Chapter 2194 - 881: The Fire Begins

Damascus, Presidential Palace. Early morning.

Assad stood at the window, looking at the sunlight outside. The burning tires were extinguished, the black smoke remained, but it was thinner. Those holding photographs were still standing on the streets, at intersections, at the doors of government buildings.

They held photographs of the dead, chanting Assad's name. The voices were quieter than yesterday, because people died yesterday.

With death comes fear among the living. With fear, voices soften. Yet the people remain, the photographs remain, the eyes remain.

Those eyes stared at his window, each pair asking the same question: Why?

The Minister of Defense stood behind him, "Mr. President, ninety-three are dead. Over three hundred wounded. The hospitals are still receiving them, but there are no beds, no doctors, no medicine. The Israelis are still taking in our wounded, and Tiberias City's hospital has already taken in over two hundred. The Foreign Ministry issued a statement condemning Israel's interference in internal affairs. The Israelis ignored it, continuing to receive patients."

Assad didn't turn around. "And the Big Mao people?"

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

Assad turned, looking at the Minister of Defense. Those eyes were no longer like the winter waters of Lake Tiberias; the frozen surface began to crack, revealing the dark water beneath. "Consider? Consider what? Consider whether I live or die? If I die, they'll replace me. Replace me, the base remains. If the base remains, they remain in the Mediterranean. They don't care whether I live or die."

He walked back to his desk and sat down. On the desk lay a freshly delivered intelligence report. In Damascus city, at least two hundred thousand had taken to the streets. They held photographs of the dead, chanting Assad's name.

"Assad must step down! Assad must step down!" The sound seeped through the window, muffled, like distant thunder growing closer and louder.

"Mr. President, we still have the Republican Guard. The 4th Armored Division, the 6th Division, the 8th Brigade. They are still here, awaiting your orders. As long as you command, they can clear those holding photographs off the streets. Don't clear them, then shoot them. Once dead, they can be dragged away. Once dragged away, no one will remember."

Assad looked out the window.

The sunlight was dazzling, making the faces of those holding photographs appear very white.

He recognized some of them.

Some taught his son at Damascus University, some were cleaners at the Presidential Palace, and some were distant relatives of his wife.

Now they held photographs, chanting Assad's name, demanding his departure.

"Dead? How many have died? Ninety-three. Is that enough? Not enough. Nine hundred thirty? Is that enough? Also not enough. Nine thousand three hundred? That's enough. Nine thousand three hundred, and Damascus's streets would be clean. Once clean, no one would remember. Once no one remembers, I'm safe. Once safe, I can continue being president. Continue being president, continue killing. Continue killing, continue being safe. Continue being safe, continue being president. It's a cycle, a death cycle. I've been spinning in it for thirty-one years, and I can't move anymore."

He stood up, walked to the window. "Tell the Republican Guard, don't move, let them return to their barracks."

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

"I said, let them return to their barracks."

The Minister of Defense bowed his head and turned to leave.

The door closed, leaving Assad alone in the office.

He stood by the window, watching those holding photographs. The sun rose higher, making the faces on the photographs shine brightly. Each face looked at him; each pair of eyes asked the same question: Why? He couldn't answer. He could only stand there, watching them.

He remembered 1970, when he launched the "Corrective Movement" to seize power, the streets of Damascus were also crowded. Back then they held not photographs, but flags.

Syrian flags, green, white, black, with two stars on them. They were chanting Assad's name, not in curse, but in cheers. Thirty-one years have passed. Cheers turned to curses, flags turned to photographs, stars turned to eyes.

He closed his eyes.

Golan Heights, Lake Tiberias Floating Bridge. Morning.

Lieutenant Alvarez sat behind the folding table, the coffee in the thermos freshly brewed, beans grown in Chiapas Highlands, the kind Hassan likes. He poured two cups, placing one before him and one across the table. Then, he sat there waiting.

A car approached the eastern end of the bridge. It wasn't ambulances or jeeps, but a bus. White, unmarked, windows covered in dark film, preventing a view inside. The bus stopped behind the tent, the door opened, and people dressed in casual clothes emerged, in grey, blue, black. Some had collars, some didn't. Hair varied in length, faces varied in size, eyes varied in size.

Twenty-three people.

The twenty-third person staggered slightly as he stepped off the bus, nearly falling. Someone beside him caught him. He stood upright, looking at the bridge, looking at the land beyond, shimmering with a golden edge in the morning light.

Alvarez walked over. "You are—"

The first person spoke, voice hoarse, like a machine unused for a long time. "From Damascus. Those holding photos. The army fired shots, we escaped. Damascus is untenable, we fled north, fled to Hamah, fled to Homs, fled to the shores of Lake Tiberias. Heard there's a bridge here, with a Mexican who brews a pot of coffee daily. We'd like to have a cup of coffee."