Cyrus couldn’t help but chuckle. “Yeah, I guess you could say that.”
Two days later, it was in all the papers: “Canadian executive killed in plane explosion over the Gulf of Mexico.” Two days after the story broke, it died. Seemed no one really gave a shit about some rich Canuck flying his high-performance rocket ship down to the Caymans. The article did mention Malcolm had served a short time on Montana Creek Mining’s board. The net effect of his demise on Montana Creek Mining’s shares—nil.
Chapter 47
It was cold, gray, and snowing lightly when Wally and I landed in Toronto for the Mining Convention. We caught a cab from the airport and checked into our hotel adjacent to the convention center.
Wally had arranged for us to have a booth with banners, brochures, and a repeating PowerPoint presentation. I was signed up to give a fifteen-minute presentation in one of the large conference rooms the next day. Nearly one hundred natural resource companies would be presenting over the four- day conference. Government representatives from nearly a dozen foreign countries were also slated to make a pitch. All were seeking investor dollars to help develop their prospects, mines, or national natural resources.
Wally and I ran into Cyrus in the main lobby of the hotel and filled him in on our game plan.
“Wally and I are going to man our booth, give out brochures, and visit with investors. I know you want to take in some presentations and get a feel for the tone of the convention. Why don’t we meet at nine this evening and compare notes?”
“Good idea, Trace. And I don’t mind filling-in for you fellows from time to time so you can catch a presentation of interest. I’m an old hand at these conventions.”
“Thanks, Cyrus. We’ll take you up on that.”
Wally and I made our way to our booth. There were already a good number of interested parties in front of our table. We shook a lot of hands, fired up the continuous PowerPoint, and went to work promoting Montana Creek Mining.
About an hour into the melee, I spotted him. He was wearing an exquisitely tailored Hong Kong suit, a pair of Italian alligator slip-on’s, and an expensive-looking silk tie. Not your dad’s Chinese communist. I continued talking with several investors who’d bought shares in Montana Creek Mining. The investors couldn’t keep their hands off the six-inch sections of core Wally and I had laid out. They kept picking up the core samples and were grinning like kids who’d just found a copy of one of their dad’s girliey magazines in the trash.
I tapped Wally lightly on the shoulder.
“Wally, can you help these gentlemen for a minute?” I asked, nodding in the direction of the approaching suit.
I made my way along our booth to where the oriental gentleman was standing.
“Good afternoon, sir. I’m Trace Brandon, CEO of Montana Creek Mining,” I said, offering my hand.
“Lei Chang, Mr. Brandon,” Chang replied, shaking my hand with a dry and firm handshake.
“Do you have an interest in uranium, Mr. Chang?”
“Yes. My company, URAN-China Nuclear Corp., is quite active in that arena.”
“I would agree, sir. And thank you for your investment in our company. It’s quite a compliment for a small cap like us to have caught your interest.”
Chang smiled. “My compliments, Mr. Brandon. I see you keep up with who’s acquiring your shares.”
“Yes, sir. We try.”
Chang picked up a section of the high-grade core.
“Is this representative of the uranium mineralization, or is this a selected sample?”
“It’s representative of the uranium vein. The lode runs eight to ten percent uranium, as does the sample you’re holding.”
“No offense meant, Mr. Brandon. But you must realize many of the junior companies present only their best grades. I believe you call it, ‘high grading’?”
“Yes, that’s what it’s called. And no offense taken, sir. But this is run-of-mine ore. It’s a hell of a vein, not something one sees every day.”
“Maybe once in a lifetime,” Chang replied.
“Maybe.”
“Are you free for dinner, Mr. Brandon, after the conference closes for the day?”
“I was going to have a late dinner with Mr. Wilkins,” I said, pointing to Wally, “and James Lee. They’re both directors. Would you mind if they joined us?”
“No, not at all. Very well then. Shall we say nine at the front desk? I’ll take you and your directors to one of my favorite Toronto restaurants. Excellent cuisine and a wonderful view of city.”
“I look forward to it, and thank you.”
Chang bowed slightly, turned, and melted into the crowd.
