Chapter 2163 - 873: Victor’s Fist 6

He reached out his hand, touching the air. The wind blew over, cool and carrying moisture.

"The water is still here."

He laughed. His gray eyes glistened in the sunlight, like the surface of a frozen lake suddenly cracking open, revealing the water beneath.

Sanchez stood in the middle of the bridge, watching each person disappear into the alleys of Tiberias City.

He turned around, looking at the folding table. There was no coffee pot, no ashtray, no white flag. Only a cup of water, cool, from Lake Tiberias.

He picked up the glass and took a sip. The water was sweet.

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

The phone rang once and was answered.

The voice on the other end was Victor's.

"Major Sanchez."

"Leader, everyone has crossed. Seven Israelis, twenty-five Syrians. All have crossed."

Victor was silent for three seconds. "Hassan?"

"Did not come. But a white bus did come. No markings. The door opened, and people walked off by themselves."

"Barak?"

"Also did not come. But Moses Levi waited at the bridgehead. Holding a cup of water. Gave each person a sip."

The other side was silent again.

"Major Sanchez."

"Yes."

"The bridge, keep it. People, come back."

The phone hung up.

Sanchez stood there, holding the phone, listening to the busy signal in the receiver. The wind over the lake grew stronger, making the lights strung along the bridge railing clatter. The sun had already begun to slant westward, golden turning slowly into silver, the distant outline of Tiberias City becoming blurred.

He turned around, walking down from the bridge.

At the bridgehead, Lieutenant Alvarez stood there, holding a thermos.

"Major, the coffee is ready. Beans from the Chiapas Highlands, the kind General Hassan likes."

Sanchez looked at him. "Lieutenant, starting tomorrow, this table is yours. Brew a pot of coffee here every day. Whoever comes drinks. Syrians come, give them coffee. Israelis come, give them coffee. Mexicans come, pour yourself a cup."

Alvarez was stunned. "Major, I—"

"What do you mean? You built the bridge. Once the bridge is built, someone has to watch it. The person watching the bridge needs to have a cup of coffee."

He patted Alvarez's shoulder and turned to leave.

On the lake surface, the sun was setting. The clouds at the horizon were burning red, reflecting in the water like flames. The lights on the bridge lit up, a row of small bulbs lined up along the bridge railing, appearing faint in the firelight, like two nearly broken lines.

Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, placing the thermos on the table, twisting open the lid. The aroma of coffee spread in the wind, bitter, yet fragrant.

He poured a cup, lifted it, and took a sip.

Bitter. Very bitter.

He looked at the fire on the lake surface, at the distant mountains, at the empty tents at the eastern end of the bridge, at the lights still on at the western end.

"Damn it." He cursed softly, not knowing who he was swearing at.

Then he poured another cup, placing it across the table.

"General Hassan, the coffee is ready."

No one came.

He sat there, waiting.

Same night, late night, Mexico City, top floor of the "Feathered Serpent Temple"

Victor stood by the window, watching the traffic on Paseo de la Reforma. It was already late, cars were few, occasionally a taxi passed by, its headlights casting long shadows on the road.

Bramo stood behind him.

Victor turned around. "That blind old man, who is he?"

Bramo opened the file. "Joseph ben-Joseph. Jonathan's father. Detained for twenty-two years, his eyesight ruined. When he came out, no one picked him up. Jonathan is in Haifa, with his mother. He doesn't know his dad got out today."

Victor was silent for three seconds. "Tell Jonathan. His father is in Tiberias City, at Moses Levi's house. Let him go pick him up."

Bramo nodded.

"Also," Victor said, "Hassan's nephew, Malik. Let him go to Hamah, find his mother. His mother has waited for nine years."

He was silent for a few more seconds. "Tell Bennett to keep an eye on Rifat Assad. Did his brother send him to London, did he go?"

"Not yet. Still in Damascus. Said to be packing."

Victor sneered. "Packing? Packing evidence probably. Those ledgers, those recordings, those photos, all buried under 317's basement. He wants to take them, but can't. Wants to burn them, but can't cleanly. Wants to hand them over, but no one dares to take."

He walked back to his desk, sat down.

"Tell Major Sanchez, the matter of 317 isn't over. People are out, but the account isn't settled. Rifat Assad escaped, but his men are still here. Those who killed, buried bodies, or saw the light in 317, not one can run."

He looked at Bramo. "Let Bennett's people go to Hamah. Find 317, find those ledgers, find those photos. Once found, organize them and release them to the world."

"If he wants war, give him war!"

"No... We want war!"

"Victor's Fist!!! I'm going to smash everyone's damn head!"