Chapter 2146 - 870: Victor: My Words Matter!

Golan Heights, east bank of Lake Tiberias.

Brigadier General Hassan stood beside the T-72, staring in a daze at the floating bridge across the lake.

The bridge had been open for three days. In those three days, more Syrian civilians crossed from the east bank to the west than his soldiers. The elderly leaning on canes, women holding children, young people carrying luggage, all slowly make their way across the bridge built by the Mexicans to see the lake they hadn't seen for decades on the west bank.

An aide approached, holding a telegram.

"Commander, news from Damascus. The President asks when the negotiations will start."

Hassan did not turn around.

"Negotiations? Negotiate what? We've discussed water, the bridge is up, people are starting to move. What else is there to discuss?"

The aide lowered his head. "Discuss land. The Golan Heights."

Hassan turned around, looking at the telegram in the aide's hand for a long time. Then he lifted his head, gazing at the golden-edged city on the west bank of the lake in the morning light.

"Tell Damascus that negotiations can start. But there is one condition—the negotiations cannot be held in Geneva, Washington, Damascus, or Tel Aviv."

The aide froze. "Then where?"

Hassan pointed to the floating bridge on the lake. "There. On the bridge."

The aide opened his mouth but couldn't speak.

"Let the Israelis sit at the west end of the bridge, the Syrians at the east end, and the Mexicans in the middle. If the talks succeed, the bridge stays. If they fail—"

He paused, "If they fail, we'll blow up the bridge. No one gets across."

The aide turned and ran off.

Hassan stood there, looking at the bridge.

More people were crossing the bridge again, a few Syrian elderly, leaning on canes, leisurely moving toward the west bank. At the other end of the bridge, several Israelis stood by the roadside, holding water bottles, as if waiting for someone.

He remembered the pot of coffee Sanchez brought yesterday.

Bitter, very bitter, but fragrant.

"Lieutenant Colonel," he murmured, "the bridge you built is more useful than a tank."

Same day, Jerusalem, Prime Minister's Office.

Shamir looked at the telegram just returned from the Golan Heights, tapping his finger twice on the table.

"On the bridge. This Hassan is more interesting than his brother, who is a lawyer in London."

Moses stood in front of him, looking displeased.

"Prime Minister, negotiating on the bridge signifies to the world that Israel and Syria are equals. The Golan Heights—"

"Who owns the Golan Heights now?" Shamir interrupted him.

Moses was silent.

"It's Syria's. We fought for five days, lost three thousand men, and lost the Golan Heights. Now the Syrians are willing to sit down and talk, not forcing us to sign an unconditional surrender on the battlefield, but on a bridge, offering us coffee. What more do you want?"

He stood up and walked to the window.

Outside, the Golden Dome Mosque on Temple Mount gleamed in the sunlight. In the distance, people strolled leisurely along that famous "wall walk," as if they didn't care about anything.

"Tell Colonel Barak, tomorrow's negotiation, he will go. Sit at the west end of the bridge, face-to-face with Brigadier General Hassan. Tell Hassan the Israelis are coming, bringing water."

Moses nodded and turned to leave.

"Wait, tell Barak to bring a pot of coffee from Mexico, grown in the Chiapas Highlands. Hassan likes the taste."

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

Victor stood at the window, watching the traffic on Paseo de la Reforma. Bramo stood behind him, holding a telegram just returned from the Golan Heights.

"Hassan wants to negotiate on the bridge. Shamir agreed. Tomorrow morning, at the middle of the floating bridge on Lake Tiberias, Syrians and Israelis will sit face-to-face for the first time."

Victor did not turn around. "And Sanchez?"

"Preparing. He says he'll place a table in the middle of the bridge tomorrow, cover it with a tablecloth, and set out a pot of coffee. He also says he wants to place three flags at the bridgehead—Mexico's, Syria's, and Israel's."

Victor turned around. "The flags can wait. First, negotiate. If it succeeds, someone will naturally raise the flags; if it fails, raising flags is pointless."

He returned to his desk and sat down.

"Any news from Bennett's side?"

Bramo opened the file.

"The Principal fled, the FSB missed him. His mansion in Rublevka, the villa in Medichi, the building on Leningrad Highway, all empty. He's headed south, towards Chechnya."

Victor's eyes squinted. "Chechnya? What's he doing there?"

"Looking for Grisha. Or should I say, Grisha's daughter. Grisha arrived in Shangji Village two days ago, saw Anna. They talked for a long time. When Grisha left, Anna was crying. Then the Principal arrived."

Victor was silent for three seconds.

"And Grisha?"

"Still in Shangji Village. The FSB is watching, but haven't acted. Korosov says they'll wait until he's seen the Principal before closing the net."

Victor stood up, walked to the world map on the wall, and traced with his finger from Mexico City, across New York, London, Moscow, finally stopping at the small dot of Chechnya.

"The Principal is going to see Grisha. Grisha's daughter is in the Principal's hands. Grisha is waiting for the Principal. The FSB is waiting for Grisha. As for us? What are we waiting for?"

He turned around and looked at Bramo.

"We're waiting for them to turn on each other. The fiercer the fight, the less effort we need."

He returned to his desk and picked up the telegram about the Golan Heights negotiation.

"Tomorrow's negotiation, tell Sanchez not to be eager to speak. Let the Syrians and Israelis talk it out themselves. If they find common ground, we applaud. If they don't, we offer them a staircase. Remember, we're the bridge builders, not the road builders. The bridge is built; how they proceed is their business."