Chapter 3
The West Coast of the Sinai Peninsula – Close to the Red Sea
October 2011
Edward Fahy had arrived in paradise. After a pleasant journey to Naama Bay, Sharm El Sheikh, he was looking forward to a dive he had planned for several years as he loaded his diving equipment and laptop onto the boat he had hired.
Abasi, the boat’s owner, greeted him with an embrace.
‘It’s been a long time, Edward. Where have you been?’
Fahy, also pleased to see his old friend, replied, ‘Work, my friend, and my mother’s been ill.’
Offering him a glass of Qasab, his favourite drink, his friend was keen to accompany Fahy on his trip.
Fahy was a little hesitant and declined. ‘No thanks, my friend, I need a little time alone, but we can catch up after the dive.’
It was a boat journey that would only take Fahy a couple of hours. This would give him time to view the surrounding beauty and periodically check his laptop. He had an important story to run, his greatest scoop nearly completed; this would be the calm before the storm. On his return to England, he would sell it to the highest bidder. A scandal would surely be uncovered when he revealed his secret to the nation. Robert Bamford was his target, a man he had followed day and night, vowing to expose him.
Cruising at a leisurely pace through the calm waters of the Red Sea, it wasn’t long before he approached the west coast of the Sinai Peninsula, the very spot he had researched in detail and read about in his diving magazines. As the sun started to rise, he took a deep intake of clean sea air into his lungs and anchored the small boat.
Thirty metres beneath him lay the wreck of HMS Thistlegorm. He took his lighter and ignited his Gitanes, his favourite smoke, and lay back in the boat on the deserted waters.
His descent into this beautiful habitat was imminent. He realised this might be his last moment of normality before he returned to the chaos of London.
After one final check of his diving equipment, he wrapped his laptop in a towel and straddled the edge of the boat, leaning backwards towards the deep-blue waters. After a short pause, he pierced the surface, descending slowly to the seabed, and as he looked up, the sun’s rays were starting to penetrate deep into the sea, giving him a panoramic view of his stunning surroundings. In a matter of minutes, the journalist had made contact with the seabed, and as he navigated the numerous ledges, he was confronted by a spectacular multi-coloured coral reef.
Fahy was astounded by its beauty and splendour as he paused, tempted to touch the sharp coral with his bare fingers. He deliberately waved his hands back and forth through the warm sea water and progressed towards the damaged hull of the infamous HMS Thistlegorm. As it came into view, it offered him everything that he had expected. It was as if time stood still as he moved towards the twisted wreck. He thought to himself that this was just as he had imagined. He started to kick furiously as his excitement got the better of him and his desire to reach the wreck quickly took hold.
All his anxiety about the story he was about to break seemed so far away as any worries he might have had slowly diminished. He was in isolation for the time being as he continued to study different areas of the wreck.
Above sea level, the journalist’s boat remained anchored to its spot as a high-powered boat approached, slowing down to avoid detection. It stayed some distance away. The occupant of the boat was alone, and he carefully checked for other divers in the immediate vicinity. The conditions were perfect for the rogue diver to launch his strike as he entered the calm waters. He was some distance from the wreck and would make a slow and deliberate descent, working his way deeper until he found Fahy alone.
The Second World War wreck was now within touching distance for the diving enthusiast as he decided where to enter the boat. He patrolled around the area, visually examining the damage caused by the explosion which had sunk the ship so many years ago. Old artillery and boxes of ammunition were spread around the wreck, along with other remnants of a war that he had waited for so long to examine in person. Disturbed by the odd lionfish, he continued to weave in and out of the mangled steel – the result of a catastrophic explosion caused by enemy fire – and to his surprise, he suddenly encountered a school of black-spotted sweetlips taking shelter from the currents in the remains of this timeless war machine. The boat’s upright position pointing to the surface reminded him of an underwater skyscraper, shard-like, illuminated by the raging sun.
