He walked back to the folding table and sat down. The coffee in the thermos had already cooled, but he didn't pour it out. He picked up the three empty cups and placed them beside the table. Hassan's, Assad's, those of the ones who died in Aleppo. Three cups, three directions.
He picked up the two-way radio. "Get me Mexico City."
The phone rang once and was picked up. On the other end was Victor's voice.
"Lieutenant."
"Leader, the people from Aleppo have arrived. They say the Turks seized their homes, killed their men, raped their women. They say the Turks didn't come to liberate them, but to occupy them. They escaped. They fled to the bridge, drank water, crossed it, and headed north. Some went to Haifa, some went to Tel Aviv, some went to Jerusalem. The Israelis are taking them in. Hospitals are taking them in, schools are taking them in, churches are taking them in. They are taking in Syrians."
The other end of the phone was silent for a long time.
