Sanchez's hand stopped.
He folded the piece of paper, put it back in the envelope, and placed the envelope in his pocket, along with the white flag.
He picked up the walkie-talkie. "Connect me to Mexico City."
The phone rang twice, and someone picked up. It was Bramo's voice.
"Major Sanchez."
"Mr. Bramo, prison number 317, has seven people detained. Israelis. Not prisoners of war, spies."
There was three seconds of silence on the other end. "Confirmed?"
"Confirmed. It's the number Brigadier General Hassan provided. Thirty-two people, seven Israelis, twenty-five Syrians."
Another three seconds of silence. "Wait."
The call ended.
Sanchez stood there, holding the phone, listening to the busy signal in the receiver. The mist over the lake began to disperse, and a line of golden light appeared over the hills in the east, shining on the water, breaking into a field of golden stars.
He turned around and walked back to the camp.
