Chapter 2164 - 874: You’re Quite Arrogant, Aren’t You?

Golan Heights, Tiberias Lake pontoon bridge, 3 a.m.

The wind swept over the lake, cold as a knife.

Lieutenant Alvarez sat by the folding table, the coffee in the thermos had already cooled. He sat at this table for three days, brewing a pot of Chiapas coffee each day, waiting for Brigadier General Hassan to come drink it. Hassan didn't come. Colonel Barak didn't come either. Only the old Moses Levi came to the bridgehead every evening, leaning on his cane, sitting for a while, feeding the pigeons, watching the lake water, and then went home.

On the third night, someone finally came to the east end of the bridge.

It was four men in black suits, without military hats or ranks, but their gait unmistakably military. They surrounded a man in a gray trench coat in the middle, a man in his fifties, with a thin face, high cheekbones, eyes like two holes.

Alvarez stood up, his hand on the handgun at his waist.

The four men walked to the center of the bridge and stopped. The man in the trench coat looked at Alvarez for a few seconds, then said something in Arabic. Alvarez didn't understand, but the interpreter next to him—left by Lieutenant Colonel Sanchez—his face changed.

"Lieutenant, he said: 'Tell Victor, the matter of Hamah is not for him to meddle in.'"

Alvarez's hand didn't move from his gun. "Who are you?"

The man didn't answer.

He pulled out an envelope from his trench coat pocket and threw it on the table. The envelope was thick, bulging, the sound of it hitting the table was heavy—like metal inside.

"This is a letter from General Rifat Assad to Mr. Victor. Please pass it on."

He turned and left. The four men followed him, their leather shoes clacking on the bridge surface, like scissors cutting cloth.

Alvarez stood in place, watching the backs of those five men disappear into the darkness at the east end of the bridge. He looked down at the envelope on the table, without a header or signature, sealed with wax, the wax pressed with a crest—the eagle emblem of the Syrian Republic Guard.

He didn't open it. He picked up the satellite phone, dialed a number.

"Get me Mexico City."

The phone rang twice, then connected. Bramo's voice came from the other end.

"Lieutenant Alvarez."

"Mr. Bramo, Rifat Assad's men were here. They delivered a letter, wax-sealed for the Leader, eagle crest."

There was a three-second silence on the other end. "Where's the letter?"

"In my hand. Not opened."

"Wait."

The phone hung up.

Alvarez stood there, holding the phone, looking at that envelope. The wind on the lake blew harder, lifting the corners of the envelope, making a flapping sound. He picked up the thermos, poured a cup of cold coffee, took a sip. Bitter, cold, like medicine.

The phone rang. He picked it up.

"Lieutenant, open the letter."

It was Victor's voice.

Alvarez paused for a moment. "Leader, the wax seal—"

"Open it."

He sliced the envelope open with a blade, drew out the contents. It wasn't a letter, but photographs. A stack of photos, bound with a rubber band, the first one showing a man tied to a chair, head hanging, a hole in his chest. The second photo was the same man, lying in a pool of blood on the ground, eyes open, mouth agape. The third photo was another man, also tied, also with a hole in the chest, also lying in a pool of blood. Fourth photo. Fifth photo. Sixth photo. Twelve photos in total. Twelve men. Twelve dead men.

His fingers trembled. Not out of fear, but because he recognized the face in the first photo.

Malik Hassan.

The young man who came out of Prison 317, Brigadier General Hassan's nephew, the son his mother waited nine years for. A hole in his chest, a bullet entered from the back, emerged from the front, leaving a baby fist-sized wound. The blood had dried, dark brown, smeared on gray sportswear, like a spread of melted asphalt.

Alvarez placed the photos on the table, arranged them one by one. Twelve faces, twelve pairs of eyes, some open, some closed, some looking at the sky, some at the ground, some at the lens—the one taking pictures.

He picked up the phone, his voice hoarse, "Leader, it's Malik Hassan. Plus eleven other Syrians from Prison 317. All dead."

There was a long silence on the other end of the phone.

"What else is on the photos?"

Alvarez turned to the last page. Not a photo, but a note. Typed with a typewriter, in Arabic, read aloud by the interpreter:

"Mr. Victor, the matter of Hamah is not your concern. These people are Syria's domestic affairs. Domestic affairs, handle yourself. Rifat Assad."

He recited the note's content to Victor.

There was silence again on the other end of the phone.

"Lieutenant Alvarez."

"Yes."

"Re-photograph those twelve photos. Send them to Brigadier General Hassan. Send them to Colonel Barak. Send them to CNN, BBC, Al Jazeera. Send to everyone."

"Leader, that's—"

"That's Rifat Assad's death sentence."

The phone hung up.

Alvarez stood there, looking at the twelve photos on the table. The wind on the lake had stopped, the lights no longer flickered, the moon peeked out from behind the clouds, casting a white pallor on the faces of the dead.

He picked up the camera and photographed each one.

4 a.m., Hamah, Old Town, Fayez Street No. 7.

Malik Hassan's mother did not wait for her son.

She waited at the doorway, waiting from morning till night, from night till dawn. She wore a black robe, a black headscarf, sitting on the doorstep, holding a photo in her hand. The photo showed a young man, in his twenties, full of stubble, wearing gray sportswear, the sportswear printed with the "Damascus University" logo. That was Malik. Taken nine years ago, before he was captured.