The Nevada Job

by Vince Milam

  “Already have.” I lifted my glass toward the parked Toyota. “That’s hers.”

  “Well, now. Aren’t you Johnny-on-the-spot?”

  “Let’s get back to fair play. What’s the issue with KDB Mining?”

  He stared into his pipe bowl with a critical eye, puffed several times, and with one leg draped over the other, inspected his closest shoe.

  “Bloody dust. It does permeate these environments.”

  “My heart bleeds over your challenges with tidy footwear. Another cross to bear. What’s the deal with KDB?”

  “They are a rough bunch, it would seem.”

  “Care to elaborate on that?”

  “Would you like the abridged version?”

  “Yeah. Keep it simple. I’m a simple guy.”

  Short and sweet guaranteed the spook sitting across from me had less opportunity to plant misdirection and half-lies and false motivators that benefited MI6. The same outfit who may well have been the organization who’d contacted my Swiss client and asked for me, despite Chambers’s denial. Welcome to spookville.

  “They are over there.” Chambers used his pipe stem and pointed toward the mountain ridge a mile or so away. “On the other side. You can drive east and make their camp. The ridge falls away in a few miles. There is a well-used dirt track that terminates at their operations.”

  “Why is it well used?”

  “The bordello, Lee. They make the trip with great regularity. Hence their contribution to Santa Ana’s fair residents. A bordello ice machine.”

  “Without first joining folks at the plaza for a pleasant evening? How rude.”

  “Indeed. A rude bunch. Chechens and Iranians.”

  “An interesting mix.”

  “I find it less than interesting.”

  “Chechens are Sunni Muslims. The Iranians are Shia. That’s not a good mix.”

  “Apparently they find common ecumenical ground at the brothel,” Chambers said. “They are, in short, a small private army and quite well armed. I’d estimate their number at fifteen.”

  The proprietor wandered over and asked if we’d like any food. Chambers responded in the affirmative and asked for a certain bread.

  “A sweet bread made from carob,” he said before I could ask. “May I have another?” He lifted his chin toward the vodka bottle. I slid it toward him.

  “What else is over the ridge?” I asked. “Are they doing any mining?”

  “Desultory efforts, I would surmise. The Canadians had already assayed that particular piece of this godforsaken land long before KDB showed up. There are rare earth traces there, to be sure, but in insufficient quantities for a viable commercial operation. Exponent Mining, on the other hand, has what may be a tremendous find in the rare earth market.”

  “So KDB is just lurking in the area? It doesn’t make any sense.”

  “They do much more than lurk, sport. They intend to run Exponent out of town, as it were, and take over their mining claim. Andris Simko plays for keeps, as you may have heard.”

  “Which explains why you’re here. Doing what you can to protect the UK’s interests. And hiring me as muscle.”

  “You must get off that horse, Lee. Understand there are numerous global interests in this discovery. As there are in your state of Nevada. Your client may well be your own government.”

  More misdirection, more bullshit. Then again, who the hell knew? My Swiss client maintained a layer of separation between their client base and their contractors. But Chambers’s US government proposal as my client—or rather the CIA—rang false, the odds low. Damn low. My last gig on Orcas Island had alienated me from the Company for the foreseeable future. And I was more than okay with that.

  “Departing from contractual rabbit holes, tell me about KDB. You’ve explained Iran’s role. Muscle. Plus the Chechens, brought into the game through Simko. Why are the French at the table?”

  He took a sip and spoke while addressing another perceived flaw on his trousers.

  “Pragmatic people, the French.”

  “Yeah. I know.”

  “They have an opportunity to sell mining equipment and other manufactured items. With Simko’s vast resources as backing, they are sure to get paid. And, if KDB’s efforts are successful, they get a piece of the rare earth pie.”

  It made sense. As per Jules, the French got along with Russia and Iran, both diplomatically and through trade. Given the financial bonanza for the winning competitor, it was a solid play on their part. As for the conflict over this mining claim, the French would likely remain standoffish and keep their hands clean.

