by Matt Johnson
‘Thank you, Nell. Midday it is.’
As her assistant moved away, Toni wilted back into her seat. Nell could be an uncompromising character and exhausting to manage at times, especially when the bit was between her teeth. But Toni did allow herself a small smile. Nell’s cover story would be good … and who knows what Finlay might learn.
Chapter 14
I had enjoyed the best night’s sleep I’d had in a long time.
It was seven-thirty, and I was catching a minibus to head out of town to a jetty where we were to board one of the dive-school boats. Apart from Catherine and the driver, I was the only passenger. There was no sign of the Romanians.
‘They’re meeting us at the boat,’ Catherine explained.
She was right. As we pulled up at the wooden jetty, I saw a black Mercedes parked near the water’s edge. The boot was open to reveal scuba gear. Standing at the edge of the landing stage was Marica, the Romanian girl. She was wearing a thin, blue dress and flip-flops, and stood with her back to us, looking out to sea. There was no sign of her bodyguard.
‘Wait here, Robert,’ said Catherine.
I did as she asked, watching as the two women chatted for a moment. Catherine pointed back to the bus. I waved. Marica smiled. It was a warm smile; she seemed friendly, relaxed. Perhaps this wasn’t going to be too bad after all, I thought, especially if the minder was not around.
But a few seconds later, a familiar, muscular figure appeared from the rear deck of the boat. I guessed he had been making a few checks before allowing us on board. It’s what I would have done.
Our ride for the day was called Orchid. She was a twenty-six-metre, custom-made vessel with eight crew and five cabins. On this day she would be carrying just five passengers: four divers and the bodyguard. As I stepped aboard, Catherine explained a fourth diver was joining us for safety reasons. He was below decks sleeping, having spent the night on the boat.
It was time for introductions. As I had hoped when she first smiled at me on the jetty, Marica turned out to be absolutely charming and her command of the English language was excellent. Catherine left us to get to know each other as she went to supervise the loading of the dive equipment.
The bodyguard, who I discovered was called Petre, stayed in the background. Not surprisingly, Marica talked about the dive course we had both just completed and the wonders to be seen beneath the surface of the Red Sea. She was at least as hooked as me, and, given her youth, I guessed she would enjoy the allure of scuba diving for many years to come. One of the crew brought us some t’aamiyya for breakfast. It was traditional – hot and wrapped in pita bread to make it easier to eat by hand.
As we ate, I found myself warming to the young Romanian. Although she was clearly from a wealthy background and well educated, Marica was modest and friendly. I learned she was soon to be married and that her husband-to-be had sent her on this trip because he was a keen diver himself. He had booked them a honeymoon in the Maldives, where he wanted his new bride to experience the wonders of the Indian Ocean.
I also learned that Marica’s father was a businessman who had a partshare in the hotel where we were both staying – me in a standard room; Marica in the penthouse suite. She was a lucky girl, who it seemed had not been spoiled by her privileged upbringing.
The boat cast off within a few minutes and Catherine joined us. We chatted about many things over the next hour. As the sun warmed us and I took in the views across the sea, I felt very relaxed.
Soon it was time for Catherine to brief us on our first dive – explaining the lessons to be covered and the sights to be seen on the reef we were about to explore. We were to do a drift dive – an exercise where the boat would drop us off and then, after the current had swept us gently along the reef, pick us up at the spot where we should emerge.
When the time came to do the pre-dive safety checks, I used the mnemonic Catherine had taught me to help remember what to check – Buoyancy vest, Weights, Releases, Air and Final check. Marica wasn’t familiar with it and when I started saying ‘Bruce – Willis – Ruins – All – Films’ out loud, she collapsed in a fit of laughter. It was contagious and I found that soon, I too was joining in.
My ability to laugh came as something of a surprise. When the threat to my family had been exposed, I seemed to have lost my good humour. Now, on a holiday at the Red Sea, alone with two people I had only just met, the knack was returning. I smiled to myself. It was a small thing, but significant.
Perhaps Toni and Jenny had a point.
