— At the port — the seller's deep gaze shifted to a busy, everyday demeanor. — That will be six hundred pounds, sir.

  Another customer approached right away, and the street vendor no longer paid any attention to John. He discreetly pinched some money and pulled it out from the sleeve of his jalabiya. He managed to get a thousand pounds. He handed it to the seller and deliberately refused the change. John tried several times to ask the seller what he meant when he said that he had a lot of interesting things waiting for him at the port. But the seller simply ignored him, and at one point told the soldiers in the local dialect something that seemed to mean, "Take your master away, don't disturb me while I'm working." The soldiers, in turn, gestured that it was time to move on.

  John walked, staring at his worn-out sneakers, lost in thoughts about what had really happened. He felt no joy or inspiration, as now there were even more questions. Perhaps it was all just a figment of his imagination? A deep sadness settled in his soul, while a sense of hopelessness gnawed at him from within. The itching dissatisfaction with their conversation gave rise to a feeling of guilt. Guilt for not having found an answer.

  "This merchant definitely knew something!" John told himself. The man's gaze and smirk lingered in his mind. What if this was the lead he had been searching for all along? He felt an overwhelming urge to go back and squeeze every bit of information out of that pathetic scoundrel! But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't allow himself to do it. There was nothing left to do but accept the reality of what had happened and analyze what it all meant.

  — We need to move further into the port. And be extremely careful to understand what this 'character' meant! On the other hand, it's already something! Even if it's just a fragment, a scrap, it's still information. I have to hold out here as long as possible to figure everything out! — John thought, coming to terms with the situation.

  The sun was losing its power with each passing minute, and the road was bringing them closer to the beautiful Red Sea. A gentle warm breeze tickled the sunburned skin on John's face, creating a pleasant sensation. It was as if an invisible tender hand was gliding over the tips of his fine hair, making them stand on end and causing goosebumps to rise on the surface of his skin.

  The workday was coming to an end, as indicated by the fading hustle and bustle of the city. Four enormous cranes were now clearly visible. They had lowered their towers and seemed to have finally "fallen asleep" until morning. Two large bulk carriers and a small vessel with a white radar dome, taking up half the ship's hull, were docked at the pier. A little closer, and one could make out the names of these vessels. But John was the least concerned about that. His mood had noticeably worsened due to the incident with the vendor. Even the taste of freshly baked flatbreads brought him no pleasure. He was completely absorbed in dark thoughts about his existence.

  John and his companions approached the loading and unloading zone. On the wide expanse of the pier, there were numerous temporary office structures, warehouses, and security checkpoints. The first thing they encountered was a massive barge flying the Philippine flag, with the mechanical name CovRed 2. John was not surprised by the size of the vessel, but rather by the "living snake" slithering up two gangways, one at the front and one at the back. Upon closer inspection, John realized that the body of this "snake" was made up of many people, ascending one gangway and descending the other. These were local workers carrying bags of dry mix on their backs and coming down empty to collect another load. This living conveyor belt never ceased its movement. Several large plastic cubes filled with murky water stood on the pier, which these unfortunate souls drank from and poured over their heads. All this hellish work continued under the relentless African sun!

  "Terrible! My situation isn't so bad after all. Now I understand why Nussier clings to his job as a concierge at the hotel," John thought, watching the fate of those Sudanese with pity. "How insignificant human life is in these places. But they chose it for themselves. I know that there is a way out of any situation. If only I were given a huge megaphone and half an hour, I'm sure I could tell them about a different, more colorful side of life..." he fantasized.

  Approaching the barrier that opened the main entrance to the port, John turned around and addressed his guards.

  — Well then, gentlemen. This is where our paths diverge. I’m off to find my client, and you — my colleague John. As soon as you find him, I will be waiting for you here or at the hotel with the second half of the reward! Thank you for the pleasant walk and the "most interesting dialogues"!

  "Timon and Pumbaa" once again fell into a dull silence and confusion.

  "It feels like I'm Frodo leaving Middle-earth," John joked about himself.

  — We need to meet with your client so he can confirm your identity — the big guy started to show off.

  — So he hasn't seen me even once. In fact, neither have I seen him. Our group is here for the first time at this site.

  — Don't worry, we'll find him together — the little one chimed in.

  "And what am I supposed to do with you?" John sighed. He looked at the seagulls circling in a monotonous dance above a pile of stacked bags, apparently filled with grain. Driven solely by their hunger, they performed the same actions day after day. Their cries resembled this: "Give! Give! Give! Give! Give!"

  "How similar they are to certain people," John thought as he began to survey the port in search of a new course of action. The only vessel suitable for operations on the oil platform was that very ship with the radar dome on board. Of course, shifts are changed using regular small boats, but the satellites belonging to John are unlikely to be aware of this.

