Lieutenant Alvarez waited at Tel Aviv Airport for eleven hours.
The departure hall was crowded with people—Jews, Arabs, Russians, Ethiopians, and several Europeans wearing United Nations vests. Some were crying, some were on phone calls, some lay on the floor sleeping, and others stared blankly at the flight information screen.
The screen was all red, full of delays, except for one flight to Istanbul which was lit green.
That was a Turkish charter, coming to pick up their soldiers.
"Lieutenant."
He opened his eyes. Bramo stood in front of him, the cuffs of his gray trench coat dirty, as if smeared with engine oil.
"Where's the plane?"
"Gone. Mexico City told us to leave by sea. Haifa Port, the fleet is waiting there."
Alvarez stood up and slung his canvas bag over his shoulder. The bag was heavy, with four cups clanking inside.
"Where's Assad?"