  “Any DGSE or SVR assets in the area?” I asked, probing for either the French or Russian versions of the CIA and MI6. “If I recall the situation in New Guinea, and I do, large mining discoveries attract you people like flies. It was a regular spookville convention there. All that was missing were the stick-on name tags.”

  “I shall accept your vodka offering as an apology for such broad-brush aspersions.” He lifted his glass in salute. “As for fellow travelers in the clandestine world, no. There are no indications others have joined the party. Certainly, the lack of drone missile strikes or carpet bombing would indicate your CIA hasn’t revealed itself.”

  The dig at the US’s involvement aside, it was a coin flip whether he lied about the other espionage players’ engagement. My question was a shot in the dark, but it was still worth kicking over a few rocks to see what scattered.

  “Has Simko appeared?”

  “Rumor has it he landed in La Paz, greased numerous skids, flew into Santa Cruz, and arrived here via helicopter. A French helicopter.”

  The Andris Simko playbook was the same with any endeavor. He was a ruthless son of a bitch, played by his own billionaire rules, and had zero regard for laws and regulations that didn’t accommodate his desires. His home country, Hungary, had banned him from their borders. Not that he gave a damn.

  Chapter 8

  “Alright. What’s Exponent’s status?” I asked. “Are they looking to cut and run?”

  “Hardly. There are billions involved if this mine is successful. Pound sterling or dollars, take your pick.”

  I’d been through enough similar exercises and recognized more than a hint of being played. Not Chambers—his half-truths were standard fare. But he’d failed to present any active push-back, any Exponent Mining muscle. With KDB importing Iranian and Chechen mercs, why didn’t Chambers offer up similar activities from Exponent? Something else cooked in the kitchen, and I could smell it.

  “Who else teamed with Exponent? Silent partners with deep cover funding.”

  “I’m afraid we are it, Lee.”

  “So what the hell are ‘we’ doing about KDB?”

  “Not my bailiwick, sport. They restrict my capacity here to fact-finding.”

  “Horseshit.”

  He chuckled and relit his pipe.

  “You have asked a question best answered through Exponent’s onsite operations manager, Geoff Peterman. He’s a solid chap. Canadian. Peterman will be here soon. This rustic tavern has developed into our gathering spot.”

  Classic misdirection, and expected. When dealing with spooks, you tried plowing a straight line while they kept just ahead, altering the conversational terrain to suit their purposes. Wearing, for sure, but part and parcel of the deal. I headed down a more mundane furrow.

  “Where are you bunking?” I asked.

  “The Savoy.”

  “Is there any more room at the inn?”

  “I am certain this establishment’s grand dame can provision you. The loo might be a bit dodgy when you inspect the offering, but options are slim here on the Bolivian Riviera.”

  The elderly proprietor, clearly the family matriarch, stood at the shack’s entrance. I smiled and waved her over.

  “Is there a room I could rent? A place where I could hang my hammock?”

  She smiled and nodded and instructed the young man who’d fetched the ice to accompany me to her niece�
��s house. We drove. As the young man entered the passenger side, I placed the shotgun on the back seat. He didn’t make a comment. The shotgun and obvious pistol were a conscious display that pounded a stake in the ground for observers both casual and serious. Don’t mess with me. Chambers already knew that well enough.

  I parked alongside a tin-roofed-and-walled shack. The niece was home, she showed me an empty room with an outside door, and we struck a price per night. The room had a dirt floor and posts crafted from local trees as the support structure. They would work fine for the hammock. There was an outhouse and a galvanized pipe with a faucet thrust up against the house. It was a new addition. I told the young lady I’d pay double for the added assurance my things would remain unmolested when I was gone. She added that while she might not be able to stop any thieves, she would certainly know them and would be more than happy to point them out so I could shoot them. Her statement ended with her pointing at the exposed pistol in my pocket.

  “Let’s try and avoid that,” I said and paid her for the room. The young man with me watched, sure to inform the matriarch about the transaction so she could get her cut.

  “One never knows,” the young lady replied. “But I will tell any thief that you will hunt them down. And that I will spit on their grave.”

