Rifat's legs gave out, and he slowly slid down against the plane's gangway.
"Rifat, you can't escape. The plane can't fly, the car can't drive, and the roads are blocked. Your mansion in Damascus is surrounded by the 4th Armored Division. Your accounts in London have been frozen by the Mexicans. Your safe in Switzerland has been opened by the French. The money, the photographs, and the recordings you've hidden around the world—all exposed."
Rifat raised his head and looked at the tank. The barrel was still aimed at his chest.
"Rifat, I give you an hour. In an hour, my men will come. You'll go with them. You know where to go."
The phone hung up.
Rifat sat at the bottom of the gangway, listening to the roar of the engines. The sun had risen, glaring brightly on the runway. He looked at the tank, at the dark barrel, at his shadow shrinking beneath him, a short mass like a pool of ink.
