The Robert Finlay Trilogy

by Matt Johnson

  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.’

  ‘Well, he’s bloody strong,’ she replied, her South African accent coming through clearly. ‘You should have seen him lift you up the ladder with all your kit still on.’

  I hadn’t seen Petre lift me, but I had felt it. I’d felt the strength in his shoulders and arms and the sense of relief my route to safety was in his hands. ‘Tell him thanks,’ I said.

  ‘Tell him yourself.’ Catherine indicated over my shoulder. As I turned, Petre was now stood just behind me, his open hand extended.

  ‘My English is not good, Robert.’ He spoke slowly, the accent East European, I guessed. ‘I just wish to say thank you for save Marica.’

  I took the hand that was offered and, once again, I felt the strength of the grip.

  Later that evening, alone in the bar with a cold beer for company, I sat and thought about that handshake and the knowing look in Petre’s eyes. There was something in that gaze – a kinship, something that soldiers have, something I figured he also saw in me.

  I’d phoned Jenny as soon as I reached the hotel, simply wanting to hear her voice. I lied about the events of the day, though, and told her what a relaxing time I’d been having. It seemed the right thing to do. Marica was in hospital overnight for observation and Petre was at her side. Ryan and Catherine had kept me company for an hour before heading off to their digs.

  The hotel was quiet now, but I was too restless to sleep. I also doubted if I would be able to focus on the Chas Collins book.

  There was nothing for it. I ordered another beer.

  Chapter 17

  Sleep proved elusive that night; in the end, I threw off the bed covers in disgust and tried making a brew. Unfortunately, Egyptian tea didn’t quite cut it for me and the only milk available was UHT from a tiny plastic container. I took one sip and decided to head out for a walk.

  The hotel and dive school were only a short distance from the beach. Wearing just a T-shirt, shorts and sandals, I wandered across the sand and settled down on one of the loungers overlooking the sea.

  Although the beach was devoid of tourists, there were local people busying to and fro, preparing for the day. Beachfront restaurants were being cleaned, pavements swept and wagons unloaded. In the east, the sun was rising higher over Saudi Arabia, its rays turning the dusky Arabian sands to gold. Dawn was my favourite time of day and, for once, I was grateful for the effects of the insomnia.

  The break of day brought back memories. Half-light is a soldier’s friend. Before the invention of light-intensifying technology, most attacks would take place at dawn. Soldiers had long ago learned from animals – in the half-light it was harder to see the hunter coming.

  Which is probably how Petre managed to get so close to me. ‘You rise early, Mr Finlay,’ he said, in a quiet voice.

  I turned my body slightly to see the stocky bodyguard just feet away. He seemed to be sharing the view over the gentle surf. ‘You surprised me, Petre,’ I answered.

  ‘Perhaps,’ he shrugged. ‘Perhaps not? Perhaps your skills are old, Mr Finlay, but you still have them.’

  I was curious. As Petre sat down on a lounger just to my left, I caught another glimpse of the Legion tattoo on his arm. He noticed my glance.

  ‘You recognise?’ he asked. ‘You also served Legion étrangère?’

  I looked at Petre’s suntanned face. I guessed him to be in his midthirties. His hair was cut very short, his eyes bright blue and alert. If he had been in the Leg
ion in his early twenties then there was every chance he might be acquainted with men I knew. At that time a lot of soldiers had left the British Army following government cutbacks and restructuring. The Legion parachute unit had been a popular destination.

  Several of the lads from the SAS squadrons had made the move rather than face civvy street. The Legion was well known for accepting trained soldiers from other countries who were in need of a regular wage or were running away from some kind of problem. It saved a fortune in training costs.

  ‘Legio Patria Nostra’ was the motto of the 3rd Foreign Infantry Regiment, which was almost certain to have been where Petre served.

  ‘Not me, Petre,’ I answered. ‘Short time British Army.’ I also smiled to myself, amused by how I had dropped into Brit-speak, the stilted English we often use when talking to foreigners.

  ‘I guess. You move like soldier.’

