📘 Fragment X‑3 – Margins of Truth

Cast

Main Characters

• Pieter Swanepoel (“The Archivist”)
  A man who understands systems not through ideals but through their blind spots. Operating in the grey, he prefers partial truths to self-righteous clarity.

• Zahra Tembe
  A career officer whose father’s legacy looms like a lighthouse and a curse. Tired of systemic betrayal, she’s no longer chasing justice—just the chance to disrupt someone else’s impunity.

Secondary Characters
None introduced here.

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Location: Outside the Port's Legacy Records Room, Service Tunnel 4B
Time: 15:25 SAST

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The tunnel to the archive room was carved into the bedrock of the port’s bureaucratic memory. Cracked concrete, low ceilings, a musty blend of ink, mildew, and disappointment. They passed doors marked “Security Audit 2007” and “Retired Import Seals – PAPER ONLY.”

Pieter (gesturing): “Everything from the era before blockchain. Before smart seals. Before scanners replaced signatures.”
Zahra: “Before people like my father got phased out.”

He said nothing. She wasn’t fishing for sympathy anyway.

Inside the archive, metal cabinets lined the walls, labeled by shipping code and year. Pieter moved like someone who had once lived in these corridors, unspooling years with his fingertips. Zahra, more cautious, kept one hand on her phone, recording timestamps.

He pulled a drawer marked “Corridor BETA – SGX/DUR/JAFZA – 2015–2018” and set it down on a folding desk. Inside: inspection slips, handwritten entries, faded carbon copies. They read in silence, page after brittle page.

One entry, handwritten in green ink, caught Zahra’s eye.
“Container 010–SGX–D32 – Final flag. Removed from queue at Omar’s request. Requeued by override.”
Initialed: OB

Zahra inhaled sharply.

Zahra: “He didn’t just find it. He tried to stop it.”

Pieter scanned further, pulled out a grainy photocopy of a customs release note from Mauritius.
“Received with intact seal. No tamper evidence.”
But handwritten below:
“Unusual seal texture. Suspect heat signature. Advise inspection.”

Pieter: “He saw through it. But they buried the observation.”

Zahra: “And gave him an IV drip that never made it to the tox screen.”

Her voice cracked at the end, but she bit it back.

There was a moment then—brief but real—when they saw the ghosts walking alongside them. Daoud. Omar. Dozens of unknown names reduced to scribbled initials and grey ink.

Pieter: “These aren’t records. They’re footprints. And someone is still walking behind them.”

Zahra (quietly): “The corridor was never closed. Just renamed. Repackaged.”

He nodded. Then, suddenly:

Pieter: “The new manifest mentions ‘cassava meal.’ That was part of a pattern in 2016. They’d bury micro-components—electronics, even rhino horn powder—inside fibrous organic exports. Jebel Ali customs wouldn’t bother testing it.”

Zahra flipped open a customs scanner report from six years ago.

Zahra: “Look. Here. They even tested the moisture content in one crate. Said it didn’t match dehydrated produce.”

Pieter: “They ignored their own red flags. Why?”

Zahra: “Because it’s not about evidence. It’s about convenience. And whoever controls the paperwork controls the perception.”

They sat there a moment, the air thick with mold and meaning.

Pieter: “We take this to Dubai. Not formally. Not through channels. Just someone who remembers the older corridors. Someone with a memory for silence.”

Zahra: “Then we follow the shipment—quietly. Let AIN‑7 flag what it can. We’ll track what it misses.”

Pieter: “There’ll be blowback. Maybe even internal flags if you access this too directly.”

Zahra: “Then don’t brief me. Just leave the crumbs where I can find them.”

He smiled, without warmth.

Pieter: “Welcome to my world.”