Deadly Lode (Trace Brandon Book 1)

by Randall Reneau

  “Morning, Red,” I said. “Looks like you and Nick made some serious hole?”

  “Yep, she’s drilling away, and we’re catching a few drilling breaks now. The rock’s drilling like it’s fractured. You might want to check the cuttings. We could be getting close to the vein.”

  Fish and I checked the last twenty feet of drill cuttings. The last samples showed some alteration in the rock. The type of alteration that accompanies mineralization.

  “You’re right, Red,” I yelled, over the rig noise. “Looks promising.”

  Red continued pushing the down-hole hammer bit through the rock.

  “Trace,” Red yelled, “feels like a transition. I’ll stop drilling and circulate so you can check the samples from the bottom of the hole.”

  It takes a few minutes for the air compressor to lift the cuttings from the bottom of the hole to the surface. “Lag time” is what geologists call it. Right now, I’d have called it an eternity.

  Finally the rock chips hit the splitter, and we were able to grab a sample. Through my ten-power hand lens I could see fragments of quartz and sulfides mixed in with the granodiorite.

  “Bingo, boys!” I shouted. “Trip out of the hole, Red, and run the core barrel in. I think we’re back in business.”

  “The core will tell the tale,” Fish said, standing next to me, looking at the cuttings.

  Red ran the core barrel and diamond bit into the hole, and started coring.

  In about thirty minutes the core barrel liner was full, and Red used the wire-line to retrieve it.

  “Grab your asses, boys!” Red yelled. “Here she comes.”

  Luke Johnson, Red’s helper, decanted the core into the wooden core box.

  “Holy moly,” Fish said softly. “We are back in business.”

  I took a paint-brush from the supply table, dipped it in a coffee can full of water, and wetted down the entire five feet of core. “Damnation, it’s pure pitchblende.”

  The next seven core runs were nearly identical. Nearly forty feet of the purest uranium ore neither Fish nor I had ever seen. On the eighth run we penetrated the footwall schist and were through the massive vein.

  After a bit of celebration, Fish and I were on our cell phones, relating the good news to both James Lee and Wally.

  “Send me the particulars, and I’ll start drafting a news- release,” Wally said, adding, “What about Malcolm?”

  “Let’s leave Malcolm out of the loop for now,” I replied. “If we’re wrong about him, I’ll just have to fade the heat. And remember, Wally,” I cautioned, “no press release until the core assays are back.”

  “But it looks good, right?” Wally asked.

  “Yes, Wally, it’s high grade, but hold the press release until assays are back.”

  “You got it. Boy oh’ boy, I’d sure hate to be the short seller when this news gets posted.”

  “Yeah,” I replied, “if it is Cyrus, he’ll be in for a rude shock in a couple of days.”

  Chapter 17

  A call came into FBI headquarters in Washington, DC.

  “FBI, Agent Thompson speaking.”

  “Agent Thompson, this is Chief Constable Peter Rand with the Vancouver, BC, Police Department. Is Special Agent Beau Monroe available?”

  “Hold one minute please.”

  Monroe punched the blinking light and picked up the receiver. “This is Special Agent Beau Monroe.”

  “Agent Monroe, this is Chief Constable Peter Rand. We spoke a week or so ago with regards to a homicide here in Vancouver.”

  “Yes, sir. The victim who was killed by exposure to VX.”

  “We’re at pretty much of a dead end up here. I was hoping maybe your investigation might have turned something up?”

  “Well, as I mentioned in our previous conversation, your case got moved to near the top of the totem pole. Anytime something as deadly as VX is involved, it get’s the FBI’s undivided attention.”

  “Any leads, Agent Monroe?”

  “Well, whoever pulled this off is a very sophisticated customer. Most likely a chemist gone rogue, so to speak.

  “Our thoughts as well,” Rand replied.

  “We’ve been running our databases, looking for a chemistry type who might fit the profile. Also, we’ve got three unsolved homicides, all of which involved sophisticated poisons. We’re going back through those case files, looking for leads.”

  “Any of the open cases involve VX?” Rand asked.

