Chapter 2140 - 868: Reconciliation Under the Witness of the Great Victor…?! (Part 3)

"General, Colonel," he said, "From today, the water of Lake Tiberias is neither Israel's nor Syria's. It's everyone's."

That night, Jerusalem, Prime Minister's office.

Shamir looked at the text of the agreement that had just been faxed back from the Golan Heights, glancing at it for a long time.

Fifty million cubic meters. Three years. International observers. Mexican technicians.

He put the agreement down. Moses stood in front of him.

"Prime Minister, there are some within the Cabinet opposed. They say letting Mexicans manage the water access point is handing our lifeline over to outsiders."

Shamir raised his head. "Outsiders? Who are insiders? Americans? Americans come and go. Europeans? Europeans only speak sweet words. Russians? Russians stand on Syria's side. Who else is willing to come to the Golan Heights, under the Syrian artillery, and help us guard that water access point?"

Moses remained silent.

"Mexicans are coming. Not because they are strong, but because they aren't afraid. Not afraid of Syria, not afraid of us, not afraid of Americans, not afraid of that person in Moscow. What they want isn't water, nor land, nor oil. What they want is to stand here."

He stood up and walked to the window. Outside, Jerusalem's night sky was very dark, and the outline of Temple Mount was silver-white under the moonlight.

"Tell the Cabinet, I've signed the agreement. Anyone with objections can go to the Golan Heights themselves and negotiate with the Syrians."

Damascus, Presidential Palace.

Assad looked at the fax, his expression unchanged.

Fifty million cubic meters. Three years. International observers. Mexican technicians.

He put the fax down. The Minister of Defense stood in front of him.

"Mr. President, General Hassan asks, now that the agreement is signed, when will the troops withdraw?"

Assad didn't answer. He stood up and moved to the wall map of the Middle East. The Golan Heights on the left, Lake Tiberias in the middle, Syria on the right.

"Tell Hassan, our troops won't retreat. Hold the current positions. The agreement is one thing, positions are another. They can draw water, but not an inch of land."

The Minister of Defense nodded and turned to leave.

"Wait a moment." Assad stopped him. "Send Hassan a batch of new uniforms. He's been soaking at the lakeside for five days; they need changing."

Mexico City, top floor of the "Feathered Serpent Temple."

Victor looked at the text of the agreement faxed back from the Golan Heights, a hint of movement at the corner of his mouth.

Fifty million cubic meters. Not too little, not too much. Enough for the Syrians to drink, enough for the Israelis not to die of thirst, enough for Mexico to gain a foothold in the Middle East.

Bramo stood in front of him.

"The agreement is signed. What's the next step?"

"Wait for the man in Moscow to make a move. The agreement's signed, the war isn't happening, half of his pieces become worthless. The Squid Man won't fight, the Syrians won't fight, the Egyptians won't fight, the Iranians are backing off. He's spent so much money, laid down so many lines, built so many connections, all to no avail. He'll be anxious. An anxious person makes mistakes."

He turned around. "Tell Bennett to keep an eye on Moscow. The Principal is about to move."

Three days later, Moscow.

Grisha stood at the entrance of the villa, his hands trembling.

Two people followed behind him—agents from the Mexico Counterintelligence General Bureau, dressed in suits bought from the largest mall in Moscow, ties tied tightly, rather uncomfortably. But their eyes were cold, like two unsheathed blades.

The door wasn't locked. Grisha pushed the door open and walked in. The fireplace in the living room was still burning, the fire was strong, but the chair was empty. The vodka glass was still on the table, half full, not finished. There were three cigarette butts in the ashtray, all burnt down to the filter. The person had just left.

Grisha turned around, looking at the two agents. "He's gone."

One agent squatted down, touching the ash in the fireplace. "The ashes are still warm. He left less than an hour ago."

The other agent walked to the window, pulling open the curtains. Outside was a dirt road leading to the nearest highway. There were fresh tire tracks on the dirt road, two cars, one in front of the other.

"Went south," he said.

Grisha stood in the empty living room, looking at the large chair, the half cup of unconsumed vodka, the three cigarettes burnt to the filter. He recalled the appearance of that person the first time he saw him twenty-three years ago. He was young then, standing in Leningrad's cold wind, waiting for KGB people to pick recruits. That person came over, glanced at him, asked, "What's your name?" He said, "Grisha." That person nodded, "Come with me." He followed that person for twenty-three years. Now that person was gone, didn't call him.

Tears streamed down.

"Mr. Grisha." An agent came over, voice low, "We should leave. He will return."

Grisha wiped away his tears. "He won't come back."

The agent looked at him. "Why?"

Grisha turned around, walked out of the villa. At the entrance, the black van was still parked there. He got in, the door shut, and the engine started.

"Because he's afraid."

As the car drove out of the dirt road, Grisha glanced back. The villa still stood there, a trail of blue smoke rising from its chimney, slowly dispersing under Moscow's gray sky.

He remembered the last words of that person. "Grisha, you didn't betray. You didn't dare. That makes me look down on you more than betrayal."

Now he dared. But that person had already left.

Golan Heights, eastern shore of Lake Tiberias.

Hassan's troops withdrew five kilometers but didn't retreat far. On the new positions, soldiers were setting up tents, digging trenches, and erecting antennas. In the distance, the Mexican camp on the west shore of the lake was brightly lit; engineers were working overtime on the pontoon bridge. That bridge was almost done.