Chapter 2162 - 873: Victor’s Fist 5

The seventh person to descend was a middle-aged man, just past forty, with a very lean face and bright eyes. He stood at the car door, looking at the bridge, gazing at the land across the bridge he hadn't seen in eleven years.

His name was Yossi Ben-David. Mossad. Captured in Lebanon during a mission in 1993, imprisoned for eleven years. His wife took their kids and remarried, his mother died, and his father died too. When he got out, no one came to meet him.

The twenty-fifth person to descend was a young man, just over thirty, with a face full of stubble, wearing a gray tracksuit emblazoned with the "Damascus University" logo. His name was Malik Hassan, a Syrian member of the MSL Brotherhood, imprisoned for nine years. His father was Brigadier General Hassan's cousin, captured in Hamah by Rifat's people in 1990, died in room 317. Malik was born the day his father was captured, never having met him.

Thirty-two people stood at the east end of the bridge, looking at the bridge, gazing at the land across the bridge shimmering with golden edges in the morning light.

Sanchez stood at the midpoint of the bridge, raising the white flag.

The wind was fierce, the flag flapped loudly in the wind.

"Cross the bridge," he said.

The first elder began to walk. He moved very slowly, leaning on a cane, stepping step by step, as if counting his steps. When he reached the middle of the bridge, he stopped, holding onto the railing, gazing at the water. The mist still lingered over the lake, white and foggy, obscuring everything. But he looked at the whiteness for a long time.

Then he continued to walk.

Upon reaching the west end of the bridge, Moses Levi stood there, holding a glass of water.

"Have some water. It's sweet."

The elder took the glass and drank a sip. The water was sweet, water from Lake Tiberias.

"Thank you," he said.

"You're welcome." Moses took the empty glass, "What's your name?"

"Joseph. Joseph ben-Joseph. Jonathan's father."

Moses' hand trembled. "You're Jonathan's dad?"

The elder nodded. "He came out three days ago. He's in Haifa with his mother now."

Moses looked at him, for a long time. "How long were you imprisoned?"

"Twenty-two years."

Moses reached out his hand. The hands clasped together, both thin, both dry, both trembling.

"Welcome back," said Moses.

The elder smiled. The first smile in twenty-two years.

The seventh, Yossi Ben-David. He walked neither fast nor slow, each step of equal length. Upon reaching the middle of the bridge, he stopped, gazing at the lake surface. The fog had dispersed; sunlight reflecting off the water was dazzlingly bright. He squinted, looking at that light for a long time.

Then he continued to walk.

Upon reaching the west end of the bridge, no one was there to meet him. He stood by the roadside, watching those hugging, crying, and laughing, watching those holding signs, shouting names, shedding tears.

He lowered his head.

A hand rested on his shoulder.

He looked up. It was Sanchez.

"Yossi Ben-David?"

"Yes."

Sanchez took a note from his pocket and handed it to him. The note had a phone number and a line: "Haifa, Ahad Ham Street 17, third floor. Your wife is still there. Waiting for you."

Yossi's hand began to tremble. "She—she didn't leave?"

"She didn't leave. She's been waiting for eleven years."

Yossi's tears fell. He held the note tightly, held those words tightly, held the name of the person who had waited eleven years.

He turned, heading north. That was the direction of Haifa.

The twenty-fifth, Malik Hassan. He walked very slowly, each step heavy, as if trudging through mud. Reaching the middle of the bridge, he squatted down, touching the wooden planks of the bridge.

The planks were smooth, sturdy, and solid.

He stood up, gazing at the lake surface. The lake water was very blue, the sky also very blue, and Tiberias City far away was very white.

He thought of his father. A father he never met. A father who died in room 317.

He continued to walk. Upon reaching the west end of the bridge, no one was there to meet him. He stood by the roadside, gazing at those Israelis, at those he hated for thirty years.

A hand rested on his shoulder.

He turned around. It was Sanchez.

"Malik Hassan?"

"Yes."

Sanchez took another note from his pocket and handed it to him. The note contained an address: "Hamah, Old Town, Fayez Street 7. Your mother still lives there. Waiting for you."

Malik's hand began to tremble. "She—she's alive?"

"Alive. She's been waiting for nine years."

Malik's tears fell. He held the note tightly, held the address tightly, held the name of the person who had waited nine years.

He turned, heading east. That was the direction of Hamah.

Sanchez stood at the midpoint of the bridge, watching as the people walked across one by one. Thirty-two people, heading in thirty-two directions. Some went north, some went south, some went west, some went east. Some were met by someone, some were met by no one. Some cried, some laughed, some did nothing, just standing, gazing at the lake.

When the sun rose overhead, the last person came over.

An elderly man, over eighty, unable to walk, supported by two young men. His eyes were closed, mouth slightly open, as if asleep.

Sanchez walked over. "Old gentleman?"

The elder didn't open his eyes.

The young man beside him said, "He can't see. Imprisoned for thirty years, his eyes have gone bad."

Sanchez nodded. He supported the elder, step by step, crossing the middle of the bridge, crossing the west end, stepping onto Israeli soil.

The elder opened his eyes. His eyes were gray, pupils covered with a white film, resembling a winter lake surface frozen over.

"Arrived?" he asked.

"Arrived," Sanchez replied.

"Where is this?"

"Israel. Golan Heights. Lake Tiberias."

The elder nodded. "I came here when I was young. Back then it was Syria's."