Chapter 2190 - 879: War Begins!

He thought of Hassan. Thought of that olive grove. Thought of those memorials. On the memorials were carved names. Below the names were carved: "He is tired. Let him rest."

Now Hassan is resting. But he is still here. At Damascus Airport, behind sandbag bunkers, among a hundred and twenty Mexican soldiers, waiting for the next order.

He picked up the walkie-talkie.

"Connect me to Mexico City."

The phone rang once, then was picked up. It was Bramo's voice on the other end.

"Lieutenant."

"Mr. Bramo, the Big Fur soldiers have retreated. The Third Division has paused. The civilians are still holding up photographs. Assad—he's still in the Presidential Palace."

Bramo was silent for three seconds. "Lieutenant, wait. The Leader wants to speak to you."

The sound of papers being flipped came from the other end, then Victor's voice rang out.

"Lieutenant."

"Leader."

"Did you hear the sound of artillery?"

Alvarez listened to the distant sky. Very quiet, no artillery sounds, no gunshots, only the wind blowing from the north, carrying the scent of snow.

"No, it has stopped."

"Good that it has stopped." Victor's voice was calm, "Since it has stopped, there's no need to fight anymore. But the bridge must remain. The water must continue to flow. People must keep living."

The phone hung up.

Alvarez stood there, holding the phone, listening to the busy signal. He looked at the northern sky; the sun had risen quite high, shining on the glass facades of the tall buildings, reflecting a blinding light.

He turned around, walked down from the bunker, to the side of the runway. That row of Da Mao Air Force Su-27s was still parked there, engines had been shut off, cockpit covers open, pilots absent.

He squatted down, touched the runway. The cement surface was hot from the sun. He thought of the Golan Heights, the bridge over Lake Tiberias, the sun-bleached planks of the bridge deck. He squatted on the bridge, touched those planks, very smooth, very steady, very solid.

He stood up, walked back to the bunker.

"Major, let's retreat."

The Major poked his head out from behind the bunker. "Retreat? Retreat to where?"

"Home."

Mexico City, "Feathered Serpent Temple" top floor.

Victor stood by the window, watching the traffic on Paseo de la Reforma. It was already afternoon, many cars, congested together, the sound of horns constantly echoing. He watched those cars for a long time.

Bramo stood behind him.

"The situation in Damascus has stabilized for now. The Big Fur soldiers have retreated; the Third Division has paused; civilians are still holding up photographs. Assad—he hasn't ordered to fire again."

Victor did not turn around. "He will fire again. If not today, then tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then the day after. People like him won't stop just because civilians are holding up some photographs. He would only stop if someone pointed a gun to his head."

He turned around, looked at Bramo.

"Tell Bennett to make those photographs—the ones of the olive groves, the white cloth bundles, the memorials—into a file. Send it to the United Nations, to the International Criminal Court, to every member country. Not now. Send it when Assad fires again. When he fires again, the whole world will know he's not fighting terrorism, he's killing people. Killing people means jail time. Jail time means he can't be President. Can't be President means Syria needs a change. A change means Big Fur People's base won't be safe. If the base isn't safe, Big Fur People will be thrown out of the Middle East."

He returned to his desk and sat down.

"This isn't war. This is reckoning."

Bramo turned around and left.

Victor sat there, looking out the window. The sun had begun to set in the west, turning slowly from gold to silver, the outline of Paseo de la Reforma became blurred in the distance. He picked up the list on the table—forty names, twenty-three already buried, seventeen still alive. Among the living, some were in Israel, some in Syria, some in places unknown.

He looked at those names for a long time.

Then he put the list down, picked up the phone, and dialed a number.

"Connect me to Golan Heights. Find Lieutenant Alvarez."

The phone rang many times, then was picked up. It was Alvarez's voice on the other end, hoarse, tired, but steady.

"Leader."

"Lieutenant, is the coffee stall on the bridge still there?"

"Still there."

"Is there still coffee?"

"Yes. Beans grown in the Chiapas Highlands, the kind Hassan likes."

Victor was silent for three seconds. "Pour a cup, place it across the table. Leave it for Hassan. Whenever he comes, whenever he drinks. If he doesn't come, just leave it there. Leave it there, and someone will come."

The phone hung up.

Victor sat there, holding the receiver, listening to the busy signal. Outside, the sky had turned completely dark, the streetlights on Paseo de la Reforma lit up, dim and yellow, like sleepy eyes.

He stood up and walked to the window.

"The bridge remains. The water continues to flow. People must keep living."

He looked out at the night view for a long time.

Then he turned around, walked back to his desk, sat down. He picked up the list, folded it, put it in the drawer. Placed it together with the letter, together with the bloodstained paper, together with the photograph of Hassan standing among the trees, together with that memorial.

He closed the drawer.

"Wait," he whispered.

Outside, the wind blew from the north, carrying the scent of snow, and also the scent of spring.

The snow was about to melt completely.

The trees were about to sprout.