Chapter 2191 - 880: Overturning?

Damascus, Presidential Palace. Night.

Assad stood by the window, watching the fire outside.

Thousands of candles lit up the streets of Damascus like a glowing river.

Those holding the photographs had not dispersed; they held the photos of the dead, standing on the streets, on the roads, at the doors of government buildings. The faces on the photos flickered in the candlelight, every pair of eyes fixed on his window.

The Minister of Defense stood behind him, his voice already hoarse. "Mr. President, the Third Division has stopped. The entire division is blocked at the intersection, unable to advance or retreat. Civilians are standing in front of the tanks, holding photos, shouting those names."

Assad did not turn around. "What about the Big Bear people?"

"Withdrawn. They ran north. Their commander said this is not their war. Their task was to help us eliminate terrorists, but those holding the photos are not terrorists; they are civilians. They do not wish to fire at civilians."

Assad's fingers tapped on the window frame.

"What about the First Division?"

"Still in the camp. The division commander said his soldiers refuse to move out. They say that the people in the photos, some are their comrades, some are their neighbors, some are their family. They do not wish to fire at Syrians."

Assad turned to look at the Minister of Defense. Those eyes were cold, like the waters of Lake Tiberias in winter, frozen over, but with fire beneath the ice. "So, I have no army?"

The Minister of Defense lowered his head. "Mr. President, we still have the National Guard. The 4th Armored Division, the 6th Division, and the 8th Brigade. They are still here, awaiting your orders."

Assad walked back to his desk and sat down.

A report that had just been delivered lay spread on the desk.

"Assad step down! Assad step down!" The sound crept in through the window gap, muffled like distant thunder.

"Deploy the National Guard. Tanks, armored vehicles, helicopters. Clear those holding the photos from the streets. If not cleared, kill them. Once dead, drag them away. Once dragged away, no one will remember."

The Minister of Defense turned and left.

...

Golan Heights, Bridge of Lake Tiberias.

Night.

Lieutenant Alvarez sat behind the folding table; the coffee in the thermal flask had cooled. The coffee cup still sat opposite, left there since the day Hassan died, untouched.

The lights on the bridge were lit, like two golden ribbons in the night; the wind over the lake blew from the north, carrying the scent of snow, and the promise of spring. The snow was almost melted, the trees nearly budding.

A vehicle approached from the east end of the bridge. An ambulance.

White, flashing blue lights on top, with a red crescent emblem on the door.

The vehicle stopped behind the tent, the door opened, and people in white coats and masks got out, carrying a stretcher. On the stretcher lay a person, covered with a white sheet, stained with blood.

Alvarez stood up and went over. "Who?"

The stretcher bearers stopped and looked at him.

"From Damascus. One of those holding photos. The military opened fire, hit him in the chest. Damascus hospitals are full, no beds, no doctors, no medicine. We're taking him to Tiberias City, the Israelis' hospital; they said they can accept him."

Alvarez lifted the white sheet. Underneath was a young face, just over twenty, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, as if sleeping. But the hole in his chest told Alvarez he wasn't sleeping. The bullet entered from the front, exited through the back, leaving a fist-sized wound. The bleeding had stopped, but the edges of the wound were gaping, pale like a chunk of tofu carved out.

He recognized the face.

He had seen this photo on that list, forty names; twenty-three had already been buried, seventeen were still alive.

Among the living, some were in Israel, some in Syria, some in unknown places. This person was the eighteenth.

His name was Khalid Abdul-Karim, twenty-two, a student at Damascus University, holding the photo of his cousin—who had been imprisoned for eleven years, released, and died at his doorstep.

Alvarez covered him back up with the white sheet. "Take him away. The Israelis' hospital is on the west side of Tiberias City. Once there, ask for directions; someone will guide you."

The stretcher was carried away. The ambulance turned around, headed west, its blue lights blinking in the night, growing fainter.

Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, watched the vehicle disappear into the darkness. He turned around, walked back to the folding table, and sat down.

The coffee in the thermal flask had cooled, but he didn't pour it out.

He picked up the cup of cold coffee from opposite, poured it into the lake, then refilled two cups, one placed in front of himself, the other across the table.

"General Hassan, another one is dead. Do you recognize him? His name was Khalid, a student from Damascus University, holding the photo of his cousin. His cousin was dug out from 317, buried beneath that olive grove, the marker carved by you."

No one answered. He stared at the cup of coffee, looked for a long time, then picked up the radio. "Connect me to Mexico City."

The phone rang once, then answered. On the other end was Victor's voice. "Lieutenant."

"Leader, Assad opened fire. National Guard, tanks, armored vehicles, helicopters. On the streets of Damascus, at least fifty dead, over two hundred wounded. The hospitals are full, no beds, no doctors, no medicine. Some are sent to Tiberias City, the Israelis' hospital is accepting them. One was just sent over, named Khalid, twenty-two, a student from Damascus University, holding the photo of his cousin. His cousin was one of those from 317, imprisoned for eleven years, released, died at his doorstep."