by Vince Milam
“Got a morning milk run, mate,” he said. “It ends in Moresby.”
It would do. I wasn’t thrilled about landing at every pissant grass strip on the way to Port Moresby, but empty seats to and from Kiunga became precious given the current situation.
“How many hops?” I asked.
“Three,” the pilot said. He reached behind his head and scratched at something inside his shirt. Three stops, unloading and loading God-knows-what and on to Moresby. It would have to do.
“All right. Just me. Any issues?”
“None at all. You can pay me direct. Saves a bit of paperwork.”
I did. We’d leave at dawn. On the way back to the hotel the clouds broke, sun pierced, and sweat replaced raindrops. The butterfly bandage began sliding off the wound. People mingled, hustled, and bustled. Hammers pounded and voices called. Heavy equipment and manual labor moved logs across the muddy roads. New business signs—hand painted—sprung up across town. The New Guinea version of 1800s Deadwood during that gold rush. Strike it rich. Last Chance Inc. And no laws, restrictions, constraints. Just do it. Although I don’t think the Nike folks had this in mind.
I showered, treated the wound, and donned fresh clothes. Luke walked in as I finished. I tossed him a clean towel and he rubbed down, keeping on his shorts and jungle boots. Luke Mugumwup, good to go. Case Lee, less so. Fatigue settled. The arrow wound throbbed. Kiunga to Port Moresby to Sydney to San Francisco to Portland started early in the morning. Twenty-eight travel hours. At least I was headed home. But first a game of you lie to me and I’ll reciprocate on the hotel’s veranda. Part of the job, sure, but wearing. Tedious.
“You okay?” Luke asked, facial tattoos crinkled with concern.
“Yeah. Okay. Let’s go meet these people.”
“Bring this?” He held up his machete.
I smiled and laughed. “Absolutely. It may help make this a short evening.”
Chapter 6
We strolled onto the enormous veranda. It served as bar and eating area with over twenty tables spread about. Three servers worked the crowd. Many of the assembled players sat and huddled, elbows on table. Conversations low and speculative. Others milled, making contacts, setting up deals.
We situated at a small corner table. Landscape vegetation brushed against the railing at my back. Dozens of small lizards scuttled about the overhead ceiling, upside down. A good thing. The lizard herd would keep the crawling insect population under control.
Luke laid his machete across the table. The Glock remained hidden under my shirttail. I ordered Luke a beer and asked, “Any Grey Goose available?”
“Smirnoff. Would that do?” the waiter asked.
“It will do fine. On the rocks. Thanks.”
I’d settle in, observe. Ascertain which groups held the four gold camp honchos. Conduct my own personal veranda walkabout, ask a few questions, and discover little. Put a ribbon on this engagement. The drinks arrived, followed by a man with pressed khaki shorts and shirt, cocktail in hand.
“American?”
“Yes.”
“Well, here’s the thing.” He bent over, earnest, carrying a benign smile. His accent held a strange amalgam of Dutch and British. “We generally keep the tribal chaps out of here.” He straightened and swirled his ice cubes.
“Okay.”
“So I think it best your friend here leaves.”
He’d failed even a glance at my friend during his social strictures sermon. I couldn’t help but crack a half smile, shared with Luke. He shrugged back. No doubt, a shirtless tribal warrior, with facial tattoos and tribal scar patterns, looked a bit out of place in this setting. I widened my smile and addressed the social cop.
“I’m sorry you misunderstood.”
“Misunderstood what?”
“You clearly misunderstood me as someone who gives a rat’s ass what you think.”
The ice stopped twirling. With raised eyebrows he turned and strolled back to his table, shared with a PNG local dressed in official government trappings. The government official smiled my way, his teeth and lips bright red. Another betel nut chewer. I smiled back. Mr. Khaki joined him at the table and whispered in his ear. The guy had glommed onto the sole government official in this area and acted in an advisory capacity. And not from the goodness of his heart. He, and the government official, were positioned as gold skimmers. More advisors would pour from the woodwork with the actual discovery of a large deposit.
