The line, p.1
The Line, page 1
The Line
Cover
Title Page
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Acknowledgements
Canelo Crime
About the Author
Also by Rachel Lynch
Copyright
Cover
Table of Contents
Start of Content
Chapter 1
The wind streaming into the jeep from the open window cooled Paul’s skin as he turned the music up. A day off work spent diving was something he’d anticipated all week. A break from the job wasn’t the only thing on his mind as he manoeuvred the quiet single road from RAF Akrotiri to his destination in Larnaca. It was a short journey and the local Cypriot radio station played all the current hits from Europe. His Military Police façade was well and truly stripped back on days like these.
Captain Paul Thomas checked his mirror for local police. They tended to leave the military well alone, even if one was speeding way above the limit: not willing to fill in the paperwork generated by a cursory telling-off, or even a fine, but the roads were clear. The sun was peeping above the horizon in a shimmer of blues and oranges, and the water was flat calm. It was a perfect day for a dive on the wreck of the Zenobia.
On her maiden voyage, in 1980, on her way to Syria, the ship had carried over one hundred lorries, full to the brim with £200 million worth of cargo, ranging from marble to frozen fish, and had sunk due to ballast problems in the bay of Larnaca, with no loss of life. However, since then, several divers had perished there, but that statistic didn’t bother Paul, an advanced open-water diver with ten years’ experience. The site was considered amongst the ten best in the world and lay in relatively shallow water, and was a magnet for scuba divers.
Resting on her port side, the deck could be accessed by beginners, whilst the dingy depths of the engine rooms and cargo decks offered exclusive insights for the more experienced. The lorries had never been salvaged, and so divers could sit inside a cabin and strap in for a photo opportunity. The more adventurous tried their hand at finding some of the Italian marble destined for the Middle East. Other visitors, more interested in the flora and fauna feeding on the remnants of the ship, were drawn to the super barracuda, tuna, turtle and triggerfish.
Paul’s kit rattled in the back seat. He’d pick up tanks from the dive school run by an old army pal who’d settled here years ago after leaving the fold of Her Majesty’s service. Everything else was his own: the buoyancy jacket, the demand valve (DV), mask, fins and watch. He carried a knife and a waterproof writing board with pen, as well as his dive log, which was almost full. He kept his kit clean and up to date, making sure nothing went wrong under water. Not that he didn’t trust Eric’s kit, it was just he felt more comfortable in his own. He’d make sure he got superior line from Eric, because they were going inside the engine room this morning. A frisson of excitement travelled through his body as a catchy tune from the UK chart made his body move and his foot tap, when it wasn’t on the clutch.
The bars and restaurants of the Larnaca strip were closed and weary-looking from the night before: serving tourists and locals alike, with bins overflowing and chairs strewn from the night’s wind. It was a scene worthy of any good night out, and the detritus spoke of sore heads and happy hedonists. Cyprus attracted its fair share of party animals, but this morning, Paul wasn’t one of them. Diving hung-over was a really bad idea. Pure blood pumping around the body was vital for a good dive experience. Alcohol residue caused equalisation problems and nausea, and besides, off-gassing bubbles in the blood after any dive was a serious process, and Paul put safety first. He had plenty of other opportunities to get hammered on booze and pick up girls.
He saw Eric and waved out of the jeep window at his diving instructor. Eric was as fired up as he was. Diving inside the engine room was always a good adrenalin rush for anyone. Usually it was the preserve of men. Women tended to prefer the pretty fish in shallower water. He’d taken many a novice down there, to study the ugly grouper and watch them hunting in the deep blue. But for his own leisure time, he preferred to buddy up with somebody just as experienced as he was, like Eric, and get down to serious business.
He parked up and began unloading. Eric approached him, smiling.
‘Perfect day. I reckon the water is twenty degrees, even now. It’ll be twenty-three by the time we get in.’
Paul had brought a short wetsuit, tailor-made out here in Cyprus, at Cessac Beach, for a few quid.
‘Visibility is about thirty metres,’ Eric added.
Paul nodded. ‘Perfect, mate.’
‘We’ve got company, mate, hope you don’t mind,’ Eric said.
Paul held his jeep door open and looked towards the dive shop, where three big blokes looked around.
‘Sightseeing? They up to it?’ Paul asked.
‘Yep. BSAC, mate. Don’t worry, they’re good, they come with good qualifications, all three of them, they’re on leave from some naval ship docked in Kyrenia.’
British Sub-Aqua Club training was considered the best in the world.
