Amok a dox thriller, p.1
AMOK: A Dox Thriller, page 1
PRAISE FOR BARRY EISLER
The Livia Lone Series
“An absolutely first-rate thriller . . . Emotionally true at each beat.”
—The New York Times Book Review
“An explosive thriller that plunges into the sewer of human smuggling . . . Filled with raw power, [Livia Lone] may be the darkest thriller of the year.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Readers may be reminded of Stieg Larsson’s beloved Lisbeth Salander when they meet Livia Lone, and will be totally riveted by the story of this woman on a mission to right the wrongs in her past.”
—Bookish
“You won’t be able to tear yourself away as the story accelerates into a Tarantino-worthy climax, and when you’re left gasping in the wake of its gut-wrenching vigilante justice, you’ll belatedly realize you learned a lot about a social travesty that gets far too little attention . . . Livia Lone is a harrowing tale with a conscience.”
—Chicago Review of Books
The Chaos Kind
“Another high-fatality, high-spirited revenge fantasy.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Eisler juggles the complicated plot and large cast, imbuing his diverse characters with robust backstory and emotional motivation.”
—Publishers Weekly
“A spectacular revenge story. Eisler, who was briefly a covert operative for the CIA, has an energetic writing style: his dialogue gets right to the point, and his action scenes are clean and vividly rendered. The John Rain novels seem to fly under the radar of many genre fans, even though they deserve to sit alongside Lee Child’s Jack Reacher novels and Vince Flynn and Kyle Mills’s Mitch Rapp thrillers.”
—Booklist
The Killer Collective
“Impossibly cool.”
—Entertainment Weekly
“As usual with an Eisler novel, the plot is full of twists, the prose is muscular, and the action unfolds at a torrid pace. The result is another page turner from one of the better thriller writers since James Grady published Six Days of the Condor in 1974.”
—Associated Press
“In this crackling-good thriller from bestseller Eisler, Seattle PD sex crimes detective Livia Lone, assassin John Rain, and former Marine sniper Dox form a testy alliance to combat a vile conspiracy involving corrupt and toxic government agencies . . . The feisty interplay among these killer elites is as irresistible as if one combined the Justice League with the Avengers, swapping out the superhero uniforms for cutting-edge weaponry and scintillating spycraft. By the satisfying conclusion, the world has been scrubbed a bit cleaner of perfidy. This is delightfully brutal fun.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Vicarious pleasure for anyone wanting to see the scum of the world get its due.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Eisler does a great job of creating individual personalities and tics with this group of uniquely trained professionals. A solid recommendation for fans of Robert Ludlum’s Jason Bourne and Daniel Silva’s Gabriel Allon.”
—Library Journal
“Riveting . . . Barry Eisler pulls off an Avengers-like feat . . .”
—The Mercury News
“Eisler turns the heat up like never before to deliver a fun, fast-paced thriller that’s tailor-made for fans of nonstop action.”
—The Real Book Spy
“The fun of Eisler’s super thriller is in the excitement, the chase, and the survival. The Killer Collective binds it together into a blazing adventure of espionage escape fiction, perfect to start the new year.”
—New York Journal of Books
“Eisler’s The Killer Collective packs a punch like a sniper’s rifle. A solid grounding in up-to-the-minute technology and current affairs makes this a hot read for thriller lovers.”
—Authorlink
“Heart-pounding! Eisler has created a more literary version of The Expendables—the movie series that brought together Stallone, Schwarzenegger, Jet Li, Chuck Norris, Jason Statham, Dolph Lundgren, Bruce Willis, and other action heroes . . .”
—It’s Either Sadness or Euphoria
“Demonstrating the extraordinary expertise in the art of espionage and special operations—including surveillance detection, cover, elicitation, operational site selection, and more—that his fans and fellow practitioners have come to venerate, Eisler delivers another brilliant, fast-paced thriller, full of well-developed characters who remind me of the special operations and intelligence officers with whom I served and in some cases against whom I worked. For a retired senior CIA Clandestine Services officer still nostalgic for his espionage operations of bygone years, Eisler’s thrillers full of intrigue, adventure, and suspense are a most welcome opportunity to get as close as is now possible to the real thing.”
