Golan Heights, Lake Tiberias floating bridge
Lieutenant Alvarez's coffee pot was empty again.
He sat behind the folding table, watching the sun inch by inch sinking over the lake.
The water was golden, the sky was red, and the distant Tiberias City was purple. The lights on the bridge were still off, and he forgot to turn them on.
Today is the fourth day since Rifat Assad's death.
In four days, Hassan hadn't come. Barak hadn't come. Only the old Moses Levi came every evening with his cane to sit at the bridgehead, feed the pigeons, look at the lake water, and then go home. Today, he didn't come. The long bench at the west end of the bridge was empty, with pigeons squat in a row on the seat, cooing.
Alvarez picked up the thermos pot, unscrewed the lid. There was still a sip of coffee inside, cold and bitter like medicine. He poured it into his mouth and put the empty pot on the table.
The walkie-talkie rang.
"Lieutenant, a car has arrived at the east end of the bridge."
