Brigadier General Hassan stood by the lakeside, watching the Mexican SUV coming from the west bank. The vehicle stopped at the bridgehead, and Lieutenant Colonel Sanchez jumped down, holding a thermos.
"General, try this."
Hassan took the thermos and unscrewed the lid. Inside was coffee, black and steaming. He took a sip; it was bitter, very bitter, but fragrant.
"Mexican coffee?"
Sanchez nodded. "Grown in the Chiapas Highlands, beans roasted by our own camp."
Hassan took another sip. "It's good."
The two stood by the lakeside, watching the bridge. The lights on the bridge were still on, like two golden ribbons in the twilight. There were people walking on the bridge—not soldiers, but civilians. A few Syrian old men with walking sticks slowly made their way from the east bank to the west bank. On the other side, a few Israelis stood at the roadside, watching them walk over.