Wally walked up next to me.
“Well?”
“Slight change in dinner plans, compadre. Mr. Lei Chang, managing director of URAN-China Nuclear Corp. is taking you, me, and Jim to supper.”
“What about Cyrus?”
“He’s not an officer or director, so I’ll ask him to sit this one out.
“Agreed. We’ve probably had enough insider trading from the Virus.”
I laughed. “Come on, ease up, pardner. He’s turned over a new leaf.”
“Uh-huh. What time tonight?”
“Nine p.m. We’re to meet near the front desk. Chang is taking us someplace special. I’ll call Jim and have him meet us.”
“Damn, I bet old Mao is spinning in his grave. Capitalistic communists. Who’d have believed it?” Wally said with a laugh.
I got hold of Cyrus on his cell phone and told him of the change in plans. He was fine with it, and quite excited that Lei Chang had sought us out.
“Trace, it will likely take Chang most of the evening to get to the point of the meeting. Just bear with him and go with the flow,” Cyrus advised. “It’s the oriental way.”
“Got it. I’ll be patient but interested.”
“Perfect. I’ll see you two for breakfast at seven, and you can fill me in. Good luck.”
Wally and I met Chang by the front desk. Jim Lee showed up a couple of minutes later.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Chang said, bowing slightly.
“Good evening, Mr. Chang,” I replied. “I’d like you to meet two of our directors, Mr. Walter Wilkins and Mr. James Lee.”
Mr. Chang bowed again. “Very nice to make your acquaintance, gentlemen. Mr. Lee, aren’t you the managing director of International Uranium Corp.?”
Jim Lee returned the bow, “Yes, I am. IUC owns a twenty percent interest in Montana Creek Mining. And as Trace mentioned, I sit on their board.”
“Very good. It should be a most interesting evening. Shall we go? I have a car out front.”
We walked out into the frigid Toronto night. Chang’s black CLS 550 Mercedes was parked just outside the door. The valet handed him the keys, and we all climbed in. Chang pulled out and accelerated into traffic.
“Wow,” I said, glancing back at Wally and Jim in the rear seat, “she’s powerful.”
Chang nodded. “Four hundred horsepower from a 4.6 liter twin turbo. She’ll do zero to sixty in about five seconds.”
Not your dad’s Mercedes, either, I thought.
“I am taking you to the Beau Geste,” Chang said. “Are you familiar with it?”
“Only by reputation,” I replied, glancing back at Wally and Jim, who both nodded in agreement.
“I think you will be pleased,” Chang continued. “The food is first class, and the view of the city is magnificent.”
He was right on both counts. The view of the city from the fifty-fourth floor of the Dominion Building was dramatic. And the cuisine was indeed first-cabin.
I opted for roasted venison with spaghetti squash and huckleberries. Lei and Wally both tried the tea-smoked duck breast with northern-woods mushrooms, wheat berries, and foie gras. Jim had had an early dinner with some of IUC’s shareholders and munched on cheese and fresh warm bread.
We washed it all down with a couple of bottles of Leaning Post Pinot Noir. Leaning Post was a very limited vi
ntage wine made from the oldest Pinot Noir vines in Ontario.
Wally, Jim, and I finished with a house blend of dark, rich coffee, while Lei stayed traditional with tea. And as Cyrus predicted, talk finally turned to business.
“So, gentlemen,” Lei said, sipping his hot tea, “as you know my company has been acquiring shares of Montana Creek Mining. We are up to nearly a ten percent ownership position and would like to announce a tender offer for the remaining shares at five dollars Canadian per share. Provided I can get a commitment from you, Mr. Brandon, to tender your personal shares.”
I looked at Wally and Jim, neither of whom batted an eye at the offer.
“I appreciate the offer, Mr. Chang. At nearly a twenty-five percent premium to the current share price, it’s a very generous offer. I will, however, need a few days to think it over, and to confer in private with our full board of directors.”
“Perfectly reasonable, Mr. Brandon. Shall we reconvene this meeting at the end of the conference? Will that give you sufficient time to consult with your board?”
