Hafez was silent for a long time. "And Rifat?"
"At the airport. His private plane is already being prepared. He's flying—to London."
Hafez closed his eyes. He remembered 1970, when he launched the "Corrective Movement" to seize power, Rifat was only twenty-one, charging into Damascus with tanks, clearing out all the opposition for him. That year, Rifat was just a kid, with light in his eyes. Now, that kid is running.
"Stop him."
The Minister of Defense was stunned. "Mr. President—"
"Stop him. Don't let him get on the plane. Don't let him leave Syria. Don't let him—" He paused, "Don't let him leave Damascus alive."
The phone hung up.
Hafez sat on the bed, looking at the gray sky outside the window. In the distance, from the direction of Damascus, came the dull sound of explosions. Not the sound of artillery, but the rumble of tank engines coming from far away, muffled like thunder.
He picked up the phone and dialed a number.