  — Alright. We need to get to that vessel. That's our transport — John pointed to the ship that was last in line, behind two barges.

  The three of them made their way along the pier by the sea. Despite the late hour, the port was bustling with activity. Most of it involved loading and unloading supplies and exported goods. A living conveyor of workers showed no signs of stopping. John imagined that some celestial titan had dropped its ring made of living people. It had fallen with one edge resting on the side of the ship and the other on the pier.

  John and his companions slowly walked past the long barge CovRed 2, watching the exhausted, emaciated dockworkers as they drank and washed themselves. The next vessel in their path was a bulk carrier named "Rema." The barge, approximately three hundred meters long, was loaded to capacity with sea containers. The copper-colored hull, indicating the waterline, protruded from the water by only four to five meters, further illustrating the extent of the ship's load. Against the backdrop of massive cargo ships, the vessel that was John's target appeared quite tiny. As he got closer, he realized it was most likely a research vessel. In addition to a large radar, it had small cranes on the stern, a control bridge, numerous antennas, and what was clearly not a lifeboat. The name of the ship, Samum, was proudly displayed on the bow.

  Samum is not just a warm wind, but a hot wind in Africa. "How symbolic for this place..." thought John.

  Around the ship, there was a chaotic hustle and bustle, in stark contrast to the structurally refined conveyor system on CovRed 2. Local workers were scurrying everywhere, hauling various items from the shore onto the deck, ranging from computers to cans of paint. "I need to find someone who resembles my client. I'm going to look for this 'lucky one' now," John's eyes darted across the pier, trying to spot a suitable candidate.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  However, apart from the frenzied Sudanese and Filipinos, who were clearly part of the service staff, no one else was in sight. John, "Timon," and "Pumba" made their way through the entire "ant hill," from bow to stern of the ship, but found no one. John theatrically peered for his imaginary client, but was unable to take any action and began to feel quite anxious.

  — Well? Where is your client? — Timon asked, clearly tense.

  — Somewhere around here. I told you, I haven't seen him once. But he's not here yet. Just workers all around — John replied, realizing that if he didn't come up with something right now, his entire venture could go up in smoke. He was pacing in circles over the same area of the pier, desperately searching for opportunities.

  — Stop! Where are you taking that?! We've already loaded enough sugar! Holy Virgin Mary, why am I being punished like this?!

  Like a lifesaving signal from a siren, French speech sounded nearby behind John. Without even seeing the Frenchman, John realized he was a perfect fit for the role of his client. He was a short man with curly black hair, dressed in a soiled shirt and wide trousers. The Frenchman was gesturing with his hands to explain to the local porter what needed to be taken where, while simultaneously cursing very emotionally.

  — Hello! — shouted John, waving his hand as if he had spotted an old friend on a stroll. The Frenchman, not understanding who had greeted him, looked John up and down and responded with a questioning greeting.

  — Hello! Do we know each other? — the Frenchman muttered to himself. John was ten meters away from him and of course couldn't hear his mumbling. He rushed towards the stranger. His surprised guards exchanged glances and followed him.

  — Hello! I need your help! I really need it! My name is Sebastian, I'm from Australia. These two brutes... well, I need to get rid of them — John continued in French. While portraying joy and even embracing the stunned Frenchman.

  — What do you want from me? Who are you? I don't understand anything! — the man replied, also in French.

  — I'll explain everything to you. But please, play along with me! Just pretend that you recognize me. I told those soldiers that you are my colleague and that you were expecting me at the port for a shift change.

  — Which colleague? What shift? I don't need any problems. Leave!

  — Speak in Arabic! — the big man ordered angrily.

  — It's all right, this is my client. He doesn't speak Arabic. Right?

  There was a brief pause, and the Frenchman merely shrugged, not understanding what was happening or what John had been discussing with "Pumbaa."

  — What's your name? — John asked him again in French.

  — Maurice. But what does it matter? Who are these armed men?

  — Listen, Maurice. These are soldiers from the Sudanese army; they are escorting me to the port. But I need to shake this 'tail.' Otherwise, I'm done for. Do you understand? I'll explain everything to you as soon as these two disappear. All you need to do is play along. You don't have to do anything. Just stand there and nod.

  — Why should I help you? Maybe you're a criminal?

  — Maurice, I’m not a criminal. Come on, why would a criminal be taken to the port? They’re the ones sitting in prison. Right? And believe me, my story will surprise you a lot.

  The Frenchman stood in complete bewilderment.

  — We should be helping each other! How long have you been struggling with these local slackers? I can see that you have a complete mess here. And the deadlines are probably creeping up on you, right? Am I right?

