He reached out his hand, touching the air. The wind blew over, cool and carrying moisture.
"The water is still here."
He laughed. His gray eyes glistened in the sunlight, like the surface of a frozen lake suddenly cracking open, revealing the water beneath.
Sanchez stood in the middle of the bridge, watching each person disappear into the alleys of Tiberias City.
He turned around, looking at the folding table. There was no coffee pot, no ashtray, no white flag. Only a cup of water, cool, from Lake Tiberias.
He picked up the glass and took a sip. The water was sweet.
He picked up the walkie-talkie. "Connect me to Mexico City."
The phone rang once and was answered.
The voice on the other end was Victor's.
"Major Sanchez."
"Leader, everyone has crossed. Seven Israelis, twenty-five Syrians. All have crossed."
Victor was silent for three seconds. "Hassan?"
"Did not come. But a white bus did come. No markings. The door opened, and people walked off by themselves."
"Barak?"
