CHAPTER 1

  "My consciousness has already awakened, but I really don't want to open my eyes! Get up, John! I'm so tired... but I need to keep going, I must..." — the first thoughts that flashed through his mind.

  With a slight effort, he managed to unstick his "glued" eyelashes and then his lips. The sun fiercely scorched his entire body, just like it did back in Cairo... a month ago... or more... it doesn't matter. The hot sea breeze only intensified the sweltering weather of this region.

  "Well, at least it's not the winter steppes of Mongolia or the damn jungles of Uruguay," he thought ironically. "And what the hell am I such an optimist?!"

  Rising to his feet, John beheld the beautiful turquoise sea, solitary seagulls, and a few oil rigs on the horizon that seemed to "float" in his vision due to refraction. The coastline was almost pristine, indicating either a remoteness from major cities or a lack of development in this corner of the Earth, or perhaps both. The vegetation was rather sparse, consisting mainly of dried shrubs and solitary palm trees, reduced to mere trunks with a few feathery leaves sticking out. But the sea… the sea was magnificent! John had recently begun to notice a pattern — the more modest the flora on land, the richer it seemed to be in the depths of the ocean.

  Looking around, he saw five small cottages. Judging by the nets hanging near the huts, it was a fishing hamlet.

  "Considering the climate and the color of the water, I might be somewhere on the coast of Africa, or perhaps it's Southwest Asia. In any case, there is civilization here, and that is certainly a delight!" — John had a keen understanding of the geographical features even in the most remote corners of our planet. This skill came to him naturally, given the frequency of his travels, which is hardly surprising.

  He headed towards the low structures made of clay mixed with shells. They looked shabby but cozy. It immediately reminded him of a day in the desert, where local Bedouins lived in exactly such houses and saved him from a sandstorm. This memory sparked a pleasant feeling of anticipation for a new discovery… John even momentarily imagined a serene life, tranquility, and waking up in a single bedroom! His sweet fantasies were abruptly shattered by a searing pain in both of his feet… The ground here was mercilessly scorched by the heavenly body and seemed to be punishing John for daring to walk on its surface without shoes. Moving like a heron, he finally reached the nearest shade. The pain gradually subsided, and he focused on making first contact with the locals.

  John was wearing only white cotton underwear and a t-shirt without any tags or brand labels. However, this was his everyday morning "look." He always wakes up like this, regardless of what he fell asleep in the night before. To avoid raising suspicion, he deliberately stained his T-shirt with sand and dirt.

  "Is anyone alive here?" John shouted loudly in English, banging on the door, but immediately cursed himself for such foolishness: "What kind of English is that?!"

  And he repeated his question in Arabic.

  In the distance, shuffling, short footsteps could be heard. John recognized by the sound that an elderly man was approaching him. So he relaxed and took on the persona of a pitiful young tourist who had been robbed, needing nothing more than to make a phone call and have a sip of water... This usually worked, and people tended to respond to him with understanding and trust, as the short young man with European features, dressed in shorts and a t-shirt, did not raise any suspicions.

  "What do you want?" the old man said as he opened the door, looking exactly like the hero on the cover of National Geographic. This was an elder of a dying tribe discovered by a group of researchers from France, who urgently needed assistance, requiring several million dollars for that purpose. His toothless, black, wrinkled face seemed to mirror the harsh life on this scorched land.

  "I wouldn't be surprised if he's only forty," John thought.

  Clothing — money — food. This was the order of basic needs that he prioritized. Next on the agenda was just one thing — the search. He was not at all shy about using all sorts of tricks to cover up this "foundation."

  — Last night, I was robbed. They took everything — my money, clothes, phone! They brought me in the trunk and dumped me on this shore. Would you be so kind as to offer a little help to a poor soul? — he made a concerted effort to appear pitiful.

  The old man's gaze reflected distrust, disgust, and a reluctance to help a stranger, especially one with such an obviously otherworldly appearance. But gradually, humanity and compassion began to prevail. This was evident in the way his facial expression changed. It was just a matter of pushing him a little more.

  — I won't cause you any trouble, believe me, I'm telling the truth, and all I need right now is some old clothes and a chance to make a call. By the way, what is this place? It's really beautiful here! — John recited the prepared text automatically.

  — Are you serious? You really don't know how you ended up here?

  — Absolutely.

  "Is it really true that Harami and his thugs have made it here too?" the old man sighed to himself.