  Maurice looked around. The chaotic movement of strange people continued around him, and none of them really understood what he was doing.

  — Let's do it this way: you help me, and I'll help you with the local movers, since I know Arabic — John pressed the Frenchman.

  — I don't like this! What did he say? Answer me! — the big guy completely lost his temper and aimed the automatic weapon at John.

  At this point, Maurice couldn't hold back any longer and intervened, raising his hands and taking two short steps towards "Pumba." He was speaking something in French, but then realized they didn't understand him, so he started gesturing that he and John were colleagues. Maurice even put his arm around John's shoulder and smiled broadly, in a friendly manner. John was taken aback by this sudden change in mood, but quickly regained his composure and began to smile back, albeit like a madman.

  — Hey! It's all right! I'm telling you, he doesn't understand anything in your language. But you see, he recognized me! All this time, I was telling him that I'm the replacement he's been waiting for. Calm down and lower the gun.

  The big guy trusted John and lowered the AK-47.

  — Thank you, Maurice! I won't be in your debt!

  — I did it just to avoid having to clean your guts off the pier section for which I'm responsible. I don't need any problems. I'm already struggling to keep up.

  — Alright. Thank you anyway! Let's wrap this up, and I'll help you with the locals, and then I'll explain everything. Just gesture that everything is fine, that you recognize me, and that we need to go up to the ship to sign the papers.

  Maurice nodded and immediately began to gesture emotionally, while John translated.

  — Friends, I hope you’ve realized that I wasn’t lying to you? Now I need to board the ship with my colleague. Time is of the essence. And you must definitely go search for John. I will most likely be here or at the hotel. I have nowhere else to go. And remember about the second part of the reward. You’ve helped me a lot. Thank you!

  "Timon" and "Pumba" stood on the pier, watching the departing figures of John and Maurice.

  — I don't trust him! — said "Timon."

  — Come on, it seems like everything is just as he said. Besides, we're already in a good position. Let's head back to the base and say we didn't find anyone. On the way, we'll stop by to see Said; we played football with him, and he works here at the port. We'll ask him what's going on, and I'll ask him to keep an eye on this — the big guy waved his hand in John's direction.

  The lobby of the "Baasher" hotel was still filled with a tense atmosphere. Nussier and his guard had been sitting in complete silence for over an hour. The sergeant was seated on a leather sofa, flipping through promotional magazines and occasionally glancing at the clock. Nusyer still hadn’t fully recovered from the dreadful thoughts of his impending imprisonment, but he no longer looked as pale. He remained at his post behind the reception desk. Various thoughts wandered through his mind about what would happen to him now, what would happen to John, who this John was, how he could help in the search for his brother, and what visions of a beautiful city had visited him… Among all this carnival of speculations were some utterly crazy ideas, like the one where brave Nusyer fights a sergeant to make his escape. He even began to glance at the utility knife lying next to the phone. But he quickly dismissed such thoughts due to the colossal risk of being killed.

  At the same time, the brain was trying to protect him and bring him back to his comfort zone. To achieve this, it presented its owner with various scenarios. The most risky yet potentially saving option was to forge the hotel guest registration log. Nusier couldn't decide whether he should enter fictitious guest information into the log or if that would be a fatal mistake, as his replacement would arrive within an hour and debunk everything. Nusyer didn't understand what to do, so he simply waited. And this made him very angry. He was furious about the absurdity of the situation he found himself in.

  "How could I have gotten myself into this mess? Fool! Why did I even take that stranger in my brother's jalabiya up to the second floor of the hotel? Why couldn't I have sorted everything out in front of the soldiers?! Happy now? Idiot! Now deal with it!" — talking to himself, the concierge couldn't come to terms with the fact that it had already happened. Instead of accepting the situation and starting to think about how to get out of it, Nusiara completely surrendered to self-flagellation and feelings of anger.

  The clock behind the concierge ticked rhythmically. The one marked "Khartoum" showed half past five in the evening. In half an hour, the replacement was due to arrive, and the closer this moment approached, the more the concierge found it hard to stay still. Fear manifested as an internal itch that grew steadily, like the heat of midday. His palms were sweaty yet cold. His eyes darted around, and his legs seemed to have a mind of their own, twitching alternately, first the right, then the left. Just when Nussier thought he had reached the peak of his inner torment and wanted nothing more than to confess everything to make it all end… the phone rang.

  Like thunder, he shattered the agonizing silence of the room. The sergeant immediately jumped up and stared at Nusiere, while the concierge looked at him. After missing three phone calls, he finally picked up the receiver. The sergeant was already rushing towards him at full speed.

  — Hotel "Baasher." How can I assist you?

  The sergeant was already by the reception desk, leaning in to hear the conversation better.