—Daniel N. Hoffman, retired Clandestine Services officer and former CIA Chief of Station
ALSO BY BARRY EISLER
Novels
A Clean Kill in Tokyo (previously published as Rain Fall)
A Lonely Resurrection (previously published as Hard Rain)
Winner Take All (previously published as Rain Storm)
Redemption Games (previously published as Killing Rain)
Extremis (previously published as The Last Assassin)
The Killer Ascendant (previously published as Requiem for an Assassin)
Fault Line
Inside Out
The Detachment
Graveyard of Memories
The God’s Eye View
Livia Lone
Zero Sum
The Night Trade
The Killer Collective
All the Devils
The Chaos Kind
Short Works
“The Lost Coast”
“Paris Is a Bitch”
“The Khmer Kill”
“London Twist”
Essays
“The Ass Is a Poor Receptacle for the Head: Why Democrats Suck at Communication, and How They Could Improve”
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Otherwise, any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Text copyright © 2022 by Barry Eisler
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Published by Thomas & Mercer, Seattle
www.apub.com
Amazon, the Amazon logo, and Thomas & Mercer are trademarks of Amazon.com, Inc., or its affiliates.
ISBN-13: 9781542005654 (hardcover)
ISBN-13: 9781542005647 (paperback)
ISBN-13: 9781542005661 (digital)
Cover design by Rex Bonomelli
Cover image: © heripic / Shutterstock
First edition
For Wim and Peggy, with love
Contents
Start Reading
Preface
1991
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
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Notes
Bibliography
Filmography
About the Author
The strong do what they wish and the weak suffer what they must.
—Thucydides
Preface
Timor is one of the islands of the Indonesian Archipelago, across the Timor Sea north of Western Australia.
In the mid-nineteenth century, Holland and Portugal divided the island, making the western half Dutch Timor and the eastern half Portuguese Timor. After the Second World War and Indonesia’s successful war for independence against the Dutch, Dutch Timor became part of Indonesia, while the eastern half of the island remained a Portuguese colony, with Portuguese and native Tetum both widely spoken. In 1974, the Portuguese began to withdraw, provoking a brief civil war among the East Timorese. In 1975, Indonesia invaded and annexed the eastern half of the island.
In 1991, when this story is set, Indonesia’s occupation and a guerilla war waged by Falintil, the Armed Forces for the National Liberation of East Timor, had been grinding on for sixteen years.
1991
Chapter 1
Isobel crou ched behind one of the thatched huts in the growing darkness, concealed among the giant nest ferns common to East Timor, straining over the din of cicadas for the sounds she dreaded: the thud of boots; the ugly, overconfident laughter; Bahasa Indonesian instead of Portuguese or Tetum. She heard none of it, but what if they were nearby, watching and waiting as she was, only more practiced at patience?
The strap of her medical bag was cutting into her shoulder, and for the hundredth time she adjusted it. Then she wiped a rivulet of sweat from her eyes and stole another glance past the edge of the hut. The girl was still there, standing by the well, an empty water jug on the ground beside her. A villager, obviously, her feet bare, her white shirt dirty, and her shorts not much more than rags. The girl’s head was canted slightly, and her gaze seemed fixed on something in the distance, or perhaps on nothing at all. The incongruity of her presence made Isobel uneasy. Of course, under the circumstances, everything was making her uneasy. That was only natural. But knowing it was natural did nothing to calm her.
Maybe the girl was simply enjoying a slightly illicit rest—lingering longer than necessary before drawing up the water she’d been sent to fetch and then carrying it, perched on her head, back to her family.
Maybe.
The problem was, the American journalist had said she and Isobel should meet by the well, and they couldn’t risk being seen. Kopassus had informants everywhere. Probably this young villager was as innocent as the girls Isobel treated at the clinic in Dili, and probably she hated the Indonesian soldiers as much. But hatred was often accompanied by fear. And more often still, eclipsed by it.
She’s not an informant. Not a lookout. She’s just a teenage girl. Sent to fetch water, and not in a hurry to finish the chore.
And then she surprised herself by almost hoping the girl was an informant. Because if soldiers saw her near Isobel and the journalist, and thought the girl was working with them, the things they would do to her . . . Isobel didn’t want to imagine it.
Though neither did she need to imagine. She had heard more firsthand accounts than she would ever want to remember. And more than she would ever be able to forget. Some of the girls had been as young as twelve. Many of them had been made pregnant. Three had committed suicide, their shame and trauma more than they could bear.
Isobel glanced at her watch, a gift from her father in celebration of her graduation from UCLA Medical School on a scholarship five years earlier. And in gratitude for her return to East Timor, where she was needed far more but where she would always make far less. She had never regretted the decision to come back. Not even now, when at any moment she might be caught, tortured, raped by one soldier after another. And afterward, buried deep in some trackless part of the jungle, or worse, fed to the crocodiles of Timor’s countless lagoons and mangrove swamps. For an instant, she was glad her parents were gone. And she was glad she had stopped in Aidabalaten on the way here, where she tried to visit once a year to swim in the sea that now held their ashes. If the worst happened, at least they would be spared the torment of knowing for the rest of their lives their daughter had been murdered, while lacking the proof their minds needed to ever fully accept it.
