Chapter 2152 - 871: I’ll Be the Referee! (3)

"Former KGB high-ranking officer Sergei Ivanov, under the alias 'Principal', has been arrested by the Russian Federal Security Service. It is reported that Ivanov is suspected of multiple international arms smuggling, drug trafficking, and terrorist attacks, including the March explosion at the Mexican embassy in Tel Aviv this year. Russia stated that Ivanov will be tried in Moscow and may be extradited to the relevant victim countries thereafter."

Victor turned off the TV.

Bramo stood in front of him. "Word came from the FSB. Sergei's crimes in Russia are enough for three lifetimes in prison. The seven lives in Mexico, we'll deal with those after he's done serving in Russia."

Victor stood up, walked to the window. "After he's done serving? He's fifty-eight this year. By the time he's served three lifetimes, all our people will be dead."

"The Russians won't release him. Sergei knows too much, Kryuchkov's people, Kremlin's people, Department of Defense's people, all those folks are in Moscow. If he talks, half of Moscow will tremble."

He turned around. "Tell Bennett, there's no rush with Sergei. Him serving prison in Russia is more useful than in Mexico. Russians interrogating him is more useful than us. Just wait and listen to him when he speaks."

Bramo nodded. "There's one more thing. On the Golan Heights, the prisoner exchange, Hassan and Barak have mostly settled it. Forty-seven Syrians for forty Israelis. The first batch will exchange next week."

Victor walked back to his desk and sat down. "Tell Sanchez, during the exchange, have the Mexicans stand in between. Syrians hand over, Mexicans receive. Israelis hand over, Mexicans receive. People on both sides don't meet."

Bramo froze for a moment. "Don't meet? Then how do they exchange?"

Victor looked at him. "First release the Syrians, then the Israelis. One hour gap in between. After the Syrians leave, then the Israelis leave. No one sees each other, no one disgusts each other."

He paused. "With people, if they don't meet, they can't hate. If they can't hate, they can continue talking."

Next morning, Golan Heights, Lake Tiberias floating bridge

The sun just rose, and the mist on the lake hasn't dissipated yet.

At the east end of the bridge stood forty-three Syrians. Not soldiers, but civilians. Old people, women, children, the youngest just three years old, held in their mother's arms, still asleep.

They stood at the head of the bridge, looking at the misty lake ahead, not knowing where to go.

At the west end of the bridge stood thirty-seven Israelis. Also civilians. Also old people, women, children. The youngest, five years old, holding dad's hand, rubbing eyes, still not fully awake.

They stood at the bridgehead, also looking at the lake ahead.

In the middle of the bridge, Major Sanchez stood next to the folding table. On the table, no coffee pot, no ashtray, only a white flag. Not a surrender flag, but the white part in the middle of the Mexican flag. No national emblem, no text, just a piece of white cloth.

He picked up the walkie-talkie. "East side, release them."

The Mexican soldiers at the east end opened the barrier. The forty-three Syrians hesitated for a moment, then slowly walked onto the bridge. Old people using canes, women carrying children, young men supporting the elderly, step by step, moving slowly.

When they reached the middle of the bridge, an old man stopped. He held onto the railing, looking at the mist on the lake. The mist hadn't cleared, the lake surface was all white, nothing could be seen. But he stared at that whiteness, gazing for a long time.

Sanchez walked over. "Old gentleman, need a hand?"

The old man didn't look at him. He looked at the lake. "My brother is on the other side. Locked up for twenty-five years. Coming back today."

Sanchez said nothing.

The old man turned around and continued walking.

When he reached the west end of the bridge, the thirty-seven Israelis were standing by the road, watching them. No one spoke. The old man stopped and looked at those Israelis. The Israelis also looked at him.

An elderly Israeli came out. Seventy-something, older than the Syrian old man, hair completely white, and bent over. He walked up to the Syrian old man and stopped.

The two stood face to face, three steps apart.

The Israeli old man spoke. "Are you Muhammad Fayez?"

The Syrian old man nodded.

The Israeli old man extended his hand. "My name is Moses Levi. Your brother, and I have been locked up for twenty-five years. He asked me to tell you—"

He stopped.

The Syrian old man waited.

The Israeli old man's eyes reddened. "He asked me to tell you he is still alive. He asked me to tell you he misses home. He asked me to tell you—"

He couldn't continue.

Tears streamed down the Syrian old man's face.

The two stood at the bridgehead, one crying, the other crying too. The people beside them watched, no one spoke.

Sanchez stood in the middle of the bridge, watching the white flag gently flutter in the wind.

He picked up the walkie-talkie. "West side, release them."

The barrier at the west end of the bridge opened. The thirty-seven Israelis walked onto the bridge. They also walked slowly, some cried, some laughed.

When they reached the middle of the bridge, a young woman stopped. She held a child, the child woke and cried. She squatted down to wipe the child's tears. The child stopped crying, she stood up, continued walking.

When she reached the east end of the bridge, the forty-three Syrians had already walked away. Only the old man called Moses Levi remained, watching their backs.

He turned around and walked towards the west end of the bridge. After a few steps, he stopped, glanced back.

In the middle of the bridge, the white flag was still fluttering in the wind.

He continued walking.

Same morning, Moscow, Lubyanka Square, FSB Headquarters