There was silence on the other end of the line for five seconds. "Lieutenant, wait."
The call disconnected.
Alvarez sat there, holding the phone, listening to the busy tone. The wind over the lake had picked up, making the string of lights along the bridge rail clatter. He picked up the cup of cold coffee and took a sip. Bitter, cold, like medicine.
Damascus, Presidential Palace. Night.
Assad stood at the window, watching the fire outside. Not candles—burning tires. Those people holding up photographs had started burning tires. Black smoke rose, covering the moon, covering the stars, covering the Sky. Tanks of the National Guard were pushing forward, their tracks grinding over those photos, crushing the faces on them. The fragments drifted in the wind like gray butterflies.
