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rocket fire and machine-guns. It didn’t please him that the man standing next to him, fighting alongside the FSA, was a member of one of the world’s most extremist radical Islamic groups, the Takfir wal-Hijra. Glancing at the younger man he thought of the African proverb: ‘When there is no enemy within, the enemies outside cannot hurt you.’ He knew hurt. Along with the other commanders, he had joined in the disquiet shared only between themselves, about the presence of these Islamists and others like them, taking over their revolution; they feared it would get out of their control, their path to democracy.
    The current object of his disquiet, Karam Azrak, had little time for authority, little time for the major, little time for Muslims who didn’t believe with the same fervor he did and no time for Westerners, especially Americans. He suddenly lurched forward and leapt up onto the solid balustrade. Though six stories above the rubble-littered street below, Azrak nimbly retained his balance. Bringing his AK-47 up to a firing position at his hip, he screamed out at the top of his voice “ Allahu akbar! ”, God is great, before letting off a stream of automatic fire into the distance. Pleased with himself and his act of theatrical bravado in front of the other man, he jumped back down to the rooftop and stared at Major Abadi with arrogant disdain. Unable to tolerate the fool any more, Abadi abruptly turned and left.
    A mobile phone rang. Watching the major disappearing down the rooftop stairs, Azrak reached into the breast pocket of his dirty camouflage shirt and grabbed the phone. He recognized the number on the screen. The call pleased him. He hung up without a word. Alone on the rooftop he thrust his weapon into the air in one hand and yelled out “ Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! Allahu akbar! ” The parcel he had been waiting for had arrived at Al-Zabadani, northwest of Damascus. With good speed he could be there in just over an hour; inshallah — Allah willing.
    As Azrak made his way around fallen white marble statues that used to adorn the foyer of the once palatial hotel, he tapped a comrade on the shoulder and uttered the words, “It’s here, time to leave.” The comrade, in jeans, black T-shirt and sneakers, gathered up his own AK-47 and the set of keys to the van outside. He would drive like sand over the dunes in a storm.
    Despite his intentions, the trip to Al-Zabadani, which would normally have taken about three quarters of an hour, took three times as long, with fighting between pro – and anti-government factions. For Azrak, the parcel was worth dodging bullets, the risk of mortar bombs and the possibility of death. He thanked Allah again, this time for keeping the postal service running during the chaos. Surely the war couldn’t last much longer — each day the battles intensified. Time was of the essence, both for the continuation of the postal service and the viability of what was within the precious parcel.
    The comrade, also a member of Takfir wal-Hijra, drove the battered white van with the dexterity of a dodgem car racer. In the passenger seat, Azrak gripped the frame of the open window with one hand while holding his weapon with the other, his eyes continually scanning for trouble. There were few other vehicles on the streets in this area of Damascus; those he saw were either damaged beyond repair or their drivers were driving at equally breakneck speeds. There were basically only two kinds of roads — ones that were passable and ones that were not. The latter were either under so much fire it was suicide to go on them or made impassable by the rubble from shelled buildings. Azrak and his driver knew which streets were still open.
    Looking up through the dust to the tops of buildings left standing, Azrak could see smoke plumes covering the city. The driver took a fast and sharp left turn, throwing him hard up against the door. As a group of unarmed men dashed across the road to cover in