"Prepare the car."
Golan Heights, floating bridge on Lake Tiberias.
Early morning.
Lieutenant Alvarez sat behind the folding table; the coffee in the thermos had just been brewed. He poured two cups, one set in front of himself, one beside the table. Side by side with Hassan's cup. Two cups, both steaming.
A car came up at the eastern end of the bridge. A black sedan, its body spattered with mud. The door opened; the man who got out was wearing an old uniform, two stars on his shoulder boards, medals on his chest. Assad. He walked onto the bridge, walking very slowly, but steadier than yesterday. He came to the folding table and stood before the two cups of coffee.
"Lieutenant, which one is mine?"
Alvarez pointed to the cup beside him. "This one is General Hassan's. This one is yours."
Assad sat down, picked up his cup of coffee, and took a sip. Bitter, very bitter, but fragrant.
"Lieutenant, do you know why I've come again?"
Alvarez shook his head.
