Chapter 2192 - 880: Upheaval? (2)

There was silence on the other end of the line for five seconds. "Lieutenant, wait."

The call disconnected.

Alvarez sat there, holding the phone, listening to the busy tone. The wind over the lake had picked up, making the string of lights along the bridge rail clatter. He picked up the cup of cold coffee and took a sip. Bitter, cold, like medicine.

Damascus, Presidential Palace. Night.

Assad stood at the window, watching the fire outside. Not candles—burning tires. Those people holding up photographs had started burning tires. Black smoke rose, covering the moon, covering the stars, covering the Sky. Tanks of the National Guard were pushing forward, their tracks grinding over those photos, crushing the faces on them. The fragments drifted in the wind like gray butterflies.

The Minister of Defense stood behind him. "Mr. President, at least fifty people are dead. More than two hundred wounded. The hospitals are full—no beds, no doctors, no medicine. Some have been sent to Tiberias City, the Israelis' hospitals are taking them in."

Assad didn't turn around. "Tell them: whoever dares take them is an enemy of Syria. Israelis are enemies; Israelis who take in Syrian wounded are even greater enemies. Have the Foreign Ministry issue a statement condemning Israel's interference in Syria's internal affairs."

The Minister of Defense hesitated. "Mr. President, those wounded were sent to hospitals in Tiberias City, Israeli hospitals. But our people are there too—our wounded are there as well. Damascus's hospitals are full; sending them there is to keep them alive. If we condemn Israel, they'll stop taking them. If they stop, those wounded will die."

Assad turned and looked at the Minister of Defense. "Then let them die. If they're dead, they don't need to be taken in. If they don't need to be taken in, we don't need to condemn. If we don't need to condemn, we don't need to explain why we opened fire on our own people."

The Minister of Defense lowered his head. "Mr. President—"

"Enough. Have the Foreign Ministry issue the statement. Now."

The Minister of Defense turned and left.

Assad stood at the window, watching those burning tires. He thought of Rifat, thought of that olive grove, thought of those stones. Names carved into the stones, and beneath each name: "He waited eleven years. Never crossed his own doorstep." Now those people holding up photographs were waiting too—waiting for an answer, waiting for an apology, waiting for the truth. He couldn't give it. All he could give was bullets. When the bullets were used up, he'd give shells. When the shells were used up, he'd give tanks. When the tanks were used up, he'd give planes. When the planes were used up, there would be nothing left.

He walked back to his desk and sat down. Spread out on the desk was a freshly delivered intelligence report. In the city of Damascus, at least a hundred thousand people had already taken to the streets. Not fifty thousand—a hundred thousand. They were holding up photos of the dead, shouting Assad's name—not in support, but in curses. "Assad step down! Assad step down!" The sound squeezed in through the gaps in the window, muffled, like distant thunder, coming closer and closer.

He picked up the phone and dialed a number. "Put Moscow through to me."

The phone rang many times before it was answered. On the other end was Korosov's voice. "President Assad."

"General Korosov, I need you. Not your fleet, not your planes—I need your soldiers. Bring them back. Have them help me hold the streets, help me clear out those people holding up photographs, help me—stay alive."

Korosov was silent for three seconds. "President Assad, our soldiers are not there to open fire on civilians. They are warriors, not executioners."

Assad's hand tightened on the phone. "General Korosov, if I fall, Syria falls. If Syria falls, your bases are gone. If your bases are gone, you have nothing in the Mediterranean. If you have nothing in the Mediterranean, you won't even be able to hold the Black Sea. If you can't hold the Black Sea, you'll have to shrink back to the Arctic. The Arctic is very cold."

Korosov fell silent again. "President Assad, are you threatening me?"

"I'm not threatening you. I'm telling you facts. The fact is, you and I are lashed to the same boat. When the boat sinks, you and I drown together. If you don't want to drown, don't let me sink."

The call disconnected.

Assad sat there, gripping the receiver, listening to the busy tone. Outside the window, those burning tires were still smoking, black smoke rising, covering the moon, covering the stars, covering the Sky.

Mexico City, top floor of the "Feathered Serpent Temple." Night.

Victor stood at the window, looking at the traffic on Paseo de la Reforma. It was already very late, and there were few cars. Now and then a taxi drove by, its headlights dragging long shadows across the road.

In his hand he held the freshly delivered intelligence report: on the streets of Damascus, at least fifty people dead, more than two hundred wounded.

The hospitals are full—no beds, no doctors, no medicine.

Some have been sent to Tiberias City, the Israelis' hospitals are taking them in.

Bramo stood behind him. "Assad has appealed to Moscow for help. Korosov didn't agree, but he didn't refuse either. The Big Mao People's fleet is still off Tartus Port, the planes are still at Hemimeim Base, the soldiers are still in their barracks. They're waiting—waiting for Assad to lose his grip, waiting for us to make a move, waiting for an opening."

Victor turned around. "An opening? What kind of opening? Waiting for Assad to turn Damascus into a Slaughterhouse? Waiting for those people holding up photographs to be ground into mince by tanks? Waiting for the whole world to shut its eyes and pretend nothing happened?"

He walked back to his desk and sat down.

Spread out on the desk was a newly delivered intelligence report, sent back from Damascus by Bennett's people.

Those photographs, those dead, those wounded, those people waiting to die in hospital corridors. In one of the photos there was a face, young, just over twenty, eyes closed, mouth slightly open, as if sleeping. But the hole in his chest told Victor he was not asleep.