Chapter 2169 - 874: You’re Quite Arrogant, Aren’t You~

Alvarez took the letter. A white envelope, no heading, no signature, sealed with wax, the Syrian President's eagle emblem pressed onto the wax. He put the letter away.

"Anything else?"

The envoy shook his head. "No, that's all."

He turned and left. His leather shoes clicked against the bridge surface, the sound gradually fading.

Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, watching the black sedan disappear into the dust. He lowered his head and looked at the letter in his hand. The envelope was thin, containing just a single sheet of paper. He didn't tear it open. He picked up the satellite phone and dialed a number.

"Get me Mexico City."

The phone rang once and was answered. It was Bramo's voice on the other end.

"Lieutenant Alvarez."

"Mr. Bramo, Rifat is dead. Killed by Hassan. Hafez Assad issued an order, posthumously sentencing him to death. There's also a letter, for the Leader."

Three seconds of silence on the other end. "Where's the letter?"

"In my hand. It's unopened."

"Wait."

The call ended abruptly.

Alvarez stood there, holding the phone, listening to the busy signal in the receiver. The wind from the lake started again, causing the strings of lights on the bridge railing to rustle. The sun had begun to set, the golden hue gradually turning silver, and the distant outline of Tiberias City started to blur.

He turned and walked back to the folding table, sat down. The thermos was empty; he placed it on the table next to the letter. Then he leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes.

The wind blew across the lake surface, warm and humid, carrying the scent of water. He remembered what Major Sanchez said when he left: "Once the bridge is built, someone has to watch it. The one watching the bridge should have a cup of coffee."

He opened his eyes, looking at the empty thermos. It was a thermos, made in Mexico, green, with the "3rd Special Forces Regiment" emblem printed on its body.

He picked up the thermos, unscrewed the lid, and found a drop of coffee left inside. He poured it into his mouth; it tasted bitter and cold, like medicine.

He chuckled. "Damn." he cursed softly.

Then he stood up, picked up the letter, and walked down the bridge. At the bridgehead, a Mexican Army off-road vehicle was parked, the engine running. He got in, closed the door. The car turned around and headed south. That was the direction of Haifa, the direction of Tel Aviv, the direction of the airport. It was the direction home.

He glanced back. The bridge was still there, the lights still shining, like two golden ribbons in the twilight. At the east end of the bridge, the tent was still there, the folding chair still there, the bottled water still there. At the west end, old Moses Levi was still sitting there, holding a cup of water, feeding the pigeons.

The pigeons flew up in the twilight, their gray wings casting a shadow over half the sky.

He turned his head back, looking at the road ahead. The road was long, gray, stretching all the way to the horizon.

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

Victor stood by the window, watching the flow of traffic on Paseo de la Reforma. It was late, not many cars, occasionally a taxi would pass, its headlights casting long shadows on the road.

He held the letter in his hand. It was sent by Lieutenant Alvarez, dispatched overnight from Tel Aviv. The envelope was thin, containing just a single sheet of paper. He opened it and pulled out the letter. It had only one line in Arabic, the handwriting was sloppy, like it was written while trembling:

"Mr. Victor, the bridge remains. The water keeps flowing. People, not killed."

He placed the letter on the table. Bramo stood before him.

"Rifat is dead. Hassan killed him. Hafez Assad confirmed the death sentence retrospectively. The remaining seventeen people from Unit 317 all crossed the bridge. Seven Israelis, ten Syrians. Now they're all in Tiberias City, waiting to go home."

Victor nodded. "And Hassan?"

"He went back to Hamah. To that olive grove. He said he's going to dig up those dead bodies, identify them one by one, bury them one by one."

Victor was silent for three seconds. "Tell him that Mexico will send people. Forensic doctors, evidence technicians. To help identify the people. To help record. To help—the names of those people be engraved on the monument."

Bramo nodded.

"Also," Victor said, "tell Lieutenant Alvarez, the coffee stall on the bridge, don't dismantle it. Brew a pot of coffee every day, leave it on the table. Whoever comes can drink. If the Syrians come, give it to the Syrians; if the Israelis come, give it to the Israelis. If Mexicans come, pour themselves a cup."

He paused. "The bridge, it can't be unwatched."

Bramo turned to leave.

"Wait." Victor stopped him. "Those twelve photos, Malik Hassan's, and the other eleven, plus the one of Rifat Assad lying on the airport runway. Send them to CNN, BBC, Al Jazeera. Let the whole world see. Let the whole world see, the people who killed Syrians are dead. Let the whole world see, the people who locked up Syrians are dead. Let the whole world see, those buried under the olive trees, are to be unearthed."

He looked at Bramo. "This isn't vengeance. This is justice."

Bramo left.

Victor stood by the window, looking at the lights on Paseo de la Reforma. In the distance, the eastern horizon was beginning to lighten. A new day was coming.

He turned back, returned to his desk, picked up the letter, and read it again. "The bridge remains. The water keeps flowing. People, not killed."

He folded the letter, put it in the drawer. Then he picked up the phone, dialed a number.

"Get me Golan Heights. Find Lieutenant Alvarez."

The phone rang many times before it was picked up. It was Alvarez's voice on the other end, hoarse, tired.

"Leader."

"Lieutenant, any coffee left?"

Alvarez was silent for a second. "No. It's cold. The pot's empty."

Victor nodded. "Brew again tomorrow. Beans from Chiapas Highlands, the kind Hassan likes. Brew an extra pot, pour a cup for old Moses Levi too. He feeds pigeons at the bridgehead every day, he should have a cup of coffee."

Alvarez laughed softly. "Yes, Leader."

The call ended.

Victor stood at the window, looking at the night outside. In the distance, the streetlights on Paseo de la Reforma were still on, dimly lit, like sleepy eyes.

He thought of the bridge. Thought of those who crossed it. Thought of the blind old man, feeling the air, saying "the water is still there." Thought of the five-year-old child, holding up a yellow flower, saying "Dad, you're back." Thought of old Moses Levi, holding a cup of water, saying "Have a sip, it's sweet." Thought of Hassan standing by the lake, looking at the lights on the opposite shore, saying "Once the bridge is built, I'm leaving." Thought of Lieutenant Alvarez sitting in the middle of the bridge, pouring a cup of cold coffee, saying "General Hassan, the coffee's cold."

He turned around, walked back to the bed, and lay down.

Outside the window, dawn was approaching.