I was on the top deck, after the dive, enjoying the sun and the views, when Catherine appeared behind me and disturbed my thoughts. Marica, who had been on the lower deck, was just behind her.
Catherine explained we were due to complete our wreck and deepdive training. The crew had suggested we head out to the SS Thistlegorm, a freight vessel sunk by German bombers in the Straits of Gubal during WWII. The shipwreck lay at a depth we could manage and was, apparently, a highlight of any dive trip to the Red Sea.
As we listened to our guide, Marica seemed to sense my interest. ‘This will be a special dive for you Robert?’ she asked, as Catherine finished her short talk.
‘Sounds fascinating,’ I replied.
‘No, I mean very special. It is a grave of soldiers. This will have special meaning for you, I guess?’
Marica had my attention. ‘Why do you say that?’
She smiled, again with warmth. ‘Petre says you were a soldier. He says he can tell. Something about the way you move, the way you check the dive gear … he says one can always tell another.’
I smiled. Petre was no fool. ‘Yes. A long time ago. I didn’t realise it still showed.’
‘Petre doesn’t speak good English, but with my blessing he asked if this evening you would join us to eat. He would wish to talk with you.’
‘I’m not sure. It was a long time ago.’
For the first time, other than to check my dive gear, Marica touched me. Her hand gently resting on my forearm, she looked me straight in the eye. She was very, very pretty. ‘Please … for me, Robert. Tell me you will come.’
‘Could Catherine join us?’ I asked.
I had always been a sucker for a pretty face and when Marica agreed to my request, I accepted her invitation.
Chapter 15
We arrived at the site of the Thistlegorm later that morning.
Ryan, the safety diver, was already kitted up and dived down to hook the Orchid to the wreck. There were about six similar boats in the area, all dropping off and picking up divers. Unlike the mill-pond calm near to Sharm, here the sea was quite choppy; it was a struggle to keep our balance on the rear deck as we prepared to enter the water. Catherine went first, indicated where we would find the anchor line to descend, and then I jumped in after her.
As soon as I hit the water I felt the sensation of tranquillity return. All external noise was eliminated, other than the gentle sound of my breath and the bubbles exiting my mouthpiece. I had never meditated, but I figured this was about as close to that experience as I had ever been.
Feeling a tug on my right arm, I turned to see Marica reaching for the anchor line I was now holding. Even with her face covered by a mask and regulator, I could see she was smiling broadly.
Following Catherine, we released the stored air in our buoyancy vests and started the descent down the anchor line. Beneath us the water was a little murky, with perhaps a fifteen-metre field of visibility. Soon, though, a huge, dark shadow began to take form. It was the wreck.
We continued to descend, the shape of the Thistlegorm gradually growing in size and resolution as we approached her. Now far from the surface, the effect of the waves faded and all was peaceful. With Catherine leading, the four of us traversed the ship’s superstructure.
For half an hour, we floated past decaying steam engines, military vehicles and broken-off parts of the ship. We closed in on hatches and portholes that gave us a tempting view of the ship’s interior, and I wondered what treasures would b
e revealed in the later dive, when we were to be shown inside the wreck. It was a humbling experience, knowing such an incredible sight marked the grave of so many men.
I felt sorry for poor Petre. On the surface, he could do his job to the best of his ability, but here, beneath the waves, his charge was in the care of professionals with other skills. I knew he wouldn’t be comfortable until he saw Marica on the surface.
The dive went all too quickly. My breathing control was improving slowly but, as usual, I was the first to signal I was low on air. My depth gauge showed we were at nearly thirty metres. I looked upwards at the equivalent of several swimming pool depths of water. I felt I should be a little scared – certainly in awe – but I wasn’t. The whole experience was relaxing.
I signalled to Catherine my time was up and, as I did, I noticed something odd. From the air tank on her back I could see a trickle of tiny bubbles heading towards the surface. I had been behind her for most of the dive and hadn’t noticed it before. As I watched for a moment, the trickle of air became a steady stream. To my side, a rapid movement in the water caught my eye. Ryan was moving quickly past me, swimming towards Catherine.
