Chapter 2182 - 877: Seems Like an America

The President nodded. "Yossi Ben-David. That Mossad guy. Locked up for eleven years. Now in Haifa. With his wife there."

He looked at the Chief of Staff. "Tell him the United States owes him a favor."

12 noon, Damascus, Presidential Palace.

Hafez Assad stood at the window, looking at the garden outside. The roses bloomed, red, white, pink, vibrant under the midday sun. The gardener was absent, the hose left on the ground, water flowing, beyond the flowerbeds, onto paths, forming puddles.

The Minister of Defense stood behind him, voice trembling.

"Mr. President, the streets are out of control. Damascus, Hamah, Homs, Aleppo—all in turmoil. Those people carrying those dead's photos, shouting your name. Not in support, but—cursing. People within the army are starting to waver too. The First Division, the Third Division, within the Republican Guard—people are spreading those lists. Those names, those dates, those manners of death. They recognize those people. Some are their comrades, some are their neighbors, some are their family."

Assad didn't turn back. "The Great Russians?"

"The fleet has set sail. Aircraft are armed. They say they won't let you fall. They say Syria is a Great Russian ally. Allies don't abandon allies."

Assad turned around, looking at the Minister of Defense. Those eyes were cold, like Lake Tiberias in winter.

"Allies? They're protecting their bases. Tartus, Hemimeim. Not protecting me. I die, they'll switch Presidents, continue using those bases. Who Syria belongs to, they don't care."

He walked back to the desk, sat down. The desk had that public list spread out, forty names. Twenty-three have been buried, seventeen are still living. Some living are in Israel, some in Syria, some unknown where. He looked at the names, looked for a long time.

"Tell the Great Russians, I want to make a national address. Tonight, eight o'clock. Tell them, I will stabilize the situation. Tell them, that olive grove, those monuments, those names—I will handle. Tell them—"

He paused.

"Tell them Syria won't fall. I won't fall."

The Minister of Defense nodded, turned to leave.

"Wait." Assad called him. "What about Rifat's body?"

The Minister of Defense stopped. "Still in Hamah. Under that olive grove. Buried by Hassan. No marker."

Assad was silent for three seconds. "Dig him out. Send to Damascus. I want a funeral for him. A state funeral."

The Minister of Defense froze. "Mr. President, Rifat is—"

"What is Rifat? A beast. Beasts don't deserve markers. But the beast is my brother. The brother is dead, the older brother must give him a funeral. This is Syria's tradition. Tradition cannot be lost."

He stood up, walked to the window.

"On the day of the funeral, let the television station broadcast it live. Let the whole world see. The Syrian President giving his brother a state funeral. The Syrian President is compassionate, righteous. The Syrian President is not a murderer."

He looked at the roses outside the window.

"Those buried under that olive grove are not murders. They are opposition, GCD, Kurds. They are not human. What Rifat killed were not people."

He turned around, looked at the Minister of Defense. "Go. Dig up Rifat. Wash him clean, dress in military uniform, inside a coffin. Ten a.m. tomorrow, in front of the Presidential Palace. State funeral."

The Minister of Defense turned and left.

Assad stood at the window, watching those roses. The water still flowing, beyond the flowerbeds, onto paths, forming puddles. He looked at those puddles, looked for a long time.

8 p.m., Damascus, Presidential Palace. National television address.

Assad stood in front of the lens, wearing a dark suit, without a tie. Face very thin, eyes bright, but heavy eye bags, like two lead balls hanging. Behind him on the wall hangs a Syrian flag, next to the flag, hangs a portrait of his father.

"Fellow Syrians, Arab world brothers, friends around the world."

His voice was steady, like reciting a lesson.

"Today, our country faces unprecedented challenges. Some want to divide us, some want to destroy us, some want us to forget—we are Syrians. Syrians, won't be divided. Syrians, won't be destroyed. Syrians, won't forget."

He paused.

"That olive grove is Syrian soil. Those monuments are Syrian stones. Those names are Syrian names. Some want us to dismantle those monuments, erase those names, forget those people. I tell you—"

He looked at the lens.

"Monuments, won't dismantle. Names, won't erase. People, won't forget."

He paused again.

"But those monuments are not set up for Rifat Assad. Rifat Assad is a criminal of Syria. He killed Syrians. He buried Syrians. He made Syrians shed Syrian blood. His crimes, Syrians won't forget. His monument, Syrians aren't worthy of setting."

He took a deep breath.

"Rifat Assad's body has been transported from Hamah to Damascus. At ten a.m. tomorrow, in front of the Presidential Palace, state funeral. Syrian President giving his brother a state funeral. Not because he's innocent, but because he's guilty. Guilty, also has to be buried. Buried, then done. Done, then passed. Passed, then forgotten."

He stood up.

"Syrians, won't forget. But Syrians, must look forward. Look forward to live. Live to remember. Remember not to repeat."

He bowed. The live signal cut off.

Assad stood in front of the lens, looking at the extinguished red light. His face had no expression.

The Minister of Defense walked in. "Mr. President, the Great Russians ask, why did you openly bring up Rifat's crimes?"

Assad turned around. "Because if I don't mention it, the Mexican will mention it. If the Mexican mentions it, it's not me who mentioned it any more. I mention, it's me admitting guilt. Mexicans mention, it's me being convicted. Admitting and conviction, are not the same."

He walked out of the studio.

Early morning, Hamah, north foothills, olive grove.

The moon was bright, illuminating those stones with a white glow. The wind blew from the north, carrying the scent of snow, and the scent of spring. The snow almost melted. Trees soon to bud.

In the center of the grove, in the open space, stood one person.

Lieutenant Alvarez. He flew from Tel Aviv to Damascus, from Damascus drove to Hamah, from Hamah walked to this grove.

Walked for a long time, dark fell.

He stood in front of Hassan's monument, where it was engraved: "Hassan Ali Hassan, Commander of Fifth Division. Fought seven days at Golan Heights. Dug for seven days at Hamah. Carved forty monuments. Set forty monuments. Then died."

He pulled a thermos from his pocket. The coffee inside still hot, beans grown in the Chiapas Highlands, Hassan's favorite kind. He poured a cup, placed in front of the monument.

"General, the coffee's still hot, but you can't drink it."

He squatted down, touched the monument. Stone very cool, the engraving deep, like carved with nails. He touched those engravings, line by line he touched. Reaching the last line, his hand stopped. That line engraved: "He's tired. Let him rest."

He stood up, looking at those monuments. Forty monuments, laid in four rows, ten each row.

Moonlight brushed the stones, those names shimmering white.

He read them one by one. Malik Hassan, Abdul Karim Hassan, Muhammad Fayez, Joseph ben-Joseph—he read to the last one, stopped. That monument had no name engraved, only one line: "Beast. Not fit for a monument."

Rifat Assad.

Alvarez squatted down, looked at that monument.

The monument is new, stone very white, engraving very deep. But no coffee, no flowers, nothing at the front. He stood up, turned around, walked out of the grove.

The car still parked at the foothill, engine not shut down.

He got in the car, door closed. Car turned south. That's the direction of Damascus.

That's the direction of Rifat Assad's state funeral.

He wants to take a look.

See how the beast is buried, see how the brother sends off the brother, see how Syrians remember this day.

…