Damascus Presidential Palace, 5:45 PM.
Lieutenant Alvarez leaned against the stone pillar of the porch, with a canvas bag at his feet.
He lit a cigarette, striking the match three times before it lit. The flame flickered in the wind, illuminating his fingers one by one, like a skull.
Below the steps, the people holding photographs were still there. The wind picked up, the pictures rustling in their hands like a flock of startled pigeons.
An old man held up a photo of his son, in his thirties, wearing a Syrian military uniform, with two stars on his epaulet, a lieutenant.
He had been holding it for three years. His arm was swollen, and his wrist was bandaged, but he hadn't put it down.
Alvarez walked over and stood in front of him.
"Old gentleman, the Turks are coming."
The old man didn't look at him. "I know."
"Why aren't you running?"