  — What Harami? Father, just give me some robe and shoes. Time is precious! — John said.

  — Alright. Wait here.

  "Great! The main thing is that the shoe size fits. Now, if only I could find his phone. And some water. Maybe I could also manage to get something to eat?"

  The old man was gone for about three minutes. John was already imagining him picking out the jacket he wore to the wedding and the glossy crocodile leather shoes in size 44. But his sarcasm quickly gave way to anxiety and disappointment when he saw his interlocutor. Shuffling across the earthen floor, the old man approached him with a frame in his hands, clearly containing a photograph. And there was no hint of clothing...

  — This is my son — Alyad — the old man carefully turned the frame to face John and brought it closer. — He was killed two months ago.

  John realized that the process of obtaining the clothing could take a while, at least as long as it would take to hear the tragic story of Allende's demise.

  — Those monsters from the Harami gang killed him just for fun. Creatures! — His voice was filled with nothing but hatred and a thirst for vengeance. — If they brought you here, it's very strange that you're still alive, and without a single bruise.

  The old man squinted his eyes, making him look like a Chinese man who had just woken up after a wild drinking spree.

  — I don't know if those were the people you called Hamars... or whatever you named them...

  — Damned bastards!!! May they be cursed! — the old man interrupted angrily.

  — Yes, yes, Harami. In general, I don't remember anything after I left the hotel — John fabricated on the spot. — Apparently, they used chloral hydrate on me, robbed me, and left me here.

  — I see. In general, I don't want to have anything to do with those bastards.

  — And I hold exactly the same point of view.

  — I have nothing! Go away!

  "Alright. It's time to move on to plan 'B'."

  — Let's make a deal. I have money at the hotel. I promise to return the clothes, and I'll also give you an extra hundred dollars. How does that sound?

  — What prevents you from going to the hotel like that? — the old man added a raised eyebrow to his squint and looked John up and down.

  "Mr. Bean, damn him," thought John.

  — Listen! I am a citizen of the United States, and I will definitely contact the police and the consulate to track down those scoundrels who killed your son! I understand that the chances may be slim, but can a couple of rags and old shoes outweigh your hope for justice against your son's murderers?!

  John made a verbal strike with such conviction that it caught the old man off guard. He didn't stand a chance.

  — I haven't believed in anything for a long time. But you're right. If there's even the slightest hope, it's foolish not to take advantage of it, especially since the price is immeasurable. Wait here.

  The old man retreated to another room once again. In his absence, John savored his latest victory over the problem he faced every morning, taking small sips of satisfaction. His admiration for himself always gave him confidence and faith in his own abilities, and it was largely due to this that he never gave up and continued his search.

  — Here, take this. It's my son's jalabiya, just your size. As for shoes, take these old sneakers. I can't offer you anything else — the old man said with sadness in his voice.

  John was given a tattered jalabiya — a long-sleeved shirt that covered his legs down to the ankles — and a pair of dusty, holey sneakers from the "well-known" brand "Like," which presumably was meant to refer to "Nike."

  — I am incredibly grateful to you! I promise that I will keep my word and find out everything I can about Harami. Please tell me the name of your village and if it's possible to call you from there?

  — Taruga. There are no phones around here. The nearest city, Port Sudan, is about sixty kilometers away. So head to the highway, to the northeast; you might be able to catch a ride there.

  Apparently, John has sown the seed of hope in the old man's soul, as he has taken such a liking to him.

  "Port Sudan, damn it! Why not New York or Canberra?! Why am I here?!"

  Dressed in his new "stunning" outfit, John thanked the old man once again, promising to return everything to him, and stepped out of his huts on a street bathed in relentless sunlight… He moved away from the sea into the depths of the continent in search of a route. It was clear that this was the Red Sea, since he found himself in Sudan.

  "Oh, that beautiful Red Sea!" — he smiled as he recalled his student vacation with friends, the luxurious hotel in Sharm El Sheikh.

  He is thirty-five now, and could he have ever imagined back then that something like this would happen to him... Despite the hellish heat, he tried to be as attentive as possible to any detail that caught his eye. He didn't have a clear understanding of what exactly he was looking for or what he could latch onto. But John knew for sure: something special must be here, otherwise he wouldn't have ended up in this place. All his senses were heightened to the limit. He was in this state of tension almost constantly; it had become a habit.

  Wrapping his head in a T-shirt, wearing the jalabiya of the dead Al-Yada and trendy "Like" sneakers, John had been walking along the dirt road for twenty minutes, completely absorbed in his thoughts...

