Deadly Lode (Trace Brandon Book 1)

by Randall Reneau

  With no real alternative, the measure carried unanimously.

  “I’ll call Malcolm and let him know he’s been appointed to the board,” I said. “The shareholders can ratify it at the next annual meeting.”

  Peter Manetti disembarked from his Continental flight and cleared customs, using a bogus passport in the name of Joseph Baglio. He rented a car, drove to the ferry landing in downtown Vancouver, and crossed the harbor to North Vancouver. Fifteen minutes later he knocked on Rosenburg’s front door.

  Rosenburg answered the door and instinctively stepped back a half-step when he got a look at the Chemist.

  “Mr. Rosenburg, I’m Peter Manetti. I believe Mr. Pantelli contacted you?”

  “Yes, please come in. I’ve got your package in my den. Please follow me.”

  “No. I was instructed to take delivery in the foyer. I understand the last transaction completed in your den didn’t turn out so well for one of the participants.”

  Anger flickered in Rosenburg’s eyes.

  “Is there a problem, Mr. Rosenburg?”

  “No, no problem. Please wait here, and I’ll get the package.”

  Rosenburg returned with a briefcase and opened it for Manetti’s inspection.

  “Want to count it?”

  “No, I’m sure it’s all there,” Manetti replied, closing the briefcase and turning toward the door. “I doubt you’re dumb enough to short the Pantelli family.”

  Peter returned to the Hotel Victoria, counted the money, just in case Rosenburg was dumb enough, and called Al Pantelli.

  “Mr. Pantelli, I’ve got the package, and it’s complete.”

  “Okay, I’ll send the casino’s jet up tonight to pick up the package. Meet the plane at the corporate terminal and give the package to the pilot. When you’ve completed all your business, take a commercial flight back to Vegas.”

  “Understood. I should have this wrapped up in a couple of days.”

  “Perfect. I’ll have the jet up there in about three hours.”

  Manetti met the jet, handed the briefcase to the pilot, and returned to the Hotel Victoria to prep the delivery system for the nerve agent.

  After our impromptu board meeting, I called Cyrus.

  “Cyrus, Trace Brandon. Just wanted to let you know. I’ve contacted the other board members, and we’ve voted on adding Malcolm to our board.”

  “And?”

  “The resolution passed unanimously. Malcolm Trueblood is now a director of Montana Creek Mining Corporation.”

  “Thank you, Trace. I appreciate it, and I think it is fair. After all, I do have a hell of a stake in your company.”

  “You mean, our company, don’t you?”

  Cyrus chuckled. “Yes, our company. Don’t worry, Trace. We both have the same long-term goal.”

  “Which is?”

  “Whatever best benefits the shareholders of the company.”

  “Glad you feel that way. Do you want to notify Malcolm, or should I call him?”

  “I am scheduled to call him this morning on another matter. I’ll tell him you’ll be calling him. I believe his appointment should come from the chairman of the board.”

  Peter Manetti didn’t get the moniker of “the Chemist” by accident. In another life, he’d earned a PhD in chemistry from LSU. After the death of his wife, Julie, from an especially virulent form of colon cancer, he’d grown increasingly bitter and hateful. Molecule by molecule his soul, like his wife’s cancer, metastasized into pure evil.

  For this job, Manetti brought an organophosphate pesticide he’d upgraded to military toxicity. Originally marketed to the public in the 1950’s under the name OPP-D, the compound had killed nearly as many farmers as bugs. Realizing its potential value as a chemical weapon, the government had seized most of the commercial supply and turned it over to the military, who, with taxpayer dollars, refined the compound into one of the deadliest nerve agents known to man, VX Agent. Manetti had neglected to turn in the two gallons of OPP-D he’d been experimenting with.

  VX could be applied as a liquid or aerosol. Odorless, tasteless, with just a slightly oily feel, it could kill from either skin contact or inhalation. Death from VX was especially violent.

