by Vince Milam
Esma Mansur was my fixer for this job. I’d communicated with her via email prior to departure.
“Will arrive Santa Cruz in two days. I require an off-road vehicle for travel to the Chaco, food/water/sleeping supplies, and special protection tools. I expect to remain there for seven days.”
I sent it in English. While my spoken Spanish remained solid, writing in that language was another story. Since Esma Mansur was of Lebanese extraction, odds were high she spoke and read English. And another half-dozen languages. This was the nature of fixers in general and the Lebanese in particular. Her reply followed within an hour.
“I can meet all your needs. Cash payment in dollars or euros preferred.”
Done and done. She’d be my first stop once I’d landed in Santa Cruz.
The transit lounge had a harmless scam working, the setup obvious for seasoned travelers. It was the southern hemisphere’s winter, we sat high in the Andes Mountains, and I couldn’t blame the poorest country in South America for giving it a solid commercial effort. Once the thirty-odd travelers sat within a glass-walled waiting area, a large cart appeared. A drink machine, similar to a margarita maker, fired up and a local booze-laden slushy was produced, delivered in small plastic cups. For free. I didn’t partake, but more than half my fellow travelers did. They downed several ice-cold drinks, after which a large sliding-glass door, exposed to the windswept Andes, slid open. The room dropped thirty degrees, pronto. Well-choreographed, another door with airport interior access opened, and a half-dozen vendor carts rolled in, filled with alpaca blankets, sweaters, scarves, and hats. They did a brisk business. It was a smile-inducing exercise, and I contributed to the local economy with a gray-and-red scarf purchase. A gift for Jess.
Santa Cruz was another story—all business. The city of two million folks was warm and humid and bustling. A taxi delivered me to the address Esma had provided. It was a large walled area among other similar establishments within Santa Cruz’s industrial section. A large sliding-steel gate stood open. Inside, a hive of activity. Several warehouses, large semitrucks parked and being loaded, assorted materials stacked on pallets, and workers in motion.
In the action’s center stood a fit woman, midthirties, clipboard in hand, commanding the troops. I shouldered my rucksack and approached my fixer, Esma Mansur. She wore aviator sunglasses, a polo shirt, jeans, and running shoes with long jet-black hair tied in a ponytail. She finished delivering her orders to three men, then turned at my approach and lowered the sunglasses onto the bridge of her nose. A looker, no doubt, and with full control of the organized chaos within her domain. No smile was forthcoming. Instead, a hard assessment with dark eyes over the sunglasses’ rims.
“Esma? I’m Case Lee.”
“Mr. Lee. I’m Esma Mansur,” she said as we shook hands.
“Call me Case. And we can speak Spanish if you prefer.”
“I prefer English. I do not practice it often enough.” She slid her glasses back up her nose. “Let me show you your supplies, which we have already packed inside your vehicle.”
A touch of classic Lebanese within a gritty Bolivian city. The Lebanese, very unlike native merchants in many other countries, thrived on closing the deal and moving on. She’d overseen my rental vehicle’s loading with the necessary kit. A package deal, vehicle and supplies. She turned on her heel and with long purposeful strides headed for a smaller warehouse. I followed as backup beeps sounded and workers called among themselves.
“You will find everything is in order,” she said over her shoulder. “I store the specialty items inside another facility, which is a separate negotiation. We will travel there once we have agreed on the already loaded vehicle price and you have paid me. How do you intend paying?”
Wham, bam, thank you, ma’am. Somewhat taken aback, I considered the usual alternative when dealing with fixers around the world. Deals filled with false niceties and expected haggling, which often dragged on for an hour or more. None of that today. The Lebanese would negotiate, for sure, but it was seldom a protracted event.
“US dollars. Cash. Is that acceptable?”
She slowed, turned her head, and smiled as she again lowered the sunglasses and locked eyes.
“US dollars in cash are acceptable.”
She picked up the pace, and I continued following. We turned into the small warehouse’s shade. Esma stopped, placed the glasses on her head, and extended an arm as presentation toward a Toyota Land Cruiser. An off-road version. I sat my rucksack on the dirt floor and began the inspection.
The vehicle was well-kept and clean. The tires, including the spare, were solid and the mileage midrange. They’d mounted an extra gas jerry can alongside the rear exterior spare tire.
“Gasoline in the can?” I asked, pointing.
“Of course.”
The sweat sheen I’d gained in the humid heat diminished within the warehouse’s relative coolness. Esma stood with hands on hips, expressionless. The vehicle’s interior was well stocked. Bottled water, assorted canned food, a large Brazilian hammock with mosquito netting, nylon rope. A shovel, all-purpose wire, two high-intensity flashlights, and a small stack of towels.
“It looks good, Esma. I’d also like a roll of duct tape and a tow chain.”
She retrieved a small walkie-talkie from her waistband and ordered someone somewhere within her large complex to bring the required items.
“Is there anything else?” she asked.
“Nope. Looks good. Can we drive this vehicle to the other location for the specialty items?”
“This would be fine.”
She quoted me a price for the supplies and a seven-day vehicle rental. It wasn’t exorbitant, so I countered with a twenty percent discount. We settled on ten and shook hands. Done and done.
