Chapter 2181 - 877: Looks Like an America

The special envoy turned and walked away. His leather shoes clacked on the bridge, growing fainter.

Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, watching the black car disappear into the dust. He lowered his head and looked at the document in his hand. Military zone, demolition order within three days. He folded the document and put it into his jacket pocket, alongside the white flag, the blood-stained paper, the memorial stone, and the photo of Hassan standing among the trees. The pocket was already heavy, pulling down, and he supported it with his hand.

He picked up the walkie-talkie. "Connect me to Mexico City."

The phone rang once before it was picked up. Victor's voice was on the other end.

"Lieutenant."

"Leader, Assad has ordered that the olive grove be designated as a military zone. All memorial stones are to be demolished within three days."

There was a long silence on the other end.

"Lieutenant, tell that special envoy, the Mexicans disagree."

Alvarez was stunned. "Leader—"

"That olive grove doesn't belong to Assad. It belongs to the Syrian people. Those stones aren't Hassan's. They belong to the dead. Assad has no authority to demolish them. He has no authority to seal them. He has no authority to make the Syrian people forget."

Sounds of papers flipping came from the other end.

"Tell Bennett to disclose that list. The complete number 317 list. Who's been imprisoned, who's been killed, where they're buried. Make it all public. Send it to CNN, BBC, Al Jazeera. Let the whole world see. Let the whole world see who Assad is protecting. Let the whole world see who the Great Russians are helping."

Alvarez gripped the phone tightly. "Leader, this is—"

"This is war," Victor interrupted him, "War isn't just tanks and airplanes. War can also be truth and lies. Assad wants to use tanks to seal off that grove, we'll use truth to blast open that door. Whoever gives in first loses."

The phone call ended.

Alvarez stood there, holding the phone, hearing the busy tone in the receiver.

The wind over the lake was stronger, making the lights strung on the bridge railing rustle. The sun peeked over the eastern hill, casting its reflection on the water in a fragmented golden hue.

He turned and walked back to the fold-out table, sitting down. The coffee in the thermos had gone cold, but he didn't pour it out. He picked up the cup of cold coffee across from him and poured it into the lake. Then, he poured two new cups, placing one in front of himself and the other across the table.

"General Hassan, the coffee's still warm. You can't drink it."

He looked at that cup of coffee for a long time.

Then he stood up and walked off the bridge. At the bridgehead, the off-road vehicle was still parked there, engine running. He got into the car, closed the door. The car turned around and headed south.

That's the direction of Haifa, the direction of Tel Aviv, the direction of the airport. That's the direction of Mexico. That's the direction home. He didn't look back.

The car drove far, and he glanced through the rearview mirror. The bridge was still there, the lights on the bridge still shining, turning into a string of transparent beads in the morning light. The tent at the east end of the bridge was still there, the folding chair still there, the bottled water still there. The bench at the west end was empty, pigeons perched in a row, cooing.

He turned back to look at the road ahead. The road stretched long, gray, reaching all the way to the horizon.

8 AM, Washington D.C., the White House.

The President sat in the Oval Office, with three intelligence reports spread before him. The first: Mexico has disclosed the complete list of prison number 317. CNN, BBC, and Al Jazeera are broadcasting continuously, with those names, those dates, those manners of death, all over the world's screens.

On the streets of Syria, people have begun to gather, holding photos of the deceased, chanting Assad's name, not in support, but in curse. The second: Russian forces in Syria have entered the highest state of military readiness.

Ships at Tartus Port have set sail, planes at Hemimeim are armed, military advisors in Damascus have donned bulletproof vests. The third: Two destroyers of the United States Sixth Fleet have entered the Mediterranean. The French carrier is passing through Gibraltar. British Typhoon jets have landed in Cyprus.

The Chief of Staff stood before him, face pale.

"Mr. President, the Mexicans are crazy. They've made that list public, the whole world has seen it. The Syrian streets have exploded, and Assad is barely holding on. The Russians are anxious, their fleet has already gone out to sea. Our fleet is there too. The French and British are there too. If a fight breaks out—"

"So what if it breaks out?"

The President interrupted calmly, as if discussing something unrelated to himself. "Congress impeached me, the House of Representatives voted unanimously in favor. Next month, I'll be kicked out of this office. Whether it breaks out or not, what difference does it make?"

The Chief of Staff said nothing.

The President stood up, walked to the window. Outside, Washington's sky was dim, the cherry blossoms had faded, the leaves were dark green.

"Tell the Sixth Fleet, don't move. Keep an eye on the Russians. If they don't move, we don't move. If they move—"

He paused.

"Then we move."

He turned back to the Chief of Staff. "Tell the French and the British, don't be impulsive. This isn't their war. This is Mexico's war. If Victor wants to fight, let him fight. We'll watch. Once they've tired of fighting, we'll come in and clean up the situation."

The Chief of Staff nodded, turned to leave.

"Wait." The President stopped him. "One more thing. That list—number 317—who made it public?"

"The Mexicans. Bennett's men. They got the original from Yossi Ben-David. The copy Hassan gave to Alvarez was a duplicate, the original was with Yossi. Yossi handed it to Bennett. Bennett made it public."