  “No, sir. But they’re not run of the mill, either. One involved a synthetic replication of poison tree frog toxin, Allopumiliotoxin-267A.”

  “Bloody hell, the name’s enough to kill you,” Rand said, with a chuckle.

  “Yes, sir, it’s a mouthful. But like VX, it’s a form of neurotoxin. It attacks the heart rather than causing complete muscle paralysis, as with VX.”

  “Both neurotoxins, huh? Well, Agent Monroe, it’s a lead of sorts. The killer could be ex-military with chemical weapons experience? Or someone who worked at a university or research facility?”

  “Our line of thinking too. We’re reviewing records of people known to have worked on nerve agents, either in the military, or in the private sector. Possibly a disgruntled employee, someone with personal problems, history of depression, that sort of thing.”

  “The three open cases, any of the victims have a criminal history?” Rand asked.

  “We believe the man killed by the synthetic tree frog poison had a mob connection. Of the other two, one we’re pretty sure was a KGB hit. The third looked like a drug deal gone bad. The joint the victim was smoking at the time of death was laced with ricin,” Monroe said, with a chuckle.

  “Any of this ring any bells?” Agent Monroe asked.

  “Possibly the mob connection,” Rand replied. “Our victim was a well-known gambler both in the Vancouver penny stock market and at the crap tables in Vegas. I’ll have my team dig deeper into his recent stock dealings and check into his gambling situation.”

  “What about William Thornton?” Constable Rand asked. “The man Rosenburg killed during an attempted robbery?”

  “As Thornton was an American citizen killed in a foreign country, we checked him out thoroughly. Turns out he was the right-hand man for one Cyrus McSweeny. Cyrus operates out of Spokane and is well known to law enforcement. But this is way out of his league. He’s basically a penny stock promoter, a pump and dump artist. He did five years for income tax evasion but no other convictions. Neither one of them fit the profile. And to be frank, Constable Rand, we’re a bit skeptical of the attempted robbery alibi Rosenburg put forth.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, as I said, Thornton doesn’t fit the profile. He wasn’t above using a little muscle, but he wasn’t a killer. We think it’s more likely Rosenburg was into Cyrus for some serious cash, and he sent Thornton to collect. The one common denominator seems to be Montana Creek Mining Corp.”

  “Rosenburg’s statement claimed Thornton tried to steal his shares of Montana Creek Mining before he shot him,” Constable Rand replied.

  “We did some checking, and it turns out at least one company controlled by McSweeny is also a shareholder in Montana Creek Mining.”

  “What’s the name and domicile of the company?” Rand asked.

  “Twisp River Resources, based in Vancouver. Malcolm Trueblood is the CEO, but the company is a wholly owned subsidiary of Carib International, a Cayman Island company we suspect is owned by Cyrus.”

  “So you think there is some kind of connection between McSweeny, Montana Creek Mining, and Rosenburg’s death?” Rand asked.

  “Not Montana Creek per se, but with some of the company’s shareholders. We haven’t put it all together yet, but we will.” Monroe said, firmly.

  “I see. Well, you’ve been a big help, Agent Monroe. We’ll dig into Mr. Trueblood and Twisp River, as well as Montana Creek Mining. Please keep me updated on your end, and I’ll do likewise.”

  A few days later, Thorny’s PI buddy in Co
eur d’Alene called Cyrus.

  “Mr. McSweeny, this is Doug Masters over in Coeur d’Alene, Idaho. I worked for Bill Thornton on occasion. Have you got a minute?”

  “Sure, Doug. What’s up?”

  “First off, I just wanted to thank you for taking care of Thorny and his family the way you did. He and I go way back, and, well, it was mighty good of you.”

  “Thanks, Doug. As you probably know, Thorny and I were pretty tight too, for nearly thirty years.”

  “Yes, sir, I did.”

  “So what else is on your mind, Doug?”

  “I am sure Thorny told you of our arrangement with the gal at Mineral Valley Labs.”

  Cyrus took a deep breath. “Yes, is there a problem?”

  “Oh, no, sir. It’s just with Thorny gone, she’s not sure where to send her reports.”