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  "Yesterday, in Dhaka, there was absolutely nothing unusual. If anything can be noticed in this chaos of poverty. I woke up in some hostel, then managed to withdraw money at a local bank, and spent a lot of time by the banks of the Ganges, observing the vibrant life of the locals..."

  There was nothing remarkable — children were playing tag, men were washing their thin bodies right amidst the floating debris, women were doing laundry, and animals were drinking the murky river water and defecating right there. In general, it was a typical day in one of the poorest countries on our planet. Nothing but a mad hustle and the smells of spices mixed with decay.

  In the evening, I headed to a local non-Muslim bar. I watched the patrons closely, like Lieutenant Columbo, while sipping on some terrible beer. And once again, nothing. The hustle and bustle, the stench, the noise of the crowd. After the bar, I rented a room with the suggestive number "sixty-nine." It was there that I fell asleep, listening to the melodic rustling of rats.

  "I analyzed the same thing yesterday! You can't dwell on the same issue for two days straight! Now I'm here, which means there's something in this place that wasn't in the previous one. I need to focus. But wait... What about those two guys who were staring at me? They were dressed kind of strangely and they had such..."

  "What is that?" On the horizon, John spotted a black dot rapidly approaching him, and his thoughts were instantly interrupted.

  The sound of the car grew louder. John stepped into the middle of the road and began waving his arms. He had already realized that it was a pickup truck with people in the back.

  "Great! It looks like with these hard workers, I'll make it to Port Sudan! I hope they have water..."

  The car was driving, clearly exceeding the speed limit, which raised John's suspicions. And for good reason. As soon as he was able to make out the people in the pickup truck's bed, he realized they weren't carrying shovels and spades. It was an old Toyota, completely filled with people in military uniforms, holding AK-47s. There were no identifying marks indicating affiliation with a military structure. There were eight of them: two in the cabin and six in the truck bed.

  The car came to a sudden stop next to him, leaving a substantial skid mark and kicking up a cloud of dust. It was hard to surprise John; he had been through a lot lately. Yet, his instinct for self-preservation remained intact, and he tensed up, trying to anticipate the next moves.

  A slender man in a beret hastily jumped out of the passenger seat of the car. Following him, two more armed individuals descended to the ground.

  — Who are you? And where are you headed? — the one who stepped out of the car asked sternly.

  John noticed a patch on his shoulder. It depicted a crossed automatic rifle and a naval anchor, with a rocket in the middle. On the epaulettes, there were three stars arranged in a single line. John realized that this was a local military officer, but he had no idea what rank he held.

  — I'm a member of a scientific expedition from Australia, I was robbed yesterday. I'm heading to Port Sudan. Do you know how to get there? — John lied quite confidently.

  Introducing oneself as an American citizen is not always safe. As for what happens in Australia, very few people know, and where it is located — well, that's generally a mystery too.

  — Documents! — the officer pronounced clearly.

  — You see… I was robbed and they took all my belongings, even my clothes. I borrowed this jalabiya from the villagers nearby.

  — What are you doing in Sudan? And how many people are in your group?

  — We need to change shifts on the oil platform. Tomorrow. There are eight of us in total. The others are at the hotel, in the city — John said smoothly.

  Well, if there's one thing he's mastered, it's coming up with ideas on the fly. The commander said something to his comrades in an incomprehensible dialect. After exchanging a few brief remarks with them, he turned to John:

  — It's not safe here. You'll come with us to the base until we clarify the circumstances.

  — Sure, sir! Would you happen to have a bit of water for me?

  The officer handed over a water flask and nodded towards the pickup.

  "The good news is that I will be taken to the city and the local sun won't scorch me. The bad news is that I need to somehow explain to them where my expedition colleagues are and which hotel we are staying at. Well, I'll think of something; it's not my first time!"

  John was placed in the back of a pickup truck alongside six armed men. They were young, appearing to be in their mid-twenties to early thirties, and were dark-skinned guys. They reeked of sweat, and John inadvertently sniffed his own armpits — was he smelling just as bad?! The soldiers looked him up and down with evident disgust, as if they had never seen a white person before, occasionally exchanging words in an unintelligible Arabic dialect and laughing loudly, clearly at his expense. In truth, John didn’t care about their mockery; he understood that he would likely never see them again.

  They raced down the once-paved road, with nothing around them but scorched desert and sparse palm trees. John stared at the horizon and once again immersed himself in analyzing his journey to Dhaka.

