He turned around and looked at Sanchez.
"Major, why are you asking this?"
Sanchez didn't answer. He looked at the lake, looked at the pigeons, looked at the increasingly dark outline of Tiberias City in the distance.
"Mr. Levi, it's dark. You should go back."
The old man nodded, turned, and walked toward the city. After a few steps, he stopped.
"Major, Prison 317, in Hamah. Three hours' drive north of Damascus. The warden's name is Fayez Hassan, Rifat Assad's man. That person—"
He stopped.
"What's up with that person?"
"That person, and Brigadier General Hassan, share a surname."
He continued walking. His figure grew increasingly blurred in the twilight, finally disappearing into the alleys of Tiberias City.
Sanchez stood at the bridgehead, standing for a long time.
