"Where's the gravestone?"
"In my pocket."
"Keep it. Use it when needed."
The call ended.
Alvarez stood there, holding the phone, listening to the busy signal. The fog over the lake dispersed, the sun rose, shining glaringly on the water. He turned around, walked back to the folding table, and sat down. The coffee in the thermos was still hot; he poured a cup, picked it up, and took a sip. Bitter, very bitter, but fragrant.
He looked at the east end of the bridge. It was empty, except for the tractor tire tracks, leaving two deep grooves in the muddy ground. He looked at those two grooves for a long time.
Then he stood up, picked up the thermos, and walked down the bridge. At the bridgehead, the Mexican Army's off-road vehicle was still parked there, the engine running. He got in, closed the door. The car turned around, heading south. Not in the direction of Haifa, not towards Tel Aviv, but towards Hamah.
