Chapter 2160 - 873: Victor’s Fist_3

Sanchez's hand stopped.

He folded the piece of paper, put it back in the envelope, and placed the envelope in his pocket, along with the white flag.

He picked up the walkie-talkie. "Connect me to Mexico City."

The phone rang twice, and someone picked up. It was Bramo's voice.

"Major Sanchez."

"Mr. Bramo, prison number 317, has seven people detained. Israelis. Not prisoners of war, spies."

There was three seconds of silence on the other end. "Confirmed?"

"Confirmed. It's the number Brigadier General Hassan provided. Thirty-two people, seven Israelis, twenty-five Syrians."

Another three seconds of silence. "Wait."

The call ended.

Sanchez stood there, holding the phone, listening to the busy signal in the receiver. The mist over the lake began to disperse, and a line of golden light appeared over the hills in the east, shining on the water, breaking into a field of golden stars.

He turned around and walked back to the camp.

Later the same morning, Moscow, Lubyanka Square, FSB Headquarters

Korosov was sitting in the office, looking at the intelligence just received from the Golan Heights.

Brigadier General Hassan put the intelligence down.

Dmitry stood before him. "General, the Mexicans are interested in prison number 317. Major Sanchez has already begun investigating."

Korosov said nothing. He stood up and walked to the window. Outside, pigeons were pecking in Lubyanka Square, an old man sat on a bench feeding them, just as he did yesterday, and the day before, and every day.

"Dmitry, do you know prison number 317?"

Dmitry hesitated for a moment. "I do. Syria's most secret prison. Run by Rifat Assad's people. Detainees—not only Syrians."

Korosov turned around. "Seven Israelis. Detained for at least ten years. Mossad agents, intelligence bureau personnel. Captured, not confessed, not exchanged, not released. The Israeli government knows they are there but doesn't dare speak of it. To acknowledge it would mean admitting their espionage activities in Syria."

He walked back to his desk and sat down.

"Now the Mexicans want to investigate. If they discover, what do we do? Make it public? Let the world know there are Israelis conducting espionage in Syria? Let the world know that Syrians have held them for ten years without trial or release? Let the world know how many lives Rifat Assad holds in his hands?"

Dmitry said nothing.

"The Mexicans aren't afraid. They're far removed, they owe no one, they care about nothing. But what about us? Russia has bases in Syria, has troops, has interests. Rifat Assad's downfall does us no good."

He took up the intelligence documents, read them once more, then set them aside.

"Inform the Syrians to handle the 317 incident themselves. Within seven days, release those Israelis. Hand them over to the Mexicans and let them cross the bridge. Swiftly and secretly."

Dmitry was stunned. "General, what does that mean for the Mexicans—"

"What does it mean for the Mexicans? It means Russians are afraid? We're not afraid. We just don't want trouble. The trouble is Mexico's business, not ours."

He stood up and walked to the window.

"Seven days. If those people are still in prison number 317 after seven days, the Mexicans will take action themselves. Once they move, it's not just about freeing people anymore. They'll turn 317 inside out. By then, all of Rifat Assad's affairs will come to light."

He watched the pigeons outside.

"Once exposed, things die."

Same day noon, Golan Heights, Lake Tiberias floating bridge

Sanchez stood in the middle of the bridge, a folding table laid out before him. On the table, there was no coffee pot, no ashtray, no white flag. Only a cup of water, cool, from Lake Tiberias.

At the bridge's eastern end, Brigadier General Hassan's jeep was parked there. He stood beside the car, not coming forward. At the western end, Colonel Barak's armored vehicle was also parked there. He stood beside his car, not coming forward either.

The two men faced each other across the bridge, neither one looking at the other.

Sanchez picked up the cup of water and took a sip. The water was sweet.

He put the cup down and picked up the walkie-talkie. "General Hassan, Colonel Barak, please come to the center of the bridge. I have something to say."

The two men simultaneously raised their heads, simultaneously looking at him, simultaneously stepping forward.

Hassan walked quickly, Barak walked slowly. When Hassan arrived, Barak was still three steps away. The two stood face-to-face before Sanchez, one on the east, one on the west, separated by the folding table.

Sanchez looked at them. "General, Colonel, you both know about the 317 prison incident, right?"

The two said nothing.

"Thirty-two people. Seven Israelis, twenty-five Syrians. Detained for at least ten years, some longer."

He looked at Hassan. "General, who are those twenty-five Syrians?"

Hassan was silent for three seconds. "Opposition. From the MSL Brotherhood, the Communist Party, the Kurds. And a few others—journalists. Wrote articles they shouldn't have, said things they shouldn't have."

Sanchez looked at Barak. "Colonel, who are those seven Israelis?"

Barak was also silent. "Mossad agents. Intelligence bureau personnel. Captured while carrying out missions in Lebanon. We don't acknowledge them as ours. They also refuse to admit."

Sanchez nodded. "So, these people, don't exist. No names, no ID numbers, no detention records. Alive or dead, no one knows."

The two men said nothing.

"Now, someone wants to make these people, from nonexistent, become existent."

He looked at Hassan. "General, are you willing?"

Hassan placed his hand on the table. "Major, those people—"