Chapter 2174 - 875: The Names Will Not Die in Vain

"Mr. Victor, the trees have been dug up. The monument is erected. The people, I remember them. The bridge, you hold on to it."

He folded the letter neatly and slipped it into his pocket, right alongside the white flag.

He picked up the walkie-talkie.

"Patch me through to Mexico City."

The phone rang once before being answered. It was Victor's voice on the other end.

"Lieutenant."

"Leader, Hafez Assad has written again. Says the trees are dug up, the monument is erected, the people remembered. The bridge, let us keep it."

Victor was silent for three seconds. "The letter?"

"In my possession."

"Keep it. Along with that blood-stained paper. Use it when the time comes."

The call ended.

Alvarez stood there, holding the phone, listening to the busy signal in the receiver. The fog over the lake began to clear, a line of golden light emerging from behind the eastern hills, scattering into a sheet of golden stars on the water.

He turned and walked back to the folding table, sat down. The coffee in the thermos was cold; he poured a cup and took a sip. Bitter, cold, like medicine.

He picked up the photograph. Hassan stood among olive trees, their leaves rustling in the wind. He looked at it for a long time.

"General," he whispered, "you've grown old."

He placed the photograph on the table alongside the blood-stained paper. Then he leaned back in the chair, closed his eyes. The wind blew warmly off the lake, carrying moisture. The fog cleared, the sun came out, warming his face.

He fell asleep in the sunlight.

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 morning, cars filled the street, jammed together, the sounds of horns blaring, people cursing, heads sticking out of car windows, looking toward the National Palace.

Bramo stood behind him.

"Hafez Assad's letter has been received by Lieutenant Alvarez. Says the trees are dug up, the monument is erected, the people remembered. The bridge, let us keep it."

Victor didn't turn around. "What else?"

"There's another matter. That Mossad guy, Yossi Ben-David. He has a complete list from 317. Detailed by Rifat himself. Who was imprisoned, who was killed, buried where. It's all there. The Israel Military Intelligence Bureau approached him to hand it over. He didn't."

Victor turned around. "He didn't hand it over?"

"No. He kept it. Hid it on himself."

Victor squinted his eyes. "What else did he say?"

Bramo opened a folder. "He said, 'The names of these people will not die in vain.'"

Victor was silent for three seconds. "Tell Bennett to find him. Find that list. Not to seize it, but to see it. See it, remember it. Remember it, and when the time comes, use it."

Bramo nodded.

"And," Victor continued, "Hassan spent seven days on that mountain. Dug up twenty corpses. Erected a monument. Names carved on it. He's grown old."

He looked at Bramo. "Tell Lieutenant Alvarez, tomorrow, brew a pot of coffee. Beans from the Chiapas Highlands, Hassan's favorite kind. Send it to the east end of the bridge, under the tent. Leave it for Hassan. When he comes, he drinks it. If he doesn't come, just leave it there. Leave it there, and someone will come."

Bramo nodded and was about to leave.

"Wait." Victor stopped him. "That old blind man, Joseph Ben-Joseph. Has his son gone to get him?"

"Yes. Jonathan rushed from Haifa to Tiberias City, picked up his father at Moses Levi's house. The two embraced and cried for a long time. Now they're in Haifa, with his mother there. The whole family, together for the first time in twenty-two years."

Victor nodded. "Tell Jonathan to take good care of his father. Get his father's eyes checked. Treat if possible, don't worry if not. Let him keep living. Living is enough."

Bramo left.

Victor stood by the window, watching the traffic on Paseo de la Reforma. The sun was already high, reflecting harsh light off the glass curtain walls of the skyscrapers. He remembered that olive grove, those white cloth parcels, Hassan standing amidst the trees, bent like a tree in the wind.

He turned around, walked back to his desk, and sat down. On the desk lay fresh intelligence. North of Hamah, beneath the olive grove, there might be more bodies. From 1976, 1982, 2011. These people weren't taken from 317; they were dragged from the streets of Hamah, from houses in Hamah, from mosques in Hamah. Killed by Assad's men, buried under the grove, olive trees planted above.

He looked at the intelligence, looked for a long time. Then picked up the phone, dialing a number.

"Put me through to the Golan Heights. Find Lieutenant Alvarez."

The phone rang many times before being answered. It was Alvarez's voice, hoarse, weary.

"Leader."

"Lieutenant, there might be more people under that olive grove. From 1976, 1982, 2011. Killed by Assad's men, buried under the grove. Tell Hassan to keep digging. Dig until he can't dig anymore."

Alvarez was silent for a long time. "Leader, Hassan's grown old. He can barely stand."

Victor was silent too. "Then let him rest. Let the young men dig. His adjutant, his soldiers, his division. Those men are Syrians too. They should know what's buried beneath that grove."

The call ended.

Victor sat there, looking at the sunlight outside the window. He remembered the bridge over Lake Tiberias, remembered those who had walked across it, remembered the blind old man touching the air saying, "The water is still there." The water is still there. People are too. Only buried beneath, intertwined with roots, mixed with dirt.

He stood up, walked to the window.

"Damn it." He cursed under his breath.

Outside, traffic on Paseo de la Reforma was still jammed, horns blared, people cursed, heads stuck out of car windows, looking toward the National Palace.

He watched those people for a long time.

Then he turned around, walked back to his desk, and sat down. He picked up the intelligence on the olive grove again, read it once more.

Then he set it down, picked up another document—about that Mossad man, Yossi Ben-David, and the complete list from 317.

He placed the two sets of intelligence side by side on the desk.

One was about the dead. One was about the living. The dead buried below, the living with a list tucked in his pocket. He remembered what Yossi had said: "The names of these people will not die in vain."

He picked up the phone, dialed a number.

"Connect me to Haifa. Find Yossi Ben-David."

The phone rang many times before being answered. The voice on the other end was hoarse, weary, like a machine not used in a long time.

"Yossi Ben-David."

"Yossi, it's Victor."

There was silence on the other end for ten seconds.

"Mr. Victor."

"Yossi, you have a list. The complete list from 317. Who was imprisoned, who was killed, buried where."

Yossi said nothing.

"Keep that list. Don't give it to the Israelis, don't give it to the Americans, don't give it to the Russians. Keep it. Use it when the time comes."

Yossi was silent for a long time. "When will that be?"

Victor was silent too. "When the trees are dug up."

The call ended.

Victor sat there, looking at the sunlight outside the window. The sun was now directly overhead, reflecting harsh light off the skyscrapers' glass curtain walls. He remembered the olive grove, those white cloth parcels, Hassan standing amongst the trees, like a monument.

He stood up, walked to the window.

"When the trees are dug up," he murmured, "the monuments should be erected."

Names will be carved on the monument.

Every name is a person.

A person who once lived, laughed, cried, loved.

A person who had family, had people waiting for him to come home.

A person buried beneath, intertwined with roots, mixed with earth.

He stood by the window, looking at the sunlight outside for a long time.

Then he turned around, walked back to his desk, and sat down. He picked up the intelligence on the olive grove, folded it, put it in the drawer. Together with the letter. With the blood-stained paper. With the photograph of Hassan standing among the trees.

He closed the drawer.

"Wait," he said softly.

Outside, the sun began to tilt westward. Gold slowly turned to silver, the silhouette of the distant Paseo de la Reforma blurred.

A new day is coming.

But for those beneath the olive grove, daybreak means nothing.

They've waited many years.

A few more days mean nothing.