  I walked the quarter-mile back toward the town plaza. An economic boom was evident in Santa Ana. Shacks were being refurbished, shadetree mechanics worked on old vehicles, while humming and song snippets floated from open windows as people prepared suppers. Santa Ana was doing well.

  The tiny plaza filled with townspeople performing a slow-tempo circle around the area. Young children occupied the plaza center. They climbed on the benches and up the scraggly trees, yelling and laughing. The adults chatted and greeted neighbors with self-satisfied smiles at having made it through another day. Women walked arm-in-arm, and the men smoked and shared swigs from small glass bottles of local booze. Several rail-thin dogs meandered about, noses to the ground, seeking a dropped morsel. A street vendor had set up shop, their handcart loaded with warm soft drinks and sweets. The shadows lengthened; the day cooled.

  Chambers remained at the table, joined by three gringos. One was Geoff Peterman. He smiled and nodded at slow passersby. They addressed him as “Patron.” Sweat stains showed under each arm and across his upper back. He was dusty, tired, and took long pulls from a beer bottle. Peterman was in his fifties, average size and build, balding, and with wire-rimmed glasses. His two companions were younger and carried the same signs of a day’s hard work. Chambers contributed to their welfare with three fresh beer bottles plopped into the ice bucket. He’d also availed himself of another vodka-rocks. I didn’t mind.

  The three mining managers stood as I approached, and we made introductions.

  “We’re glad you’re here,” Peterman said. “Things have become worse over the last week. We could sure use the help.”

  There it was—justification for my concerns over this job’s scope. False impressions had been spread, perhaps through Chambers. I wasn’t there as help, wasn’t a lone gunman sent to mix it up with the bad guys. There were plenty other people on this planet who would fit their bill. Not me. I poured myself another drink, scooping ice from around the beer bottles.

  “Let’s get one thing straight. I’m not here as a hired gun. I am here to investigate the situation. Period.”

  “Well, sure,” Peterman said. “I can understand why you’d say that.”

  I locked eyes with MI6. Chambers shrugged with one eyebrow raised, either an expression displaying no culpability for Peterman’s misconception or a “Yes, I may have implied you tend to stir things up. So what?” I’d bet on the latter.

  “Who told you I was coming?” I asked Peterman.

  “I received an email from Esma early this morning regarding the supply convoy. She mentioned you.” As an afterthought, he added, “We have satellite communications at the site.”

  It may have added up. I’d contacted Esma from out of the blue. I’d danced around who my client was. I’d armed myself to the teeth. Hell, yes, I would appear as a hired gun. And despite whatever denials I might toss on the table, Peterman and his men wouldn’t buy it.

  “So tell me the big picture. What’s going on?” I asked Peterman.

  “Three days ago two of my people, locals, were shot.”

  “Where?”

  “At the site.”

  “Killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who did it?”

  “We don’t know who. It was someone out in the brush. The same thing happened two days before that, although they shot and killed one worker that time.”

  “Okay. Who do you suspect did it?”

  “Oh, it was the men from KDB. Both times. There’s no doubt.”

  “You do realize they may kill three the next time?”

  “Of course we have considered that,” a younger Canadian said. “The question is, what do we do?”

  “You shoot back.”

  Such an obvious answer, but it was clear I might as well have been speaking Swahili. The three mining managers exchanged befuddled glances as if the thought had never crossed their minds. Jeez Louise, guys. The KDB mercs had pulled the triggers, performed cold-blooded murder. Step one—confront them. Let them know there was a price to pay. But it was also clear they had neither done so nor had plans to make it happen.

  “How do the folks in Santa Ana view the killing?” I asked. The evening’s promenade continued with smiles and laughter and an air of normalcy.

  “It’s a strange response,” Peterman said, removing a cold beer from the ice bucket. “It’s tragic, of course, and they’re unhappy about it, but there is a weird acceptance. I don’t get it.”

  I did. Hardscrabble didn’t begin describing their lives prior to the mining company’s arrival. Life for them was, to quote Hobbes, “nasty, brutish, and short.” Dirt poor and living an edge existence, the recent village and life improvements must have come as manna from heaven. Perhaps they viewed the occasional loss of life as penance or an act of contrition. A price paid.

