Chapter 2178 - 876: Peace—Why Is It So Hard to Come By!

Bramo left.

Victor stood by the window, watching the traffic on Paseo de la Reforma. It was already afternoon, and there were many cars, jammed together, with the sound of horns blaring incessantly. He watched those cars for a long time. Then he turned around, walked back to his desk, and sat down. He picked up the list and read it again.

Forty names. Twenty-three have been buried. Seventeen are still living. Those who are living, some are in Israel, some in Syria, some in unknown places. He put down the list and picked up the phone, dialing a number.

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

The phone rang many times before it was picked up. On the other end was Yossi's voice, hoarse and weary.

"Yossi, it's Victor."

"Mr. Victor."

"Yossi, is the list you have the same as the one Hassan gave me?"

Yossi was silent for three seconds. "It's the same list. Rifat wrote it by hand. Who was detained, who was killed, where they're buried. It's all on there."

Victor was also silent. "Yossi, keep that list. Don't give it to anyone. Hold onto it. Use it when the time comes."

Yossi was silent for a long time. "When to use it?"

Victor looked out the window. "When the trees are finally dug up."

The phone call ended.

Victor sat there, gazing at the sunlight outside the window. The sun had already begun to set, the golden light slowly turning to silver, and the outline of Paseo de la Reforma became blurry in the distance. He picked up the list, folded it, and placed it in the drawer. Together with the letter. Together with the blood-stained paper. Together with the photograph of Hassan standing among the trees. Together with the plaque.

He closed the drawer.

"Wait." He murmured.

Outside, the sun had set. The clouds on the horizon burned red, reflecting on the glass curtain walls of the skyscrapers, as if on fire.

He stood up and walked to the window.

"Damn it." He cursed softly.

Golan Heights, Lake Tiberias floating bridge. The next morning.

Lieutenant Alvarez brewed a fresh pot of coffee. Beans grown in Chiapas Highlands, the kind Hassan liked. He poured two cups, placing one in front of himself and one on the opposite side of the table. Then he sat behind the folding table, waiting.

At the east end of the bridge, a car arrived. It wasn't a tractor, it wasn't a jeep, it was a bus. White, unmarked, with darkened windows, hiding the inside. The car stopped behind the tent, and the door opened, people dressed in civilian clothes stepped off, with grey, blue, black outfits. Some had collars, some didn't. Their hair varied in length, their faces varied in shape, their eyes varied in size.

Seventeen people.

The seventeenth person stumbled slightly as they stepped off the bus, nearly falling. Someone beside him steadied him. He stood upright, looking at the bridge, looking at the land across it, glinting with golden edges in the morning light.

Alvarez walked over. "You are—"

The first person spoke up, their voice hoarse like a machine unused for a long time. "From number 317. Living. The seventeen on the list. We have arrived."

Alvarez looked at them. Seventeen people, oldest over seventy, youngest in their early twenties. There were Syrians, and there were Israelis. He looked at the seventh person. That person also looked at him, eyes bright, face thin.

"You're Israeli?"

The person nodded. "Mossad agent. Detained for eleven years. Yossi Ben-David. From Haifa."

Alvarez nodded. He turned and walked to the middle of the bridge, raising the white flag in his hand. The wind was strong, the flag flapped fiercely.

"Cross the bridge."

Seventeen people stepped onto the bridge. Walking slowly, heavily with each step. In the middle of the bridge, someone stopped, looking at the lake's surface. The lake water was very blue, the sky was very blue, and distant Tiberias City was very white. Someone crouched down, touching the wooden planks on the bridge surface. Someone cried, someone laughed, someone did nothing, just stood there.

Alvarez stood at the bridgehead, watching them walk over one by one. When they reached the west end of the bridge, the elderly Moses Levi stood there, holding a cup of water in his hand. He poured a cup for each person, saying, "Drink some water, it's sweet."

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

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

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

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

He returned the empty cup to the old man, turned to walk north. That was the direction of Haifa. After walking a few steps, he stopped, turned back, looking at the bridge. The lights on the bridge were still shining, transforming into a string of transparent beads in the morning light. In the middle of the bridge, Lieutenant Alvarez stood there, holding the white flag.

Yossi looked at him, looked for a long time. Then he turned and continued walking. He left.

Alvarez stood in the middle of the bridge, watching the silhouette shrink until it disappeared into the alleys of Tiberias City. He turned around, looking at the seventeen people. Some had already left, some were still standing on the bridge, looking at the lake surface. He walked back to the folding table and sat down. The coffee in the thermos was still hot, he poured a cup, lifted it up, and took a sip. Bitter, very bitter, but fragrant.

He picked up the radio.

"Connect me to Mexico City."

The phone rang once, and was picked up. On the other end was Victor's voice.

"Lieutenant."

"Leader, the seventeen people have arrived. Number 317, living. The seventeen on the list. They've all crossed the bridge. The Syrians walked east, the Israelis walked west. Yossi Ben-David walked north, back to Haifa."