Something caught Wu’s eye. “What’s that set into the wall on the left edge of the screen?”
Patel panned to the left and enlarged a different portion of the image.
Flint followed his gaze. “Looks like part of an air lock.”
Wu turned to Johnson. “What kinds of buildings have air locks?”
Johnson’s fingers flew across the keyboard. “Space stations, underwater research centers, clean rooms, hyperbaric chambers . . .” She glanced up. “Anything that needs to be pressurized or restrict the flow of air.” She lifted a shoulder. “Some newer office buildings are installing them to reduce their carbon footprint. It’s easier to keep heating and cooling costs down with an airtight vestibule at the entrance.”
“I think it’s safe to eliminate space stations,” Flint said, deadpan.
Wu knew he was on to something, but it was just out of reach. “The facility they’re in doesn’t have windows. The walls, ceilings, and floors are made of cement. This is no modern office building.”
“That danger sign looks antique,” Flint said. “Like something from an old James Bond movie.”
“You’re right,” Wu said, getting to his feet. “In fact, everything we’ve seen in the background could have been teleported from the Cold War era.” He studied the screen for a long moment as realization slowly dawned. “I’ve got an idea.”
He had to test his hypothesis before taking his theory to the assistant director. He wasn’t concerned about further damage to his career, but he didn’t want to waste more precious time running down a lead that went nowhere.
He checked to see if the team would arrive at the same conclusion he had. “What kind of facility was built in the fifties and sixties, mostly of concrete, with air locks, had its own power and water source, and would be nearly invisible to satellites or air reconnaissance?” He paused. “A place that would have held radioactive components at one time, but those components are now gone?”
The irony of the situation was not lost on him. Just like Vega, they were trying to solve a puzzle with limited clues in a race to save lives.
No one answered for a full minute; then Patel’s eyes widened in sudden comprehension. “A missile silo.”
Wu pointed at Patel in silent acknowledgment before shifting his gaze to Johnson. “Get me a list of every decommissioned missile silo in the US.”
Johnson rushed back to her seat, Patel on her heels. He sat beside her, and the two began collaborating.
“There are Nike, Titan, Atlas, and Minuteman sites sprinkled throughout the country,” Johnson said. “The Nikes were surface-to-air, so they were partially aboveground.”
“Eliminate those,” Wu said. “This is a total stealth operation. If I’m right, this entire complex is subterranean.”
“It’s a fairly extensive list,” she said. “I’ll put it up on the wall screen.”
Perusing the rows of data, Wu instantly saw the problem. “This list is historical and all inclusive. I’m looking for silos that have been sold to private individuals or organizations.”
Rows of sites disappeared from the screen.
“That only leaves about forty total,” she said.
“Give me the names of the purchasers,” Wu said. “Something’s bound to pop.”
The door to the JOC opened and Assistant Director Hargrave walked in. “Washington is asking for a progress report,” he said to Wu.
He had hoped to delay sharing the new theory until he had something solid to go on. “We’re running down a potential connection.”
He went on to explain his idea as Hargrave looked increasingly skeptical.
“You think someone bought an abandoned missile silo and converted it into their own personal underground coliseum?”
“In a word, yes,” Wu said.
Before he could argue his point further, Johnson spoke up. “I have the names and addresses of the buyers.”
Bless her timing.
“Put it on the screen,” Wu said, then scanned the fresh data. “Run those names through all databases and see if anyone has a criminal record.”
“There’s no need,” Hargrave said, following his gaze. “I recognize the name of the person who purchased the Titan II silo outside Tucson, Arizona.” He turned to Wu. “And you should too.”
Wu looked again. Then he saw it. “Oscar Brinkley.”
He felt the visceral snap of a missing piece fitting into place. Brinkley had been through a terrible ordeal ten years earlier. He had suffered the kind of trauma that could break a man’s spirit. Or twist his mind.
“You mean Oscar Brinkley, the tech billionaire?” Flint asked.
Wu nodded. “Brinkley’s company holds government contracts,” he said. “Which could be the key to how this whole situation started.” When the others merely looked at him, he went back to the beginning. “Before Senator Sledge’s chief of staff was killed, Nathan Costner left a coded message with his best friend accusing the senator of taking bribes. What if Brinkley found out his competitors had paid the senator kickbacks to influence the DOD to award contracts to them?”
“You think Brinkley was the one who sent the coded message to Costner?” Hargrave said.
“He would have the technology to digitize the evidence and hide it in the photograph of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle,” Wu said. “And he wouldn’t want to publicly point the finger at Sledge, because he still deals with other elected officials.”
“Suppose you’re right,” Flint said. “What does this have to do with the Colonel and his crew stuck in a death match?”
“The Colonel facilitated DOD contracts,” Wu said, excitement building as he fleshed out his thoughts. “Maybe Brinkley discovered he also facilitated the bribes?”
“Colonel Treadway was the bagman who got the money into the senator’s accounts in the Cayman Islands?” Flint asked.
Wu nodded. “When Costner failed to expose the senator, Brinkley captured the Colonel and his crew.”
Patel’s dark brows furrowed. “Why would he bother with the team of assassins?” he asked.
“I have a theory about that too,” Wu said. “But I need one more piece of information to be sure I’m on the right track.” He reached over to tap the com button on the table.
A gruff male voice responded to the call. “Major Edwin Caparaz.”
“Major Caparaz,” Wu said, addressing the JTTF’s military intelligence liaison. “Could you find out if Oscar Brinkley or any of his subsidiary companies have any contracts with the DOD?” Another thought occurred to him. “Or if he lost out on any bids?”
“How soon do you need it?” Caparaz asked.
“How soon can you get it?” Wu responded without missing a beat.
“Understood,” the major said and disconnected.
Wu had jumped several steps ahead without explaining himself. He would soon be proved right, or he would look like a fool. Worse yet, he could be running headlong into another dead end while Agent Vega and Toro did the same.
CHAPTER 51
Wu paced across the JOC, struggling to bring order to his racing thoughts.
“You suspect Oscar Brinkley is the one behind this game?” Hargrave asked him.
Wu nodded distractedly, still thinking. “His company is one of many with government contracts, but the coincidence that he owns a decommissioned missile silo is too much to ignore.” He turned to Johnson, who was still at her terminal. “When did Brinkley buy the site?”
“More than five years ago, sir,” she said after glancing at her screen. “But why use it for this game? It makes no sense.”
“Something happened to his family ten years ago,” Wu said. “You and Patel would have been in high school at the time, so you might not remember the headlines.”
Johnson shook her head. “Sorry, sir. I know who Brinkley is, of course, but not what happened to his family.”
“Oscar Brinkley’s wife and young daughter were kidnapped and held for ransom,” Wu began. “He paid the money, but only his daughter came home alive.”
“I was an investigating agent on the case back then,” Hargrave added. “Despite our best efforts, the crime is still unsolved to this day.”
Wu had been assigned to the Atlanta field office on the other side of the country and hadn’t had any direct involvement in the investigation. Interested to hear the perspective of someone who did, he turned to his supervisor.
“Care to share?” he said to Hargrave.
“I was working out of the San Francisco field office,” Hargrave began, taking a seat at the head of the conference table. “We got a call from the Santa Clara Police Department requesting our assistance in the investigation of a double kidnapping. The captors left a ransom note demanding ten million each for their safe return. The SCPD wanted to keep it out of the news.”