  For two days Manetti surveilled Rosenburg’s movements. At noon on the third day, an opportunity presented itself. He’d followed Rosenburg to a mall parking garage and parked two rows over from Rosenburg’s Jag. Manetti pulled on a pair of surgical gloves and took the tubular shoe polish applicator from his overcoat pocket. Very carefully, he unscrewed the cap and examined the angled sponge applicator tip. It appeared clean and dry. Slowly, he twisted the applicator head in a counter clockwise direction. Exactly one-quarter turn armed the device. Manetti replaced the cap and headed for Rosenburg’s Jag.

  The Jaguar was an older model and lacked an alarm system. Using a long, flat, metal tool, called a ‘Slim Jim’, that he’d concealed up the sleeve of his overcoat, Manetti popped the door lock in less than five seconds. Taking a last glance around the garage, he slipped behind the wheel. Taking a deep breath, he carefully unscrewed the top of the applicator and gently pressed it to the steering wheel. He laid down a light coating of the agent on the top half of the wheel then carefully capped the applicator. He stepped out of the Jag and closed the door behind him. Only then did he exhale.

  On the way back to his car Manetti dropped the Slim Jim in a garbage can. He then drove down to the harbor and parked in a lot near the ferry landing. He bought a round-trip ferry ticket and boarded the next ferry to North Vancouver. About half- way across the bay, he sauntered over to the rail. The shoe polish applicator was cupped in his right hand. Satisfied no one was paying any attention to him, he casually opened his palm and dropped the applicator into the deep harbor. Disposal complete, Manetti rode the ferry back to downtown, retrieved his rental car, and drove to the airport.

  Just before lunch, I called Malcolm in Vancouver.

  “Malcolm, Trace Brandon with Montana Creek Mining.”

  “Yes, Trace, Cyrus said to expect a call from you. What can I do for you?”

  “The board has approved you as our fifth director.”

  “I am glad to hear it, Trace. I think we’ll all work very well together, and I look forward to the next board meeting.”

  “Now that you’re a director, I’ll can tell you one of our primary goals is to achieve a listing on the Toronto Stock Exchange. As you and Walter Wilkins are our two Canadian directors, I would appreciate it if you two would work together towards that end.”

  “Of course, Trace. I know several of the principals on the exchange. I’ll be glad to work with Walter. We’ll get you the listing requirements in short order.”

  “I would like to shoot for a Toronto Stock Exchange, TSX, listing this spring. Between now and then, we need to quantify our reserves and contract for an independent engineering report.”

  “I have a relationship with a good engineering firm here in Vancouver. They’ve completed several engineering reports for Twisp River Resources. All of which were well received by regulators.”

  “Perfect. Please send me their contact info, and I’ll start the ball rolling.”

  Richard Rosenburg returned from the large department store,where he’d purchased a bottle of Midnight Sin perfume for his wife. She was due back from Europe in a couple of days, and it was her favorite.

  He started to unlocked the Jag and noticed he’d forgotten to lock the driver’s side door. Shaking his head, he placed the gift box on the passenger seat and slid behind the wheel. He put his left hand on the top of the wheel and inserted the ignition key.

  “What the hell?” he said, taking his hand from the wheel and rubbing his thumb and index finger together. “Feels like some kind of oil.”

  Rosenburg suddenly felt nauseous and started to perspire heavily. He felt a severe tightness in his chest. Thinking it must be a heart attack, he reached for his cell phone to call 911. He didn’t get past nine. The contraction hit him like a sledgehamme
r, slamming him violently into the steering wheel. Dropping the phone, he grabbed the wheel with both hands to try and steady up. But this merely doubled his exposure to the nerve agent. The contractions continued as the VX agent attacked all his muscle groups, causing them to go into a state of paralysis. As the muscles in his diaphragm began to shut down, he slowly and agonizingly died of asphyxiation.

  Chapter 13

  As part of IUC’s agreement to lend technical support, Jim Lee assigned a young geologist, Tom Troutman, to help with the winter coring program. Tom would log the core, send splits to the lab for assay, and be the project geologist. I decided to drive up to Winthrop and spend a little time with the new guy.

