The guard was still standing behind him, not leaving. Not speaking either.
The sound of a car engine came from a distance. It was getting closer. A military jeep drove up and stopped beside the tank. The door opened, and a person wearing a Syrian uniform with a single star on the epaulette — a Brigadier General — stepped out. Hassan.
Hassan walked very slowly, each step exactly the same length. His leather shoes hit the asphalt, a steady tap, tap, tap. He walked up to Rifat and stopped.
Rifat lifted his head and looked at him. "Hassan."
Hassan did not speak. He looked at Rifat for a long time. Those eyes, like the winter waters of Lake Tiberias, cold enough to freeze.
"Rifat, you killed my nephew."
Rifat did not speak.
