Chapter 2148 - 870: Victor: My Words Are Important! (3)

He withdrew his hand and looked at the two people across from him. "This is Mexico's plan. Not the best, but it can keep both sides alive for now."

Hassan looked at the map for a long time. "A five-kilometer corridor essentially cuts the Golan Heights in half. Syrians live on the east side, they can see the lake on the west side, but they can't reach it."

Sanchez nodded. "They can't reach it. But water can cross. Water from the lake will be sent via pipelines to the east bank. Syrians won't have to cross the river but can still drink water from Lake Tiberias."

Barak also spoke. "One-third of the Golan Heights; Israelis have lived there for thirty years. Giving it up is like making hundreds of families move. The Israeli government can't do that."

Sanchez looked at him. "Colonel, the Golan Heights were taken by force, not through elections. Land taken by force can be defended by force, or exchanged through negotiation. You've chosen negotiation. To negotiate, you must concede."

Barak said nothing.

Hassan said nothing either.

The three sat in the middle of the bridge, watching the sun rise bit by bit, watching the golden surface of the lake turn to silver, watching the distant shadow of Tiberias City shorten little by little.

Hassan spoke first. "A five-kilometer corridor is too wide. Three kilometers. Two kilometers patrol by Syrians on the east, one kilometer patrol by Israelis on the west. Leave one kilometer in the middle for Mexicans to stand guard."

Barak raised his head. "A three-kilometer corridor is acceptable. But there shouldn't be just two entry points. Open three on the east and three on the west. Syrians enter from the east, Israelis from the west. No one crosses the border."

Hassan looked at him. "With three entry points, Syrians need to manage two."

Barak shook his head. "One for each, with the third managed by the Mexicans."

Both looked at Sanchez.

Sanchez held his coffee cup, which had already cooled. "General, Colonel, that's not today's agenda. Today is about negotiating water, not land. The land situation will be discussed in three years."

Hassan tapped his hand on the table. "Three years? Too long."

Barak also shook his head. "Three years is too short."

Sanchez put down his cup. "Then five years. Maintain current military demarcation for five years. After five years, renegotiate. If negotiations succeed, the boundaries are set. If not—" he looked at the lake. "If not, I'll come to build bridges again."

Hassan and Barak exchanged a glance.

"Five years," Hassan said.

"Five years," Barak said.

Both extended their hands simultaneously. In the middle of the table, between the Mexican flag and the coffee pot, their hands clasped. No contest, no probing, just holding, like merchants who have settled a price at a market.

Sanchez looked at their hands, saying nothing.

Under the bridge, lake water swayed gently in the wind, splashing, as if laughing.

Same morning, Chechnya, Shangji Village.

Grisha stood in front of the row of stone houses behind the school, looking at the easternmost one. The door was open, and Anna sat on the threshold, holding a chocolate bar, not eating it; the chocolate had melted, soft and wrapped in golden paper.

He walked over and sat beside her.

"Your dad is here."

Anna didn't move. "I know. He arrived last night. Staying at a shepherd's house on the north side of the village. He said he'd visit me tomorrow."

Grisha nodded. "He's here to take you."

Anna lowered her head. "Take me where?"

"Mexico. Your dad is there. He's waiting for you."

Anna was silent for a long time. "Is he a good person?"

Grisha didn't answer.

Anna looked up, looking at his face. "You've been with my dad for twenty-three years. Is he a good person?"

Grisha looked into her eyes. Those eyes, exactly like her father's, big and distant, as if everything is seen through a haze.

"He's killed people, trafficked drugs, smuggled arms. He's not a good person. But he's never hurt you. He sent money to your mom every month, for fourteen years. He knew you lived here, had people protect you. He knew your mom died and cried for three days."

Anna's tears fell. "You lied to me—"

"I didn't lie to you," Grisha interrupted. "Your dad has been bad all his life and only did one thing right—kept you alive."

Anna lowered her head, tears dripping onto the chocolate, wetting the golden wrapper.

Grisha stood up. "Wait here. I'll go get him."

He turned and walked towards the north of the village. After dozens of steps, Anna's voice came from behind him.

"Uncle Grisha."

He stopped, but didn't turn back.

"What's his name?"

Grisha was silent for three seconds. "Sergei. Sergey Ivanovich."

He continued walking. North of the village, a shepherd's stone yard, the door open. A tall, thin elderly man stood in the yard, with greying hair, wearing an old army coat, holding a worn travel bag.

Grisha stood at the door, looking at him.

The old man also looked at him.

"Boss."

Sergei smiled, lightly. "Grisha, you've lost weight."

Grisha didn't respond.

Sergei walked over to him. "Where's Anna?"

"Waiting for you."

Sergei nodded. "Let's go."

The two walked side by side out of the yard, onto that dirt road heading south of the village. On both sides were barren mountains, with unmelted snow still on them. The wind blew from the north, cold and carrying the scent of snow.

Grisha spoke. "Boss, FSB is on our tail. Korosov's people followed us all the way from Moscow."

Sergei didn't turn back. "I know."

"They're waiting for you to meet Anna before they take action."

Sergei nodded. "I know."

The two walked for a long time. Toward the south of the village, closer to that row of stone houses. The easternmost one, door open, Anna sat on the threshold, holding the melted chocolate.