  "These two guys were dressed differently from everyone else. At least they were wearing clean t-shirts. They looked as if they knew me and knew what was going to happen to me. Maybe it’s my paranoia? No! They definitely stood out from the other kids! Why didn’t I notice them right away?! Perhaps they knew something? Or noticed something. But as soon as I saw them, they didn’t take their eyes off me until I retreated to the bar. There must be some kind of clue!"

  The bar was just as usual. A sleepy bartender, clearly juggling three jobs, was too preoccupied to pay attention to the customers; I even saw him pour a light beer instead of a dark one. Two elderly Englishmen were reveling in the power of their pensions in one of the poorest countries in the world; they clearly felt like millionaires and were making plans for the night in the company of young local girls. The rest of the patrons were just a gray mass, mostly locals, plus a few solitary tourists. But those two guys…

  With his eyes closed, John raced in the pickup truck through the desert, completely unaware of what awaited him ahead and what he needed to find. The blazing sun and the bumps on the road took their toll. John felt himself gradually drifting away, slipping into sleep…

  "NO! Not sleeping!!! I'm not done here yet!" — he suddenly opened his eyes and slapped his cheeks a few times, which elicited a hearty laugh from his pickup truck companions.

  On both sides of the road, roadside structures began to appear, makeshift tent shops emerged, and the amount of litter along the edges noticeably increased. This could only mean one thing: they were approaching the city.

  John's guesses turned out to be correct; five minutes later, he saw a road sign indicating the border of Port Sudan. People were everywhere, mostly sitting or lying directly on the ground in the shade. Billboards advertised everything from tea to gravel delivery. In the few small shops, they sold fruits, flatbreads, chips, and, of course, Coca-Cola! Once again, John was struck by the depth of penetration of the American corporation, symbolizing freedom while concealing the obesity of its customers, into the most forgotten corners of our planet.

  There were also small stalls selling water and... ice! Huge blocks of ice stood on wooden pallets, waiting to melt or to be purchased. This caught John's eye.

  The car slowed down and turned into the tall gates guarded by armed security. They drove into the courtyard of the administrative building, adorned with the country's flags and the insignia of the officer. All around, there were many soldiers going about their business or simply passing the time during their duty.

  John was escorted to a separate room that resembled an interrogation chamber. He had been in such places very often and knew exactly how events would unfold from there.

  "I have about twenty minutes before the investigator or one of the officers arrives. I need to come up with a plausible story for why I'm here. The most important thing is to guess the right hotel. I wonder if they have a 'Hilton' here...?"

  Before he could finish his thought, a large dark-skinned man entered the small room, which contained only a table and two chairs, and he had three stars on his epaulettes as well.

  — Which hotel is your team staying at? — the officer asked firmly, quickly, and sternly, without even sitting down at the table.

  — To be honest, I don't remember the name... Something starting with "B" or "H"... You know, we were a bit drunk and checked in at night...

  — Just a couple of years ago, I would have handed you over to the police simply for being drunk in our country! But now the law doesn't prohibit it for non-Muslims. So, tell me what happened? Captain Nazim told me that you were robbed?

  — Yes, that's how it happened. At night, after settling in, I went out to look for a store to buy some water. Then I remember being attacked from behind. That's all I recall. I woke up in my underwear and a T-shirt on the shore, near the village of Taruga. Most likely, it was the work of the Harami gang.

  — How do you know about them?

  — One local old man said that they are behaving like beasts here.

  — What else do you know about them?

  — Nothing more, sir.

  — I see. You need to remember the name of the hotel, and my people will escort you. I can't recall any hotels starting with "X." Perhaps it was Baziri or Baasher?

  "Exactly! Bashir!" John exclaimed theatrically, completely unaware of what hotels were being referred to.

  — You arrived from Australia as part of a group of eight people, right?

  — That's right! I'm on a shift change at the oil rig. I'm a driller.

  — Alright. Here's what we'll do: write down all your information with my colleague, then my people will escort you to the hotel, you'll pick up your documents, and come back here to me. Bashir is two blocks away, so I'll give you one hour for everything.

  — I understand. Thank you! Can I call you?

  — You used the phone in the hotel. You're incredibly lucky to be alive if those were indeed the Harami people.

  "Is that all?! Just like that? Apparently, this happens to them every day, or they respect Australians," John thought with a smile.