“There is also a deposit for vehicle damages,” she said. “Three thousand US dollars.”
“That seems high.”
“You will enter the Chaco. Many things can happen out there.”
I agreed to the three large, refundable, and paid for the whole kit and caboodle from a rucksack stash. Global Resolutions would cover the expenses, having never balked at my past invoices. We climbed into the vehicle. I drove and was pleased to find the gas tank full. It avoided the nickel-and-dime stuff common among fixers.
“You have quite the business here,” I said, following her directions once we’d exited through the compound’s gate. “Has it been around long?”
“I purchased it six months ago. We have been very fortunate. I made the purchase when rare earth mining started here.”
“Timing is everything.”
“I would not disagree.”
I’d broad-brushed the mission with Esma in my email. As a fixer, she could also provide insight into industrial endeavors and governmental inner workings, both excellent background for the mission. The weaponry—the specialty items—fell into a different bucket. Fixers seldom if ever asked their purpose. Such probing was bad for business and could prompt uncomfortable questions from the local authorities in the aftermath of certain activities.
“What can you tell me about the mining operations?” I asked, cracking that door open as I wove through traffic and entered a run-down section. “The Exponent and KDB efforts.”
She pointed at a dirt side street running between a series of squat cinder-block-and-tin-walled buildings. I slowed and turned into no-man’s-land. Such turf existed in every industrial city around the world, tucked away with no business signs or rules or regulations. A place where business transactions were conducted outside the law among players who lived over the edge. Esma lifted her leather sack-like purse and pulled a small revolver. Okay by me—I had entered the area naked, without weaponry. Her pistol eased my wariness as we wove through a seedy landscape that reeked of danger.
“Ah. The mining companies,” she said, hesitating. “I can tell you many things. But first you should understand something important.”
“Okay.”
“Life i
s cheap in many places. The Chaco is such a place.”
Chapter 5
We parked alongside a cabin-sized building constructed with poured concrete walls, a thick steel roof, and a single steel door. There were no windows. Esma keyed open three throw locks with a resounding clang. The heavy door swung open, and we entered the small space. It smelled like musty gun grease. The open door provided sufficient illumination for tool perusal—a good thing as there was no inside lighting.
As for the items, it was slim pickings. The weapons were old, often single-shot, and had seen better days. Not unexpected—Esma’s clientele within Bolivia would find these acceptable. I didn’t, and Esma knew it.
“The ones which will interest you are along the back,” she said with a head nod at an old government-issue steel table against the back wall.
There, displayed as fine china, was a small modern weapons selection. As I checked the limited choices, Esma stood at the open door, eyeballing the outside happenings. It was quiet for a moment.
“I take it you are an investigator,” she said, addressing the world at large with her back toward me.
“Yeah. Something like that.”
“Who is your client with such an interest in Bolivian mining?”
“I can’t say.”
“Cannot or will not?”
“Both. Let’s discuss those many things you can tell me regarding Chaco mining operations.”
The modern gun selection was Brazilian manufactured. I disassembled several assault rifles and checked their components.
“It should not surprise you that my company supplies both mining concerns with their everyday needs. Our company is best suited for this, and it required hard work gaining these clients.”
“I’m sure it did, and good for you.”
“I tell you this because, whatever your investigation’s purpose, I do not wish having my business relationship with them endangered. Especially the Canadians.”
“Why especially Exponent?”
“How do you find the weapon selection?” she asked, switching back to immediate business.
“I’ve seen better.”
“We are in Bolivia.”
“Understood.”
Her subject change signaled either unwillingness to discuss the inner workings of the competing mining companies or a desire to complete the current special tools transaction and get the hell out of there. I hoped for the latter.
One assault rifle appeared in better shape than the others, and I began familiarizing myself with its feel and function. A Brazilian IMBEL IA2 rifle with a twenty-round magazine and iron sights.
“I understand there is conflict between Exponent and KDB. Can you tell me anything about that?” I asked, completing the weapon’s reassembly. I checked the receiver’s action. It appeared functional.
“Is the weapon you hold now ready?”
I slapped in the ammo magazine and chambered a round.
“It is now.”
“Then come stand with me, please.”
A curious request, justified when a slow-rolling black SUV approached along the dirt road. Esma produced the revolver she’d slid into her jeans’ front pocket. I stood alongside her, the rifle held with a neutral grip. We were both positioned inside the doorway. Our immediate area was quiet, other than tires crunching over dried dirt. The SUV slowed even more and idled to a stop five paces away. Dark-tinted windows didn’t afford an interior view.
“If the window lowers, begin shooting,” she said, her tone matter-of-fact.
No point responding, so we stood and waited. Fifteen or twenty seconds later, the SUV resumed its slow roll through the area.
“Nice neighborhood,” I said.
“It would be best if you completed your selection. We should leave soon.”
“I’ll take this IMBEL. And two extra loaded magazines. I also require a pistol. Give me a few minutes.”
