Fadel listened closely to the disturbing noises from the bathroom. She spent there more than fifteen minutes, most of them vomiting. When she finally stepped out and dropped on the sofa, he found it hard to restrain his agitation.

​

“It is getting worse with every day, my love. Do you want me to call your doctor?”

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“No, he’ll say it is normal”

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“Do you want a cup of tea?

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“Yes, please. Thank you, darling, I am blessed with a husband as sweet and kind as you.”

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He turned the kettle on and then his mobile rang. Private number.

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“Yes.”

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“Knock, And He'll open the door. Vanish, And He'll make you shine like the sun. Fall, And He'll raise you to the heavens. Become nothing, And He'll turn you into everything.”

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And the man hung up.

​

So that was it. The time has come. And he stood there, listening to the boiling water, without a thought in his mind. The time has come and there was no turning back.

​

“Is the baby kicking?”

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“She was earlier, but at the moment she is probably sleeping.”

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“I want to feel it.”

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He smiled at her. His innocent, boyish face showed no trace of terror or fear, only love. But he was going to die tomorrow.

​

He opened the computer. Strange that they decided the code for the attack to be Rumi’s verse since the target was the Iranian embassy at London. He wrote the words at the search box on YouTube. There it was, a video uploaded today. He searched the comments. The address of the empty flat with the explosives was there.

​

He was ready for it, and still not content. An attack that was going to be internationally condemned, probably even by the Syrian National Council as well, despite the fact that it was intrinsically anti-Asad. An attack, leading to nothing. Just pain.

​

He opened the folder on his computer. The folder with the photographs of Yara and his daughter.

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“Daddy, help me!”

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The screaming. He was fighting to escape the tight grip of three hefty militants and the screaming of his daughter was giving him unexpected strength but in vain. She kept screaming while another soldier was twisting her arm and his wife was still lying unconscious on the floor. The pain of his child, the pain he was helpless to stop, made him forget every caution, every forethought, he was struggling like a wild animal, but in vain. Well, that is what you get for having political views in Syria. Soldiers in your living room.

​

“Put some music on.” Asked she from the sofa.

​

He put Amr Diab and their favourite song. He looked at this woman, having his baby and trustfully putting her life in his hands. What was he doing?

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“Even if the whole world surrounds me, I will still need you.” Repeated she after the singer with a gentle smile on her lips.

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What was he doing?

​

“My love, I need to ask you something?” his life depended on her answer.”If we need to leave our cozy hideaway on Middleton Street and run and hide, would you do that?”

​

“When?”

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“Tonight.”

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“Why, what happened?”

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“Nothing, but what if we need to flee?"

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 “I am tired of running. Fleeing Damask. Fleeing Beirut. Whatever you got into, deal with it.”

​

As a part of the deal he had with the freedom fighters, they agreed to take care of his new wife and their unborn child as long as they live. And he knew this was not an empty promise. His new family was not going to miss anything. Anything but him.

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He imagined his life without the hate. Without the overwhelming wroth that was conquering his mind whenever he thought of the Syrian Government. A simple life, with all the joy and disappointments of having a child, loving a woman, working hard every day. Ignoring the fact that other people are crushed and their lives ruined that same day.

He was not free. The rage and the disdain had a hard grip on him and he was doomed. He was never going to have a simple life, there was no such choice in front of him.

​

“I will go out tonight, see you in the morning.”

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“Why, where are you going?”

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“I need to finish something, you go to sleep, my love.”

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He closed the door behind quietly.

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She looked after him for a while, then dialed a number.

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“He left.”

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“Is he going to do it?”

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“He was close to run for an escape, but I think he will do it.”

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“He’ll be on the news tomorrow. And you are set for life. Expect some nasty policemen on your doorsteps though. And reporters.”

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“I know what to expect.”

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“Well-done, girl.”

​

She looked at the starry sky through the opened window. She found the guy, she was providing intel for her comrades, she was feeding his darkest feelings and now it was soon going to be over. Take that, Tehran. Revenge was sweet. Raped at Evin. Prosecuted. Tortured. And now, the day for payback had come. She could press the button herself and sacrifice her life, but she was not consumed like Fadel, by excruciating memories and desires to lay to rest. She used to watch him secretly when he was looking at his dead family pictures, the family Asad’s regime took from him. He was dying from inside. He was everything the journalists kept silent about when analyzing the terrorist’s mind. A play piece in the big game of the governments, destroyed with the move of the little finger. She was a damaged play piece too, but she had reasons to live. 

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She touched her belly.

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“Don’t you worry about a thing.” 

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Revenge was sweet and it was not the end of it.