"Maher."
Maher lowered his hand and walked back behind the wheelchair.
Assad looked at the British woman.
"Reform, fine. But not the kind you're talking about. The kind you talk about, Iraq did it. Libya did it. After it was done, there was no country left. No people left. Syria won't do that kind of reform."
The British woman took a document out of her briefcase and put it on the table.
"This is the European Union's aid package. Sign it, and the money's there."
Assad didn't look at it.
"Take it away. Syrians don't want your money. Syrians build their own roads, put up their own houses, die on their own. When they're all dead, they're buried. Buried, they rot. Rot, and they fertilize the soil. The soil's fertile, we plant crops. The crops are harvested, people live. No need for you to manage anything."
The British woman took the document back.
"Mr. President, you'll regret this."
"Regret what? Regret not becoming your puppet? I won't."
