The Nevada Job

by Vince Milam

  “May we use your restroom?” he asked after a tight nod my way.

  Martha waved a cigarette hand toward the back in a “Have at it” gesture. The man turned and signaled through the open door. Three young women and five toddlers trooped in. The women were dressed as if fresh off the set of a Little House on the Prairie shoot, with long-sleeved gingham dresses and bonnets. They hustled past as the women displayed tight smiles toward Martha and me. The man asked for and purchased three sodas, which Martha placed in a small paper bag.

  “Long trip?” I asked.

  “It has been a long trip, yes,” he said, his face expressionless.

  “Passing through?” I asked, being friendly and finding whether or not he and his family were Montello residents.

  “We are passing through, yes.”

  He stood stock-still and stared at the far wall, waiting. Several minutes later the cluster of young women and toddlers headed toward the exit. The man pulled the door open for them, used a foot as a doorstop, and kept the paper bag in his left hand while his right remained relaxed near the pistol holster. Outside, an older model van, well-used and dust-covered, waited. The door closed and they were gone.

  “Takes all kinds,” Martha said, lighting another smoke.

  “Yeah, it does. So what kind of folks live here?”

  “Quite a few get a government check of some kind. Several residents are ranch hands for the larger outfits around here. And there’s quite a few working girls here who rent trailers and service railroad workers.”

  Prostitution was legal in Elko County, although from what I’d read it was an activity well regulated. High odds the Montello working girls lacked the proper paperwork.

  “Another one?” Martha asked and pointed toward my empty beer bottle.

  “No, thanks. I’m burning daylight, but I’ll see you tonight. The steak sounds good.”

  “It is. We’ll see you later then, Case.”

  I unpacked personal items from the rucksack inside my motel room, and repacked it with essentials. Essentials that reflected both the Wild West environment and the Clubhouse warning about high-velocity issues. Extra ammo magazines for the Colt 901 rifle, chambered in .308 caliber and equipped with an Elcan Specter scope wired for night vision. My favorite rifle, although I’d get powerful arguments from my ex-Delta buddies who had other preferences, except for Bo. He didn’t have a rifle preference, performing his business up close and personal. I tossed in two extra ammo magazines for the .40 Glock and slid the semiautomatic pistol into a belt holster, exposed to the world. When in Rome, baby.

  I also added a loaded Smith & Wesson .500 Magnum revolver because you never knew when a hand-cannon for charging rhinos would come in handy. A box of double-aught twelve-gauge shotgun shells joined the other rucksack items. I slung the Colt rifle and Mossberg pump shotgun over one shoulder, the rucksack across the other, and loaded my small blue SUV with tools of the trade. My jacket covered the long guns—no point advertising their presence. I planned on visiting the KDB site first and, if time allowed, the Exponent site.

  I turned onto a gravel road at Montello’s edge with thirty miles of dust and isolation stretched before me, well aware any semblance of civilization, of law and order, was in the rearview mirror.

  Chapter 20

  The road wove through small depressions, over hills, and across flat stretches. Dust billowed behind me, sufficient to run my rear-window wiper without water. It cleared the layer of fine dirt for half a mile or so when I’d repeat the process. A small antelope herd grazed not five miles outside Montello, staring as I cruised past at a sedate thirty-five miles an hour. Any faster along the washboard trail rattled tooth fillings. Rocky outcrops, dry washes, the occasional level ground—all sagebrush and scrub brush and not a tree in sight except for bonsai-like cedar patches collected along jagged hillsides. It was hot and dry, although the mile-high elevation kept the extreme heat tamped down.

  An hour later another gravel road forked toward the west. At the intersection, an official KDB Mining Company sign bolted to two steel posts announced restricted entry. I turned, and a short distance later I arrived at a small guardhouse, manned with two armed guards in fatigues. One strolled over. I cut the engine and rolled down the window.

  “Your business?” he asked.

  He was American, likely ex-military, with an AR-style rifle slung over a shoulder. A semiautomatic pistol was holstered at his side. Heavy armament for a guy guarding a mining site’s entrance.