I watched, uncertain what was happening. Ryan took hold of our instructor’s arm and pointed towards his own air tank. He made twirling movements with his finger and then indicated Catherine’s tank. It dawned on me. She had a leaking seal. At the point where the regulator attaches to the tank a rubber O-ring prevents air leaks. It looked like the seal had blown.
I was close enough to see the alarm on Catherine’s face as she checked her gauges to ascertain how much air she had lost. As she did so, there was a rush of air from the blown seal.
I remembered there was a drill for this we had learned in the pool. Now, I saw Ryan giving us a live demonstration. He took hold of Catherine’s buoyancy vest as she spat out her own regulator and reached for the bright yellow spare attached to his tank. Catherine placed the spare in her mouth and I saw the reassuring sign of her exhaling. She was safe, but now our two guides were linked to Ryan’s tank and we were thirty metres beneath the surface.
Catherine gave me an ‘OK’ signal and then a thumbs-up to indicate we should surface. By this time Marica was with me. She touched my left shoulder, imitated the thumbs-up and turned to head back to the anchor line. I waited for a moment, unsure as to whether I should be helping our guides, but they waved me away. I trusted they would be fine and started after Marica.
We found the anchor line easily enough and started the ascent. I stayed just behind and below Marica as I glanced back to where Ryan and Catherine were following. They seemed to have things under control: the air leak from Catherine’s tank had stopped, presumably as the supply was exhausted, and she was swimming gently alongside Ryan as he held onto the anchor rope.
I forgot it was necessary to make a three-minute decompression stop to allow absorbed nitrogen to escape from our bodies; but, fortunately, Marica remembered. At a depth of five metres I bumped into her as she waited. Above, I could see the boat bobbing about on the waves.
The sea looked rougher than when we had entered the water. Foam and air spread in patterns around the ladder onto the rear deck and I could see the propeller was spinning quite fast. I couldn’t decide if the boat was under power or if the current was causing the spin, but I didn’t relish the prospect of colliding with it.
Below us, the two guides had also made it to the decompression stop. It looked like we were all going to be fine.
Chapter 16
After three minutes, Marica signalled it was time to surface and started the ascent to the steel ladder. The boat was rocking. I could see the ladder was now swinging through the water as the boat dipped heavily forward and rocked violently in the swell.
As Marica approached the ladder, the end of the heavy steel moved away from her with the current. And then the boat rocked back, sending the bottom rung crashing violently into her head. I watched, powerless, as her mask went flying. Immediately, there was a cloud of blood in the water.
For a second it seemed surreal. Our instructors were below and linked to one tank. My companion was clearly hurt. I was the only one left who could help. On the boat they would be unaware of the struggle in the depths beneath them. I waved frantically to the two guides and screamed into my mouthpiece. It was a natural reaction, but pointless. Under the water they would not hear me.
Marica started to sink. As her face dropped clear of the cloud of blood I could see she was unconscious. I had to make a quick decision. I swam towards her but she was sinking too fast. I tried in vain to follow, but I was too buoyant. I swiftly let the remaining air out of my buoyancy vest as I struggled to see where she was headed. It was impossible. I couldn’t descend fast enough. My mind raced.
Then I caught sight of Catherine. She had pulled away from Ryan and was heading towards me with something in her hand. It was a lead weight. She took hold of my vest, pulled a valve to release more air and shoved the weight into one of the side pockets.
It worked. I began to descend, and quickly. Some five or so metres below me, I could see Marica slowly drifting away into the depths.
I’ve heard stories of people kissing under water, of divers exchanging air to survive – one breathing into the other; one inhaling as the other exhaled. I had thought it a romantic fantasy, an idea, not a reality.
That day beneath the Red Sea, I pressed my lips to a woman as I had never done before. Marica was drowning and sinking, her mouthpiece hanging uselessly to one side. I wrapped my arms around her, took a deep breath from my own regulator and then kissed her. With our lips sealed I breathed out and at the same time undid my weight belt. As it fell away from me, I felt the sudden expansion of air in my lungs and vest as we rushed towards the surface.
