3 a.m., Damascus Presidential Palace
Assad stood at the window, looking at the gray sky outside.
His left leg wound was infected, swollen thicker than his thigh, and when the bandage was unwrapped, pus and blood flowed down his calf, dripping on the carpet, staining the intricate Persian patterns black.
The doctor said he needed amputation, but he refused.
"If I amputate, I can't move. If I can't move, I can't hold Damascus."
The Minister of Defense stood behind him, holding a war report just transmitted from Haifa Port, his hands trembling.
"Mr. President, the Turks have retreated. The Mexican Fleet sank four of their warships, saving over two hundred sailors. The second fleet did not engage and turned back. Haifa Port—has been held."
Assad did not turn around. "What about Maher?"
