He thought of Hassan. Thought of that olive grove. Thought of those memorials. On the memorials were carved names. Below the names were carved: "He is tired. Let him rest."
Now Hassan is resting. But he is still here. At Damascus Airport, behind sandbag bunkers, among a hundred and twenty Mexican soldiers, waiting for the next order.
He picked up the walkie-talkie.
"Connect me to Mexico City."
The phone rang once, then was picked up. It was Bramo's voice on the other end.
"Lieutenant."
"Mr. Bramo, the Big Fur soldiers have retreated. The Third Division has paused. The civilians are still holding up photographs. Assad—he's still in the Presidential Palace."
Bramo was silent for three seconds. "Lieutenant, wait. The Leader wants to speak to you."
The sound of papers being flipped came from the other end, then Victor's voice rang out.
"Lieutenant."
"Leader."
"Did you hear the sound of artillery?"
