The adjutant ran up, panting. "General, the British have been grabbed by them. They crept up and snatched him, our people didn't stop them."
Akar kept his binoculars up. "Still alive?"
"Alive. Took a round in the leg, dragged off."
Akar lowered the binoculars and turned. "Tell Ankara the British have been captured by the Syrians. Have them talk to the British side. Their own man, they can figure out how to get him back themselves."
The adjutant turned and ran. Akar stood at the window, staring at the dark mass of positions to the south. Maher. That man doesn't care if he lives.
Damascus, Presidential Palace.
1 a.m.
Assad was awake.
He sat in his wheelchair, the freshly delivered interrogation transcript spread out in front of him.
James McDonald, thirty-four, British Army Royal Artillery Captain, retired last year, hired by "Aries" private military company, deployed to Turkey as artillery adviser to the Syrian National Army.