PNG officially banned firearms of any stripe. Clearly Kiunga’s veranda cast hadn’t gotten the memo. Several open-carried, others more discreet. But this staged as a pack-your-own-heat setting, and it caulked every crack among the surrounding players. The glue that binds. Everyone packing. Rain reappeared, driving, and wet pounding added to the multilanguage murmurings under the veranda’s tin roof.
The Russians occupied a large circular table across the room. Three of them laid their semiautomatic pistols on the table within easy reach. A statement, and a legitimate one. Spetsnaz operators were tough cookies. The government-private industry combination of Russian commercial ventures explained their presence. Whose payroll they now occupied mattered little. They were here to protect Russia’s interests. Fair enough. My last Global Resolutions engagement in South America held strong Russian connections. It hadn’t ended well for them. But this was the other side of a big, wide world. So I started with comrade central, the Chinese and Brits and Indonesians to follow.
“Stay here,” I said, an unblinking stare toward Luke. He nodded but stood when I did, machete in hand. I held a palm down. Chill. He frowned and turned a chair around so it faced the crowd. Message delivered. Mess with me and you get to meet Luke.
The Russian table fell silent at my approach. Stone-cold stares lacked any evidence of welcome. Fine and no worries—plow ahead, do my job, and head home.
“How’s it going?” Delivered with a light smile and goofy, curious expression. Play it light. Friendly.
My question brought sideways glances on surly countenances. But one of them, the lone player among them with a smile, spoke.
“How was your trip to our little camp?”
Satellite phones. They’d all have them. And my brief visits to each camp communicated back to the Kiunga handlers. But something else tripped alarm bells.
“Like visiting a Club Med.”
“I’m so glad. What was your favorite part?” Impeccable English—a flat Midwestern US accent. FSB. Current or former, hard to say. But a pro. Big time.
“The fireworks display.” Head klaxons ratcheted up. This was a bad scene. There wasn’t a helluva lot of reason for clandestine efforts here. But there he sat, polished and professional and deadly.
“We tend to present those on an as-needed basis.” His smile remained, and his eyes registered an acknowledgment. Something about me set off his radar. He recognized an American operator. Another pro. My puppy-dog American bit hadn’t passed his sniff test. Oh well. I never claimed Actors Studio status.
“Do you have a name?” he asked.
“I do. Jones.”
“And I’m Sokolov. Join me.”
I did. We sipped our drinks. Rain hammered overhead and another small lizard shimmied up a pillar behind the Russians. I watched its ascent and joining with its brethren, scooting about overhead. Someone at a nearby table ordered supper.
“How’s diggings?” I asked.
“Diggings?”
“Yeah. Any luck?” A BS question laid so I could receive a BS answer and move on. A Russian spook, smack in the middle of this gold fever effort. My gut knotted.
“I’m afraid you’ve misconstrued our intent, friend.”
They called themselves the FSB now. Federal Security Bureau. But Vladimir Putin—himself a former KGB agent—pulled the pieces back together and re-created the old KGB in everything but name. And not one of them was ever my friend.
“Is that right?”
“That is right. As an American, surely you can recognize an ec
otourism endeavor when you see one. A retreat, deep in the New Guinea jungle.” He laughed. I didn’t.
“Needs a little infrastructure improvement.”
“Oh, we’re working on it,” he said.
“I bet you are.”
We both lifted glasses, a salute to BS.
“We were wondering if and when you people would show,” Sokolov said.
“Person. Singular. Performing due diligence.” True enough, and sufficient cover for a few more questions. My veranda expectation of mining engineers, managers, muscle, and deal makers now held the added spice of spooks. An unwanted addition.
“I see. Lay of the land and such.”
“Yeah. So why are the hills alive with the sound of digging? I thought this gold bonanza had already been identified?” A mental burr under my saddle. A general area for discovery, a wide swath of jungle. Geologists didn’t work like that.
He ignored my question. “We’re with SRG. Strategic Resource Group. Moscow based.”
