"Lieutenant Colonel, do you know why I called you?"
Alvarez shook his head.
Hassan took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to him. The paper was filled with names in Arabic, the handwriting was messy, like it was etched with nails. Forty names. Twenty-three are already buried, seventeen are still alive. The living ones, some are in Israel, some in Syria, some in unknown places.
"This is the complete list of No. 317. Rifat personally recorded it. Whoever was imprisoned, whoever was killed, where they were buried, it's all written here. My nephew Malik brought it out of prison, hid it on him, and gave it to me when he got out."
Alvarez took the piece of paper. It was very thin, very old, folded four times, and the corners were tattered. He held that piece of paper like he was holding a tombstone.
"General, what do you want me to do?"