  “I see. Have her fax them to this number,” Cyrus replied, giving Doug the fax number of a Spokane mail store. One he used for sensitive materials.

  “Got it. She says she has some new results. I’ll have her send them out today.”

  A shiver went up Cyrus’s back. “New results?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Okay, Doug, have her get them out today and invoice me for your time.”

  “Yes, sir. And you don’t owe me anything. It’s the least I can do for Thorny. I’ll be sure all future reports are sent, ASAP.”

  Cyrus hung up and dialed Malcolm.

  “Mal, Cyrus here. Do you know anything about new core results?”

  “Hi, Cyrus. No, I don’t. Last report I had, we were still trying to figure out where the vein had gone.”

  “Well, there’s new assays coming my way. If they’re not from previous cores, then they’ve relocated the vein.”

  “You want me to call Trace?”

  “Yes, but you’re going to have to be very careful how you question him on this. Otherwise he’ll know I’m getting information from the lab, as well as from you.”

  “You’re right. It might be better if I meet with Walter Wilkins here in Vancouver. Just two directors having lunch and discussing the drilling program.”

  “Perfect. Just do it fast and be very, very, careful.”

  Cyrus hung up the phone and opened his online trading account with Cayman Island Securities. He typed in Montana Creek’s symbol. The shares were at a buck eighty with a little better- than-average volume. He dialed Nigel Cunningham.

  “Nigel, Cyrus. What’s the current status of Montana Creek Mining?”

  “Hello, Cyrus. Well, your short sale knocked the price down ten percent, but there’s been pretty steady volume at the lower levels. Looks like a few investors are averaging down.”

  “If I close out my short position, what am I looking at?”

  “Stocks down ten percent from where you sold short. So, you’re up twenty cents per share on a million shares.”

  “Two hundred grand profit?”

  “Less our commissions.”

  “Okay, buy the shares back at one eighty. Close out my short position, now.”

  “Done. Tidy little profit, Cyrus. Congratulations.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not exactly what I had in mind. But, as my old man used to say, ‘You never go broke taking profits.’”

  Wally and Malcolm met at a restaurant on the top floor of Wally’s office building, in downtown Vancouver. Both men ordered grilled salmon and salad.

  Malcolm took a sip of his tea. “Damn, that’s hot,” he said, setting his cup back in its saucer.

  “Yes, but feels pretty good on a cold day like today,” Wally replied.

  “That it does, Wally,” Malcolm replied, dabbing his burned lip with his napkin. “I wanted to get together for a few minutes, Wally, and discuss operations down at the Sullivan Mine. I’ve not received any updates of late. And, as you no doubt do as well, I get the occasional shareholder query.”

  Wally’s inner caution light started blinking. “Last report I got, they were doing some underground mapping on the first level. Looking for evidence of faulting. I believe the rig is on standby until they figure this out.”

  “I see,” Malcolm said, pouring a bit of cream into his tea. “So no new drilling?”

  “Trace may have moved the rig to a new location, just to save time later. As you know, anything is preferable to paying rig time for an idle drill.”

  “Agreed. What about the cores we’ve already cut? Have they all been assayed?”

  “Yes. We’re up to date, and all the assay data has been published and filed with the VSE.”

  “Just as I thought. Very good. Trace does run a tight ship.”

  The two men finished lunch and headed back to their respective offices. For Wally it was just a quick elevator ride down to his floor.

  Wally arranged a conference call and had Trace, Will, and James Lee, who was in Los Angeles, on the line.

  “Fellows, I just had lunch with Malcolm Trueblood. Actually, more of an interrogation than lunch.”

  “What’s up, Wally?” I asked.

  “He’s very curious about new drilling. Wanted to know if we’d cut any new cores, or if any new assays from previous cores were forthcoming.”

  Jim Lee jumped in. “Fellows, he’s got someone on the inside at the lab. Why else would he be asking about new assays?”

  “I’m going to put you all on hold at my end,” Wally said. “I need to check something. You all keep at it. I’ll be back on in a sec.”

