might be alive.”
Billings nodded. “I think you’re right.” Once she’d said that, she seemed to relax a bit. She spied a free chair and lowered herself onto it. “Anyone have coffee?”
“You staying?” Jen asked.
“To the bitter end,” Billings said. “Do you have anything else?”
“Musso has some additional information,” Jen said.
Liz brought Billings coffee. She took a sip, grimaced, but didn’t say anything else. She put the coffee down. To Musso she said, “What do you have?”
Musso rose from his workstation with a stack of papers in his hands. “We had Cyber Command scrape servers with known Myanmar access nodes, searching for all instances of Saw Thuza Tun. There’s more than seven thousand hits. I know that’s a lot, but through the process of disambiguation I was able to learn that the owner of the land upon which the warehouse—that warehouse—sits”—he pointed to the screen—“is none other than Saw Thuza Tun.”
“So his name is connected to the cargo ship and the warehouse. Any other connections?”
“I checked the registries for the other ships in the harbor that we were concerned about, but none of them can be traced back to this individual.”
“What does that lead you to believe, Musso?” Billings asked.
“That attacking America was a complete ruse.”
Billings pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes. “So we’re back to this individual and his people trying to draw us into action. What else do we know about this Thuza Tun?”
“He has multiple holdings centered around Kadwan. He’s also been active in the Karen separatist movement. I found several editorials he provided in the last ten years regarding the importance of international attention regarding Burma/Myanmar. He rants about the suspension of the constitution in 1974, about the confinement of the Nobel Prize–winning activist Aung San Suu Kyi, and America’s willingness to go to every other corner of the planet except for their country. He definitely calls us out.”
Billings nodded, deep in thought. “What else?”
“Then five years ago he dropped out of the limelight. He had a regular column and followers, but he disappeared.”
“Any reason why?” Jen asked. She’d asked Musso this question several hours ago and was hoping he’d been able to find an answer.
“I’ll let Liz answer that.”
The young woman stood and approached nervously, picking at the file in her hand.
“Don’t worry. I won’t bite,” Billings said with a flat smile.
Liz laughed, but it came out as a bark. She licked her lips. “At first we thought maybe that he’d been arrested for his politics, but we found no record of this. We did find, in a collateral search in the Drug Enforcement Agency database, that he’s a known facilitator of cross-border drug transit through southern Thailand. He has links with several Triad figures, all who have been under investigation by the DEA.”
“That might explain the connection,” Musso offered.
“I was also able to track his major purchases over the past fifteen years, since the advent of the use of the Internet in Burma/Myanmar. Any older records haven’t been added.” Liz cleared her throat. “I have a record of all of his land purchases, including his substantial holdings around Kadwan. But what I found interesting is this purchase.”
She pulled out a photo and placed it on the table next to Billings. It was a full-color glossy of an overhead of an ancient town that was still partially covered with jungle. The buildings looked like they were shaped like immense pointed bells. Billings leaned forward to study the photo, but made no move to pick it up.
“This is Wethali. It’s the birthplace of Pyinsa Kalayni, who was the mother of King Kyansittha of the Pagan dynasty circa 1040 CE. It was a tourist site until the mid-nineties. The government reallocated their resources to the military and shut this down. Thuza Tun bought the town from a Myanmar general.”
“They can do that? Just buy towns?” the admiral asked.
“They can in Myanmar,” Musso said. “Tell them about the archaeological site.”
Liz’s eyes brightened. “Yes, of course. Wethali dates back to the fourth century. It was said to have been founded by a great warrior who couldn’t be killed. Sound familiar?”
“Chi Long,” Jen said. “He was around two hundred years earlier, right?”
Liz nodded. “There’s not a lot of information about Wethali, other than the place was destroyed by an earthquake in the eighth century. Until then, it seemed to be the center of the region, possibly even the capital.”
“Do you think Chi Long retired to live the good life in Burma?” Jen asked.
Musso shrugged. “He could have. We just don’t know. The data we have is so sparse that we have to stitch it together with supposition.” He glanced at Billings. “But we’re pretty certain of our analysis.”
“Wrap this up for me,” Billing said. “What’s your hypothesis?”
Musso stepped forward. “We think that Thuza Tun got a line on an artifact, probably having to do with Chi Long, buried in the ruins of Wethali. We think he bought the land, searched for the artifact, found it, and is now a host for Chi Long.”
“That’s a lot of supposition,” Billings said. “What benefit would he have for hosting Chi Long?”
“A couple,” Liz answered. “Such a figure could become the center for a more active separatist movement. Chi Long was a general and was used to leading people. Also, if he can’t be killed, he can spin that anyway he wants, including that he’s divine.”
“You mean a god?”
“Or the son of one,” Musso said with a shrug. “Sure.”
“Okay. I buy it. It sounds right.” Billings stood wearily. “Get me to a secure phone. I need to contact the Sissy and let them know what’s going on.”
“Certainly,” Jen said, hurrying to a side door.
55
CIRCUS WAREHOUSE. EARLY MORNING.
They set the trap well. Walker had opened one of the crates and laid it to one side. Yaya now sat inside, with several airholes in the top and firing ports made from slits cut into the wood. They’d used steel plates they found to retrofit the walls with armor. Walker left Yaya with his 9mm pistol and ammunition, which meant that the SEAL now had two pistols.
Walker moved back to his original location, then thought better of it. He was too far away to come to the aid of his friend. He needed someplace closer, with as much cover and concealment as he could have.
He moved back into the warehouse, where he arranged the crates in the center of the room so that a person could actually fit inside the grouping, then made it so he could escape easily if needed.
Being in the dark was smart. He could look out and see who was approaching, but until someone stepped inside and acclimated their eyes, they couldn’t see him.
When he was finally ready, he settled in for a long wait.
But the wait wasn’t as long as he expected. Forty-six minutes later, a five-ton pulled into the rear of the warehouse. Soldiers jumped down from the rear and dropped the metal door, which would make it easier to put bodies inside. They took their time. The first thing they did was smoke a few cigarettes. The five of them squatted in a circle as they talked.
Walker noted that each carried an AK hung rakishly across his back. They also all wore sandals, which he surmised wasn’t regular military issue. Through his scope he could make out their yellowed teeth and their unshaven faces. These were the dregs sent to pick up the trash. He shouldn’t have to worry too much about them, but he wasn’t going to underestimate them, either.
He set up the shot. He could take out three of them without a problem, and if he could anticipate where the other two would head, he’d be perfect. Of course he wanted to keep one alive to interrogate. If they were lucky, the one he left standing would speak a little English.
