Chapter 2135 - 867: Only the Player Can Decide the Outcome

Golan Heights, east bank of Lake Tiberias.

Brigadier General Hassan's troops had retreated five kilometers.

He stood at the forefront of the new position, watching the Mexican engineers busy on the west bank of the lake.

They were constructing a floating bridge, not a military one, but a simple pedestrian bridge with railings.

A sign stood at the bridgehead, with the same phrase written in Arabic, Hebrew, English, and Spanish: "Gate of Peace, Opens May 15."

Peace my ass!

You, Mexico, are the biggest thug.

A staff officer came over, holding a fax.

"Major General, a telegram from Damascus. The President is asking if you will attend the negotiations the day after tomorrow?"

Hassan took the fax, glanced at it, and didn't respond. He looked at the forming bridge, watching the Mexican engineers sweating under the sun. They were young, mostly in their early twenties, with faces not yet fully tanned.

The officer leading them, a lieutenant, looked no more than twenty-five. He was squatting at the bridgehead, inspecting the welds, helmet askew, with an unlit cigarette in his mouth.

"What's that lieutenant's name?"

The staff officer was momentarily stunned, flipping through his notebook. "Alvarez. From Mexico City, graduated in civil engineering, just enlisted last year."

Hassan nodded. "Tell him the bridge is well built."

The staff officer turned to leave.

"Wait."

Hassan stopped him. He pulled a neatly folded piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to the staff officer. "This is the hydrological map of the east bank of Lake Tiberias. Tell them to move the bridge pier twenty meters southward. The water is shallower, and the ground is firmer there. This way, they won't have their bridge swept away by a flood."

The staff officer was stunned. "Major General, this is military intelligence—"

"What's secret about it?" Hassan interrupted him, "Across the lake, American satellites see everything clearly. It's better to help those engineers rather than let them waste their efforts."

He paused, looking at the bridge.

"The Mexicans have come all the way here to build a bridge. We can't let people say that the Syrians didn't even offer them tea."

The staff officer left.

Hassan stood there, looking at the bridge. The sun was setting, dyeing the lake red as blood. On the west bank, the lights of Tiberias City began to shine—sparse, dim, but still glowing. He thought of five days ago, when his tanks were parked by the lake, guns pointed at the city. His soldiers were preparing to cross the lake, engineers were constructing the floating bridge, artillery was loading shells. Then that Mexican lieutenant colonel came, sitting in the broken hut of the UN observer post, drinking a cup of cold tea, telling him "Syrian blood won't be shed in vain."

Now he stood on this side, watching the Mexicans build the bridge.

Once the bridge is connected, people can cross.

Once people cross, goods can come over.

Once goods come over, money can be made.

Once money is made, guns can be bought.

Once guns are bought—

He interrupted his own thoughts, turning back to the command vehicle.

"Reply to Damascus. I'll attend the negotiations."

Mexico City, Northern Prison.

Shahar had been sitting in this interrogation room for three days.

The light was always on, buzzing fluorescent, unturnable. Every day someone delivered meals—bread, water, mashed potatoes—punctually, but no one came to interrogate him. He could only stare at the wall opposite, counting the cracks in the paint. When he reached the three hundredth, the door finally opened.

Bennett came in. This time he wasn't alone; behind him was a young woman with short hair, big eyes, holding a tablet.

"Mr. Shahar, someone wants to see you."

The woman placed the tablet on the table, the screen lit, displaying a video call interface. On the screen sat a man in his forties, wearing a dark suit, seated behind a large desk.

Shahar didn't know him, but he knew who it was.

"Lieutenant Shahar." The man spoke, his voice calm.

Shahar's lips moved slightly. "Mr. Victor."

Victor looked at him. "Colonel Beaton has already disclosed everything about your case."

Shahar's hands began to tremble. "Colonel Beaton… he—"

"He was arrested by the Squid Military Justice Office in Tel Aviv two hours ago. Your flight logs, maintenance records, and the recordings of your conversations with him have all been submitted to the military court."

Shahar closed his eyes. It's over.

"But you're not the mastermind," Victor's voice remained calm, "and neither is Colonel Beaton. The person behind him is in Moscow."

Shahar opened his eyes. "Moscow?"

"Have you heard of 'the Principal'?"

Shahar shook his head.

Victor looked at him, silent for three seconds.

"It's okay if you don't know, you only need to know one thing—Lieutenant Shahar, you've been used. Your country used you, your superior used you, and that man hiding in Moscow is using you too. Once they're done, you're supposed to be killed. Cohen is already dead; you're next."

Shahar's face went pale. "You—you want to kill me?"

Victor shook his head. "We're not going to kill you. We want you to live. To go out and tell the world what happened that day. Tell the world that the bomb was not a malfunction; it was murder. Tell the world who is manipulating everything behind the scenes."

Shahar was silent for a long time. "What if I do as you say?"

Victor looked at him. "You will live. You will return to Israel, see your wife, see your child. Your child turns three next month, named Yunason, right?"

Shahar's tears fell.

"Think it over."

The screen went dark. Bennett picked up the tablet and turned to leave.

"Mr. Bennett," Shahar stopped him.

Bennett turned back.