes in the wardrobe. Nothing else. No books, no papers, no newspapers, no airline boarding pass, no airline tickets, no old bus tickets, nothing in his pockets—. And nothing in the wastebasket, said Moamar. When he left for the last time, the wastebasket in his room was still empty. What kind of person never throws any paper away? He paid cash for his room, said Moamar.
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He stepped to the desk and brought back the registry. Look how he signed. Not the name. The signature. You can read every letter. On the contrary, said Louis. Louis considered for a moment. And why do you think he was here? Research on you, said Samad. Algiers and the Boufa—a good place to learn about you. Especially now that you have been coming more frequently.
This is your fourth visit in…. The boy, Zaharia Lefort, had no parents. His mother, Sabiha, a drug addict and prostitute, was lost to him in the slums of Algiers. Barely thirteen at the time, Zaharia had fled across the whole of France. Louis had taken him in and rescued him. Given the horrors Zaharia had lived through, he should have turned out badly. Zaharia got high marks in school. He was first in his class in history and mathematics. He was learning English and French, and wrote Louis letters in a fine and careful hand.
He was even talking about going to school in the United States. Louis had helped Zaharia make a connection with a private school just outside Washington, D. He should get this chance. Really, Dad. If he gets the scholarship, consider it done.
Louis wrote me about your generous offer for me to stay with you if I come to Washington to the Potomac School. I am very grateful for your offer. You have always been very kind to me. If I am accepted by Potomac School, I will be happy to stay in your apartment. Thank you very much.
Sell one like this. Similar sponsored items Feedback on our suggestions - Similar sponsored items. Accounting Financial Accounting Custom Editi. Seller assumes all responsibility for this listing. Item specifics Condition: Brand New: A new, unread, unused book in perfect condition with no missing or damaged pages. See all condition definitions - opens in a new window or tab Read more about the condition. Peter Steiner has thoroughly impressed sophisticated thriller mavens everywhere with his critically acclaimed novels featuring ex-CIA operative Louis Morgon.
John Larrimer was a well known Wall Street investment banker who had earned returns for his wealthy clients that exceeded even their fondest hopes. But it turns out that the returns existed only in St. John's imagination. By the time his staff and associates were detained and questioned, St.
John had disappeared.modernpsychtraining.com/cache/without/zivek-mobile-number-tracker.php
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Louis Morgon, a long retired CIA operative now living in France, had a little money invested with a money manager who was also taken in by Larrimer. Any interesting stories there? France, hands down.
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The country is mostly beautiful; the people cherish eccentricity; the climate is agreeable; the food is marvelous. I love diving into a story and losing myself there. I love dreaming things up, telling a story, and polishing the language. Maybe because I started late, after my main career, and do it only because I want to, I love all of it.
What is one thing that would surprise your fans about you or your writing process? Some novels start with nothing more than an idea. I start writing without knowing even what I am about to write. What can we expect next from you, and where can readers go to hear the latest news? Thanks to Peter Steiner for showing us a little more about a world he clearly loves, a love that comes across vividly in his writing.
By Jeremy Burns A sleepy French village may not be a common setting for gripping character-driven crime novels, but in the hands of Peter Steiner, it becomes the perfect backdrop for his Louis Morgon series. Tell us a little about yourself.