  After a brief entry in the visitor's log, he stepped outside accompanied by two young soldiers. He still hadn't made up his mind on how to proceed, but he understood that he needed to decide quickly.

  "We could try to make a break for it as soon as we hit the busy street. Or maybe bribe the soldiers. But with what? We need to get to an ATM for that. It's a complicated plan. Think! Start a brawl? With armed men? Not the best option... The safest choice seems to be going back to the base and trying to come up with something on the spot. But that won't solve the problem either," John quickly analyzed the options.

  They stepped out onto the street, dotted with sitting and lying people, and with fairly heavy traffic. The air was dry and scorching hot; to say it was warm would be an understatement. John tried to strike up a conversation with his companions in an attempt to win their trust, but was met with a clear and unmistakable refusal in the form of a gun shoved into his chest.

  "Clear. Running is dangerous; those fools might shoot us in the back without caring about hitting bystanders. The bribery option won't work either, unless we offer the officer something when we get back. Alright, we need to get to the hotel and assess the situation. What a hellhole this is!" John thought with complete calmness.

  He understood: no matter what happened, he wouldn't be here tomorrow. Ultimately, the outcome didn't matter to him at all, but he tried to make the most of each new day. His only fear was the fear of missing something important. That tiny piece of the puzzle that he wouldn't find anywhere else; it wasn't just by chance that he ended up here. And there was no guarantee that he would ever return.

  The city resembled an old dusty engine, but it was made of stone, clay, and sand. All around, there was a flurry of activity. Everyone was doing something. Even those who lay down were brushing off parts of incomprehensible mechanisms. There was not a hint of idleness or human joy. No music or laughter could be heard, only the rumble of aging machines and the murmurs of old men. It felt like a hive city, designed solely for the purpose of labor.

  In these moments, John increasingly pondered the vastly different fates of people, regardless of their locations on our planet. And they had no choice. They were born and would die toiling in this dust, melted by the merciless sun. John quickly accelerated his philosophical thoughts and set them aside for the evening as soon as they tried to shift his focus. Distraction was too luxurious a pleasure for him.

  One of the soldiers pointed to a building across the intersection from them. It was a three-story structure with a fenced area and a small sign reading "Baasher Hotel," adorned with three worn-out stars. Once inside the hotel gates, John admired the picturesque lawn and neatly trimmed bushes that exuded such a rare freshness.

  "Alright. The concierge has probably changed by now, which means he won't recognize me. I'll bluff until the very end..." John decided.

  He entered through the central door first. He was noticed by a hotel staff member who was standing behind a small reception desk. With a broad and friendly smile, he said loudly:

  — Welcome to the Baasher Hotel, sir!

  Armed satellites of John soon appeared, and the concierge's smile vanished as if by magic. Approaching him with a confident stride, John began to speak preemptively:

  — Yesterday, I checked in with a group from Australia. But it was probably not your shift, because I don't remember you. Could you please give me the key to my room? — John said quickly.

  But instead of a response, he watched the concierge's eyes widen, first staring at his chest, then at John's face. Back to the chest and then the face again. This went on for about a minute. Not understanding what was happening, John continued:

  — Sir?..

  — Yes! — the concierge, whose name tag read Nussier, snapped out of his stupor.

  — Room key — John continued confidently, anticipating the standard questions for which he already had prepared answers.

  John had planned a lengthy debate on the topic "How can you not see my settlement?!" possibly even with a scandal. But instead, Nussier hesitantly replied:

  — Yes, of course... Let me show you to your room.

  "Well, that's a twist!" John exclaimed in surprise.

  — I'll grab the documents and be back with you. Give me five minutes — John said to the soldiers, not understanding what was happening.

  He acted with such confidence that the soldiers had no doubt about the truth of his words. Moreover, the concierge confirmed that John had a room. Nusyer was pensive and bewildered, as if he knew something, yet still had doubts.

  — Over here. Follow me — Nusier said very uncertainly.

  He was staring somewhere at the ceiling with an utterly detached expression. Together, they headed towards the staircase leading to the second floor. The concierge walked ahead, very slowly. John followed him, trying to understand what was happening and what he needed to be prepared for.

  The first step is always the hardest—especially when the ground is scorched to a crisp. If John’s morning routine piqued your interest, stick around.

  I’ll be dropping the next parts of this sun-drenched nightmare every day this week. If you liked the rhythm, hit that Follow button and leave a review. I read them all—mostly to see if you're as confused as John is.

  Cheers.