  “I’m a private investigator. The name’s Case Lee. I’d like to speak with the guy in charge.”

  “That would be Viktor Antonov. I’ll make a call.”

  He headed toward the guardhouse and passed the other bored guard who meandered over and chatted with me.

  “How’s it going?” he asked.

  “Fine as kind. What’s shaking in the middle-of-nowhere guard duty world?”

  “Well, let’s see. One lousy fan blowing like hell and two uncomfortable chairs. A supply rig shows up every few days, so there’s that as far as excitement goes.”

  “Bright lights, big city.”

  He smiled. We’d clicked, two ex-military guys sensing the other’s background.

  “There’s always the bar in Montello,” I said. “I understand Elvis is performing there this week.”

  “I’d heard it was a Beatles reunion. Either way, a can’t miss.”

  “How’s this gig working out for you?”

  “Short-term. My buddy and I are considering an early departure.”

  His buddy stuck his head outside the shack and spoke with a loud voice.

  “Hold on. This may take a while. The big boss is in town.”

  I waved a hand as response and asked the guy alongside my SUV, “Who’s the big boss?”

  “Andris Simko. He flew in an hour ago. Never seen him, but I’m guessing he’s checking on his investment. He’s sunk a bundle of cash into this operation.”

  Sometimes it was better to be lucky than good. Simko was within sniffing distance.

  “So it’s a solid play? Mineral-wise?”

  “I’d say so. They keep building new stuff. A processing plant, more heavy equipment, more housing trailers.”

  In the distance, a billowing dust haze marked the site as heavy machinery moved rare earth ore. The guy in the guardhouse called toward me again.

  “Were you in Bolivia?”

  That didn’t take long. Dots connected, identity revealed. It could have been a Simko-driven post-ops investigation that had uncovered my name, or a cash-fueled back channel through spookville. A coin toss which one, but either way, there I sat, revealed. No point bullshitting, so I nodded an affirmative through the windshield. The guy got back on his radiophone.

  “What the hell is that all about?” the man at my window asked.

  “A client sent me down there to check out the KDB and Exponent operations. Same-same here.”

  “How’d that go?”

  “Gnarly.”

  “Roger that. It’s headed the same direction here.”

  “How so?”

  “The reason my buddy and I will bail out soon. There were six of us, all former US military, trying to make a buck. Nothing glamorous, for sure. But a solid gig. It paid the bills.”

  “And?”

  “And things started changing. We refused to perform several duties that fell outside anything that resembled security duties.”

  “Such as?”

  “I’m not getting into it, bud. Sometimes it’s better to hang it up, find another contract, and keep your mouth shut.”

  “Got it. Who’s replacing you?”

  “They arrived after our refusal. A dozen Russians. KDB Mining is a Russian outfit.”

  “Former Spetsnaz?”

  Russian special forces. A collection of them had made a poor decision and took on me, Bo, and Catch in New Guinea. They had thought themselves badasses. The outcome proved, once again, that there’s always someone who can kick you
r butt.

  “Let’s just leave it at Russian personnel, okay?”

  Which translated into “Yeah, Spetsnaz.”

  “Gotcha. How many American security resources remain?”

  “Just me and my buddy. And not for much longer.”

  His partner strolled over and joined us.

  “You’ve created a minor shitstorm just now, Lee. Simko wants to see you.”

  “Maybe he’ll buy me a drink.”

  “Kinda doubt it. Anyway, he’s at the largest trailer, a double-wide, with an office sign. He’s with this circus’s manager, Antonov.”

  “Got it. Thanks, guys.”

  They smiled, nodded, and I rolled forward. A half-mile later the campsite came into view. Serious stuff. Long rows of housing trailers, a small water tower, and a Quonset hut with several upthrusting vents that indicated the mess hall. Pickups both parked and rolling fed the dust cloud as the clang and clatter of earthmoving equipment sounded nearby. A windsock marked a long gravel runway’s end where a large twin-prop airplane sat parked. Several vehicles were clustered around a double-wide trailer with wooden stairs leading to the front door. The KDB Mining office, Nevada branch.