Although Edward Fahy was an experienced diver, his first visit to the wreck didn’t disappoint. He continued to swim around, reaching out to touch the fish. They were just as curious as him, keeping a safe distance as he controlled his flippers.
He gazed ahead as the sun’s rays continued to light up the varied species which moved from side to side like a cascading rainbow. It was akin to an art form as all the unusual colours clashed, and the fish, now used to human interaction, engulfed him as he swam around the boat. Pointing his powerful underwater torch in the direction of the damaged stern, which had been separated when the vessel sank, he planned to visit that section of the ship at the end of the dive.
The natural light from above penetrated deep, lighting up the wreck, and exposed piles of soldiers’ boots and shoes strewn across the holds as a result of the huge blast. As he approached hold number five, he turned to examine the damage inflicted on the vast ship and ran his hand along the jagged edges as he tried to imagine himself there at the time of its demise. He could imagine the eruptions in his head, the screams of injured sailors and the chaos as men fought for survival; the boat had been hit by two bombs, igniting the ammunition within its bows.
He finally entered hold number one and swam through the wreckage, and HMS Thistlegorm’s inner secrets were gradually revealed. It was a treasure trove. BSA motorbikes and armoured trucks lay in this war grave and the whole experience overwhelmed him. He felt a deep sense of sadness, but on the other hand a feeling of bliss. The many species of underwater life still circled him as he weaved in and out of the hold, exploring the various air pockets.
Encountering the odd soldierfish and sweeper, he continued to swim alone apart from these curious creatures fascinated by his presence. Fahy now felt part of their family and free to explore, just like his hero Jacques Cousteau had done many years ago when he had rediscovered the doomed vessel. But unbeknown to him, another diver was watching his every move.
Gently touching the windscreen of a lone armoured truck in the hull, still intact after all these years, he adjusted his regulator and entered a storeroom that was void of any natural light. It was an eerie place. This was the perfect position for the diver, and he approached Fahy from behind like a shark moving in for the kill.
He struck swiftly, and as he held the journalist in a lock, he turned off the air supply from his tank. Fahy attempted to turn back to one of the interconnecting doorways, but he couldn’t move. He was trapped. Alone and without any help, he began to panic as his breathing became frantic. He tried to free himself, believing he had become entangled. He wriggled, twisted and pushed, and then realised that he was no longer alone. In a moment, he thought another visiting diver had seen him in trouble and come to help.
Every breath he took became laboured as he struggled for air. It was a moment of sheer terror as he grasped and clenched his regulator, holding it tightly to his mouth. There was no air supply. Fahy was weakened by the struggle and started slipping slowly into unconsciousness. He tried once more to free himself from the wreck and the imposter who had cut off his oxygen.
The diver, strong and athletic, kept a tight grip that was so powerful in such a small area that it made it impossible for him to move. As he looked up, he could see the daylight steadily fading away, as did his last breath. The bubbles rising to the surface slowly disappeared.
It was early in the morning, and the wreck site was still unusually quiet – two divers remained deep in the holds, one alive and one dead.
The killer stayed for a while to catch his breath after this monumental struggle and then placed Fahy’s leg into a nearby railing, carefully trapping the foot. It would be seen as another diver who had lost his life pursuing a dangerous hobby. Gradually turning on the oxygen supply to the tank, he released the air from the regulator until it was empty.
The diver had one last task to complete – to return to the journalist’s boat and remove his laptop. His assignment would then be successfully completed.
Fahy’s boat remained anchored at the surface and would do so until late that afternoon, when his body would be discovered by a passing fishing boat and divers on a day trip.
The site would be closed off as an investigation started to examine the death of a freelance journalist – his secret would die with him, as his possessions were taken from the boat and returned to a grieving wife.
The Red Sea had claimed another victim. The story would run in the online magazines and again, divers would be warned about the perils of diving alone. He was a respected journalist, and his obituary would be posted in all the newspapers.