Chapter 2193 - 880: Overturn? (Part 3)

His name was Khalid, a student at Damascus University, holding up a photo of his cousin. His cousin had come out of cell number 317, imprisoned for eleven years, released and died at his doorstep. Khalid was holding up his photo, standing on the street, in front of the tank, in front of that dark gun barrel. He didn't run, he stood there, holding up the photo, looking at the barrel. Then the barrel spat out flames.

Victor put down the photo. "Tell Bennett to move that piece out."

Bramo's finger twitched slightly. "Now?"

"Now. Assad has opened fire, killed people, killed at least fifty, wounded over two hundred. The whole world is watching, but the whole world is waiting. Waiting for what? Waiting for others to act first. So we will act first. Move that piece out, let the whole world see, what Assad did, what the Big Mao People supported, what we built there — on the Golan Heights, at Lake Tiberias, on that bridge — what kind of bridge, what kind of road we've left."

He stood up and walked to the window. "And, tell Lieutenant Alvarez, don't withdraw the coffee stand on the bridge. Brew a pot of coffee every day and put it on the table. Whoever comes, let them drink. Syrians come, give the Syrians to drink, Israelis come, give the Israelis to drink. Mexicans come, pour a cup for themselves. The bridge must not be unguarded. Water must not stop flowing. People must not be forgotten."

Bramo turned and left.

Victor stood at the window, looking at the night outside. In the distance, the eastern sky began to pale. A new day was coming, but for those who held up photos, the dawn did not represent hope, only another confrontation with tanks, bullets, and that dark gun barrel.

He turned around, walked back to the desk, and sat down.

The phone rang many times, he picked it up.

On the other end was Assad's voice, hoarse, tired, but very steady. "Mr. Victor."

"Mr. President, did you kill many people?"

There was silence on the other end for five seconds. "Mr. Victor, I'm fighting terrorism."

Victor laughed, a very cold laugh.

"Counterterrorism? Those who hold photos are terrorists? They hold photos of their own family members, those who came out of cell number 317, killed by your brother, buried under that olive tree. Are they terrorists? They just want to ask one question, why? Why were they killed? Why were they buried? Why weren't their families allowed to see them one last time?"

Assad did not speak.

"Mr. President, you cannot answer. Because you know, those people are not terrorists. They are Syrians, your people, whom you should protect. Not only did you fail to protect them, you let Rifat kill them, bury them, plant olive trees above them. You thought that once the trees grew, people would forget. But they haven't forgotten. They remember. They will remember. They will tell their children, and their children will tell their children's children. Trees can be planted, monuments can be demolished, names can be erased. But what people remember cannot be burned away."

Assad's voice began to tremble. "Mr. Victor, what do you want?"

Victor looked out the window. "I want you to step down. But not now, on your own. You step down, Syria gets a new president. With a new person, the Big Mao People's base stays, your life stays, your family stays. If you don't step down, I will make you step down. If I make you step down, it won't be as simple as replacing someone. I will send you to the International Criminal Court, make you sit in the defendant's seat, let you see those photos, listen to those witnesses speak, let you answer in person — why?"

Heavy breathing came from the other end of the phone.

"Mr. Victor, are you threatening me?"

"I'm not threatening you. I'm notifying you."

The phone was hung up.

Victor sat there, holding the receiver, listening to the busy tone. Outside the window, the light brightened, the sun rose in the east, shone on the glass curtain walls of the skyscrapers, reflecting a blinding light. He stood up, walked to the window. "Damn it." He cursed softly.

Damascus, Presidential Palace. Morning.

Assad stood at the window, looking at the sunlight outside. Those burning tires were extinguished, the black smoke lingered, but it was thin. Those who held photos still stood on the street, on the road, at the entrance of the government building.

They held photos of the dead, shouting Assad's name. "Assad step down! Assad step down!" The voices were quieter than yesterday, because people died yesterday. When people die, those who live become afraid. When afraid, voices become quieter.

But the people were still there, the photos were still there, the eyes were still there. Those eyes looked at his window, each asking the same question: why?

The Minister of Defense stood behind him. "Mr. President, seventy-three dead. Two hundred and eighty-nine wounded. Hospitals are still receiving, but there are no beds, no doctors, no medicine. Israelis are still receiving our wounded, the hospitals in Tiberias City have taken in over a hundred. The Foreign Ministry issued a statement, condemning Israeli interference in internal affairs. The Israelis didn't respond, they continue to receive."

Assad didn't turn around. "What about the Big Mao People?"

"Still in Tartus. Korosov said they need time to consider."

Assad turned to look at the Minister of Defense. "Consider? Consider what? Consider whether I live or die? If I die, they replace me with someone else. Replace me, and the base remains. With the base, they remain in the Mediterranean. They don't care if I live or die."

He walked back to his desk and sat down.

A piece of intelligence, just delivered, lay on the desk. In Damascus City, at least 150,000 people had already taken to the streets.

They were holding photos of the dead, shouting Assad's name. "Assad step down! Assad step down!" The voices seeped through the window seams, muffled, like thunder in the distance, getting closer, getting louder.

"Mr. President, we still have the National Guard. The 4th Armored Division, the 6th Division, the 8th Brigade. They're still there, awaiting your orders. As long as you order, they can clear those who hold photos off the streets. If not cleared, shoot them dead. If dead, drag them away. Once dragged away, no one remembers."

Assad looked out the window.

"Shoot them dead? How many were killed? Seventy-three. Is that enough? Not enough. Seven hundred and thirty? Still not enough. Seven thousand three hundred? That would be enough. With seven thousand three hundred, the streets of Damascus would be clean. When it's clean, no one remembers. When no one remembers, I am safe. When safe, I can continue to be president. Continue being president means continuing to kill. Continue killing means continuing to be safe. Continuing to be safe means continuing to be president. It's a cycle, a death cycle. I've been spinning in it for thirty-one years, and I can't spin anymore."

He stood up, walked to the window. "Tell the National Guard, stand down. Let them return to the barracks. Let those who hold photos keep holding them, let them keep shouting, let them wait. Once tired, they'll disperse. Disperse, they'll go home. Go home, they'll forget."

The Minister of Defense was stunned. "Mr. President—"

"I said, stand down, let them return to the barracks."

"Yes..." A look of sorrow and a trace of struggle flashed in the eyes of the Minister of Defense.