That night, eight o'clock.
Deep inside the Russian Military Base in Damascus, the lights of the temporary command post were glaring and harsh.
Song Heping had just settled the exhausted Sayina in a relatively quiet corner of the base's medical area, looked after by a nurse who spoke Arabic, when a stern-looking Russian Army staff officer barged into their tent.
"Mr. Yevgeny (the cook's real name)!"
The staff officer saluted swiftly.
"Emergency notice. Orders directly from the President's office, you are to depart for Moscow immediately. The plane is on standby on the runway and will take off in thirty minutes."
The cook, who was wiping his cherished Makarov Pistol, suddenly froze, his thick knuckles squeezing the gun handle with a cracking sound.
He lifted his head, his face full of rough skin instantly clouded with brutal anger, his eyes as fierce and dangerous as an enraged Siberian brown bear.
The staff officer instinctively stepped back half a step under his gaze.
