Chapter 2183 - 878: The New World Police

9:47 AM, Damascus, in front of the Presidential Palace

The first cannon salute sounded and Lieutenant Alvarez was standing at the edge of the crowd.

He hadn't shaved for three days, and had dark circles under his eyes. It took him a whole night to drive from the olive grove in Hamah to Damascus, smoking three packs of cigarettes and finishing the last drop of cold coffee from his thermos.

The square in front of the Presidential Palace was packed with people.

They were "attendees"—high-ranking military and political officials from Syria, diplomats from various countries, and foreign journalists with cameras. They stood behind the security line, their expressions varied: some were sad, some indifferent, and some showed nothing at all.

But Alvarez knew that those who showed nothing were the ones truly afraid.

As Rifat Assad's coffin was carried out from the Presidential Palace gates, the second cannon salute sounded.

The coffin was black, polished to a shine, and draped with the Syrian flag. It was carried by eight soldiers from the Syrian Republic Guard in white uniforms, marching in sync, each step identical in length. They placed the coffin on a high platform in the center of the square, then stepped aside, stood at attention, and saluted.

Alvarez watched the coffin.

He recalled the olive grove, those white cloth bundles, and those unmarked graves.

Hafez Assad emerged from the Presidential Palace gates.

His expression was strange, a kind of emptiness devoid of anything.

He walked up to the coffin, stopped, and reached out to touch the lid.

"My brother," he began, his voice amplified across the entire square, "Rifat Assad, former commander of the Syrian Republic Guard, today, has come home."

Someone below began to cry. The mourners wore military uniforms, with generals' stars on their shoulders—Rifat's old subordinates, those who had killed for him, buried the corpses for him at location 317.

"He committed crimes," Hafez continued, his voice unwavering, "He killed people, he buried people, he caused Syrians to shed Syrian blood. The Syrian people will not forgive him. But he is my brother. My brother is dead, I must give him a burial. This is Syria's tradition."

He paused briefly.

"Tradition must not be lost."

Alvarez's hand was in his pocket, touching the tombstone of Abdul Karim Hassan. It was inscribed: "He waited eleven years. Did not enter the door of his home."

He recalled Hassan kneeling by the edge of the grave, clutching that white cloth bundle, trembling with sobs. He recalled those tombstones, forty of them, arranged in four rows, glowing white under the moonlight. He remembered Hassan leaning against that old olive tree, eyes closed, holding an incomplete inscription in his hand.

He remembered reaching out to touch Hassan's face, cold, hard like stone.

The third cannon salute sounded.

The crowd in the square began to move.

High officials walked to the platform one after another, bowed in front of the coffin, then stepped aside. Diplomats stood behind the security line, watching everything, their expressions subtle. Journalists held up cameras, flashlights creating a shimmer.

Alvarez didn't move.

He stood at the edge of the crowd, looking at the coffin, the flag, and the expressionless brother standing in front of the coffin.

He remembered that list.

Forty names.

Twenty-three were already buried, seventeen were still alive. The living were in Israel, in Syria, or somewhere unknown. The list was penned by Rifat himself, his handwriting messy, as if written while trembling.

Now Rifat lay in the coffin.

The list remained.

The names remained. Those who died, those who lived, all the names were on that paper. The paper was in Victor's drawer, along with the tombstone, the blood-stained paper, and the photograph of Hassan standing among the trees.

Alvarez turned and walked out of the crowd.

He passed the high officials, the diplomats, the journalists. No one noticed him. He reached the edge of the square, stopped, and glanced back. The coffin was still on the platform, the flag fluttering in the wind, and the cannon salutes kept sounding.

He turned around and continued walking.

10:23 AM, Damascus International Airport

When Alvarez walked into the departure hall, the broadcast was repeating the same sentence in Arabic and English: "Due to tensions in the Damascus area, all flights are indefinitely delayed."

The departure hall was crowded with people. Arabs, Europeans, Asians, some sitting, some standing, some lying on the floor. Some were on phone calls, some crying, others arguing.

An older white man in a suit was waving a ticket at the Syrian Airlines counter staff, his face flushed red: "I'm a French journalist! I have a job! You can't trap me here!"

The staff remained expressionless: "Sir, all flights are delayed. No exceptions."

Alvarez stood at the back of the crowd, looking at the huge flight information screen. The screen was filled with red "Delayed" text, without a single green.

He turned around, walked to a corner, and pulled out a satellite phone.

"Connect me with Mexico City."

The phone rang twice and was answered. It was Bramo's voice on the line.

"Lieutenant."

"Mr. Bramo, the Damascus Airport is closed. All flights are delayed. I'm stuck here."

Bramo paused for two seconds. "Assad ordered the closure of the airspace. It's not due to weather reasons, it's for military reasons. The Big Bear's fleet has arrived."

Alvarez tightened his grip on the phone.