Redback (30 page)

Stoval’s right hand left his coat. He broke the shotgun open, loaded, and swung the gun up in a smooth arc. The silver inlay on the stock flashed in the sunlight as the long clean shadows of condor wings swept over ridge rock and Stoval shot the lead condor. The echo of the discharge rolled out over the mountains. Feathers scattered. The condor folded and fell.

He only wounded the second bird and it tried to fly back toward the valley, but it faltered and then tumbled and fell, dark, small, and lost among the trees. The eagles fled with the first shot and as Stoval broke apart his gun and removed the spent shells, the wind-scoured sky above was an empty bright blue.

What do you say about a hunter who kills condor in the age of the last great creatures of the wild? Marquez watched the guide hike across the rocks to the first bird and strip the tail feathers. He bundled them carefully and eased them shaft first into the pack, folding the flap back so it wouldn’t damage them on the hike out. The other bird was too far away to go after. It wasn’t worth the effort and it didn’t matter. They got the one, so it was a successful outing. They rested with their backs against the rock of the outcropping and the guide opened wine and cut dried meat and Marquez read the Malbec label on the wine bottle as it balanced on a rock. He read Stoval’s face, content and cheerful, enjoying the moment, gun propped there near him, and the other man talking and smiling.

They hiked out, picking up on his tracks as they did and watchful now. At the trailhead, they studied Marquez’s car and another in the lot before loading their gear and leaving. Call it whatever you want, but Marquez waited before going to his car. He radioed Verandas. Verandas could see where the dirt trailhead road intersected the paved road and reported what Marquez had guessed or sensed. The Range Rover was yet to turn on to the paved road.

Almost an hour later, Stoval walked out of the shadows at the curve of the road and into the sunlight near Marquez’s rental car. Before driving away from the trailhead Marquez saw him stow his shotgun, but now it was back under the crook of his right arm as he stood jotting down the license plate of the car. Then he looked straight ahead up into the trees. Slowly, his head turned toward the left until he was looking at where Marquez was hidden. There was no way Stoval could see him, but it was strange and disturbing. He stared for several minutes before the Range Rover rounded the corner. Then he climbed in and they drove away. Minutes later, Verandas reported them turning onto the paved road.

SIXTY-FOUR

S
omeone had followed them and Stoval ran through the possibilities. He’d found tracks as they hiked out and it could be the local game warden trying to be clever and trailing him in a rental car. Or it could be as simple as a tourist, but that was unlikely with this weather this time of year. It could be an enemy or someone hired by an enemy. That was always possible.

After dropping the guide, Alberto, on a street corner in Bariloche, he called a source in Buenos Aires, recited the license plates and listened to the clipped British accent as it was repeated back to him. Then he drove home. He was in his study when the source called back. Of the two cars, one vehicle belonged to an older local man. Stoval ruled him out and focused on the rental car. The car had been rented in the name of a corporation, not an individual.

‘I need the individual’s name.’

‘I’ll get it.’

Within two hours he heard back.

‘Rented through an arm of the US State Department, so probably a cover car, but I don’t have a name yet. I’m still working on it.’

‘Thank you.’

Stoval hung up. So a US government agency was playing. He could deal with that. In truth, it relieved him. He had a Russian mafyia problem that was worrisome and needed resolution. The Russians could be impatient. They might come after him before that was settled and he considered calling and ending the dispute today. He made another call now, this one to a police officer. The Lake District had a number of hotels, but not so many that narrowing it would take any length of time. He gave the officer the make, model, and license plate on the car, and knew the man would be thorough.

‘I want an identity. I want to know if there’s more than one and if so where they’re staying.’

When he hung up, he emailed the Russians and offered to settle. At dusk, he still hadn’t heard back from the police officer and called him.

‘What did you learn?’

‘I found the car, but not the driver yet. But he’s male. The car is at the airport and there were two men when it was dropped off. I found someone who saw them. They did not come into the airport building. A man drove the car up, parked it, and another man picked him up. I checked with the rental agency and they say the car has been returned.’

‘But the man did not go into the airport?’

‘No, they had another vehicle ready and waiting for him. One of the employees brought him out the keys, but she’s off work and has gone home.’

‘I need a description of him.’

‘No one could give me one.’

‘Then find the woman who brought the keys to him.’

‘I’m looking for her.’

‘And get a list of all cars rented from the airport today.’

‘That’ll take more time. I still have other duties. I have other things expected of me.’

‘Then make up an excuse.’

Stoval hung up and he did not get the list until the next morning. Then he saw his feeling was correct. Two more cars had been rented by the corporation; the first one returned with a complaint about its handling, the second with some other excuse and yet under the same corporate name, BestMat Ltd. They suspected he’d check so they swapped out cars. That was fine. He did not have any problem with that and he might even enjoy hunting them down.

Two airlines flew in and out of Bariloche, Aerolineas Argentinas and LAN Airlines. If the men were US government, and he suspected they were, then he could ignore flights to Calafate or Esquel. It would be Buenos Aires. They would come direct. They would hub from there and work in the blunt stupid methods of government agencies. Aerolineas had three Buenos Aires flights a day, four hundred forty-one seats, and LAN two, three hundred twelve seats. He made the call to the airport at mid morning. He expected a name or names by this evening. After he knew who he was dealing with, he would decide how to deal with them.

