AMOK: A Dox Thriller, page 30
“But he won’t know.”
“That’s the point. He won’t know, but he’ll want to know. It’s what he does, I can see that now. He and his men left with Beeler, at which point I should have been safe. But he knew something was off, and he came back to the well where I was supposed to meet her. He tracked me, just like you said. To Joana and Mateus’s house, and then to Dili. And then he came here again, and he killed them all and burned them. He’ll know something was going on in that graveyard, something near where you killed the three soldiers, and he’ll go there and try to figure out what it was.”
He didn’t want to admit it because he didn’t want to go back, but she made a compelling case.
After a moment, he sighed. “I think you might already be better at this spy stuff than I ever was. You’re worried they’ll release Stahl, Stahl will go to the graveyard to retrieve the tape, and Joko will be waiting for him.”
“Exactly.”
He sighed again. “Goddamn. All right. We can’t let that happen.”
Chapter 36
Joko stood across the street from Lembaga Prison beside a banyan tree, concealed from the prison by its twisted trunk, shaded from the morning sun by the leaves high overhead. He didn’t much like Timor, or maybe it was just the Timorese. But the banyan trees—roots growing down from their branches, their way of enveloping host trees, earning them the English sobriquet “strangler figs”—were different. They reminded him of Sumatra. Of home.
Joko had come to the prison an hour earlier and made it clear to the commandant that the three journalists were to be released that very morning. The commandant protested that he had received no such orders from Jakarta.
“Jakarta is busy right now,” Joko had told him. “Smoothing out the aftereffects of yesterday’s disturbances.”
He thought yesterday’s disturbances was a good euphemism, akin to the Late Unpleasantness as a reference to the American Civil War.
The commandant didn’t seem to appreciate the wordplay. The man eyed him nervously, but still hesitated.
“So,” Joko continued, “the journalists are a Kopassus operation now. Do you understand?”
The man continued to look at him. After a moment, he nodded meekly. Yes, the man understood. He understood extremely well. It made Joko happy.
He checked his surroundings, letting the muzzle of his CAR-15 track his gaze. Everything was quiet. His men were deployed where he needed them. Now it was just a question of waiting.
It wasn’t long before he saw a guard swing wide the barred outer gate of the prison, then hold it open against the lichen-covered concrete wall behind it. Goodman, Nairn, and Stahl walked out. The clothes of the first two were covered in dried blood, and they looked unsteady on their feet. Stahl seemed to be okay.
Which was good. Because for whatever reason, Joko sensed that Stahl was the one he would see later. In the cemetery. When night came.
Chapter 37
They were back at the cemetery, and if Dox had been grappling with a bad feeling the last time they’d been here, now it was downright terrible.
There was a lot of moonlight, which had helped as they navigated through yards and alleys. But moonlight was like tracer rounds: it went both ways, making it easier for you to see, but also to be seen.
They had paused outside the southeast corner, the only part that wasn’t abutted by roads, only by a thicket of corrugated houses. There were surprisingly few patrols, and Dox thought he knew why. Judging from the sounds of sporadic gunfire all around the city, Falintil was hitting back, meaning more Indonesian soldiers were needed for combat, with fewer available for police duty. Still, it made sense to stay clear of the roads whenever possible, hence the southeast corner.
They waited for several minutes, listening and looking. The cemetery was as quiet as the proverbial grave, but that didn’t do much to ease Dox’s discomfort.
“I wish you’d wait out here,” he said. “I can sneak better alone.”
“No,” she said, as he knew she would. “I’m coming with you.”
He had tried to get her to wait on the other side of the Comoro River. He hated the idea of leaving her, but he would have preferred for her to be in the rear rather than in the thick of fighting. Not that there was necessarily going to be a fight—it was possible they’d gotten all dressed up for the prom and wouldn’t even wind up on the dance floor—but he didn’t see a reason to take a chance.