  “How many locals do you employ?” I asked.

  “Over a hundred now,” Peterman said. “When, and if, we start full development the number will grow. Exponent pays good wages and has contributed to Santa Ana’s infrastructure. We drilled a larger water well and buried several water lines throughout the village. We even set up a small clinic at the site in case of injuries and let the locals use it for treatment. It’s first aid, really, but they had nothing before. Not even antiseptics or gauze or tape.”

  I had several approaches available. Remain above the fray, scout Exponent and KDB’s operations, haul ass toward Nevada, and write my report. Or, as I scouted KDB, act as Exponent’s proxy and confront the shitheads. No gunfire or overt hostility. Just deliver a message. But it would be a flimsy message at best. No one at the table, including Chambers, was up for a fight. And it wouldn’t be me. I’d hung up my superhero cape a long time ago.

  “Tomorrow I’d like to check in on your operations, Peterman.”

  “No problem. Happy to have you drop in and have a look.”

  It would provide an opportunity to engage Peterman without Chambers’s input. I didn’t know the relationship between those two, but one-on-one with the mining honcho would at least be unfiltered intel.

  “Then I’ll scoot around the mountain ridge and pay KDB a visit,” I said. “I may talk with their head knocker and gather what intelligence I can.”

  “Good luck with that, sport,” Chambers said.

  I ignored him and threw Peterman a lifeline. It wasn’t much, but if I ended up leaving without at least putting in my two bits, well, it would bug me for a long time to come. The desperate people of Santa Ana had a shot at a decent future. One tiny lonely speck on the globe where life was demonstrably improved. All shot to hell because a ruthless Hungarian bastard and his killer minions had arrived.

  “While I’m there, I’ll confro
nt their manager and let him know what goes around comes around. It’s a weak play, I’ll admit. But it’s all I’ve got. Unless you guys will make a stand.”

  Three blank looks and a Brit spook’s skepticism were returned.

  “Is Exponent Mining prepared to hire their own mercs?” I asked, spelling it out.

  “Mercs?” a younger manager asked.

  “Mercenaries. Hired guns.”

  “We don’t do that,” Peterman said. “And wouldn’t do that. Exponent is a mining company. A successful mining company.”

  They, and the people of Santa Ana, were screwed. I had no dog in the fight and didn’t care if Exponent tucked tail and ran. And it was possible KDB, once they’d taken over Exponent’s claim, would continue hiring locals. But with Simko, you could count out potable water lines and clinics and the other things that improved people’s lives. The situation was an ugly hairball, and my best path forward was mission completion and a move on down the road.

  “Alright. Tomorrow I’ll visit both sites. We’ll see where it goes from there.”

  Chapter 9

  The village roosters assured I was up and at ’em before dawn. A borrowed bucket and cold water from the outdoor faucet worked as a shower. Breakfast was an energy bar. My landlord provided boiled water for my instant coffee, courtesy of a small wood-burning stove. Expectations from the get-go were low on the food front. Esma had mentioned in passing that guinea pig and llama meat were quite popular. It was clear Bolivia would never make the foodie all-star list.

  I spent an hour walking around the village and surrounding area, working out the kinks. Back at the Santa Ana Hilton, I used my satellite phone as a hotspot, checking email and news on my laptop. Jess was on a job and doing fine, although the rental car company she used had failed to provide her with sufficient horsepower. Jess liked fast cars and drove like a bat out of hell. I was more the languid hand draped over the steering wheel type, receiving my thrills elsewhere. I replied that things were fine here.

  Mom’s email let me know the garden was coming along although the squash bugs were bad this year. Mom and my mentally challenged younger sister, CC, lived in Charleston, South Carolina. They were everything to me, and I’d drop in every few weeks for a visit. Mom also mentioned that Tinker Juarez, CC’s dog and constant companion, wasn’t helping matters in the garden. He’d developed a fondness for green tomatoes.