Chapter 2155 - 872: Hope for Peace? (2)

The child ran over and tugged at her skirt. "Mom, where's Dad?"

The woman didn't answer.

Sanchez turned around and picked up the walkie-talkie. "Get me General Hassan."

The phone rang three times before being answered. The voice on the other end was Hassan's, hoarse and tired.

"Lieutenant Colonel."

"General, there's someone missing from Israel's POW list. Jonathan Ben-Joseph, captured three years ago. Your people said there'd be an exchange today, but he's not on the vehicle."

There was a five-second silence on the other end.

"Lieutenant Colonel, I don't know this person. My list has only forty names. There is no Jonathan Ben-Joseph."

Sanchez tapped his fingers on the table. "General, did you personally see that list?"

"I did. It came from Damascus last night. Forty names, I checked them one by one. The name you're talking about isn't there."

Sanchez hung up the phone. He stood in the middle of the bridge, looking at the white tents on the eastern side, at the faces hugging, crying, laughing under the tents, at the woman crouching with a baby, at the child holding a cardboard sign.

He picked up the walkie-talkie and changed channels. "Get me Colonel Barak."

The phone rang once and then it was answered. "Lieutenant Colonel."

"Colonel, Syria says Jonathan Ben-Joseph is not on their list for today's exchange."

Barak remained silent for three seconds. "Lieutenant Colonel, this person was captured at the Lebanon border three years ago. Our people saw him being taken away by Syrian soldiers. He's on the list, but the Syrians removed him."

Sanchez hung up the phone. He stood in the middle of the bridge, watching the sun over the lake. It's risen high, blindingly bright over the water.

He picked up the satellite phone and dialed a number.

"Connect me to Mexico City."

The phone rang twice and was answered. On the other end was Bramo's voice.

"Lieutenant Colonel Sanchez."

"Mr. Bramo, there is an issue with the POW exchange. An Israeli POW named Jonathan Ben-Joseph isn't on Syria's list. Israelis say he was captured at the Lebanon border three years ago, Syrians claim they don't know him."

Bramo was silent for two seconds. "Wait."

The call ended.

Sanchez stood there, holding the phone, listening to the busy tone.

The woman still crouched by the tent pole, the baby still crying, the child still holding that sign.

He walked over and crouched down.

"Ma'am, what's your name?"

The woman looked up, her eyes red. "Miriam. Miriam Ben-Joseph."

"Miriam, I'll get to the bottom of your husband's situation. If not today, then tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then the day after. Until it's resolved."

The woman looked at him. "You promise?"

Sanchez looked into her eyes. "I promise."

The phone rang. He answered it.

On the other end was Victor's voice, very calm.

"Lieutenant Colonel Sanchez."

"Leader."

"I've learned about the POW. Jonathan Ben-Joseph, thirty-two years old, reserve captain of the Israel Defense Forces, captured while patrolling the Lebanon border on March 17, 1995. Syria does not officially acknowledge detaining him, but our intelligence shows he is held in a military prison outside Damascus, number 317."

Sanchez clenched the phone.

"Inform Hassan that Jonathan cannot be on today's list, fine. But he must be on tomorrow's list, the day after's list, and the list after that, until he's on the bus on the east end of the bridge."

The call ended.

Sanchez stood there looking at the lake. The sun was overhead, casting a short shadow at his feet like a blot of ink.

He turned and walked toward the east end of the bridge.

Hassan stood beside a tent, holding a list and speaking to a man in a suit. The man was in his forties, wore glasses, and had meticulously combed hair—a diplomat from Damascus.

Sanchez approached and stood before Hassan.

"General, a word."

Hassan looked at him and nodded. They walked to the lake's edge, distanced from the crowd.

"General, Jonathan Ben-Joseph is held outside Damascus, prison number 317."

Hassan's face changed. "Lieutenant Colonel, I don't know—"

"You know." Sanchez interrupted him, "You just can't say. Because admitting it means acknowledging Syria's illegal detention of POWs. Admitting it means telling the world your list is fake. Admitting it means selling out those in Damascus to the Israelis."

Hassan said nothing.

"General, I'm not forcing you to speak. I only want the person. Tomorrow, the next day, or any day. That person must appear at the east end of the bridge, get on the bus, cross the bridge, and be handed over to the Israelis. Then it's over."

Hassan was silent for a long time. "Lieutenant Colonel, that person is not in my division."

Sanchez looked at him. "Whose division is he in?"

Hassan didn't answer. He turned away and looked at the lake.

"General, you don't have to say it, I know. The Republican Guard. Assad's younger brother commands that unit. They captured him from Lebanon and kept him in their prison, didn't report, didn't register, didn't list him. Because that person isn't an ordinary POW, he's an intelligence officer. Israeli Military Intelligence Bureau, captured while on a mission in Lebanon."

Hassan's hand shook slightly.

"General, am I right?"

Hassan turned and looked at Sanchez. "Lieutenant Colonel, you know too much."