She did, though. And he supposed in some ways, it was his fault. She’d quarreled with his initial tactical impulses back in Maliana, and, as he’d admitted at the time, she was making more sense than he was, at least if the objective was to ensure the safety of Stahl’s recording. Now she wanted to be in on everything, and it was plain that all the hopes she’d invested in the videotapes she’d made of those poor girls, she’d now transferred to Stahl’s video, and then some.
The good news was, they’d confirmed the scaffolding was still down. If it had been up again, there was no way in hell Dox was going back into that cemetery, especially knowing anyone on the scaffolding would likely have night vision. Maybe he could have found a way to take out a new sniper—he had the M21 now, after all—but it was better they didn’t have to worry about snipers in the first place.
And the other thing that was better was that if no one was doing overwatch of the cemetery—and that scaffolding was the only place worth a damn—it might have meant no one was watching the cemetery at all. Meaning maybe they’d just get to see Max Stahl digging up the cassette he’d buried, wish him well, and get the hell out of Dodge.
All right, it had been quiet long enough. It was time to go in. “At least stay behind me,” he whispered. “No closer than ten meters back. You stop when I stop, and move when I move. That way, at least if I draw fire or run into some other problem, you’ll have options short of being in the middle of a gunfight.”
He could tell she didn’t like it. But there was no sensible reason to argue, either, and she didn’t. She just nodded. He nodded back, then turned to the cemetery and started creeping forward. He was glad she had the Colt and wished they’d had an opportunity to practice with it live.
He went to the wall, looked into the cemetery, and saw nothing but the helter-skelter collection of crypts and headstones, alternately bathed in moonlight and shadows.
He pulled himself over, the M21 slung across his back and the fanny-pack bug-out kit tight around his waist. A moment later, Isobel joined him. He unslung the rifle, nodded at her, then went ahead, keeping low, moving from one monument to another, pausing to look and listen, then proceeding to the next place offering cover. With all the tombs in the silver moonlight, on any other night it might have been spooky, instead of being downright scary for the entirely pedestrian reason that from any one of the myriad shadows might emerge a certain angry psychopath with a penchant for eating human hearts.
As he moved, he heard the periodic crackle of small-arms fire, some of it in the distance, some not far from the cemetery itself. Well, at least if there were any shooting, the sound wouldn’t draw undue attention. He just hoped the one doing the shooting would be him.
About halfway to the spot where Stahl had buried the video and just past a tall monument topped by a broken crucifix, he heard a low voice behind him say in American-accented English: “Don’t turn around or you’re dead right there.”
Dox froze, his throat suddenly tight and his heart pounding. All he could think was, Don’t move, Isobel. Don’t move.
“Transfer the rifle to your left hand. Then kneel slowly and set it on the ground. Slowly, Dox. I’m not here to kill you, but I will if I have to.”
Dox did as the voice commanded. Stay back, Isobel. He doesn’t know you’re here. Just stay back.
“All right,” the voice said. “Keep your hands where I can see them. And slowly turn around.”
Dox kept his hands up and turned around. There in the moonlight was a stocky white guy, hair in a buzz cut and a scar running up and down the left side of his face straight over his eye. From his hip, he was pointing a pistol-grip shotgun at Dox, something with the stock folded back over the top.
“You must be the one they call Waster,” Dox said, glad his voice sounded reasonably steady despite the pounding in his chest.
The guy eyeballed him. “How did you know?”
Stay back, Isobel. Stay back. I got this.
“Let’s just say your reputation precedes you.”
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh, a little moonlight stroll, same as you I imagine. How’s Felix?”
“Felix is fine. What are you doing here?”
“I feel conversationally we’re going in circles. But it’s all right—sometimes that’s just part of two people getting to know each other on the way to being friends.”
Beyond Waster, Dox could see movement. Isobel, creeping forward. No, he wanted to shout. He doesn’t know you’re here. Stay back. Please, stay back.
“Where’s the girl?” Waster said.
“What girl?”
“The doctor. Isobel Amaral. The one working with Falintil. Joko says she turned you. Tell me where she is, and we’ll know that’s not true. And you and I can be friends, like you said.”
