The Nevada Job

by Vince Milam

  “I was provided a boat tour. Remember? When we had our rendezvous at the Airbnb on the Outer Banks?”

  Jess wore a teasing smile and stretched in her chair, arms upward. Mercy, she looked fine.

  “I remember less than enthusiastic commentary about the plumbing, the throne, the wheelhouse, the smell, and several other things I’ll try and forget.”

  The Ace had a head, a bathroom. Shower facilities involved a topside bucket. The throne, an old recliner patched with duct tape situated under the foredeck tarp, provided a platform for many a comfortable evening along the Ditch’s isolated stretches, Grey Goose vodka in hand.

  “I offered mild suggestions regarding your luxury liner’s amenities. A woman’s touch. Will you accept the contract offer?”

  “I’ll likely take it.”

  “Your kind of job?”

  “Think so. Outdoors, new turf, plain vanilla investigation.”

  “Those plain vanilla ones can turn on you.”

  “Don’t I know it.”

  “Well, I’ll be in Oregon’s Willamette Valley, dealing with ne’er-do-wells within a winery family. Drinking wine among forested rolling hills and vineyards.” She sipped coffee, closed her laptop, and smiled. “Now, let’s talk about our relationship.”

  “Okay.”

  “How is it working for you? This flyby routine where we see each other and split for a week or three?”

  “Haven’t thought a lot about the logistics. I have given a lot of thought about how good it is when we see each other.”

  I had. Jess intrigued me. My wife, Rae—murdered by a bounty hunter years earlier—had been quiet, subtle, guiding. Jess was big on expression and candor. It kept me off balance occasionally, but the potent pull of knowing where I stood held a strong appeal.

  “That’s a fair-to-middling answer, bub. Shall I score it?”

  “No, thanks.”

  “Well, I agree on how good it is when we get together. Maybe you could mull over the logistics part during your Chaco job.”

  “Okay.”

  “On a side note, forget about getting into politics. Those folks own the art of blather, and ‘okays’ won’t get you far in political theater.”

  “Good to know. Although I hate giving up those dreams.”

  We both chuckled, the overhead songbird sang, and the morning sun struck the ficus treetop. The day began heating up.

  “Our relationship’s logistics are part and parcel of a larger issue, Case.” Her smile and tone was gentle without a hint of rancor or argument. “There’s no point dancing around it. We’re both grown-ups, so let’s be clear with each other.”

  She referenced my contracts, my career. Hanging my butt out on the edge too many times. She had a point, one I’d acknowledged with her when we started dating.

  “I know. My concerted effort for a change in direction has waned. All I can offer is these are the gigs tossed my way. And without patting myself on the back too much, I’m damn good at them. And yes, there’s a prideful element there.”

  “And I’m not denigrating your abilities, tall-dark-and-handsome.” She took my hand and continued her gentle demeanor. “You have earned an element of pride. Good for you, and I mean it. But every contract, every job, puts you in harm’s way. And I can’t live like that long-term.”

  “Understood. I suppose there’s…”

  Jess interrupted, released my hand, and held hers up, palm out. “There’s no need for a solution now, at this moment. I just wanted it on the table. As per the Beatles, we can work it out.”

  Man, she was special. I didn’t have a doggone thing to add. Jess did. She took a final sip of coffee, extended a foot under the table, rubbed my ankle, and winked.

  “Speaking of working out, why don’t you come inside and help me pack for my trip,” she said, eyes bright and eyebrows raised. “If you’re up for it.”

  I was.

  Chapter 3

  A first attempt at bonhomie and casual rapport failed.

  “It’s already a hot one today,” I said, smiling at the elderly Filipino at the dry cleaners as I laid my Glock and cell phone on the counter.

  She returned hooded eyes and silence as several women’s blouses covered my possessions. I continued smiling. She continued her expressionless stare. Oh, well. I’d gone through the “weapon and cell phone on the counter” routine dozens of times, and on a lark had decided to try engaging the Clubhouse’s downstairs occupants. I wouldn’t try again.

