Damascus, Presidential Palace.
Three in the afternoon.
Assad read the prisoner's statement three times.
NATO advisor. British accent.
In the Turkish units, directing artillery. He put the paper down and looked up at the Minister of Defense. The Minister stood in front of him, his face ashen, like he'd just climbed out of a coffin.
"The British," Assad said, "the British are on the field themselves now."
The Minister of Defense nodded.
"The prisoner says that advisor is called James McDonald, rank of Captain, formerly served in the British Army Royal Artillery. Retired last year, this year hired by a 'private military company' and sent to Turkey. He's not just advising, he's directly commanding the fire missions. That artillery barrage north of Homs, he picked the coordinates."
Assad said nothing, staring out the window. The people holding up photos were still there. The wind was strong, the faces on the pictures shuddering in the gusts, almost alive.
