Chapter 2159 - 873: Victor’s Fist_2

He turned around and looked at Sanchez.

"Major, why are you asking this?"

Sanchez didn't answer. He looked at the lake, looked at the pigeons, looked at the increasingly dark outline of Tiberias City in the distance.

"Mr. Levi, it's dark. You should go back."

The old man nodded, turned, and walked toward the city. After a few steps, he stopped.

"Major, Prison 317, in Hamah. Three hours' drive north of Damascus. The warden's name is Fayez Hassan, Rifat Assad's man. That person—"

He stopped.

"What's up with that person?"

"That person, and Brigadier General Hassan, share a surname."

He continued walking. His figure grew increasingly blurred in the twilight, finally disappearing into the alleys of Tiberias City.

Sanchez stood at the bridgehead, standing for a long time.

It was dark. Lights on the bridge came on, a string of small bulbs lined up along the rail forming two arcs like rainbows, spanning the surface of Lake Tiberias. The light shone on the water, breaking into pieces of golden stars.

He turned and walked back to the camp.

Later that evening, Mexico City, "Feathered Serpent Temple" top floor

Victor looked at the report of the prisoner exchange just sent back from the Golan Heights. Forty for forty, not a single one missed. Jonathan Ben-Joseph, locked up for twenty-five years, was released today. On the east end of the bridge, a five-year-old child held up yellow flowers waiting for him. On the west end of the bridge, an elder who had been imprisoned for twenty-five years held out a cup of water, saying "Have a sip, it's sweet."

He put the report down.

Bramo stood in front of him.

"Major Sanchez also asked about one thing. Prison 317. In Hamah, north of Damascus, managed by Rifat Assad's people. The people locked inside are not only war prisoners but also spies. From Mossad, from the Military Intelligence Bureau. Captured without confessing, not exchanged, not released. Kept until death."

Victor squinted his eyes. "How many people?"

"Don't know. 317 is Syria's most secret prison, even the International Red Cross can't get in. Brigadier General Hassan's division is stationed in Hamah. He oversees the area but can't manage the prison. The prison is directly under Rifat's command."

Victor stood up and walked to the Middle East map on the wall. His fingers moved from the Golan Heights northward, through Damascus, stopping at the small mark of Hamah.

"Rifat Assad. The Syrian President's own brother. Commander of the Republican Guard Corps. In charge of Syria's most elite troops, also in charge of the nation's most unspeakable prison."

He turned around.

"Tell Sanchez not to touch the matter of 317 for now. It's too deep."

Bramo nodded. "What about Jonathan Ben-Joseph? He has been locked away for twenty-five years, he knows a lot."

Victor returned to his desk, sat down. "Let him go home. He's been locked away for twenty-five years, long enough. As for what he knows, let it rot within him. Digging it out won't do him any good."

He picked up the report again and looked through it. The child holding up yellow flowers, the 67-year-old elder with the water cup. He put the report down.

"Tell Bennett to investigate Rifat Assad. Investigate his assets, his relationships, his footholds in Europe. What was mentioned last time isn't enough. I want every penny—where it comes from, where it goes, whose hands it passes through. Verify it clearly, organize it well, and send it to the French, British, and Swiss. Let them decide for themselves whether they want to help us."

Bramo nodded, turned to leave.

"Wait." Victor called out to him. "How long has Major Sanchez been at the Golan Heights?"

"Thirteen days."

Victor nodded.

"Let him stay a few more days. Wait until the prisoner exchange is completely wrapped up, then let him return. Send someone else."

Bramo hesitated for a moment. "Who should be sent in his place?"

Victor thought for a moment. "Lieutenant Alvarez. The one who builds bridges. Have him set up a coffee stall on the bridge, selling Mexican coffee. Let Hassan and Barak come and have a cup daily. After several cups, they'll get acquainted. Once acquainted, negotiations will be easier."

He paused. "The bridge must not go unwatched."

The following morning, Golan Heights, Tiberias Lake floating bridge

The sky wasn't bright yet, but Major Sanchez was already standing in the middle of the bridge.

The lights from last night were still on, appearing as clusters of yellow light in the morning mist, like fireflies. The lake surface had no wind, its waters still, mirror-like, reflecting the last few stars above.

In his hand, he held that list, flipping to the last page. The line was still there:

"Prison 317. How many people are left?"

He put the list away.

Someone was approaching from the east end of the bridge. It wasn't Hassan, but a young man in his early twenties, dressed in Syrian military uniform, with two stars on his shoulder epaulettes, a Lieutenant. He walked swiftly, his shoe soles making a crisp patting sound on the bridge surface.

Reaching Sanchez, he stood straight and saluted.

"Major Sanchez? I'm General Hassan's adjunct. The general asked me to deliver a message."

Sanchez returned the salute. "Go ahead."

The young man pulled an envelope from his pocket, handing it over. "The general said he has visited the place you asked about."

Sanchez took the envelope, didn't open it. "What did he say?"

The young man paused for a second. "The general said the place is not under his jurisdiction. But he knows someone inside."

He turned and walked back quickly. The shoe sole patting on the bridge surface, pat-pat-pat, grew increasingly distant.

Sanchez stood in the middle of the bridge, looking at the envelope. It was made of kraft paper, without a seal, without a header, without a signature. He opened it, revealing a piece of paper, folded twice. Unfolding it, only one line was written, the handwriting was very scribbled, as if written while trembling:

"Thirty-two people. Seven Israelis, twenty-five Syrians."