  Before leaving Jess and North Carolina, I’d shot Jules of the Clubhouse a brief message and requested a meeting.

  Exponent and KDB Mining companies in Bolivia and Nevada. Meeting?

  Her usual succinct response returned an hour later.

  0900 tomorrow

  The Chesapeake, Virginia, drive landed me in a run-down section of town. A cash-only motel was my evening abode. What it lacked in amenities was more than covered with anonymity. I’d entered spookville. The next morning, I parked several blocks away and strolled toward the dry cleaners, wary, eyes scanning. Jules’s clientele included domestic clandestine services, foreign governments, and global corporate interests. And shadow players difficult to classify. I supposed I fell into that bucket. While Clubhouse turf was neutral—a position enforced with terminal finality if need be—it required wariness as you never knew who might lurk at the edges.

  Possessions covered with dirty laundry, I slid through a nondescript door and ascended squeaking wooden stairs. A roll of Benjamins in one hand, both jeans pockets pulled inside out. Jules allowed nothing other than cash payments into the Clubhouse. Two knocks on the steel door, and a remote-controlled lock clacked open. I entered and stared down the usual shotgun’s twin barrels pointed at my midsection, Jules’s one good eye sharp and bright above the weapon’s barrels.

  “Enter, dear boy, and allow this withered creature full visage of my favorite client.”

  I performed the usual pirouette, arms extended. The door closed behind me.

  “You look good, Jules. I like the new eyepatch.”

  She had replaced the usual black patch with a burgundy one, its strap lost in the short unruly haircut that, as always, could have been administered by an itinerant sheep shearer.

  “Sit, dear, sit.” She pointed at two uncomfortable wooden chairs across from her desk and placed the shotgun back on the desktop. “The new patch is a seasonal change. I do enjoy the color. It has always carried an air of reflection.”

  “Are you feeling reflective?”

  “Perhaps. As of late I have become more aware my mortal pendulum marks time’s passage.”

  “You feeling okay, Jules? This worries me a bit.”

  It did. Jules’s kept her personal life stowed well beyond anyone’s reach. Including me, her favorite client. Or so she said. You never knew with Jules. But I liked her, she’d saved my butt frequently with well-timed and salient intel, and she had more than once proclaimed keen interest in both my personal and professional well-being.

  “Harbor no concerns, Hercules,” she said, plucking a half-smoked cigar from the desk’s edge. She leaned back, fished inside a work-shirt pocket for a kitchen match, fired it along the chair’s arm, and relit the smoke. “I am in fine fettle. Business is robust. Speaking of which, allow us to discuss your latest venture.”

  “Nope. Let’s stick with Jules for the moment. Is there something I can help with?”

  She blew a smoke ring at the ceiling, smiled, and focused with an eagle eye.

  “Yes. Continue being you. It is refreshing to work with my only unjaded client.”

  “Oh, I get plenty jaded on occasion. You sure you’re alright?”

  She wafted a dismissive cigar hand.

  “You remain undaunted by the slings and arrows, with an attitude both positive and unyielding. It refreshes and rejuvenates. Now to business.”

  She slid open a wooden drawer and produced an index card with handwritten notes and tossed it across the desk. It slid to a stop within
reach.

  “And this is?”

  “Your Santa Cruz fixer.”

  Santa Cruz was Bolivia’s industrial center and the closest city to the mining areas, albeit still four-plus hours away along the Chaco’s lone paved road.

  The card read “Esma Mansur” along with a phone number, email, and address.

  “I cannot personally attest for Ms. Mansur,” Jules said. “However, third-party reports are positive. Her recently acquired business has filled whatever void the mining operations had regarding supplies and logistics.”

  “This isn’t a Spanish name. Lebanese?”

  “Indeed.”

  Not surprising. The Lebanese were descendents of the ancient Phoenicians, renowned Mediterranean traders for millennia. More often than not, port towns around the world had a Lebanese supplier operating. Weird, but true. Bolivia lacked a port, but whatever economic development happened in that country emanated from Santa Cruz, so a Lebanese entrepreneur staking a business claim there wasn’t unexpected.

