Chapter 2179 - 876: Peace, Why Is It So Hard to Achieve!

Victor was silent for three seconds. "Does he still have that list?"

"Yes. It's hidden on him."

"Tell him to keep it. Don't give it to anyone. Hold onto it. Use it when necessary."

The call ended.

Alvarez stood there, holding the phone, listening to the busy tone in the receiver. The wind on the lake's surface had stopped, the water was flat, like a mirror, reflecting the clouds in the sky. He turned around, walked back to the folding table, and sat down. The coffee in the thermos was still hot; he poured a cup and placed it across the table.

"General Hassan, the coffee is still warm. Are you coming?"

No one answered.

He looked at that cup of coffee for a long time. The coffee cooled, but he didn't pour it out. He stood up, picked up the thermos, and walked down the bridge. At the bridgehead, the off-road vehicle was still parked there, the engine still running. He got in the car, the door closed. The car turned around, heading east. That's the direction of Hamah. That's the direction of the olive grove. That's the direction of the tombstone crafter.

He was going to see him. Bring him a cup of hot coffee.

Hamah, at the foot of the northern mountains, in the olive grove.

When Alvarez arrived, the sun was already overhead.

He parked the car at the foot of the mountain, carrying the thermos, and walked into the grove. The trees rustled in the wind, the tombstones shimmered in the sunlight. He looked at each one, reciting the names one by one. In the center of the grove, the newly filled twenty-three pits were already leveled. The soil was freshly turned, dark brown, with no grass yet growing. In front of the pits stood twenty-three tombstones, varying in size, but each engraved with words. Names, dates, and a line of small text.

He squatted down, touching the nearest tombstone. Inscribed on it were: "Abdul Karim Hassan. Imprisoned for eleven years. Died at the doorstep when released. His mother waited for him for eleven years, also died."

His hand paused on the line of small text. "He waited eleven years. The door not entered."

He stood up, continued walking. Deep into the grove, under an old olive tree, sat a person. Hassan. Leaning against the tree, eyes closed, as if asleep. Holding an unfinished tombstone, with half a name carved on it. Next to him, a hammer, a nail.

Alvarez walked over, squatted down. "General."

Hassan didn't move.

He reached out and touched Hassan's face. Cold, hard, like stone. His hand started to tremble. He felt Hassan's nose, no breath. Felt Hassan's neck, no pulse. He knelt on the ground, looking at that face. That face was serene, like Lake Tiberias in winter, frozen, with water beneath the ice. But the water no longer flowed.

He knelt for a long time. The wind blew from the north, carrying the scent of snow, also carrying the scent of spring. The snow was nearly melted. The trees were about to bud. The man, was dead.

He took the tombstone from Hassan's hand, placed it on the ground. He put the hammer and nail down as well. Then he stood up, walked out of the grove, got into the car. The door closed, the engine started. The car turned around, heading south. That was the direction of Haifa, the direction of Tel Aviv, the direction of the airport. That was the direction of Mexico. That was the direction home.

He drove for a while, stopped, and looked back. The grove of olive trees still stood there, the tombstones still stood there, the tombstone crafter still there. The trees rustled in the wind, the tombstones shimmered in the sunlight.

He turned back, continued driving.

The road was long, gray and dusty, stretching all the way to the horizon.

Tears streamed down his face.