Golan Heights, Tiberias Lake pontoon bridge, 3 a.m.
The wind swept over the lake, cold as a knife.
Lieutenant Alvarez sat by the folding table, the coffee in the thermos had already cooled. He sat at this table for three days, brewing a pot of Chiapas coffee each day, waiting for Brigadier General Hassan to come drink it. Hassan didn't come. Colonel Barak didn't come either. Only the old Moses Levi came to the bridgehead every evening, leaning on his cane, sitting for a while, feeding the pigeons, watching the lake water, and then went home.
On the third night, someone finally came to the east end of the bridge.
It was four men in black suits, without military hats or ranks, but their gait unmistakably military. They surrounded a man in a gray trench coat in the middle, a man in his fifties, with a thin face, high cheekbones, eyes like two holes.
Alvarez stood up, his hand on the handgun at his waist.