  I memorized the information and slid the card back. You didn’t leave the Clubhouse with hard-copy artifacts.

  “Okay. What else?”

  “Exponent Mining. They have global operations, Canadian operated, with silent partners sharing the risk burden. Please tell me you have already internalized this information. Internet search engines are your friend, dear.”

  She smiled, puffed, and scratched under her chin.

  “Got that part. How silent are these partners?”

  “Given the discovery’s nature—and rare earth metals nest near the top of global interests these days—I would suspect queen and country are involved. Perhaps US interests as well. I am confident, even with your naïf-like approach regarding such endeavors, you shall perform your own informational mining once on site.”

  “Headed in with full awareness, Jules. I’d argue against the naïf-like descriptive.”

  “You enter frays assuming your insertion point is far removed from the lion’s den, Daniel. It never fails to tickle me and is one of your many appealing traits.”

  “We’re circling around to the one big thing, aren’t we?”

  She cackled. The one big thing according to Jules—nothing was ever as it seems.

  “I shall not press the point further. Now, as to KDB Mining.”

  “Before you go there, anything on Exponent’s Nevada operations?”

  “Ah. A distinct failing on my part, dear boy. Not unexpected when you consider the Clubhouse business model. Domestic activities are not my forte.”

  “So, diddly-squat intel is what I’m hearing.”

  “Hardly. And what a crude and disturbing manner with which to frame Clubhouse limitations. I am wounded.”

  She stared at the ceiling, puffed the cigar, and feigned hurt.

  “Okay. Sorry. Let’s move on. KDB Mining.”

  “Allow me a moment of recovery.”

  I did. Thirty silent seconds passed. She puffed on the cigar as a hidden AC vent blew cool air. The overhead naked lightbulb’s pull-chain shifted with the air current. The old Casablanca movie poster, the lone decorative item in the steel-walled room, remained taped against a wall. Once the half-minute recovery time had passed, she leaned forward and addressed me again. Welcome to the freakin’ Clubhouse.

  “KDB Mining. Russia, Iran, and the French,” she said.

  “I don’t get that.”

  “Our Slavic friends have mining interests across the globe.”

  “Okay.”

  “The Iranians wish in on the rare earth game. They ally with the Russians.”

  “Okay.”

  “The French have long-held and positive ties with Iran. Their relationship with Russia is also amicable. One cannot expect them to remain on the sidelines while a global search for this precious material takes place.”

  “It just seems weird.”

  “While the Clubhouse offers a variety of services, I cannot salve your geopolitical angst. Would you like me to continue?”

  “Before moving on, and as part of my alleged angst, who do you think contacted Global Resolutions for this contract?”

  “The list is long and not worth our time mulling over. Other mining interests, foreign or domestic governments—who can say?”

  Who could say. It was a shot in the dark asking Jules about my client’s requestor, but her spiderweb tendrils around the globe may have tingled at a rumor or overheard conversation. Whether she’d pass it on remained a fifty-fifty proposition. At the moment, it wasn’t happening.

  “Okay. Let’s level-set KDB’s players. The Russians want me dead.”

  “A situationally dependent construct, Poirot. There are segments within their clandestine world that partnered with you, as I recall, during your little Amazon foray.”

  “Okay. Other than that one event, they want me dead.”

  “Again—and this always becomes tedious, dear—you as the object of their ire depends upon the situation. It is not a blanket edict.”

  “The Iranians want me dead. That is damn sure a blanket edict.”

  She chuckled. “Yes, I shall concede the point. You did, in the recent past, leave quite a few expired MOIS agents scattered across the landscape. Now, so as to edify this poor wretch before you, how are your relations with the French? Comme ci comme ça?”

  “I suppose. No issues with those folks, and in North Africa they lent a medical hand to our team. So I’m on firm ground with them. I think.”

