To watch that murderer. Watch him die.
At seven in the evening, at the gates of the Presidential Palace. Those holding the photographs haven't dispersed yet. Standing on the steps, Alvarez looks northward at the sky, where the fire is getting brighter, and gunshots are drawing nearer. The Turks' tanks have reached the edge of the Old Town, at most, there's one more hour.
Maher steps out from the door and stands beside him.
"Lieutenant, is the helicopter still there?"
"It's still waiting at the airport."
Maher nods and turns to leave.
"General Maher." Alvarez calls after him. "What about you, are you leaving?"
Maher stops but doesn't turn back.
"He doesn't leave, I don't leave."
"Why?"
"Because he's my uncle."
Bramo comes up from below the steps, holding a satellite phone in his hand.
"The Leader's call."
Alvarez takes the phone.
"Lieutenant." Victor's voice on the other end, very calm.
"Leader."
"Assad still won't leave?"
"Won't leave."
"Maher?"
"Also won't leave."