She looked at her watch again. The journalist was supposed to be here almost a half hour ago. The roads were treacherous around mountain towns like Maliana; could the woman have suffered an accident? Surely she wouldn’t have been so foolish as to leave no buffer for the inevitable bus breakdowns, the washed-out roads, the random bad luck that made life in East Timor hard enough even before the Indonesians had come.
Unless . . . unless she had been taken. Not likely—the risks of holding an American woman, and a journalist at that, would be substantial. But the soldiers had murdered five Australian journalists in Balibo sixteen years earlier, on the eve of the invasion. No doubt those men, too, had felt protected by their nationality, their profession, their white skin.
She’s fine. She’s just late. She’s coming.
The journalist’s name was Beeler. Theresa Beeler. She had made a reputation for herself through her unrelenting coverage of the cruelty of the occupation, traveling to places other journalists feared to visit, almost daring the Indonesians to do something to stop her. There was a fine line between brave and reckless, and Isobel wasn’t sure which side Beeler occupied.
Of course, the same could be said of herself.
Isobel had told Beeler about the medical clinic. About the girls she helped, and what had been done to them. Proof, Beeler had responded. If you can get me proof, the world won’t be able to ignore what’s happening here any longer. And the pain and fierce conviction Isobel had seen in Beeler’s eyes made her believe it.
She adjusted the strap of the satchel again. Maybe she should have hidden it somewhere nearby. Then if the soldiers found her, at least they wouldn’t find everything. But she had been afraid to leave it, to have it anywhere but on her body or in her hands.
Where are you, Beeler? Where are you?
She snuck another glance around the edge of the hut, expecting to see nothing but the dawdling girl. Instead, she was stunned to see Beeler walking toward the well, her short blond hair wet from sweat and clinging to her scalp as though she had just gone swimming in one of the streams that crisscrossed Maliana.
For a moment, Isobel was gripped by the urge to dash out, give Beeler the bag and everything in it, and be done. To rid herself of the weight of what she’d been carrying.
But she hesitated. Something about the way Beeler was walking. So cautiously, as though she had found herself in a minefield, or a trail thick with poisonous snakes.
And then she remembered—the woman had been adamant about something she had called bona fides. They treat us like spies, she had said. So we have to act like spies. When I show myself, if I’m safe, I’ll rub my chin. And you do the same if you’re safe. Anything else means we’re not safe. That we’re under duress.
Now Beeler was holding her arms stiffly at her sides. Nowhere near her chin.
Could the woman have forgotten her own admonition? It seemed unlikely. But maybe she didn’t expect Isobel to have arrived yet? To be watching? And so was simply waiting to signal that all was well.
But in the last fading light, Isobel thought she could make out something in Beeler’s expression. The woman was afraid. No, terrified. The lack of the bona fides had directed Isobel’s attention to it. But only to confirm what she already sensed.
Something’s wrong.
She felt her own fear then, a sudden, leaden weight in her bowels, a terrible tightness in her chest and throat. She tried to draw back but couldn’t move. She struggled to rise from her crouch, but her legs were frozen, paralysis multiplying terror, terror deepening paralysis.
The girl watched Beeler’s careful approach. She must have been wondering what this white woman was doing on the outskirts of occupied Maliana.
Isobel wished now she had insisted on meeting in town, which had modern buildings, a few paved roads, even some streetlights. But Maliana was only a few kilometers from the border, and the Indonesian soldiers occupying it preferred the comforts of town to the privations of the outlying villages. At the time, it had seemed a meeting on the outskirts would be safer. Now it felt like anything but.
Touch your chin, Isobel thought. Please. Just touch your chin.
But Beeler didn’t touch her chin. She kept walking, her posture so rigid Isobel realized the woman was forcing herself to move forward, step by terrified step.
Beeler stopped several feet from the girl. For what seemed a long time, the two of them stood there, looking at each other.
Then Beeler turned to the trees behind her. “I told you,” she called out, her voice higher than Isobel remembered. “There’s nobody here. Just a girl I don’t know. Probably from the village.”
No one responded.
“There’s no one here!” Beeler called out again. “All right? You made a mistake.” She started to add something, hesitated, then said, “Please.”
The moment stretched out, as frozen as Isobel’s limbs. The buzzing of the cicadas was very loud.
The girl, perhaps sensing Beeler’s terror, backed away. Instantly, six dark shapes emerged from the trees. The girl turned and started to run. There was a flash of light, and over the sound of the cicadas came a loud crack! The girl fell.
“Oh, God,” Beeler cried out. “Oh, my God!”
Isobel felt a sudden warmth and wetness on the insides of her thighs. She realized her bladder had let go.