‘Right,’ Paul said. He couldn’t remember a naval ship docking anywhere near Kyrenia, in Northern Cyprus, as it was in Turkish waters, but it could be a covert British training exercise. The three men looked naval; that was for sure, judging by their physiques. They were introduced by Eric, who explained that he’d be buddied by one of them. Paul was a little disappointed because he knew Eric’s style well, but if he trusted these fellas, then so did Paul.
They chatted about various dives they’d completed round the world and it soon became clear that the three men were pros. They were also good company. They swapped stories of difficult dives in Scapa Flow and one told a tale of shark diving off the coast of Cape Town, having had a close call with a bad-tempered ragged-tooth shark. They all laughed. They spoke with Queen’s English accents, almost forced, and Paul knew they must be officers, hence the lack of tattoos.
‘No sharks out there,’ Eric said.
‘Shame,’ one said. Paul agreed, it was a travesty that the Med was so empty of decent-looking fish, but at least the Zenobia attracted some agreeably appealing marine life. But they were only interested in metal and rubber today.
The rib was ready and Eric had already manoeuvred it into position off the small jetty. They heaved their kit in and checked it over, having done so once inside the shop. They checked their air, the lines and their DVs. They each had a good 200 BAR of air pressure, and they were satisfied that none of them were panic breathers and so should be fine for a dive of an hour at least, if they kept calm.
The rib set off on its short journey of just under a mile. Only buoys awaited them: they were the first dive school out. By the afternoon, the surface above the wreck got crazy busy with ribs and snorkellers and Paul wasn’t keen on the crowds. He much preferred getting out there early.
As the rib sped out towards the buoys, they made sure to hold on. The salt water splashed Paul and it felt good. On land, they sweated uncomfortably in their kit, but once on the water, they each realised why they were there. It would only get better once they pushed off the back of the rib and felt the work of their weight belts, so they could slowly descend into the cool depths, to a world of secrecy and wonder.
When they reached the site, Eric turned off the engine and they bobbed up and down on the wake as he anchored the rib to the buoy. Eric was buddied with the other two, and Paul nodded to him when it was his turn. Paul and the third man would go off first. Placing his DV in his mouth and clearing his mask, Paul held on to his lines and mask and slipped off backwards into the water. It felt wonderful and he shivered momentarily as the water filled the cavity between his body and the neoprene, warming up with his body heat to keep him comfortable during the duration of the dive. He looked around him and beneath: spotting the wreck instantly. It sat serenely beckoning him as if she’d been waiting all night. His buddy came off the rib and they equalised and signalled that they were ready. Eric and the others would follow.
They’d go
The entrance to the engine room was a tangle of metal, and this is where the dive got technical. They hooked their lines onto hoops fastened onto the side of the ship for just that purpose. This was where the majority of people who’d lost their lives had come unstuck: either losing their way or running out of air. It was amateur really.
Paul went first. He used a torch, but it was still difficult to navigate. He’d performed the dive three times before and knew his way, but attempting it without hooking up was unthinkable. He turned to check his buddy occasionally and the guy was turning out to be a professional and competent partner. They ceased all signals, except for ‘okay’ and continued. His mission today was to explore the mass of pistons and piping hidden under the ship’s ten thousand ton might. Hatches and pressure valves emerged in the dark, like ghouls, respite only coming from a few windows, but even then, giving off no light.
He was aware of a torch going out behind him and assumed his buddy had taken a wrong turn. It was common. He turned to see that the chap was no longer there. He checked his BAR and he had enough left to go further and make it back to the rib, but if he had to turn back to find his buddy now, it’d be tight. Frustration piqued him and his heart rate elevated, sucking more air from the tanks on his back.
Panic gripped him as he saw that his line was no longer attached and he turned around in the dark green gloom, searching for his buddy. He saw old spent glow sticks that divers had attached to metal and counted them backwards, realising that he didn’t, after all, remember the way. After five minutes or more, he floated in the dark, surrounded by rusted manufacture and tried to clear his thoughts. A ladder emerged and he went for it, hoping it led to a way out.
It didn’t.
Paul checked his air again: 30 BAR. It wasn’t enough. He had to leave now, otherwise he wouldn’t have time to off-gas and avoid the bends. Decompression started with a slow rise and he was running out of time. He turned around and recognised the way he’d come, but a sudden gulp of nothingness engulfed him. Confusion was quick. He couldn’t reach his air gauge to check, but it was too late. He couldn’t breathe.
The weight of the great ship bore down on him and he turned this way and that, seeing his buddy at the last minute. He held out his arms towards him, but the diver appeared not to see him. The last thing he remembered, before he blacked out, was the man swimming towards him making the ‘okay’ sign, worry in his grimace, frantically checking Paul’s equipment.
Blackness engulfed him and his bursting lungs gave way to a serenely calm emptiness, without the life-giving air he so craved, but he was strangely at peace.