  The mine road was in good shape, thanks to Bob Malott’s crew and the constant truck traffic. But, out of habit, I locked the hubs and engaged the four-wheel drive.

  I pulled into the drill site and parked the Bronco. Troutman saw me pull up and walked over. He’d been logging cores in the heated core shack Red’s crew had constructed for the winter operation. I got out and met him halfway. I knew from talking with Jim, and from Tom’s resume, that he was an American and worked mainly in eastern Canada. He was twenty-eight years old, tall and slender, with a scruffy beard all young geologists feel is requisite. He’d earned his BS and MS at the University of Montana, in Missoula.

  “Mr. Brandon?”

  “Yep, that’s me. You must be Troutman?”

  “Yes, sir. I figured it had to be you. All the drillers talk about is your Bronco.”

  I laughed. “Yeah, they appreciate a truly fine piece of machinery, and please call me Trace.”

  “Thanks, Trace. Most of my friends call me Fish, for the obvious reason.”

  “Okay, Fish, how’s the coring going?”

  “Damn good. This is some mighty fine-looking ore, Trace.”

  “Ain’t it though,” I said, heading in the direction of the core shack.

  “I’ve seen grades like this in the Athabasca Basin in eastern Canada and in a couple of mines in Africa. But never anything like this in the US.”

  “This old mine actually started out as a gold and copper mine in the late eighteen hundreds. The uranium was a pain in the ass to them,” I said, with a chuckle. “Boy, how things change, huh?”

  Fish nodded his head and picked up a section of high-grade ore. “It’s a miracle they didn’t all die of radiation poisoning.”

  “I’d bet the rate of cancer was pretty high for the old boys who worked in the mine,” I replied.

  “Yeah, and back then they wouldn’t of had a clue what was making them sick,” Fish said, putting the length of core back in its slot. “Truly a deadly lode.”

  “Yep,” I replied. “They couldn’t see it, smell it, or taste it, but it attacked them just the same.”

  I spent a couple of days on site with Fish. He was a damned good geologist, and I was glad to have him on the project.

  On my way back to Ellensburg, Wally called me.

  “Trace, you’re not going to believe this.”

  “Hell, Wally, Cyrus the Virus has one of his minions on our board. I’d believe damn near anything.”

  “Yeah, well, believe this—Rosenburg was found dead in a downtown Vancouver parking garage. They think he had some kind of a seizure, but they’re doing an autopsy just to be sure.”

  “Jesus, first he shoots Thornton, then he sells his shares to cover his gambling debt, and a few days later he’s dead?”

  “Yeah, makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

  “Don’t it though?”

  Al Pantelli picked up the phone in the Presidential Suite of the Comstock Casino and called Cyrus.

  “Cyrus, it’s Al. I’ve got the dough Rosy owed you. When can you come down and pick it up?”

  “I’ll call my pilot and have him get the Lear ready. I’ll be there first thing in the morning. How’d it go with the principal?”

  “No problems. His account is closed.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow for a late breakfast. And thanks, Al. I owe you one.”

  Cyrus hung up and called his pilot and told him to file a flight plan to Vegas and then on to Grand Cayman. He then called Lisa Miller and told her he’d be in George Town late tomorrow evening and asked her to meet him at the airport.

  The next morning at 10:00 a.m., Cyrus’s Lear-jet landed in Las Vegas. The pilot taxied to the McCarran corporate terminal. Cyrus spotted the Comstock’s limo parked and waiting. Forty- five minutes later he was in Al Pantelli’s office, which overlooked the main casino floor.

  “Eight hundred-K,” Al said, handing Cyrus the black brief case, “I took out the two hundred grand you owed me for the proxy. Please check it.”

  Cyrus laid the brief-case on a coffee table in front of Al’s desk and popped the latches. He riffled several random bundles of hundreds and closed the case.

  “That wasn’t necessary, Al. I knew it would be correct.”

  “I like everything neat and tidy,” Al replied, moving to his desk chair.

  “Any problems in Vancouver?” Cyrus asked.

  “No, no problems,” Al said, clasping his hands over his stomach and swiveling his chair to check the action on the casino floor.