“Building ecotourism facilities.”
“Exactly. This due diligence of yours. Would it be for a company I might know?”
“Likely. Big mining outfit. Been around for years. All I can say about it.”
“Of course. Care to have dinner with us?”
I cast a quick glance around the table at hostile faces and smiled. “Rain check, Sokolov. See you around.”
I moved on, headed for the Chinese contingent. The Brits after them. There were no Indonesian handlers evident. It didn’t mean they weren’t there. I’d failed to spot them. Moving through the cast of players, a salesman sideswiped me. He smiled and held both palms outward, a millennia-old signal for “I mean you no harm.” An appropriate approach given the weaponry bristling among us. He introduced himself and his outfit. A logistics company from Cairns, a midsize city on Australia’s north coast.
“Billy Wilson. We’ll get what you need where you need it. Every time. Guaranteed.” He pressed his business card toward me. “American, right?”
I took it and feigned interest, asking a few questions.
“Yeah. How’s your fuel supply line?”
“Fuel of every stripe. Absolutely,” he answered. “Diesel, gasoline, aviation fuel. You people bringing planes? Helicopters? I’ll build your own refuel station if you want it, mate.”
“And you’re in Cairns?” An earnest guy. Doing what any self-respecting businessperson would do. Follow the money. Or at least the potential of money.
“Only a thousand clicks from here,” he said.
A thousand kilometers. Six hundred miles. For the Pacific region, six hundred miles constituted an “only.”
“You got a name?” he continued.
“Yeah. Jones. Let me ask you something. Where are the Indonesian folks? Here in Kiunga?”
“They don’t stay here. When their camp needs something, they send their small boat downriver. Outboard motor. They have a little warehouse on the docks. Then right back upriver.”
“Not much of an operation,” I said, opening the door for his further elaboration.
“No it isn’t. They keep to themselves. Tough bunch. But I supply them, too. Not a lot of business, mind you. So what’s your company’s name?”
“Not allowed to say. Yet. But I appreciate it when someone like you is available.”
“Day or night, mate. Day or night.”
“I’ll keep your card. We may be in touch.”
We shook hands, and I wished him well. Slid his business card into my left shirt pocket. The wound barked back. A pretty young server slid past, and I ordered another drink.
The Chinese group contained a collection of Communist Party functionaries. Released from their in-China restraints, these guys took delight showcasing a firearm. Their favorite choice—massive American revolvers holstered in Western-style leather. Yippee kai ay. But sprinkled among them were several steel-eyed individuals. Pros of some sort. Their weaponry remained hidden.
“Hi, guys.” I waved and smiled and stood near their table.
Several functionaries shifted, the leather holsters creaking. Otherwise, silence for several seconds.
“We have a request.” It came from a slender young man with a deadpan expression.
“Okay.”
“We would request you not visit our location again.”
“Your camp?”
“Yes. Our camp. It is not appreciated.”
His accent was minimal. He looked, and spoke, like a UCLA grad.
“Okay. Sorry about that. Checking the lay of the land.”
“Who do you represent?”
This young man wasn’t beating around the bush. He wasn’t a businessperson, with an air of bonhomie and shared struggles. For the Chinese contingent to have clandestine players wasn’t unexpected. A Communist country, after all. But coming on the heels of the Russian encounter it was disturbing. Discordant.
“I’m not at liberty to say. Sorry.”
“Yet you felt at liberty to invade our camp.”
“Hardly an invasion.”
“Do not visit our location again.”
“Got you the first time, scooter.” I raised my glass. “Cheers, comrades.” Walking away, I chalked myself off their Christmas list. There are worse things in life. But another Kiunga spook. Well, it would go in the report, and my client could sweat the issue. Not my problem.
The young server, New Guinean, handed me a fresh drink and asked if Luke and I would be dining. Pointing at a nearby table of folks eating a rice dish, I said, “We’ll have the same as them.”
A table of Brits leaned together in earnest conversation, sidelong glances my way. I lifted my fresh drink in their direction. Several of them reciprocated. I sidled over.