Hands grasped at him and he was dragged out into the open water, where Eric’s face was a picture of pure terror. Paul closed his eyes and sucked no more.
Chapter 2
Downtown Aleppo looked like a Hollywood movie set of Armageddon. To be fair, it depended on where you were as to whether all the buildings, or just some of them, were totalled. Some structures stood, and others fell. Piles of rubble were arranged along the streets, to make way for those vehicles that still functioned. Dust swirled everywhere, and mixed with heat and sweat, to produce some kind of cloying furnace, which stuck to every item, including the flowers on sale on street corners, in between destroyed houses. People went about their business, in between air strikes, as best they could. The days of the week were irrelevant in war.
Market sellers pushed carts through the alleyways which were once streets, hoping for mobile transactions, when once they’d sold at the squares across the city. Across the districts, civilian targets had been demolished by Russian heavy artillery and rockets, as they told the rest of the world that they were hitting only strategic military objectives. Meanwhile the people of Aleppo felt hunted and maimed, as the lines between collateral damage and war crimes were smudged. One way to bring a civilisation to its knees was to bomb the shit out of its infrastructure, fuel, food and water supply and sewage works and dress it up as incidental ruin, as it was played out across the world’s media outlets as tragic and unfortunate, but, in reality, it was planned, with the purpose of either exterminating and obliterating the enemy, or bringing the combatants to the negotiating table.
In fact, it had the opposite effect. Populations rallied, neighbourhoods came together, human resourcefulness overcame, and the streets of Aleppo showed it. Electrical cables were strewn across roads and buildings (the ones still standing), food was airdropped or driven in by charities, and as far as waste was concerned, people did what they could. Raw sewage was worst by the roads, where gullies created natural valleys for debris to travel. It stank.
Children played marbles, tag and hide and seek, as well as collecting anything they could, to either sell or at least talk about with their friends. Schools were abandoned, and surviving parents became home tutors. Hospitals were bombed, and neighbours became medics; law and order ran unchecked, and local militia became God. Resilience was relative.
A black limousine cut along the dusty road, like a sleek shark hunting for prey beside a reef. The windows were darkened, and children stopped playing, and stared, wondering if they could get the wheel trims off, or at least beg for some cash. Adults turned away, ushering their kids off, guessing that whoever was inside was rich, and therefore important. No one thrived in war, except those who controlled it. The car was clean and shiny, and whoever sat behind the darkened windows, was proud. Behind it, followed two Ford Rangers, laden with armed men carrying automatic weapons and a mounted machine gun, which pointed at buildings as they drove by. Doors slammed shut, the children ran away; only the brave ones daring to run alongside; and a gloomy silence befell the neighbourhood. The few owners of shops still trading, in between wrecked garages and businesses, froze as they weighed goods for their customers, who stared at the spectacle.
Inside the limousine, Labib Hassan was on the phone. Despite the chaos, downtown Aleppo was the safest place for him to live. He could have escaped to neighbouring friendly nations, but then he’d have no way of controlling movement on the ground, plus, somebody would hand him over to the US for a few thousand dollars. He was worth a lot more. He’d been on the West’s most wanted list for a decade. But he didn’t much care. It meant nothing to him. Their arrogance was what would one day make them implode, and he’d be there to watch it.
He spoke to his father, who was planning a feast for fifty soldiers. Labib didn’t really have the time or the inclination to get involved in such trivia, but he respected his father, like he expected the same from his own boys. He’d lost three so far, to the war; he had six others.
‘Papa, just give the chickens to mother,’ he said to his father. Then hung up.
His parents currently lived on the family farm, to the north of the city, but Labib didn’t go there often, and the Americans knew it. Their spy planes, listening to their conversations, abusing their human rights, as a nation, as a people, were commonplace, and no one ever knew what they heard. Labib and his men used burner phones, codes, donkeys, kids and rocks to keep communication secret, but still the Americans knew everything. Well, not quite everything. They didn’t have the courage to send in ground troops; it was the biggest victory of the war so far. The West didn’t have the stomach for it. Withdrawing troops from Afghanistan gave renewed vigour to freedom fighters everywhere. The West had finally run out of money, and the courage, to carry on.
The new Syria, carved from the rubble after ten years of civil war, would be stronger and more independent than ever. And Labib would play a grander part than any of his forefathers ever dreamed of. The new meritocracy, who’d taken their opportunities as neighbourhoods were blown to smithereens, was in ascendance, and he was being escorted to a secret meeting along with other senior Ba’athists. The party would prevail in the end and President Assad knew it. It was a waiting game and they had the stamina for a long one. They had the upper hand. And it was called cash.