  ‘Your tattoo gave you away, Petre.’

  Petre glanced at his arm and laughed. ‘I was young man. We drink too much, do crazy things. Some stay with us always.’

  ‘How is Marica?’ I asked.

  Petre nodded. ‘She is good, hospital take good care of her. Bit of headache and bruise, but she will be fine. I wait with her through night. First thing she say this morning is to find you. She would like to see you.’

  ‘Are they keeping her in?’

  ‘Just for one day. Concussion and checks. I take you to see her, OK?’

  I had a mostly free day. After the near disaster on the boat, Catherine had asked me to join her at a debrief with the manager of the dive school. After what had happened, it wasn’t likely I’d be told I’d passed the advanced diving course, so I wondered if they were simply looking to cover their arses in case anyone should make a claim.

  To allow enough time, I suggested to Petre we meet outside the hotel at about ten. He agreed.

  After my visitor had headed off, I stayed at the beach for nearly an hour, enjoying the sea and the sky. It was still before seven when I started the walk back to the hotel.

  Word of my exploits had spread quickly amongst the East European guests. As I walked into the breakfast room, I was aware of faces turning to look at me. On previous mornings I had been ignored; just another lone, male diver. Today it was different; the two dozen men and women gathered around the self-service counter and at their tables all became quiet.

  It was pretty obvious I was the cause of the reaction, but I was unsure exactly why; were they friendly or hostile? I didn’t have to wait long to find out. As I continued walking towards the self-service area, two overweight men stood up from their seats and approached me. Both were in brightly coloured shirts, shorts and sandals.

  I was tense for a moment until I saw their broad smiles.

  Hands were extended. We shook; they both then hugged me and uttered words in a tongue I didn’t understand. I was able to work out the sentiment, though. More men came over to pat me on the back. There were more handshakes and then a woman who spoke English approached. She was a little older than Marica, but looked similar: slim with long black hair. Her blue dress looked to be silk and oozed wealth.

  ‘I am sorry if we surprise you, sir. My friends wish to say their thanks,’ she said.

  ‘You’re friends of Marica?’ I asked.

  ‘Yes, friends. The men here, they work for her father in Romania. It is said that you saved her from death under the sea. Today, you are a hero.’

  I smiled, feeling more than a little embarrassed by the attention. But as the English-speaking woman talked, I also noticed the reverence in which she seemed to be held by the others. The men gave her space; the women remained seated or at the breakfast bar.

  ‘Not a hero. Just right place, right time, that’s all,’ I replied. I wasn’t quite sure how to extricate myself from this unexpected reception. In the event, my unease seemed to be noticed. My new friend said something to the men and they all started to return to their seats. One shook my hand again and several gave me a thumbs-up signal.

  ‘Please understand, Mr Finlay—’

  ‘You know my name?’ I interrupted.

  ‘Yes, of course. I hope that does not trouble you. We are always careful about who Marica mixes with. We asked the dive school about you before it was agreed for you and Marica to be together. As I was saying, please understand our thanks. Marica is a very special person – not just the daughter of our employer, but a girl we love with all our hearts.’

  ‘As you know my name, do you mind if I ask yours?’

  ‘Anca. I am Anca Cristea; Marica is my sister-in-law.’

  We shook hands. For someone so slim, I was surprised at the strength in her grip. There was a short round of applause from the others. I did my best to acknowledge them before heading to the breakfast bar. I was hungry.

  I chose waffles with honey, loaded a second plate with eggs and bacon, and found a seat by a window overlooking the pool. It was only then I realised that Ryan, the safety diver, was sitting at a table near me.

  Ryan said nothing. As our eyes met, he just winked. I smiled and started my breakfast. We both knew my rescue of Marica had been a fluke. As a novice diver, I had no idea of the risks and had acted on instinct. Marica had been very lucky I had reached her. If Catherine hadn’t emptied the air from my buoyancy vest and put extra weight in it, I would never have worked out how to re-descend quickly enough. It was a team effort: Ryan helped Catherine, Catherine helped me and I helped Marica. Then Petre helped all of us.

