Chapter 2157 - 872: Hope for Peace? (Part 4)

Bramo nodded.

"And," Victor said, "have Bennett look into Rifat Assad's assets. He owns properties in Europe, has accounts in Switzerland, and companies in London. Find out the details, organize them, and send them to the French, British, and Swiss. Let them see who is living in their piggy banks."

He paused.

"This isn't a threat. It's a reminder."

Early the next morning, Golan Heights, Lake Tiberias Floating Bridge.

The sun hadn't risen yet, and the mist was thick over the water.

Sanchez stood in the middle of the bridge, looking at the white tents on the east end. There were already quite a few people sitting under the tents, the same faces as yesterday, old people, women, and children. The woman named Miriam sat at the front, holding a baby in her arms, with the child who had held the sign sitting next to her. The child wasn't holding the sign today; he had a flower, a wild one, yellow, not sure where he picked it from.

People were also on the west end of the bridge. The old man Moses Levi was sitting in the same spot as yesterday, holding bread and feeding pigeons. There were more pigeons than yesterday, circling around him and cooing.

Sanchez walked over and sat down next to him.

"Mr. Levi, is your brother coming back today?"

The old man didn't look at him. "I don't know."

He continued feeding the pigeons.

"Lieutenant Colonel, have you ever seen pigeons find their way home?"

Sanchez looked at the pigeons. "I have."

"Released out there, they can fly as far as they want but always come back. Not because they're smart, but because home is here."

He scattered the last handful of breadcrumbs and clapped his hands.

"People are the same. No matter how long they're locked away, they want to come home."

He stood up, brushing the dust off his pants. "Lieutenant Colonel, my brother will come back. If not today, then tomorrow. If not tomorrow, then the day after tomorrow. I'll be waiting."

He turned and walked toward the west end of the bridge. His silhouette slowly faded in the fog, like a picture with washed-out colors.

Sanchez stood up and walked back to the middle of the bridge.

The coffee pot on the table was still warm. He poured himself a cup, holding it as he looked out over the lake. The mist was slowly lifting, and the sun peeked over the eastern hills, tinting the lake a pale gold.

The walkie-talkie buzzed.

"Lieutenant Colonel, a car arrived at the east end of the bridge. It's not a bus; it's a jeep."

Sanchez put down his cup and stood up.

At the east end, a military jeep parked behind the tents. The door opened, and a man in Syrian military uniform stepped out, a brigadier general with a star on his epaulets.

Hassan.

He walked to the front of the tents and stood before Miriam.

"Are you Miriam Ben-Joseph?"

The woman stood up, the baby stirred awake and began to cry.

"I am."

Hassan looked at her, holding his gaze for three seconds. Then he pulled a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to her.

"Your husband is in Prison No. 317. This is his detention record."

Miriam took the paper, her hands trembling. The paper had a few lines in Arabic that she couldn't read, but she saw the number—317.

"Is he... is he still alive?"

Hassan nodded. "Alive."

Miriam's tears flowed. "When will he be released?" ℯℯ𝑙.

Hassan was silent for two seconds. "Today."

He turned and walked toward the jeep. After a few steps, he stopped, not looking back.

"Lieutenant Colonel."

Sanchez stood in the middle of the bridge.

"He will arrive today."

He got into the car, the door closed. The jeep turned around and drove east.

Sanchez stood in the middle of the bridge, watching the car disappear into the fog. He turned around and looked at Miriam. She was still standing there, gripping the paper, her body shaking with sobs. The child tugged at her clothes, holding the yellow flower.

"Mom, will Dad come home today?"

Miriam squatted down and embraced him. "Yes, Dad is coming home today."

At 9 a.m., the east end of the bridge.

The second bus arrived.

The door opened, and people wearing gray sweatshirts, their hair closely cropped, faces sunburned and dark, stepped off the bus one by one, embraced by relatives, crying, laughing, speechless.

The last one.

The bus door closed.

Miriam stood there, looking at the bus, looking at the closed door, watching the driver start the engine, ready to leave.

"Wait!"

She rushed over, patting the door. "Wait! My husband hasn't gotten off yet!"

The driver stopped the bus, opened the door, and leaned out. "Ma'am, the bus is empty."

"Impossible—he said released today—"

Her words were caught in her throat.

Because there was still someone on the bus.

The last seat, by the window, in the corner, sat a person. Wearing a gray sweatshirt, hair closely cropped, face thin, eyes closed as if sleeping.

Miriam rushed onto the bus, knelt before the seat, touched his face.

"Jonathan... Jonathan..."

The person opened his eyes.

Looked at her.

For a long time.

"Miriam?"

She cried. "It's me... it's me..."

His hand moved, raised, touched her face. His hand was thin, bones sharp, yet warm.

"You've aged."

She laughed, crying and laughing. "You have aged too."

He turned his head and looked out the window. Outside, the mist on the lake had cleared, sunlight reflecting off the water, glaringly bright.

"Where is this place?"

"Golan Heights. Lake Tiberias. Across the bridge is Israel."

He was stunned. "Israel? I—I can go back?"

She nodded. "You can go back. You can go home."

His tears fell.

He stood up, legs weak, unsteady. She supported him, step by step, off the bus. At the bus door, the sunlight was intense, he squinted, looked at the lake, looked at the bridge, looked at the land across the bridge he hadn't seen in twenty-five years.

The child stood at the bridgehead, holding up the yellow flower.

"Dad!"

Jonathan lowered his head, looked at the child. Five years old, wearing blue jeans, a white T-shirt, with Spider-Man printed on it, holding up a yellow flower, wild.

"Is this... my son?"

Miriam nodded. "His name is Jonathan. Same as you."

Jonathan squatted down, looked at the child. The child also looked at him, eyes wide, eyelashes long.

"Dad, are you back?"

Jonathan's tears flowed. "Back."

The child handed him the flower. "For you."

Jonathan took the flower and placed it in the pocket of his sweatshirt. The flower was yellow, the sweatshirt gray, matched awkwardly. But he didn't remove it.

He stood up, supported by Miriam, step by step, walking toward the bridge.

In the middle of the bridge, Sanchez the Lieutenant Colonel stood by a folding table, watched them walk over.

He raised the white flag.

The wind blew strong, the flag fluttering loudly.

Jonathan walked past him, stopped.

"Are you Mexican?"

Sanchez nodded. "Yes."

Jonathan looked at him, long. "Thank you."

Sanchez shook his head. "No thanks needed. This is a bridge. Bridges are for crossing."

Jonathan continued walking. Walking past the middle of the bridge, past the west end, stepping onto Israeli soil.

At the west end, the old man Moses Levi stood there, holding a cup of water.

"Have a sip of water. Sweet."

Jonathan took the cup and drank.

The water was sweet, water from Lake Tiberias.

He smiled.

After twenty-five years, smiled for the first time.