  Will, Jim, and I continued to discuss Malcolm and current operations at the mine while we waited on Wally.

  “I’m back on fellows,” Wally said, “and I’ve got some damned-interesting news. The million share short position has been closed. The seller, and I’m assuming it was Cyrus, bought his shares back this morning, at a dollar eighty.”

  “The son of a bitch made two hundred grand off our labors,” Will said, disgustedly. “He found out we re-located the vein, before we announced it, and covered his short position.”

  “Well, boys, welcome to world of penny stocks,” Wally said.

  “Look, we can’t begrudge a smart guy from playing the market,” I replied. “What we can go after is an SOB getting insider information to formulate his play.”

  “So, how do we proceed?” Wally asked.

  “Wally, I want you to call a board meeting as soon as possible. Can we use your conference room?”

  “Absolutely. I’ll send out the notice today. Can you all be here in two days?”

  We all replied in the affirmative.

  “What’s the plan of attack, Trace?” Jim asked.

  “We go to DEFCON three and front Malcolm. We tell him we have evidence he passed inside information to one of our shareholders. And we have reason to believe the same shareholder is getting copies of our assays before they’re announced. We ask for his resignation. If he balks, we say we’ll turn over our information to the securities regulators in Canada, and to the SEC and the FBI in the U.S.”

  “What about Cyrus?” Will asked.

  “One bottom dweller at a time,” I replied. “Once we take care of Malcolm, I’ll have a sit-down with Cyrus.”

  Chapter 18

  Pino Pantelli was enjoying a late afternoon aperitif with his brother when his cell rang. Al lit a Cuban cigar and sipped his drink while he waited for his brother to finish the call.

  “Problems?” Al asked. after Pino hung up.

  “Not a problem, but an interesting piece of news. Looks like Cyrus closed his short position against Montana Creek Mining. He bought back a million shares at a buck eighty.”

  “I’ll be damned, a cool two-hundred-grand profit. Not too shabby. The Virus strikes again,” Al said, with a laugh.

  “Yeah. Good news for us too. The share price is heading back up.”

  “You know, I’m starting to like this penny stock bullshit. Anyway we can get a bigger piece of the pie?”

  “You mean squeeze the Virus?”

  “Damn right. I don’t give two squirts about
that Il figlio di una femmina.”

  Pino laughed. “Yeah, he is a son of a bitch, but he’s a smart son of a bitch.”

  “Smart or not, let’s figure out a way to grab his shares in Montana Creek Mining. I got a good feeling about that company.”

  “Let me think about it, and you do likewise. We’ll figure out a way.”

  Back in Vancouver, Peter Rand was pouring over Montana Creek Mining Corp.’s Vancouver Stock Exchange filings. He’d made a list of the major shareholders and insiders, and highlighted Rosenburg, Twisp River Resources, and shares purchased offshore through Cayman Island Securities.

  His secretary buzzed him and said Special Agent Monroe was holding on line two.

  “Special Agent Monroe, good to hear from you.”

  “Chief Constable Rand, if you’ve got a minute, I’ve got a bit of information for you.”

  “Shoot.”

  “As I mentioned, we’ve been reviewing open homicide cases where exotic poisons were used.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, we may have found a link. In checking the medical examiner’s notes, it appears one victim’s steering wheel had been painted with a toxin.”

  “Which victim?”

  “The one killed by synthetic tree frog neurotoxin. The toxin was absorbed through skin contact with the steering wheel. Sound familiar?”

  “Bingo! Damn fine work, Agent Monroe.”

  “We were never able to confirm it, but there was some evidence the victim was involved in drug trafficking. Our information leads us to believe it may have been a mob hit.”

  “Any word on which crime family?”

  “Nothing positive, but New Orleans kept coming up.”

  “The Pantelli family?”

  “It’s certainly possible. They’re as rough as a Monday morning hangover, and they’re certainly involved in the narcotics trade. There was one other notation on an old police report that caught my eye.”

  “What was it?”

  “Just two words: the Chemist.”

  “The killer’s nom de guerre?”

  “Could be. We’re running the name through our databases to see if anything pops out.”