Chapter 2168 - 874: You’re Pretty Arrogant, Aren’t You?

The guard was still standing behind him, not leaving. Not speaking either.

The sound of a car engine came from a distance. It was getting closer. A military jeep drove up and stopped beside the tank. The door opened, and a person wearing a Syrian uniform with a single star on the epaulette — a Brigadier General — stepped out. Hassan.

Hassan walked very slowly, each step exactly the same length. His leather shoes hit the asphalt, a steady tap, tap, tap. He walked up to Rifat and stopped.

Rifat lifted his head and looked at him. "Hassan."

Hassan did not speak. He looked at Rifat for a long time. Those eyes, like the winter waters of Lake Tiberias, cold enough to freeze.

"Rifat, you killed my nephew."

Rifat did not speak.

"You killed eleven Syrians who came out of Number 317. You kept thirty-seven people in Number 317, for eleven years, twenty-two years, thirty years. You killed those people's families, buried them at the foot of the mountains to the north, where olive trees grow."

Rifat lowered his head.

Hassan took a photo out of his pocket and held it up in front of him. The photo showed a young woman in a black robe and headscarf, sitting on a doorstep, her head lowered, holding a photo in her hands. That was Malik's mother. Hassan's cousin-in-law. The woman who waited for nine years.

"She died. This morning. Her heart stopped."

Rifat looked at the photo, his hand shaking.

Hassan put the photo away and drew a pistol from his waist. Makarov, nine millimeters, one that leaked out from the hands of KGB agents when the Soviet Union collapsed. He pressed the muzzle to Rifat's forehead.

Rifat raised his head and looked at the dark hole of the muzzle. "Hassan—"

"Rifat, do you know what this is?"

Rifat did not speak.

"This is Malik's pistol. When he came out of Number 317, he had nothing with him. Only this gun. His father left it at Number 317. His father has been dead for twenty-two years, but the pistol remained."

Tears streamed down Rifat's face. "Hassan, I—"

"Don't speak. Listen to me."

Hassan pressed the muzzle tighter into his forehead.

"When Malik walked across the bridge, I was at the eastern end watching him. He walked very slowly, each step heavy. When he reached the middle of the bridge, he squatted down, touching the wooden planks on the bridge surface. Then he stood up, looking at the lake. The water was very blue, the sky also blue, in the distance Tiberias City was very white. He looked for a long time. Then he continued walking. When he reached the western end of the bridge, I poured him a glass of water. Water from Lake Tiberias, sweet. He took a sip and said, 'Tasty.' Then he left. Heading east, back to Hamah, to find his mother. He walked three steps and turned to look at me. He said, 'Uncle, the bridge is built, I'm leaving.' I said, 'Go, go back home.' He left."

Rifat closed his eyes.

"Now he's dead. His mother is dead too. In front of their house, there's a pool of dried blood, dark brown. His mother sat on the doorstep, holding his photo, her heart stopped."

Hassan's finger was on the trigger.

"Rifat, you killed my nephew. You killed eleven Syrians. You killed seventeen buried under the olive trees. You killed those people's families. You killed their lives."

He looked into Rifat's eyes.

"Now, I want your life."

The gunshot rang out.

Rifat Assad slipped off the gangway, landing face-up on the asphalt. Right in the center of his forehead was a hole, the bullet exiting from the back of his head, leaving a pool of dark brown blood on the runway. His eyes remained open, looking at the sky. The sky was so blue, it hurt to look at.

Hassan put the pistol away. He turned around and looked at the tank. The barrel still pointed towards the direction of the plane, but the hatch was open, and the driver poked his head out, saluting him. Hassan saluted back.

He walked towards the jeep. After a few steps, he stopped and turned back to look once more. Rifat still lay there, eyes open, looking at the sky. Blood continued to flow from the hole in his forehead, slowly spreading over the asphalt like a dark flower blossoming. ℯℯ𝑙.

Hassan turned away and got into the car. The door closed, the engine started. The jeep turned around and headed north. That was the direction of Hamah. That was the place where his nephew died. That was the place where his cousin-in-law died. That was the direction of the slope planted with olive trees.

He wanted to look at those trees. To look at the people buried beneath them.

Noon, the Golan Heights, the floating bridge over Lake Tiberias.

Lieutenant Alvarez sat beside the folding table, the coffee in the thermos already finished. He held the empty cup, looking at the sun's reflection on the lake surface. The sun was overhead, the shadow shrunk at his feet, a short patch, like a pool of ink.

A car came from the eastern end of the bridge. Not a jeep, nor a bus, but a black sedan. The car stopped behind the tent, the door opened, and a man in a black suit stepped out, not wearing a hat, without any military insignia. He walked to the middle of the bridge, standing before Alvarez.

"Lieutenant Alvarez? I'm from Damascus. Special envoy of President Hafez Assad."

Alvarez stood up. "What's the matter?"

The envoy drew a document from his briefcase and handed it to him. "This is the President's order. Rifat Assad, sentenced to death for treason, abuse of power, unlawful detention, and murder among seventeen charges. It has been carried out this morning."

Alvarez took the document and glanced at it. Hafez Assad's signature and presidential seal were printed on it.

"There's one more thing." The envoy took out a letter from the briefcase and handed it over. "This is President Assad's letter for Mr. Victor. Please pass it on."