“Yes, I think so. Three of our four directors are here at this table. I will call the fourth director back in Washington State in the morning.”
“Excellent. I trust the meal and wine were satisfactory?”
“Perfect,” the three of us replied in unison.
“Then I look forward to hearing from you in the coming days. Shall we go, gentlemen?”
At seven the next morning, Jim, Wally, and I met in my suite. I’d called room service and had a variety of breakfast foods sent up. I thought it better to have Cyrus sit this meeting out as well. I’d brief him privately, later.
After everyone got a bite of breakfast and some coffee, I called Will and put him on the speaker-phone. I explained the potential tender offer, subject to me selling my share block to URAN-China Nuclear Corp.
Jim Lee tugged on his upper lip. “Well, boys, we all knew this was coming. It was just a matter of time. IUC can match the five dollar offer, but we couldn’t go much more. And I feel certain Mr. Chang and the Chinese are prepared to go much higher.”
I looked around the room. “Will, what’s your take on this?”
“Well, five bucks a shares is a pile of cash. Especially for us founders. Even for IUC, with a two-dollar-twenty-cent cost basis, it’s a hell of a profit. The fly in the buttermilk is, do we want to sell to the Chinese? Do we want them to control a major US uranium reserve? And that’s assuming our government would approve the deal.”
“Here’s my take, fellows,” I interjected. “I’m not going to sell my block of shares to the Chinese, period. If I sell to anybody, it will be to IUC, even if I leave a few bucks on the table. And without my shares, Chang’s company can’t get control.”
“Thanks, Trace. I appreciate it,” Jim said. “As you all know, IUC would love to increase our ownership and operate and develop the Sullivan Mine. We might not be able to be a white knight, but we could be a whiter shade of gray.”
We all laughed.
“Could be a song there, Jim,” I said, still chuckling. “Okay, then, I’ll get back to Chang and tell him no deal. Just pray we don’t hear any bugles.”
Chapter 48
Special Agent Beau Monroe contacted the National Transportation Safety Board for an update on Malcolm Trueblood’s crash. The NTSB agent in charge of the crash told Monroe they’d found traces of plastic explosives on some of the wreckage the Coast Guard had recovered from the Gulf. The composition of the explosive residue matched a common military explosive, C-4.
Monroe called his team together in the New Orleans office.
“Okay, people, listen up. We’ve got Mr. Rosenburg, with ties to the Pantelli family, killed with VX agent. Then we’ve got an assassin who dies in an attempt to kill Malcolm Trueblood, who also has ties to the Pantelli family. And, last but not least, Mr. Trueblood and his airplane explode over the Gulf of Mexico.”
Special Agent Monroe looked around the room. “I’m all ears, people.”
Agent Winston Allen spoke up.
“We’re close to tying the Chemist to the Pantelli family. The information we obtained from Mr. Bugati led us to one Peter Manetti. I should say Dr. Manetti, as he holds a PhD in chemistry from LSU, and taught advanced chemistry for a number of years. About ten years ago, his wife died from colon cancer. After her death, Doc Manetti fell off the board. According to Mr. Bugati, Doctor Death began doing specialty hits for the Pantelli family.”
“Did the information from Chief Inspector Rand confirm the Chemist’s ID?” Agent Monroe asked.
“The photos, dental records, and finger-prints we got from the inspector matched records and photos we’ve obtained from LSU and Dr. Manetti’s dentist. The assassin, aka, the Chemist, is Louisiana’s own, Dr. Peter Manetti.”
“Really good work, people,” Agent Monroe said, nodding in approval. “Have we been able to confirm Manetti’s ties to the Pantelli family?”
“We’re working on it, sir,” Agent Allen replied. “We’re looking for the money trail. So far, we’ve found several wire transfers from Pantelli accounts here in New Orleans to an account in the Cayman Islands. The wires follow a pattern. They’re always to the same account in the Caymans, always two equal payments, and the payments usually a week or two apart. When we looked at suspected mob hits in the same time intervals, we found several homicides matching the transfer of funds.”
“Can you tie Dr. Manetti to the account in the Caymans?”