She did and remained on watch as I checked the pistol options. All were well-used, but I settled on a Taurus 9mm semiautomatic, also Brazilian-made, along with an extra magazine. My selections didn’t make up a helluva lot of firepower but would do. Beggars, choosers.
“Do you have any rifle sights?” I asked. “US manufactured?”
“There are a few inside the desk’s top drawer. They are quite expensive.”
The open drawer revealed several new red dot sights, still in their packaging. I chose one with 1X-4X magnification. I also collected an extra ammo box for the rifle. Placing my choices on a rickety wooden table near the door, I asked, “How much?”
She glanced at the selection and quoted a price. It was high, but not unreasonable.
“Toss in this shotgun and a dozen shells, and we can call it a deal,” I said, plucking an old Spanish-manufactured side-by-side double-barreled shotgun from a pile. Someone had taken a hacksaw and cut the barrels down to twenty inches, ensuring its accuracy at any distance was iffy, but also ensuring I’d hold the upper hand with up close and personal encounters. If it fired. The shotgun shells, twelve gauge, were double-aught buckshot.
Esma glanced again at the collected weaponry and nodded in agreement.
“Load them into the vehicle. You may pay me then. We should leave.”
We did. I drove with the sawed-off shotgun across my lap. Esma suggested we stop near her warehouse compound and have a bite to eat and further discuss Exponent and KDB operations. Her now-apparent willingness for a discussion was heartening. She would attach a price for certain information, but as a fixer within the current environment, she held most of the cards.
Open-air and tin-roofed, the establishment was a working person’s eatery. She ordered for us, including two Bolivian beers. The atmosphere was rudimentary, the air warm and muggy. We both received a dish called majadito. Made from rice, dried meat, eggs, and fried plantains, it was hearty and filling. The beer, just below room temperature, was unremarkable.
“So your company supplies both mining camps with essentials, right?” I asked between bites.
“Yes, although they transship the actual mining equipment through Chile. It is a long trip.”
“I can imagine. You must send regular semitrucks with supplies.”
“We dispatch multiple trucks at a time. It is safer when they travel as a group. I also sometimes hire Bolivian military to accompany us.”
Which told me what I needed to know about the four- or five-hour drive on a lonely two-lane asphalt road—I’d better watch my butt.
“You implied Exponent was the more important client. Why?”
“They order many more supplies. KDB does not require as many supplies or services.”
“Why’s that?”
“Their operation is much smaller. I have three large trucks driving to Exponent Mining tomorrow with supplies. You should join the group. It would be much safer.”
I didn’t doubt her warning, but flying solo was much more in my nature. While it afforded freedom of movement, it also often increased the danger. Trade-offs, and part of the overall framework with my gigs.
“No, thanks. But I appreciate the offer.”
“I would suggest this is not a good choice. But I am not the one traveling. You should be aware there are toll stops along the route. Three stops, soon after you leave the city. If they find you with guns, it will be a major issue.”
“How far does a hundred-dollar bill sticking from my passport cover me?”
“Make sure the police commandant receives it at each toll stop. He will wave you through when offered such a large sum.”
“But you are suggesting there are other issues on the road trip.”
She shrugged and took a sip of beer.
“Once you pass the last toll station, there is no law.”
“Good to know. Can we discuss the conflict between the two companies?”
“Again, I can tell you many things.”
Having dealt with Jules over the years, I had no trouble picking up on the inference. Information, valuable inf
ormation, cost money. Fair enough. So far, Esma had not gouged me on price for either the vehicle and supplies or with the armament. She took a bite of food and awaited my offer.
“A thousand US, cash, for everything you know or suspect.”
She nodded, businesslike, and began speaking. Exponent Mining had been the first on the scene, their geologists having made a rich rare earth discovery. They had jumped through the legal and legislative hoops with the Bolivian government, played it straight, and were rewarded with what could develop into a major and lucrative find. They had ramped up operations when KDB arrived on the scene.
“Is KDB legit?” I asked. “I mean, their consortium was just established. It coincided with the rare earth discoveries in Bolivia and Nevada.”
“You ask if they are legitimate? I cannot say. They do exist, they made a minor effort toward mining work, and they have made important contacts inside the Bolivian government.”
“From what I understand, that’s a classic approach for Andris Simko.”
“I would agree.”
She lifted an eyebrow, a sign she was aware of Simko’s cutthroat global business dealings. As a successful businessperson, Esma would also maintain a sharp eye toward the winner-and-loser tea leaves, with a business person’s inclination toward hitching her wagon to the winner. Such was life.
“What I’m hearing,” I said, “is KDB fiddle-farts around while they develop other inroads. It sounds like they have prepped for classic claim jumping.”
“What is claim jumping?”
“Stealing someone else’s mineral claim. Esma, do those important KDB contacts you mentioned lead to taking over Exponent’s discovery? Hence the conflict?”
She first glanced around the room, then waved a hand at the small diner’s proprietor. When he wandered over, she ordered two somos. Drinks, I assumed.
“There are strong indications this is the case,” she said. “There may be an effort to eliminate Exponent’s operations. Then Andris Simko will claim their interests.”
“Describe the Bolivian government. The judicial system and the mining bureaucracy.”