Chapter 2167 - 874: You’re Pretty Arrogant, Aren’t You~_4

Rifat's legs gave out, and he slowly slid down against the plane's gangway.

"Rifat, you can't escape. The plane can't fly, the car can't drive, and the roads are blocked. Your mansion in Damascus is surrounded by the 4th Armored Division. Your accounts in London have been frozen by the Mexicans. Your safe in Switzerland has been opened by the French. The money, the photographs, and the recordings you've hidden around the world—all exposed."

Rifat raised his head and looked at the tank. The barrel was still aimed at his chest.

"Rifat, I give you an hour. In an hour, my men will come. You'll go with them. You know where to go."

The phone hung up.

Rifat sat at the bottom of the gangway, listening to the roar of the engines. The sun had risen, glaring brightly on the runway. He looked at the tank, at the dark barrel, at his shadow shrinking beneath him, a short mass like a pool of ink.

He remembered 1970, when he was twenty-one, charging into Damascus with tanks, clearing out opposition for his brother. Back then, he felt like a hero. Now, he sat here, waiting for Hassan's men to arrive.

He laughed. A light, bitter laugh. "Damn it," he cursed under his breath.

8 a.m., Golan Heights, Lake Tiberias Floating Bridge.

Lieutenant Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, staring at the sunlight dancing on the lake. Those twelve photos from last night, he had re-shot and sent them out. Hassan received them, Barak received them, CNN received them, BBC received them, Al Jazeera received them. The whole world saw them. Rifat Assad's face now appeared on screens worldwide, alongside the photos of the people he had killed.

A vehicle approached at the eastern end of the bridge. It wasn't a jeep; it was a bus. White, unmarked, just like the one that brought those thirty-two people three days ago. The door opened, and people in gray tracksuits with closely cropped hair and dark-tanned faces got out. One, two, three—seventeen.

The seventeenth person stumbled slightly when getting off the bus, nearly falling. Someone nearby caught him. He stood up straight and gazed at the bridge, at the land across it glowing with a golden edge in the morning light.

Alvarez walked over. "You are—"

The first person spoke, his voice hoarse, like a machine unused for a long time. "From block 317. The rest of us. Rifat ran, the prison was left unattended, the door was open, we walked out ourselves."

Alvarez looked at them. Seventeen people, the oldest over sixty, the youngest just in their twenties. There were Syrians, and—he looked at the seventh person. That person also looked back at him, eyes bright, face gaunt.

"Are you Israeli?"

The person nodded. "Mossad. Eleven years locked up."

Alvarez nodded. He turned and walked to the middle of the bridge, raising a white flag. The wind was strong, making the flag flap loudly.

"Cross the bridge."

The seventeen people walked onto the bridge. They walked slowly, each step heavy. In the middle of the bridge, some stopped, looking at the lake. The water was very blue, and the sky was blue too, while Tiberias City off in the distance was very white. Some crouched down, touching the wooden planks of the bridge. Some cried, some laughed, while others did nothing, just standing there.

Alvarez stood at the head of the bridge, watching them cross one by one. When they reached the western end of the bridge, the elderly Moses Levi stood there, holding a cup of water. He poured a cup for each person, saying, "Have a sip, it's sweet."

When the seventeenth person walked past, the old man looked at him. "What's your name?"

The person took the cup and drank a sip. "Yossi. Yossi Ben-David. From Haifa."

The old man nodded. "Haifa is a nice place. I went there when I was young."

Yossi smiled. "It's still a nice place now."

He handed the empty cup back to the old man and turned northward. That was the direction of Haifa.

Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, watching that figure get smaller and eventually disappear into the alleys of Tiberias City. He turned around and looked at the eastern end of the bridge. The bus was still parked there, the door open, engine not turned off, exhaust pipe puffing white smoke. The driver leaned out, waved to him, then pulled back in and closed the door. The bus turned around and headed east.

Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, watching the bus disappear into the dust.

He picked up the thermos and poured a cup of coffee. The coffee was already cold, quite bitter. He brought it to his lips and took a sip. Bitter, cold, like medicine.

He picked up the radio. "Get me Mexico City."

The phone rang once and was answered. Bramo's voice came on the line.

"Lieutenant Alvarez."

"Mr. Bramo, the seventeen left from block 317 have walked out on their own. Seven Israelis, ten Syrians. All crossed the bridge."

Silence on the other end for three seconds. "And Rifat?"

"Still at Damascus Airport. Hassan's men surround him. Awaiting further news."

Silence again. "Wait."

The phone was hung up.

Alvarez stood there, holding the phone, listening to the busy signal in the receiver. The wind over the lake had stopped, the water was calm, a mirror reflecting the clouds in the sky. He turned around, walked back to the folding table, and sat down. There was still half a pot of coffee left, cold. He poured a cup and set it on the opposite side of the table.

"General Hassan, the coffee's cold," he muttered to himself.

No one came.

10 a.m., Damascus International Airport.

Rifat Assad was still sitting at the bottom of the gangway.

The sun had risen high, softening the asphalt, heat waves rising from the ground, distorting the contours of the tank in the distance. His suit was soaked, his tie askew, his hair a tangled mess, like a fleeing soldier just returned from the battlefield.