Chapter 2171 - 875: _2

Hassan placed the flashlight on the ground, squatted by the pit, and looked at the half-decayed face. One eye was still intact, gray and cloudy, like the winter ice on Lake Tiberias.

"Mahmoud," he whispered, "I found you."

He took out a piece of white cloth from his pocket and spread it beside the pit. Then he jumped into the pit, squatted down, and began picking up the bones one by one, placing them on the white cloth.

His hands trembled, the bones felt light in his hands, like dried twigs. Ribs, spine, pelvis, thigh bones, calf bones, toe bones — piece by piece, he picked them all up. Lastly, the skull. He held the skull, gazing at its dark, hollow eye sockets.

"Mahmoud, I'm taking you home."

He climbed out of the pit, tied the corners of the white cloth, and made a bundle. It wasn't large; one person, twenty years, reduced to just this little. He carried the bundle over his shoulder and walked out of the olive grove. Dawn had broken, the sun was rising behind the eastern hills, shining on the olive trees whose leaves glimmered silver-green.

At the foot of the hill, a truck was parked, his adjutant standing next to it.

"General, how many is this?"

Hassan placed the bundle on the truck. "The eighteenth."

The adjutant's expression changed. "General, wasn't it seventeen yesterday—"

"Today we dug another. Mahmoud Abdul Karim, Lieutenant, captured in 1976, sent to number 317. Later transferred here."

The adjutant lowered his head.

Hassan got into the truck and the door closed. The engine roared, the truck turned around and headed out of the hills. He looked back at the olive grove. There were many trees, hundreds of them, lined up, rustling in the wind. He recalled Rifat's words: "I have land north of Hamah, planted with olive trees. How many people are buried under the trees?"

Now he knew the answer.

Moscow, Lubyanka Square, FSB Headquarters

Vice Admiral Korosov studied the satellite photos just sent from Hamah. The images showed a dozen trucks parked beside an olive grove, each laden with bundles wrapped in white cloth. People were digging pits under the trees, some were picking up bones at the pit's edge, others weeping. He set the photos down.

Dmitry stood before him.

"General, the situation in Syria is escalating. Hassan has unearthed at least twenty bodies. Not only people from number 317 but also victims from the 1976 Hamah massacre.

MSL Brotherhood members, GCD members, Kurds. All buried under that olive grove."

Korosov said nothing.

"Moreover, Mexicans are investigating Chahafiz Assad's accounts. Half of the money Rifat has in London flowed into his brother's Swiss accounts. Hafez knows about the affairs with 317, knows about the money, knows about those people. He knows everything."

Korosov stood up and walked to the window. Outside, pigeons pecked at the ground in Lubyanka Square, an old man sat on a bench feeding them, just as he did yesterday, and the day before, and every day.

"Dmitry, do you know why Hafez Assad was able to remain President for thirty-one years?"

Dmitry shook his head.

"Because he's ruthless. In 1976, he killed ten thousand people in Hamah. In 1982, he killed twenty thousand. In 2011, he killed thirty thousand. After each massacre, he would say 'the bridges remain, the water flows, no more killing.' Then a few years later, he'd kill another batch. Kill and repeat. Repeated and killed."

He turned around.

"Now the Mexicans are investigating him. Investigating his money, his people, the people he's murdered. Once they find out, then what? Make it public? Let the world know how many Hafez Assad has killed? Let the world know that Russians have a military base here, have fleets, have interests? Let the world know that we've been cleaning up his mess this whole time?"

Dmitry remained silent.

Korosov returned to his desk and sat down.

"Tell the Syrians to make Hassan stop. Stop digging. Anything that's been dug out, bury back. Anything not yet dug out, leave it alone. If this goes on, Syria will be finished."

Dmitry nodded and turned to leave.

"Wait." Korosov called him back. "One more thing. That Mossad agent, Yossi Ben-David. He was locked up for eleven years, now released. Currently in Haifa, at his wife's place. He's got something."

Dmitry was stunned. "What is it?"

"The complete list of number 317. Not the one Hassan wrote, but the one Rifat personally recorded. Who was detained, who was killed, where they're buried. It's all there. He hid it in the wall crevice in prison and took it out when he left. It's in his possession now."

Dmitry's expression changed. "General, if that thing goes public—"

"If it goes public, Hafez Assad would be finished. Syria would be finished. Our bases in Syria would be finished."

He stood up and walked to the window.

"Tell the Mossad agent, make Yossi shut up. Hand over the list. Hand it to us, hand it to the United States, hand it to anyone. Just don't hand it over to the Mexicans."

Dmitry turned and left.

Korosov stood by the window, watching the pigeons soar into the sky, their gray wings obscuring half the sky. He recalled his first visit to Hamah in 1976. Back then, he was still a Captain, accompanying the Soviet military advisory group to Syria, helping Assad train troops. The streets of Hamah ran red with blood, bodies piled along the roads, and no one was collecting them. Standing amidst the corpses, he first felt that humans were no longer human.

Now, beneath that olive grove, twenty bodies have been unearthed again. He closed his eyes.