  Cyrus watched him surveying the action.

  “How’s the casino business?”

  “This is the real gold mine,” Al said, spreading his hands out in the direction of the casino floor.

  “Well, anytime you want to get rid of your Montana Creek Mining shares, just let me know.”

  Al turned to Cyrus and smiled. “Not just yet, my friend. You just be sure to vote my proxy in our best interests.”

  “Don’t worry, Al. Your best interests are my best interests.”

  Chapter 14

  Red motioned from the drilling rig for Troutman to come over to the rig.

  “Something’s not right, Fish.”

  “What’s the problem, Red?”

  “We should be in vein, but I can tell by the way the bit is cutting. we’re still in granite.”

  “Finish this run, then trip out. Let’s be sure.”

  Red finished the core run and pulled the tubing from inside the core barrel.

  “Here she comes,” Red said.

  The drill helpers emptied the contents of the core liner into a core box.

  “Damn—you’re right, Red. Nothing but granodiorite.”

  “What do you want me to do?” Red asked.

  “Cut another five feet of core. If we’re still in granodiorite, I’ll call Trace and get him up here.”

  An hour later my office phone rang.

  “Trace, it’s Fish. We’ve got a problem.”

  “What’s wrong, Fish?”

  “The vein is gone. It’s either pinched out or been displaced by a fault.”

  “Holy shit—no vein at all?”

  “None. We cored ten feet in granodiorite, where the vein should have been. I had Red pull out of the hole and go back in with the down-hole hammer, and drill until we hit the footwall schist. We grabbed samples every two feet, just to be sure. No vein.”

  “Okay, move the rig to the next location and start drilling. Drill down to where we would normally start coring. If I’m not there by then, put the rig on standby. I’m on my way.”

  I called Will and Wally, and e-mailed Jim Lee, and filled them in on the situation. I decided to wait to call Malcolm until I got on-site and reviewed the situation in person. I knew he’d be on the phone to Cyrus the minute we hung up. I packed my gear and headed for the Sullivan Mine.

  Cyrus refueled the Lear in Houston, skirted some thunderstorms, and made Grand Cayman by 8:00 p.m. Lisa Miller was waiting in the terminal. Cyrus had longstanding arrangements with Cayman customs officers, and he breezed through with no luggage check.

  “Thanks for meeting me, Lisa,” Cyrus said, giving her a hug and kiss on the cheek.

  “No problem, Cyrus. What’s up?”

  “I’ve got eight hundred thousand U.S. in this briefcase that I need
to get it into Carib’s account. And, I want to strategize a bit on our plan of attack now that Malcolm is on Montana Creek Mining’s board.”

  “Anything else?” Lisa said, with a seductive smile.

  “Well, maybe just one or two other items,” Cyrus replied, a grin spreading across his face.

  Chapter 15

  “Chief Constable Rand? This is David Osgood, with the Ministry of Public Safety here in Vancouver.”

  “Yes, Mr. Osgood. What can I do for you today?”

  “It’s actually more what I can do for you, sir. We’ve got a cause of death on Richard Rosenburg, and you’re not going to believe it.”

  “Really? Not your run-of-the-mill heart attack or stroke?”

  “Only if you call VX a run-of-the-mill nerve agent.”

  “Come again?”

  “Rosenburg was killed by percutaneous exposure, that is, skin contact, with the nerve agent known as VX.”

  “How is that possible? I thought only the military had access to VX.”

  “VX is a derivative of a 1950’s pesticide called OPP-D. It’s possible not all of the pesticide on the market was collected or destroyed. A good chemist could upgrade the pesticide to a weapons-grade nerve agent.”

  “Absolutely sure on this?”

  “We nearly lost one of our paramedics getting Rosenburg out of his car. Only the fast decontamination of her exposed skin and an injection of Atropine saved her. So, yes, I’m sure.”

  “I see.”

  “Whoever killed Rosenburg applied liquid VX to the steering wheel of his Jag. The poor bastard died one horrible death.”

  “A terrorist hit?”