His name was Khalid, a student at Damascus University, holding up a photo of his cousin. His cousin had come out of cell number 317, imprisoned for eleven years, released and died at his doorstep. Khalid was holding up his photo, standing on the street, in front of the tank, in front of that dark gun barrel. He didn't run, he stood there, holding up the photo, looking at the barrel. Then the barrel spat out flames.
Victor put down the photo. "Tell Bennett to move that piece out."
Bramo's finger twitched slightly. "Now?"
"Now. Assad has opened fire, killed people, killed at least fifty, wounded over two hundred. The whole world is watching, but the whole world is waiting. Waiting for what? Waiting for others to act first. So we will act first. Move that piece out, let the whole world see, what Assad did, what the Big Mao People supported, what we built there — on the Golan Heights, at Lake Tiberias, on that bridge — what kind of bridge, what kind of road we've left."