Somehow, perhaps with the combination of decreasing pressure and my breathing into her, Marica exhaled. There was an awful taste of bile and seawater but I kept my mouth firmly attached to hers. Such was the rate of our ascent we burst through the surface within seconds.
Ryan was still in the water, waiting for us. On the dive deck of the boat I caught a glimpse of Catherine struggling up the ladder in the swell. Ryan wasn’t a big man but his strength surprised me as he grabbed both Marica and me.
Marica was coughing violently and struggling to breathe. With her mask lost, her dark hair now hung across her face. Blood was streaming freely from her nose and mouth.
In the swell, it was a struggle to stay upright; in the pitching waves I tried in vain to find my own regulator so I would at least be able to breath. But it seemed every attempt I made was met with a mouthful of salt water. Soon, I began to weaken and I felt my grip on Marica fade. I was coughing, almost uncontrollably, and starting to taste blood in my mouth. From behind, I felt strong hands on my arm. Marica was pulled away from me.
For several moments, I lay still, my face to the sky, the waves breaking over me. I needed to gather my strength for the final push towards the boat. I could hear shouting, alarmed, panicky voices, confused and fearful. Rescuers, I hoped. Next moment, my regulator was pushed forcibly into my face and I felt a rush of air as the purge button was pressed to clear it of water. I opened my mouth and clamped onto the mouthpiece at the same moment as my right arm was pushed through a lifebelt. I hung on tight.
A voice shouted, ‘Prenez. Hold.’ It was Petre. He was in the water.
As I breathed, the feelings of panic subsided. Marica and Ryan were being towed towards the boat. Petre stayed with me, holding me tight to the lifebelt as we waited for the others to be pulled onto the deck by the crew. He was still wearing his shirt and trousers.
Within a few minutes, the rope between us and the boat became taut. Petre pushed me onto the same ladder that had struck Marica and wrapped his arms around me as I made the arduous climb onto the rear deck. I made slow progress. The combination of swallowing salt water, exhaustion and adrenalin made my legs shake badly and I struggled to keep a grip. But with each step, Petre took the weight
of my air tank and helped me stay on the wet ladder. I was acutely aware he had no air supply and nothing on his feet but still he held me.
It was as he lifted me I first caught sight of a tattoo on his forearm. In the water the pattern wasn’t clear but even through my daze, I recognised the words at the base. ‘Legio Patria Nostra’. The motto of the French Foreign Legion.
I made the final step and rolled forward onto the deck, a melee of hands unclipping and removing my vest, tank and fins. I lay still for several minutes, my eyes closed, gathering my breath as strength gradually returned to my body.
There was a voice above me. ‘You saved her, Robert.’ It was Catherine.
I tried to speak, but my mouth was salty and dry. I made a ‘drink’ gesture with my hand and within a few moments someone prised open my fingers and squeezed a plastic water bottle into them. My throat was raw and the first mouthful stung. I spat it out and drank again. The second attempt tasted less salty, the third better still. By the fourth, I had drained the bottle and could speak.
‘Is she OK?’ I spluttered, as Catherine helped me to my feet.
‘Petre is taking care of her. She’s got a nasty cut on her head, probably concussed, but he seems pretty confident she’ll be fine.’
For a few seconds I felt light-headed. ‘How about you and Ryan?’
‘We’re both fine.’ Catherine smiled warmly. ‘For someone so bad at buoyancy you did really well.’
I smiled back. ‘Thanks. Not an everyday intro to diving, eh?’
‘No, and Petre was brilliant too. He got Marica out of the water and then went back for you. He’s even bandaged Marica’s head; seems to be good at first aid as well.’
I thought back to my initial impression on meeting Petre: the way he carried himself; his job as Marica’s bodyguard and the tattoo I had just seen on his arm. ‘I would imagine Petre is a pretty resourceful bloke, Catherine.’