Isobel was still moving forward. She was twenty feet away. Dox could see she was holding the Colt out in front of her with both hands, though untrained as she was, she was as likely to shoot Waster as to miss and hit Dox, instead.
She obviously had no intention of staying concealed. The only thing to do was try to give her a chance to get closer instead.
“This’ll sound strange,” Dox said, “but I’d be more moved by your protestations of incipient friendship if you’d lower that shotgun. What you got there anyway, a Franchi?”
“Loaded with buckshot. One more time, Dox, and then I’m afraid our friendship is going to be over just as it was getting started. Where’s the girl?”
“Okay,” Dox said. “You got me. She’s closer than you’d expect.”
Waster stared at him. “You think something like that is going to get me to, what, look around?”
Isobel crept forward another step. And another . . .
Dox shook his head. “Perish the thought. I mean, anyone who’s earned the call sign Waster would be far too smart for a trick like—”
From behind Waster came a muzzle flash and a boom! Waster jerked forward, obviously hit. He staggered, started to turn—
Dox raced forward, grabbed the Franchi with both hands, and twisted. Waster tried to hang on, but he had no leverage and anyway had just been shot. As Dox tore the shotgun away, possibly taking Waster’s trigger finger with it, the gun went off. It kicked, and Waster lost his grip entirely. The man had good instincts, though, lunging for Dox instead of trying to run, but Dox got a leg up and planted a foot solidly in his midsection, shoving him back. Then he stepped to the side to be sure anything that didn’t stop inside Waster wouldn’t hit Isobel, raised the gun, racked the pump, and pulled the trigger. The gun kicked and there was another boom!—louder this time—and a fist-sized hole blossomed in the center of Waster’s chest, the wet inside it showing up silver in the moonlight. Waster did a half turn, and for a second his legs twitched as though they’d received one last Run away! command from his brain. Then he flopped forward onto his face and lay still.
Dox racked the pump again, then glanced up and saw Isobel running over, the Colt still pointing ahead of her. “You can lower it now,” he said, his heart pounding even harder than it had been a moment earlier. “Nice shooting.”
But she must have been so juiced on adrenaline she didn’t hear, or she couldn’t process it.
“Let me amend that,” Dox said. “I guess what I’m saying is, could you please lower it?”
That time, she understood. She lowered the Colt and came up alongside him.
Dox kept the Franchi aimed at Waster. He would have liked to put one more load into him to be sure, but despite the presence of plenty of other gunfire in the city, he thought it better not to make any more noise.
He glanced at Isobel. “I forgot to tell you. They don’t always die from just one shot. Better to keep shooting until you’re sure. On the other hand, being that I was downrange, too, maybe one shot was the way to go.”
He turned Waster over with a boot, and could instantly see from both his face and the wound that the man was dead.
“I killed him,” Isobel said in a tone of disbelief. “I . . . killed him.”
“I think it was more of a joint effort,” Dox said. “Regardless, you’re going to get the shakes from it later. And I will, too. That’ll be fine. This time we can hold each other. For now, though, you can’t think about it. You gotta just keep going. It’s like being in the emergency room when you have too many patients. You can feel overwhelmed afterward, but not during. Right?”
She looked at him and nodded grimly. “Right.”
“Okay, good. Let’s keep moving. The grave where Stahl buried that video is only fifty meters from here.”
He saw a shape hunched next to a tombstone and felt a flash of fear. He raised the Franchi, but even as he did so some part of his mind was telling him the shape wasn’t a threat, the hiding spot was too clear in the moonlight, offering neither cover nor concealment. An operator would never have tried to lurk there.
“Identify yourself,” Dox called out in a stage whisper. “If you don’t want to get shot.”
The shape stood, hands raised. Dox saw instantly who it was: Max Stahl.
“You,” Stahl said.
Dox lowered the Franchi and looked around. “Are you alone?”
Stahl didn’t answer. Dox realized the man must have been some combination of suspicious and terrified.