  “Fine. Have we completed the teeth-gnashing over your personal safety?”

  “Pretty big concern, that.”

  “Of course. Allow us to move on and address what will be an additional concern for you.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “Andris Simko.”

  “Hungarian multibillionaire. Hates the West, and the US in particular. Gets what he wants. Stays in the shadows, as I understand it.”

  “A fair synopsis,” Jules said. Her dead cigar was flicked into an under-desk trash can, and another drawer opened, producing a fresh long, thin smoke. She rotated the sealed end against the ever-present Ka-Bar knife’s blade embedded in her desktop, lopping off the end. Another kitchen match was produced. “I would only suggest in the strongest possible terms you remain aware of his presence. His fingers in this pie, as it were. If you perform your usual activities, he may make an appearance. He is, above all, ruthless.”

  “Usual activities?”

  Match fired, she puffed the new cigar to life and spoke between noisy pulls.

  “Mayhem. Chaos. Critical disruptions. Expired players.”

  “Those things are seldom my call.”

  “So you say. Repeatedly. Because they occur repeatedly. Therefore, I would suggest when presented with an Andris Simko hornet’s nest that you not kick it.”

  “I’m all about low-key, Jules.”

  “As I am all about resuming my rugby career. Just bear in mind our Mr. Simko seldom loses. You would be but a minor irritant for him. An irritant best eliminated.”

  “That’s not a one-way street. I don’t go down easy.”

  She smiled, her eye bright.

  “No, you do not, brave Ulysses. A most admirable quality. Now, I have had my say. Allow us to sully this conversation with business affairs.”

  Her fingers flew across the old abacus resting near the embedded knife. Black balls shot up and down rails until her accounting system satisfied her.

  “That will be three thousand, dear.”

  I peeled off Benjamins and slid them across the desk. They disappeared into a drawer.

  “Before you depart, allow me to ask of your amour. The inestimable Ms. Rossi.”

  Jules had taken an interest in my relationship with Jess. It may have been fodder for the clandestine files or true personal interest or a very human desire for scuttlebutt. Or all three. Hard to say. But I leaned toward personal interest and appreciated her connectivity with my personal life.

  “We’re doing fine. I left her
place yesterday after a short stay.”

  “Ah. A positive development. Was all well, Romeo?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “Spoken through a vessel, leaky at best, regarding relationship insights. Allow me to reframe the question. Are there future plans?”

  “Yep. We’ll see each other again once I finish this job and she completes hers. She’s off for Oregon’s wine country, investigating a family feud.”

  “Excellent. You two remain on an even keel, then. I shall look forward to continued updates.”

  The door lock at my back clanged open, our sit-down over. As I stood, Jules reiterated her usual admonitions.

  “Do not hesitate to contact me, dear boy. Day or night, I am here to help.”

  “And I appreciate it, Jules. Always have.”

  “Stay low and watch your back. You will enter an isolated arena. A remote place, where motivations and interests circle great wealth and power. A place where shadow players may well rule the roost.”

  Chapter 4

  The commercial flight landed at the world’s highest international airport in La Paz, Bolivia. It sat at over thirteen thousand feet elevation. I’d considered a charter flight but didn’t see the necessity. Nor did I use a false name and passport. Life’s circumstances had changed—the removal of the bounty on my head topped the list—and I exhibited less caution regarding my identity. Oh, I’d still travel incognito when the occasion demanded, an act prompted when spookville was present. This gig had earmarks of industrial conflict, Jules’s comment regarding shadow players aside. Claim jumpers, maybe, or illegal pressure exerted against a competitor.

  I joined several dozen fellow travelers in a transit lounge, awaiting our flight to Bolivia’s commercial center, Santa Cruz. My fixer’s home. A fixer is just that—he or she fixes issues. Don’t want Bolivian customs officials taking a hard look at a shipment? Need weaponry in a country where it’s banned? Require appointments with specific people? Then you need a fixer. They came in all shapes and sizes and breadth of abilities.