  I took my time over breakfast and then went back to my room for a rest. The Collins book was by the side of the bed. I picked it up, found my place and within two pages felt my eyelids start to close.

  Chapter 18

  An hour and a half later, I stirred. Checking my watch, I confirmed I had enough time for a quick shower before I was to be picked up and taken to the hospital.

  I found Petre waiting outside the hotel in a chauffeured Mercedes. As I approached, the driver opened a rear door for me and I climbed in. Petre sat in the front with him. The soft leather seats were cool, the air conditioning quietly keeping the interior at a pleasant temperature. I had ditched the T-shirt and shorts in favour of a light-blue denim shirt and jeans.

  It was a comfortable ride to the hospital. The more I learned about my fellow Romanian hotel residents, the more I began to understand that not all East Europeans are poor. These people had money to spend. This was demonstrated when, fifteen minutes later, we approached what I quickly realised was no run-of-the-mill facility. The drive, gardens and exterior were beautifully cared for. It was clean, free of litter and had an air of peace and comfort about it.

  Our driver pulled up outside reception and, as I followed Petre in through the glass doors, I was struck by how much the hospital waiting area, with its ochre marble floor and sumptuous seating, resembled the lobby of a luxury hotel. Spacious, opulent and quiet, it had little in common with most of the hospitals back home. This was private medicine at its most luxurious.

  A uniformed porter led us to the second floor. As the lift was occupied, we opted for the ornate, spiral staircase. A short walk along a landing and we arrived at a solid-looking wooden door. Petre knocked.

  The door was opened and Anca appeared. Behind her I could see three more women sat around a bed, laughing and chatting.

  Marica was sitting up in bed and greeted me with a warm smile. Apart from a bandage around her head, she looked intact and healthy. I was invited to sit close to her. Over the next few minutes, I once again suffered the awkward plaudits of her friends who, despite their limited command of English, seemed determined to embarrass me.

  Marica explained that, as she was soon to be married, Anca was her chaperone while Petre provided protection. Petre worked for Marica’s father, who ran an import/export business near Bucharest. It seemed her father had heard what had happened and was keen I should be told how grateful he was.

  After about ten minutes chatting, Anca declared that her charge was beginning to tire
and it was time she had some more rest. As I made to leave, Marica handed me a sealed envelope.

  ‘For you,’ she said.

  I opened it. Inside was a small, white card bearing embossed silver writing, in what I guessed was Romanian.

  Seeing my puzzled look, Marica explained. ‘It’s a wedding invitation. Please say you will come, Robert.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘You have a wife, perhaps? She will come too?’

  Put on the spot, there was no way I could refuse. ‘Of course,’ I replied. ‘I’m sure she would love to.’

  ‘Please, everybody,’ Marica demanded, waving the others towards the door. ‘Leave Robert with me a moment, alone.’

  They obeyed without question, even Anca.

  Only once we were by ourselves and the door closed, did Marica speak again. ‘I will always be grateful to you, Robert.’

  ‘Right time, right place Marica. I did nothing anyone else wouldn’t have done in the circumstances.’

  ‘Possibly. But for me, it was you. You risked your life for me. I will always remember that kiss, Robert. I remember we were coming up near the boat, then the next thing I knew you were kissing me in the water. I was weak, it seemed a dream. Then I was on the boat and Petre was tending to my head wound. Only then did I learn what had happened. But … I remember that kiss … in the water.’

  ‘I had to get you breathing.’

  ‘I know, I know. But it was special. Promise me you will tell no one of that kiss … no one.’

  I made the promise. There was no need for anyone else to know. I guessed the fiancé might be the jealous kind, so I was happy to stay silent.

  ‘And now, let me sleep,’ she said, and took my hand.

  As I made to leave she smiled again. It was such a pretty smile. One that, many years previously, would have been enough to seduce me.

  I said goodbye to everyone and travelled alone back to the hotel. Petre had work to do and I had a meeting with the dive school to get to, a bill to pay for my tuition and a suitcase to pack.