“Mr. Stahl,” Isobel said. “We know what you did. We’re here to help you. With the recording you made.”
“I don’t know what you mean,” Stahl said.
“Please,” Isobel said. “I’m Isobel Amaral. I’m a doctor at Clínica Médica Internacional. We’re on your side. All we want is for the world to see what happened here. What the Indonesians have been doing to my country.”
Stahl didn’t respond.
“I can tell you exactly where you buried it,” Dox said. “It was in that fresh grave by the curly-haired statue.”
Stahl stared at him. “How . . .”
“I’m the guy who shot the soldiers who were trying to take it from you. That’s why I shot them. You’re welcome, by the way.”
“Do you understand?” Isobel said. “If we wanted that video, we could just take it ourselves. We don’t. We want you to get it out of Timor so the world will know. Do you have a way?”
There was a long pause. Stahl said, “Yes.”
“Thank God,” Isobel said. “Let’s hurry.”
“I’ll lead the way,” Dox said. He stopped, picked up the M21, and handed it to Stahl. “You know how to use this?”
“I’ve . . . shot before.”
Dox handed him the rifle. “Well, let’s hope you don’t have to again. This one’s ready to fire. Just don’t point it at me, okay?”
Stahl took the rifle and nodded.
“You two stay behind,” Dox said. “Let me get a little ahead before you start moving.”
They both nodded. He nodded back and started to turn.
Isobel said, “Dox!”
He didn’t think. By instinct he spun in the direction she’d been looking in, crouched, brought around the shotgun, and fired at the man he saw there. The Franchi kicked at exactly the same moment he saw a muzzle flash from ahead and heard a three-round burst of rifle fire, the rounds sizzling past him.
The man folded up, hit—
Dox raced forward, racking the pump, and fired again. The second round tore into the man and knocked him onto his back. The man dropped the short-barreled carbine he’d been holding, and the boonie hat he was wearing flew off. Dox saw the mohawk and felt a surge of grim joy. He racked the pump again, and within a second was standing over a badly bleeding Joko, the shotgun aimed at the man’s face.
Dox glanced back and saw Isobel and Stahl watching. Okay, good. It had all happened so fast they hadn’t even tried to take cover—or, fortunately, tried to return fire with Dox in the middle.
Joko was groaning. Dox scanned quickly but saw nothing. Was the man here by himself?
Maybe. Waster had been, and the two of them obviously hadn’t been coordinating. Maybe their forces were stretched thin. Even better, maybe they’d had an argument and all killed each other. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was killing Joko, getting that video, and getting clear of Dili.
Dox looked back to Joko. The man’s hand was halfway to his belt. Dox stepped on his wrist, pinning it to the ground.
“Told you there wouldn’t be a third time.”
Joko grimaced and tried to jerk his hand free, but there was too much weight on it. “You can’t kill me,” he wheezed. “I won’t die. I’ve taken the strength of all my enemies.”
“Not all of them, asshole.”
Joko coughed out a spray of blood, then spat. “I told you, stupid American. We believe things you could never understand.”
“I understand one thing. It’s an expression we’ve got in Texas. It goes Some folks just need killing. Well, Joker, I’ve never met anyone it applies to more than you.”
Joko’s breathing was getting more labored. “I’ll come back.”
“No, you won’t. I told you I was going to kill you. And the last thing you’re going to know is I keep my word.”
Joko opened his mouth as though to respond, but never got to actually say anything, seeing as Dox fired the next round directly into it, pulping the man’s entire head, mohawk and all.
Dox racked the pump and scanned again. No problems. He knelt and took the karambit, sheath and all, then stood and headed back to Isobel and Stahl.
He saw instantly that something was wrong. Isobel was holding her chest and looking down at her torso, and Stahl was gripping her elbow as though to support her.
He felt his heart freeze. No, no, no, no, no—
He raced over. She looked up and saw him coming. Her legs wobbled and she started to go down. Stahl tried to stop her, but he wasn’t holding her right and lost his grip. Dox dropped the shotgun and got an arm around her just before her legs went out.
