Chapter 2161 - 873: Victor’s Fist_4

"What happened to those people?" Sanchez interrupted him, "Do you know anyone among them?"

Hassan didn't speak.

"General, you gave me a note. It had thirty-two names. You know them. You know who they are, what they're called, how long they've been detained. You know if they have families, if anyone is waiting for them to return."

He looked into Hassan's eyes. "You know, because you've been to Facility 317. You've seen them."

Hassan's hand withdrew from the table.

"General, I'm not here to pressure you. I'm here to tell you that someone is about to take action. It's not the Mexicans, it's the Russians. They've given the Syrian government seven days to let those people walk across the bridge. After seven days, if they haven't crossed, they'll take no further responsibility."

He looked at the two men.

"By then, the ones in charge will be the Mexicans. With the Mexicans in charge, it won't be as simple as releasing people. We'll turn Facility 317 upside down. We'll let the whole world see who is detained there. We'll let the whole world see who is managing that place, who is protecting it, who is trading lives from that place."

He paused.

"General, Colonel, you have seven days."

He turned and walked away.

Hassan stood there, watching his back. Barak stood there too, also watching.

Neither of them spoke.

Later that afternoon, in Damascus, at the Presidential Palace

Rifat Assad sat across from his brother, his face ashen.

Hafez Assad looked at the telegram that had just arrived from Moscow for a long time. The telegram was very brief, just one line: "Seven days. Release them."

He put the telegram down and looked at his brother. "Facility 317, who is detained there?"

Rifat didn't speak.

"I'm asking you, who is detained there."

Rifat lowered his head. "Seven Israelis. Twenty-five Syrians."

Hafez's fingers tapped the table. "How long have the Israelis been detained?"

"The longest for eleven years. The most recent for six years."

"And the Syrians?"

Rifat didn't answer.

Hafez stood up and walked to the window. Outside, the sky over Damascus was gray, and smoke from recent battles lingered on the distant hills.

"Rifat, do you know who those Israelis are?"

"Mossad agents. Military Intelligence Bureau officers."

Hafez turned around. "Mossad agents. Military Intelligence. You've held them for eleven years. Do the Israelis know they're in your hands?"

Rifat didn't speak.

"They know. They've always known. But they don't say anything because admitting it would mean acknowledging their espionage in Syria. They don't rescue them because rescuing them would reveal to the world that those people are theirs."

He returned to his desk and sat down.

"Now, the Mexicans want to investigate. The Russians want to intervene. What will you do?"

Rifat raised his head. "Brother, we can't release them. Releasing them would be equivalent to admitting—"

"Admitting what?" Hafez interrupted him, "Admitting you established a private prison? Admitting illegal detention? Admitting prisoner abuse? Admitting you—killed people?"

Rifat's face turned pale.

Hafez looked at him. "Rifat, how many have you killed?"

Rifat didn't speak.

"Even if you don't say, I already know. Facility 317 has been running for eleven years. Of those who went in, less than half have come out. Those who didn't come out, where did they die? Where are they buried? Who buried them?"

Rifat lowered his head.

Hafez stood up, walked to him. "Rifat, you're my brother. I've protected you for twenty-eight years. Since the day you became Commander of the Republican Guard, every problem you've caused, I've cleaned up. But this time—"

He paused.

"What about this time?" Rifat raised his head.

Hafez looked at him. "This time, it can't be cleaned up."

He walked back to his desk and picked up the telegram.

"Seven days. Seven days later, the Mexicans will take over. Seven days later, those people will come out of Facility 317, walk to Lake Tiberias, cross that bridge, and be handed over to the Israelis. Seven days later, this will be over."

Rifat stood up. "Brother—"

"It's over." Hafez put down the telegram, "As for you, it's over too. The Republican Guard's commander will be replaced. Facility 317 will be shut down. You—"

He looked at his brother.

"You're going to London. Hasn't your wife been there all along? Go. Don't come back."

Rifat stood there, looking at his brother for a long time. Then he turned and walked out.

The door closed.

Hafez sat there, looking at the closed door. He recalled 1970, when he launched the 'Corrective Movement' to seize power. Rifat was only twenty-one, storming into Damascus with tanks, clearing out all the opposition for him. Back then, Rifat was still a kid, with a sparkle in his eyes.

Now, that sparkle was gone.

Five days later, on the Golan Heights, at the Lake Tiberias floating bridge

Before dawn, people arrived at the east end of the bridge.

It wasn't Hassan or soldiers, but a bus. White, unmarked, with windows covered in dark film, concealing the interior. The bus stopped behind the tents, its engine idling, exhaust puffing white smoke.

Sanchez stood in the middle of the bridge, watching the bus.

The bus door opened. People emerged in plain clothes, gray, blue, black, some with collars, some without. Their hair varied in length, faces were thin or round, eyes were big or small.

But their gazes were the same. Vague, as if seeing everything through a layer of mist.

Thirty-two people.

The first to step off was an old man in his seventies, with white hair, severely hunchbacked, pausing every step. A slightly younger man supported him, who was also over fifty, his face full of wrinkles like dried apple skin.