  Four fatigue-clad armed guards stood at the stairs and watched my approach. They wore hard expressions, sunglasses, and modern AK-74 assault rifles. Howdy, comrades.

  I parked, slid from the SUV, and held both palms out as an indicator for all parties to keep cool. Then I unbuckled my belt and slid the Glock-filled holster off and laid it on the front seat. They wouldn’t let me pass toting the pistol, and my disarming avoided the hassle of them demanding so. Their expressions didn’t change, although one signaled me to halt as I approached. Another headed toward me for a pat-down. I held up my own halt sign.

  “Nope. Not happening. I’m here to see Andris Simko.”

  One of them understood sufficient English, prompting him to stomp up the stairs and enter the office. The other three maintained their hostile posture. Not a cloud in the sky, mountains in the distance, and the air tasted gritty, brittle. A minute later the office door opened, and the Russian exited and tossed a brusque nod my way. Enter. I used both hands and indicated the sea should part. I wouldn’t allow these cats to hem me in. With hesitation, they complied and took several steps back from my line of travel.

  “It’s been a hoot, boys. Let’s do it again sometime.”

  They returned stone silence. The front office contained several folks at metal desks and chairs, working with desktop computers and holding phone conversations—perhaps with assay labs. At another open door stood a tall, thin man with dark slicked-back hair and a well-practiced smile.

  “Hi! I’m Roy Bascom. I represent Mr. Simko with the governor’s office and the state legislature. You must be Case Lee.”

  A political lobbyist. Man, it just got better and better. We shook hands and Bascom, his smile wide and effusive, lifted an arm toward the entry. Inside the smaller well-apportioned office sat two men, neither of whom stood nor expressed any sign of welcome.

  Viktor Antonov, the site’s manager, leaned back behind a desk, hands across his belly. A large man with a shaved head, hooded eyes, and a no-nonsense expression. He wore jeans and a work shirt with one front pocket showing a cigarette pack while several mechanical pencils jutted from the other. Nearby, an old man sat in a leather chair, one elbow on an armrest, his hand pressed against his cocked head’s cheek. He looked like an ancient mad scientist with long, wild, thinning gray hair. His gray eyebrows were bushy, the skin loose around his neck. The eyes grabbed my attention—cold, reptilian. Andris Simko, multibillionaire and international business bandit. He eyeballed me over narrow reading glasses and spoke with a thick accent.

  “Mr. Lee. Your presence disturbs me.”

  Chapter 21

  I didn’t give a rat’s ass if my presence disturbed Andris Simko. But there sat the big enchilada in all his warped glory, and I wasn’t blowing the intel collection opportunity.

  “I’m afraid you have the wrong impression, Mr. Simko. I’m a simple investigator. Nothing more.”

  Bascom the lobbyist edged past me and said, “Let’s get to know each other. Mr. Lee, would you like something to drink? A soda pop? Water? Have a seat, have a seat.”

  He pointed toward an empty chair across from Antonov, well separated from Simko.

  “No, thanks. I’m good.”

  I sat. Bascom parked on a nearby smaller desk’s edge. The four of us filled the room.

  “What exactly would you be investigating, Mr. Lee?” Simko asked.

  His cheek remained planted against his palm while he removed the reading glasses and held them across his lap.

  “New rare earth discoveries. Yours and Exponent’s operations are the two big players. That’s not news.”

  He stared back as his unblinking eyes assessed me.

  “Who is your client?” Simko asked.

  “I don’t know. I never do.”

  Not for the first time, the client separation provided through Global Resolutions proved valuable. Seconds ticked off, the room silent. The low rumbling noises of heavy earthmoving equipment mixed with the window-unit AC hum.

  Bascom, ever the facilitator, broke the silence.

