Chapter 2170 - 875:

Golan Heights, Lake Tiberias floating bridge

Lieutenant Alvarez's coffee pot was empty again.

He sat behind the folding table, watching the sun inch by inch sinking over the lake.

The water was golden, the sky was red, and the distant Tiberias City was purple. The lights on the bridge were still off, and he forgot to turn them on.

Today is the fourth day since Rifat Assad's death.

In four days, Hassan hadn't come. Barak hadn't come. Only the old Moses Levi came every evening with his cane to sit at the bridgehead, feed the pigeons, look at the lake water, and then go home. Today, he didn't come. The long bench at the west end of the bridge was empty, with pigeons squat in a row on the seat, cooing.

Alvarez picked up the thermos pot, unscrewed the lid. There was still a sip of coffee inside, cold and bitter like medicine. He poured it into his mouth and put the empty pot on the table.

The walkie-talkie rang.

"Lieutenant, a car has arrived at the east end of the bridge."

He stood up.

At the east end of the bridge, a military truck parked behind the tent. The car door opened, and the person who got out was wearing Syrian military uniform, a single star on the shoulder epaulettes—Brigadier General.

The person walked quickly, the soles of his shoes thudding on the bridge surface, pa pa pa, like someone whipping water. He stopped in front of Alvarez, gasping for breath.

"Lieutenant Alvarez? I'm General Hassan's aide-de-camp. The General sent me to deliver a message."

Alvarez waited.

The aide-de-camp took out a crumpled sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it over. There was blood on the paper, dried and dark brown, smeared over the writing, making it hard to read.

"The General says, that olive grove is all excavated."

Alvarez took the paper.

"Seventeen people. All dug out. Some fallen apart, some just recently buried. One was still wearing a gray tracksuit, with a hole in the chest, like Malik. The General says—"

The aide-de-camp stopped.

"Says what?"

The aide-de-camp's eyes reddened. "The General says, 'Tell the Mexican bridge builder to keep the bridge. The water continues to flow. The people, I've buried them.'"

Alvarez looked at the blood-stained paper. The handwriting was very messy, as if written while trembling. He recognized a few words—"Hamah," "olive trees," "317."

"Where's the General?"

The aide-de-camp lowered his head. "Still on the mountain. Alone. He said he wanted to stay on the mountain a few more days. Look at those trees."

The aide-de-camp turned and left. The leather shoes tapped on the bridge surface, pa pa pa, growing more distant.

Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, holding the blood-stained paper. The wind blew from the lake, lifting the corners of the paper, rustling. He folded the paper and put it in his coat pocket. Along with the white flag.

He picked up the walkie-talkie.

"Get me Mexico City."

The phone rang twice, picked up. The voice on the other side was Bramo's.

"Lieutenant Alvarez."

"Mr. Bramo, Hamah's olive grove, finished excavating. Seventeen people. All came out from number 317. All dead. Buried at the foot of the mountain, olive trees planted. Hassan said to keep the bridge, let the water flow. People, he's buried them."

A long silence on the other end.

"Lieutenant, there's one more thing. Rifat Assad's account in London, we've found it. It's not just his. He shared it with his brother."

Alvarez's fingers tightened on the phone.

"Hafez Assad also knew about the money. Knew about the photos. Knew about the recordings. Knew who was locked up in number 317, who was killed, where they were buried. He knew it all. Thirty-one years, he knew it all."

Alvarez didn't speak.

"Lieutenant, do you know what this means?"

"It means Hafez Assad is also a murderer."

"Yes. He is also a murderer. He protected Rifat for thirty-one years. In those thirty-one years, how many people did number 317 kill, how many did they bury, he knew it all. He did nothing. Now that Rifat is dead, he blames everything on the dead, then writes you a letter saying 'Keep the bridge, let the water flow, no more killing.' As if nothing ever happened."

Alvarez's hand trembled.

"Lieutenant, are you angry?"

He was quiet for a long time. "Angry."

"Then remember this anger. Keep it. Use it when needed."

The phone hung up.

Alvarez stood there, holding the phone, listening to the busy signal from the receiver. The wind over the lake had stopped, the water was still, like a mirror, reflecting the first star in the sky. The lights on the bridge came on, a string of small bulbs lining the railing, like two frayed lines of gold in the twilight.

He turned around, walked back to the folding table, and sat down. The thermos was empty, he placed the pot on the table, put the blood-stained paper beside it. Then he leaned against the chair back, closing his eyes.

The wind blew from the lake, warm, carrying moisture, also carrying the scent of blood. Blown from the direction of Hamah, the olive grove.

He sat in the wind all night.

Hamah, at the foot of the northern mountain, olive grove

Before dawn.

Brigadier General Hassan squatted by a mound of earth, flashlight illuminating the pit bottom. In the pit lay a corpse, half decayed, bones exposed, ribs sticking out one by one, like a clothes rack. The clothes were still there, gray-green, Syrian military uniform. Two stars on the shoulder epaulettes—Lieutenant.

He recognized this person.

In 1975, while at the Homs Military Academy, this person was his roommate. Named Mahmoud Abdul Karim, part of the MSL Brotherhood, caught in 1976, sent to number 317, and never came out. He thought he died in prison. Now he knew, he didn't die in prison; he died beneath this olive grove. A hole in the chest, just like those killed by Rifat.