Chapter 2156 - 872: Hope for Peace? (Part 3)

Sanchez smiled. "General, I know nothing. I'm just the bridge builder."

He paused. "Once the bridge is built, how you use it is your business. But there can't be anyone left on the bridge. Whoever stays will be crushed by people from both sides."

Hassan looked into his eyes, stared for a long while.

"Lieutenant Colonel, you wait."

He turned, walked toward the jeep, got in, shut the door, and started the engine. The vehicle turned around and headed east, kicking up dust.

The bespectacled diplomat stood there, watching the jeep go further away, an expression of complexity on his face.

Sanchez walked over.

"Sir, what's your name?"

The man looked at him. "Hussein. Hussein Mahmoud. From Damascus."

Sanchez extended his hand. "Sanchez. From Mexico."

Hussein hesitated for a moment, then shook his hand.

"Mr. Hussein, do you know Jonathan Ben-Joseph?"

Hussein's expression changed. "Lieutenant Colonel, I—"

"You don't know. You know nothing. You're only here from Damascus to take photos. Finish the job, then go back. This matter doesn't involve you."

Hussein said nothing.

Sanchez released his hand. "But if you happen to hear anything, see anything, or think of anything after you return—please tell me."

He took a business card from his pocket and handed it over.

Hussein took the card, glanced at it. It only had a name and phone number, no title, department, or address.

"Lieutenant Colonel, what is this—"

"This is the bridge. Bridge builders aren't afraid to make friends."

Hussein pocketed the card and turned to leave.

Sanchez stood by the lakeside, looking in the direction where the jeep disappeared. The wind on the lake grew stronger, rustling the tent covers.

The woman named Miriam still crouched beside the tent pole, the baby asleep, the child still holding up the cardboard sign.

Sanchez walked over and crouched down.

"Miriam, General Hassan is asking about your husband. Wait for news."

The woman lifted her head. "Will he come back?"

Sanchez looked at her. "He will."

"You're sure?"

Sanchez paused for a second. "I promise."

He stood and went toward the middle of the bridge.

The three lists on the table were still there. He picked up the Syrian one, searched for Jonathan Ben-Joseph's name—it's not there.

He put down the list and picked up a pen, writing one line in the blank space:

"Jonathan Ben-Joseph, 317."

After writing, he put down the pen and looked at the line.

Then he picked up the radio.

"Connect me to Colonel Barak."

The call connected.

"Colonel, I'm investigating Jonathan Ben-Joseph's matter. Until then, today's exchange proceeds as usual."

Barak paused for two seconds. "Lieutenant Colonel, are we still exchanging those forty people?"

"Exchange. Forty for forty. No more, no less."

He hung up the phone.

At the eastern end, the second bus arrived. The door opened, people clad in identical gray tracksuits, hair cropped short, faces sunburned and dark. A young man rushed out, scanned around, then spotted a woman holding a child, sprinted over, embracing her, tears streaming.

The child holding the cardboard sign still stood there.

Sanchez walked over.

"Little one, where's your mom?"

The child pointed to the tent's direction. Miriam still crouched there, holding the baby, head bowed.

Sanchez walked over and crouched down.

"Miriam, go home today and come back tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then the day after. If not then, the day after that. One day, your husband will be on that bus."

The woman lifted her head. "How do you know?"

Sanchez looked at her. "Because I've seen the bridge."

He stood and headed toward the middle of the bridge.

The sun was already beginning to set. The golden hue of the lake surface slowly turned silver, and the silhouette of Tiberias City blurred.

He sat by the folding table, pouring himself a glass of water. The water was cool, from Lake Tiberias, sweet.

He looked at the line on the list:

"Jonathan Ben-Joseph, 317."

Picking up the pen, he scribbled another line below:

"Tomorrow."

Same evening, Mexico City, top of the "Feathered Serpent Temple"

Victor examined the freshly delivered prisoner exchange report, tapping twice on the name "Jonathan Ben-Joseph."

Bramo stood before him.

"That prisoner is held in a prison on the outskirts of Damascus, tagged with number 317. Overseen by people from the Republican Guard, Rifat Assad's men."

Victor lifted his gaze. "Rifat Assad. Is that man still in position?"

"Yes, and firmly so. His brother relies on him to suppress the military opposition, doesn't dare touch him."

Victor rose, walked to the window. Outside, traffic along Paseo de la Reforma had dwindled, with only a few occasional taxis passing by, their headlights casting lengthy shadows on the road.

"Tell Sanchez to keep waiting tomorrow. And the day after. To wait until the man is released."

Bramo hesitated. "Victor, what if the Syrians never release him?"

Victor turned around. "They will. Because if they don't, the bridge will break. If the bridge breaks, the water stops. If the water stops, the Golan Heights will engage in conflict again. When the fight resumes, the Syrians can't even keep the current third they hold."

Returning to his desk, he took his seat.

"Tell Sanchez, tomorrow, have that woman named Miriam, with her child, sit in the middle of the bridge. Have the journalists take pictures. Let CNN shoot, let BBC shoot, let Al Jazeera shoot. Let the whole world see a five-year-old child holding a cardboard sign waiting for his father."