They played a different game. More open, with clear quid pro quo expectations.
“Just getting started, I’m afraid. Nothing to report,” one of their people replied to my greeting and initial enquiry. He was tall, thin, and carried the demeanor of someone who could deliver a university commencement speech. Right after the necessary offing of some poor bastard whose time had come. Affable stainless steel. “So you’re the American contingent? We’d wondered when you chaps would show.”
Now alarms rang loud, clear, and urgent. The urgency derived from a deep and strong desire to create distance. Out of PNG. Back on the Ace of Spades. This guy was MI6. He might as well have worn a conventioneer’s name tag stating so. Another spook. What the hell? Muscle, I understood. Former Special Forces operators. Protect the claims, ensure the security of any gold finds. But sipping a vodka rocks in the middle of a cleared-jungle mudhole while it rained spooks—no way. Bad wrong. Every bit of it.
“No contingent. Just me and my friend.”
“I see. Solo artists, then?”
Still, I had to hand it to him. He pressed with aplomb, the words parsed and well chosen. And the guy was well groomed. Blond hair combed tight, clean shaven, clothes pressed.
“Representing a client. Checking things out.”
“Someone I might know?”
“Someone I don’t even know.”
“Ah.” He smiled.
Truth cards, laid faceup. It allowed me several degrees of separation from the immediate shadow-game surroundings. A sound tactic. And the “ah” response indicated no further questions down the “who’s your client” rabbit hole. This guy got it.
“Well and good,” he continued. “Join us for a drink, why don’t you? Ask your friend over. I’m Chambers. And you are Mister . . . ?”
“Jones. Thanks. We’ll pass. But something strikes me as peculiar.”
He cocked his head, a tight smile and faked sincere curiosity displayed.
“It’s a pretty large area you folks are digging around in,” I continued. “You’d think a major find would be better pinpointed.”
“Quite so. Yet our interests, our contingent from BMC, appeared rather late to the game. Perhaps one of our competitors,” he said, pausing and waving a hand a
cross the outdoor deck. “Perhaps one of them has the inside key. As it is, we’re simply mucking about. Hoping for good fortune and all that.” A pleasant, good-neighbor smile finished the statement.
Mucking about. Total BS. The disappeared geologist was British. Perhaps working for BMC. British Mining Concerns. We’d exchanged sufficient information.
“Well, good luck,” I said, waving a hand at the table and turning.
“One last thing,” the Brit said. “Those Indonesian lads. Did you visit them?”
“Indonesian?”
A contrite frown accompanied, “Perhaps you missed them. I was curious as to how they were getting along.”
“Indonesian. Doesn’t ring a bell. But, again, good luck and thanks for the drink offer.”
On my way to speak with Mr. Khaki and the red-toothed government official, I signaled Luke to join me. If the government official didn’t speak English, I’d ask Luke to talk with him. No need for Mr. Khaki to interpret. And now having waded into Spookville in the middle of freakin’ nowhere, backup couldn’t hurt.
The government official stood and extended his hand. It was soft, clammy.
“Are you the man we’d contact about filing a mining claim?” I asked. A last bit of legitimate due diligence.
“We are who you would contact,” Mr. Khaki said. I ignored him.
“Sir?” I asked again toward the smiling government official.
Luke spoke behind my shoulder in Tok Pisin. It came as harsh, demanding. The government official returned the same. Disgust with each other’s cultural standing or a combination of PNG signals. I’d never know. But the government man did address me in English.
“Yes. Yes, you will contact me.”
Enough. I’d met the players, learned their human and equipment assets. Obtained a grip on the lay of the land in the bush. While here in Kiunga, someone had lit a fuse. A clandestine fuse with geopolitical intrigue on the menu. Everything a mystery, a façade.
I was out of their world. But behind the spy-city motif spread across this veranda, people pulled strings. Turned gears. Jules’s message resounded. It was too strange, too convoluted for a simple mining evaluation. And the white-hot warning spark I held inside on every engagement flared. I was being played.
