Golan Heights, Lake Tiberias floating bridge
The negotiations reached the third day.
The coffee pot on the folding table in the middle of the bridge was changed seven times, the ashtray filled up four times, and Lieutenant Colonel Sanchez's interpreter had a hoarse voice, so a new one stepped in.
Brigadier General Hassan's uniform was still the same worn-out old clothes that had been washed to near whiteness, but the bandage on his left arm had been removed. The wound hadn't healed completely, and he would subconsciously touch it from time to time, only to put his hand back on the table afterward, as if afraid someone might notice.
Today, Colonel Barak switched to a thermos, not a military one, but a household one, with a blue plastic shell and a logo of a supermarket in Haifa printed on its body. He unscrewed the lid and poured Hassan a cup. Hassan took a sip, his brow furrowed slightly.
"Not Mexican coffee?"
