Chapter 2172 - 875: _3

"Damn it." He muttered.

Haifa, 17 Ahad Ham Street, third floor

Yossi Ben-David sat by the window, looking at the street below.

Haifa's evenings are beautiful, with the sun setting over the western sea, painting the sky an orange-red, and the ships in the port lighting their lamps, slowly heading out. He has been sitting by this window for three days, watching the sea for three days, the ships for three days, the sun for three days.

His wife was cooking in the kitchen. The knife chopped on the cutting board, rhythmically. His son was in the next room doing homework, the pencil scratching on paper, softly. He listened to these sounds, feeling unreal. Eleven years he hadn't heard these sounds. In those eleven years, he heard the clang of iron doors shutting, the clack of the jail guard's shoes in the corridor, and the coughing of the Kurdish old man in the next cell, who coughed for three years, coughed to death.

The doorbell rang.

His wife poked her head out of the kitchen. "Yossi, go see who's here."

He stood up, walked to the door. Through the peephole, he saw two men standing outside. Both wore black coats, faces thin, eyes bright. He didn't recognize them, but his heart started to race.

He opened the door.

"Yossi Ben-David?" The first man spoke, in Hebrew, with a Tel Aviv accent.

"That's me."

The man took out an ID from his pocket and flashed it in front of him. The Mossad emblem, gold, shimmered briefly in the corridor light.

"Come with us."

Yossi's hand tightened on the door handle. "Where to?"

"Tel Aviv. Someone wants to meet you."

Yossi didn't move. His wife rushed out of the kitchen, still clutching the knife. "Who are you? Where are you taking him?"

The second man spoke, his voice soft. "Ma'am, don't worry. He's just going to talk. He'll be back soon."

Yossi looked at his wife. She stood there, her hand shaking, the knife glinting coldly under the light.

"It's okay. I'll be back soon."

He stepped out, the door closing behind him. The corridor was dark, the bulb half broken, flickering on and off. He followed the two men down the stairs, out of the building, and into a black sedan. The car door closed, the engine started. The car merged into Haifa's evening traffic, stopping and starting, starting and stopping.

Yossi watched the faces outside flash by. Some were smiling, some crying, some expressionless. He thought of the faces in Cell 317. Faces he had been with for eleven years. Some had left, some died, some were still there. Among those who left, there were seven Israelis, ten Syrians. Among the dead, seventeen were buried under olive trees. And—he touched his chest. Inside his jacket, a pocket sewn, hiding a piece of paper. The complete list of Cell 317. Recorded by Rifat himself, noting who was held, who was killed, where they were buried. He hid it in the prison wall cracks, brought it out when he was released.

The car stopped. He looked up, saw a gray building, without a sign, without a number, guarded by two armed guards at the entrance.

"We're here." The first man said.

Yossi got out of the car. He followed them into the building, walked through a long hallway, doors closed on both sides. At the end, a door opened to an office. Long table, chairs, white walls, no windows. On the table were a glass of water, a cup of coffee, an ashtray.

"Sit." The second man said.

Yossi sat down. The two men left, the door closed.

He sat there, looking at the water, the coffee, the ashtray. The water was cold, the coffee hot, the ashtray empty. He reached to touch his chest. The paper was still there.

The door opened.

A man in his fifties entered, hair gray, wearing a gray suit, no tie. He sat across from Yossi, looking at him, looking for a long time.

"Yossi Ben-David. Mossad. Captured in Lebanon during a mission in 1993, imprisoned for eleven years. Released this year."

Yossi didn't speak.

"You have something. The complete list of Cell 317. Recorded by Rifat himself. Who was held, who was killed, where they were buried."

Yossi's hands rested on the table, motionless.

"Hand over the list."

Yossi looked at him. "Who are you?"

The man didn't answer.

"Without even saying your name, what gives you the right to take my things?"

The man was silent for three seconds. "I'm Ehud Barak. Commander of the Golan Brigade. Not Mossad. Military Intelligence Bureau."

Yossi squinted his eyes. "Intelligence Bureau? You handle the matters of Cell 317?"

Barak didn't speak.

"Rifat killed twelve people coming out of Cell 317, where were you? Rifat planted twenty olive trees at the mountain foot north of Hamah, burying twenty people beneath them, where were you? Hafez Assad ruled for thirty-one years, killing sixty thousand in Hamah, where were you?"

Barak's hand pressed on the table. "Yossi—"

"You weren't there. You were drinking tea in Tel Aviv. You were doing business with Assad in Damascus. You were drinking vodka with Korosov in Moscow. You were chumming with CIA people in Washington. You had Rifat's money in London's accounts. You—"

"Enough." Barak's voice sharply increased.

Yossi stopped. He looked into Barak's eyes. In those eyes were bloodshot veins, fatigue, anger, and fear.

"Yossi, do you know what will happen if that list is made public?"

"What will happen? Hafez Assad overthrown. Syrian civil war. Russians lose their base. Iranians lose their ally. Hezbollah's supply lines cut off. Israel—"