  “Well, the first thing you should know, Mr. Lee, is the state of Nevada welcomes Mr. Simko’s investment. KDB Mining provides a large number of good-paying jobs for our citizens.”

  “Does the state of Nevada also welcome Exponent’s investment?”

  “We welcome any investor who follows the rules and benefits our state.”

  Translation: the rules included sliding sufficient money into the hands of the governor and select state players and, yes indeed, following those rules ensured the welcome mat would be on full display. The Canadians hadn’t followed the rules. I addressed Antonov, the site’s manager.

  “With all the activity here, it seems this is a rich area. Can you add anything to that?”

  “No.”

  His voice was guttural, the accent thick. A dour Russian who held no truck with private investigators. A part of me didn’t blame him. The cat was responsible for delivering the goods, and Simko wasn’t a person who accepted failure. But if there was physical harassment aimed at the Exponent operations, even if demanded by his boss, Antonov was the one responsible for those on-the-ground actions.

  “Do you have a timeline for when you folks might hit full production?”

  Antonov stared back without a reply. Simko adjusted his seating and sat up. His chin remained buried among loose folds of neck skin. His eyes blazed as he cleared his throat with a growling sound.

  “Are you sure I can’t give you something to drink, Mr. Simko?” Bascom asked.

  Simko lifted a dismissive hand toward Bascom and continued his focus on me.

  “What happened in Bolivia, Mr. Lee?” he asked.

  I could have danced around a direct answer or claimed minimal knowledge, but this little parlay in the Nevada wildlands deserved blunt answers. The man I dealt with would deliver the same.

  “Your people murdered several locals. The locals fought back.”

  “So you say. I say the local community held a revolution and murdered my people.”

  Another silent stretch. I wouldn’t argue events with this asshat. He knew damn well what had kicked off the Bolivian actions. He’d used, or instructed others to use, similar techniques around the world.

  “What was your involvement with the revolution that killed my people, Mr. Lee?” Simko asked when I didn’t reply.

  I didn’t lose my cool, but I couldn’t hold back my rising blood.

  “What’s important for you to understand, Mr. Simko, is I’m a peaceful man. Unless I’m crossed. When that happens, I don’t back down. From anyone.”

  Bascom jumped in.

  “Let’s don’t rehash old events, folks. Instead, let’s concentrate on moving forward. Right?”

  He paused and flashed a smile toward the room’s other three occupants. T
hen he settled on me.

  “What I believe is important for you to understand, Mr. Lee, is the governor’s close relationship with Mr. Simko and the fact that everything here is on the up and up. If there are any issues with our competitor down the road, those issues will be handled through state officials or our local law enforcement.”

  “What issues are we talking about, Bascom?”

  “Exponent Mining may be in danger of losing their state mining license. There are serious environmental and labor concerns with their operation.”

  A statement filled with BS, and a potent indicator that the campaign contributions hadn’t flowed from Canadian coffers into the governor’s office.

  “What are the local law-enforcement issues?”

  “Exponent has made many baseless claims against Mr. Simko’s company. These claims pull time and resources from the limited personnel at the county sheriff’s department.”

  “What type of baseless claims?”

  “That’s not important. What is important is the lack of coordination Exponent has shown toward state offices.”

  Bascom continued smiling. I wanted to slap the smarmy son of a bitch. Exponent wasn’t feeding the appropriate campaign accounts. Hence the mining license issue. As for the local sheriff’s office, I smelled a dirty cop. I turned to Antonov.

  “Are you having any issues with your competitor here?”

  The site manager returned a slight shrug. Combined with his expression, it stated, “Get screwed, Lee.”

  Another pregnant pause. Bascom fidgeted from his desktop perch.

  Simko cleared his throat again and asked, “Do you know what my job is, Mr. Lee?”

  “Why don’t you tell me?”

  “I will. My job is to remove impediments.”

  “Okay.”

  I had no clue what he expected as a response, but it was clear he’d meant it as a threat. Bad news. Not for me. For the old Hungarian bastard sitting across from me.