“Not yet, but we’re working on it,” Agent Wilson answered. “With the new money-laundering laws, the offshore banks are a bit more cooperative. But it’s going to take a little time.”
“Okay, keep pushing and keep me informed. Now, what about Mr. Trueblood and his flameout over the Gulf?”
Agent Wilson answered again.
“We know from the NTSB that there were traces of plastic explosives matching C-Four on some of the recovered debris. We’ve interviewed everybody working near Houston Flight Support’s area at Houston Hobby. And we’ve reviewed all the air traffic control communications with Trueblood, before he went down.”
“And?”
“A fuel-truck driver remembers a fellow he’d not seen before. The guy was wearing Houston Flight Support coveralls, and the driver figured he was a new hire. We checked with HFS. No new hires. And no one has seen this fellow since.”
“Did the driver talk to our mystery man?” Agent Monroe asked.
“Yes, Sir. He said the fellow wanted confirmation on what time the next morning they were to refuel Trueblood’s plane.”
“Did he give you a description of the man?”
“He said the fellow was short, about five six, with a red goatee and short-cropped red hair. And he said he thought the guy spoke with an accent, maybe Irish.”
Okay, damn good work,” Agent Monroe said. “Check our files for an explosives expert fitting that description. Also, check with the Brits. See if they’ve lost an IRA bomber of late.”
Chapter 49
I’d just finished giving my fifteen-minute PowerPoint presentation on the Sullivan Mine. The conference room was jam-packed with investors, and they gave me a nice hand. I knew many of them would gravitate to our booth for additional information and to get copies of the PowerPoint.
When I got to the booth, I saw my assumption was correct. Wally, Jim, and even Cyrus were answering questions and handing out copies of the presentation hand over fist.
“Bloody hell,” Jim said with a huge grin. “What did you say in your presentation to stir up such a hornet’s nest?”
“I told them you were personally going to buy all my shares at ten bucks a pop.”
Jim laughed. “Done deal.”
“Keep your knickers on, Jimbo. I’m just kidding. All I did was show them our updated PowerPoint. When I got to the new gold intercepts, on top of the high-grade uranium, they sort of went nuts.”
“I guess so,” Jim replied. “Have you seen the stock price today?”
I glanced over at Wally and Cyrus, who were both grinning like Cheshire cats.
“Okay, so tell me.”
“Five-twenty Canadian,” Jim said. “Kind of kicks ol’ Chang in the nuts, doesn’t it?”
I laughed. “Yeah, I guess it does. I wonder what he’ll do now?”
Cyrus laughed. “I don’t know, but it’s fixin’ to get real damn interesting.”
Chang was in his executive suite, checking Montana Creek Mining’s share price on-line. And he was not laughing. He called in the two junior executives traveling with him. In Chinese he told them to get a list prepared of all the holders of 5 percent or more of Montana Creek Mining Corp. shares. He’d find a weak link, someone who’d sell his or her shares.
Chapter 50
It took Scotland Yard less than twenty-four hours to get back to the FBI query and description of a bomber with possible IRA ties. Special Agent Beau Monroe read the reply and looked at his small, but eager group of agents.
“Okay, people, seems we may have hit a nerve because the Brits never respond this fast. I’m guessing they have a real hard-on for our bomber. Get a copy of this photograph to our Houston office and have them show it to the fuel truck driver. Let’s get a positive ID,” Agent Monroe said, holding up the photo of one Sean Flannigan, alias Sean McDougall, alias Thomas Finnagan.
Al and Pino Pantelli were having lunch at a small café, in the French Quarter.
“Al, I got a call from a guard we’ve got on the pad over at Pollack. He says the fed’s have been in to see a small-time drug dealer named Vince Bugati. Does the name ring a bell?”
“Yeah, he’s a two-bit hustler. Sells a little crack for us, from time to time. Got busted for holding with intent to distribute. He’s doing a nickel at Pollack. What are the feds talking to him about?”
“The guard heard him say something about a chemist.”
Al’s face drained of color.
“They’re talking to that little puke about the Chemist?”
Deadly Lode (Trace Brandon Book 1) Page 19