Chapter 2141 - 868: Reconciliation Under the Witness of the Great Victor…?! (Part 4)

The staff officer walked over. "Commander, a telegram from Damascus. The President says the troops are not to retreat, hold the current positions."

Hassan took the telegram, glanced at it. "Tell Damascus, we can hold the position. What about the water? The agreement is signed, when is the water coming?"

The staff officer paused for a moment. "Damascus didn't mention anything about the water."

Hassan folded the telegram and stuffed it into his pocket. "If they didn't say, I'll ask."

He picked up the satellite phone and dialed a number. The phone rang twice and was answered. It was Major Sanchez's voice.

"General."

"Major, when will the water arrive?"

Sanchez was silent for two seconds. "The equipment at the extraction point still needs to be debugged, at least a week."

Hassan nodded. "One week."

"When the water arrives, Syria's share cannot be lacking. Not even a liter."

There was a three-second silence on the other end. "General, Mexicans keep their word."

Hassan hung up. He stood there, looking at the lights on the west shore of the lake. The outline of Tiberias City was hazy in the night, like a dreaming person.

He remembered five days ago, his tank parked by the lake, barrel aimed at the city. His soldiers were preparing to cross the lake, engineers building a floating bridge, artillery loading shells. Now the bridge was completed, not a military bridge but a simple pedestrian bridge with railings. Tanks didn't cross the bridge, Mexican engineers did.

He turned and walked back to the command vehicle.

"Tomorrow morning, send a platoon to the lake shore to help the Mexicans with the bridge."

The staff officer was stunned. "Commander, that's—"

"That's for Syria's dignity," Hassan interrupted, "The agreement is signed, but the water hasn't arrived. But dignity cannot be lost. Let the Mexicans see, Syrians are not just fighters."

Mexico City, Northern Prison.

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

The light was always on, fluorescent, humming, couldn't be turned off. Meals arrived regularly, bread, water, mashed potatoes, always on time. No one came to interrogate him. He could only stare at the opposite wall, counting the cracks in the paint, until he reached a thousand and couldn't count anymore.

The door opened.

Bennett came in, holding a document, expressionless.

"Mr. Shahar, the agreement is signed."

Shahar raised his head. "What agreement?"

Bennett put the document on the table. "The Lake Tiberias water resource distribution agreement. Every year, Israel gives Syria fifty million cubic meters of fresh water. Mexicans manage the extraction point. The war can't go on."

Shahar looked at the document, unable to understand the Hebrew and Arabic on it. But he understood the signature — Colonel Barak.

"Where's Colonel Beaton?" he asked.

Bennett looked at him. "Still under interrogation. He confessed to many things. About the racks on that F-16, about 'Principal's' money, about that person in Moscow."

Shahar lowered his head. "What do you want me to do?"

Bennett sat down opposite him. "Mr. Shahar, we don't want you to do anything. We want you to leave alive. To return to Israel alive, to see your wife, to see your child. Alive, to tell the world what happened that day."

Shahar raised his head. "Aren't you afraid I'll recant?"

Bennett stood up and walked to the door. "Mr. Shahar, you have a wife, you have a child. Your child is turning three next month, named Yunason. If you recant, you're telling the world you're a liar. Your child will grow up knowing it. Your wife will know. Your comrades will know. Israel will know. Do you want that?"

Shahar closed his eyes.

The door closed. He sat there, listening to the hum of the fluorescent light, listening to his heartbeat. He thought about that F-16, about those seven bombs, about that ten-year-old child. He never met the child, didn't know what he looked like. But he knew the child died. Died under the bombs he dropped.

He cried.

Golan Heights, Lake Tiberias west shore.

Colonel Barak stood by the lake, watching the floating bridge being completed. Mexican engineers were welding the last section of railing at the bridgehead, sparks flew in the twilight like a swarm of golden fireflies.

The staff officer walked over. "Colonel, a call from the Prime Minister's office. They want to know when you'll return to Tel Aviv."

Barak didn't turn around. "Tell them I'll leave when the bridge is open."

The staff officer paused for a moment. "Colonel, that's a bridge built by Mexicans—"

"I know." Barak interrupted, "But the bridge is open, people can cross. When people cross, goods can come over. When goods come over, money can be made. When money is made, guns can be bought. When guns are bought—"

He stopped. He watched the bridge, watched the busy Mexican engineers amid the sparks.

"Tell the Prime Minister, when the bridge is open, I'll return."

The staff officer left. Barak stood there, watching the bridge being completed bit by bit. When the last segment of railing was welded, the sky was completely dark. The engineers lit the lights on the bridge, a string of small bulbs, arranged in two lines along the railings like two curved rainbows stretching across the surface of Lake Tiberias.

A Mexican lieutenant walked over and saluted. "Colonel, the bridge is open."

Barak looked at the two lines of lights. "Can people cross?"

"Yes. People can cross, vehicles can cross, tanks can cross. As long as they're not too heavy."

Barak nodded. He stepped onto the bridge and walked a few steps. The bridge was stable, the planks were flat, the railings were firmly welded. He stopped in the middle of the bridge. On the left, Syrian positions were dark, with no lights visible. On the right, Israeli positions had a few lights, dim and yellow. Ahead, the eastern shore of the lake was invisible.

He stood in the middle of the bridge, stood for a long time.

Then he turned around, walked back. At the bridgehead, the Mexican lieutenant still stood there.

"Lieutenant, what's your name?"

"Alvarez, Colonel."

Barak nodded. "Lieutenant Alvarez, the bridge is well built."

He got into the car, the door closed. The armored vehicle turned around and headed west. Alvarez stood at the bridgehead, watching the vehicle grow smaller until it disappeared into the night. He turned, looked at the bridge. The bridge lights were on, like two curved rainbows stretching across the surface of Lake Tiberias. He recalled three days ago, Brigadier General Hassan standing here, handing him a hydrological map. He remembered that 'Squid' Colonel standing here saying, "The bridge is well built."

He squatted down, touched the planks on the bridge surface. Very flat, very stable, very solid.

"Brothers," he said, "we've built a bridge."

Mexico City, Feathered Serpent Temple top floor.

Victor looked at the newly delivered intelligence. The floating bridge over Lake Tiberias was completed, Israel and Syria signed the water resource distribution agreement, Colonel Barak returned to Tel Aviv, Brigadier General Hassan's troops retreated five kilometers. He put down the intelligence.

Bramo stood in front of him. "Victor, the bridge is open."

Victor nodded. "Next step, let the person in Moscow know we're not just here to build bridges."

He picked up another intelligence report. Bennett had just uncovered it — 'Principal's' asset distribution in Moscow. Seven companies, four bank accounts, three properties. Total value exceeds two billion US Dollars.

"Tell Bennett to send these to the Russian Federal Security Service."

Bramo was stunned. "To the FSB? Doesn't that mean—"

"Mean what?" Victor interrupted, "Means telling the Russians, you have a fugitive in your backyard. Means telling Jingpu, someone's causing trouble on your turf. Means telling the world—"

He looked at Bramo.

"'Principal' is not Mexico's enemy. He is the enemy of the world."

...