SIXTY-FIVE

M
arquez got a warning before he called the local game warden. The warning was, ‘Chole Joulet is a great warden but he drinks too much, he’s combative, and takes it all too personally. Not everyone likes him and he’s too tough on hunting guides. He shot and killed three poachers in one firefight and if they hadn’t been foreigners he wouldn’t have a job anymore. He’s a zealot, passionate but half-crazy. He’s more muscle than brain. Stay away from him, he’s normal one day and the next day he’s three hundred miles away chasing someone who was over limit trout fishing. He doesn’t have any internal guidance system, if you know what I mean. Can you see yourself chasing people hundreds of miles over a few fish?’ There was a pause, a search for a more accurate description – ‘Picture a roving gang looking for trouble, that’s Joulet. He gets up in the morning, goes out and looks for trouble.’

‘How will he react to a shooter taking out a couple of adult condors?’

‘That’ll punch his ticket. He lives for that shit.’

Marquez met Chole Joulet in a Bariloche bar. He figured to have a couple of beers with him, find out what it was like covering all this open country, and then let him know what he’d witnessed. That meant pushing the boundaries a little and Verandas was against it, but Desault said it’s yours to shape, so now after taking in this warden with his black mustache, chiseled cheekbones, and bullfighter build, he bought him another round and ordered another beer for himself. He suggested they take a table.

At the table he showed Chole his creds and said, ‘I was a game warden for fourteen years. I’m still a warden but I’m attached to an FBI task force right now. We’re chasing a guy who traffics in black market wildlife and hunts anywhere and anything he wants. He lives here. You probably know him. Emrahain Stoval.’

Chole nodded and some of the glitter went out of his eyes. He glanced down at the table, at his hands, at his drink, and then back at Marquez again.

‘Dangerous man.’ He slid his chair back and pulled his left pant leg up, showed big scars on his left calf. ‘Stoval.’ He dropped the pant leg without explaining. Chole wore a gray, long-sleeved, waterproof shirt with an insulated shirt underneath. The pants were also part of his gear and what he walked around in when he was off work. Looking at him, Marquez guessed he lived his job.

‘Who gave you permission to be in Argentina?’

‘It’s an agreement between the governments, but we’re not here for long.’

‘I don’t need any help from Americans.’

‘I know, no one does anymore, but Stoval just came from the US and he killed a couple of bighorn in my territory a few months ago. I’ll follow him wherever he goes.’

Chole liked that. It brightened him right up and he grinned. But the grin didn’t last and they were still where the conversation could go either way.

‘I saw him shoot two condors here.’

That got immediate interest.

‘He collected the tail feathers from one. He goes anywhere he wants in the world and trophy hunts.’

‘I’ve heard what he has.’

Marquez didn’t understand what he meant by that. He waited but Chole didn’t elaborate.

‘I shot videotape of them hiking out with the condor feathers. I’ll turn that over to you. Maybe you can do something with it.’

Chole shrugged.

‘It’s yours anyway.’

The arms unfolded. Chole said, ‘What is your name again?’

Marquez reintroduced himself and Chole, who had looked at the FBI creds before and not bothered to read his name, studied them closely. It hadn’t mattered to him and now it did, so maybe they were going to get somewhere after all. Marquez put his hand out and said ‘John Marquez.’ As they shook hands he felt the strength in the big man.

They had more drinks. They talked about wildlife enforcement and he told Chole about the SOU. Then they took it back to Stoval and sitting at the table across from this warden who in many ways was not much different from him, he had an idea.

Chole Joulet looked tough. He looked like he could walk from here to Buenos Aires and it wouldn’t bother him. He said in the summer he often slept in the mountains. There was an office in Bariloche, but he never went there. He reached in a pocket and pulled a cell phone, checked it and slipped it in his pocket again. He told Marquez now that he used a dirt bike and a four-wheel drive. He relied on his radio. He had some alliances with park conservation wardens, but most of the working day he was on his own. He was used to that and Marquez understood completely. He said he lived alone in a house outside of Bariloche and patrolled his territory constantly. They seemed to like him here in his favorite bar, so he couldn’t be that kind of drunk. But he could be that kind of experienced, resourceful, hardnosed but smart warden type Marquez was looking for.

There was a dark light in Chole’s eye when Marquez said, ‘I’ll go anywhere Stoval goes. I’m going to get him.’

But what Marquez was thinking was this. Desault gave me license. Desault has talked to Bureau headquarters and they’re interested in expanding the wildlife enforcement angle, and this is how to do it, find the wardens like Chole. Build a new team. Build an international team. The fight crosses borders so I’ll form a band of wardens from across the world and they would need to be like this guy, resilient and unafraid. Like Shauf. Like others he’d known. He thought of a Canadian warden in BC. Others were out there. He knew a Kenyan warden. South Africa had an elite unit. They were out there. They were in India and Australia and New Zealand. He thought of a Brit named Jameson. He drank from the beer and thought, an experienced team that can move fast, the tough ones, and let the Department of Justice or State Department work out the alliances in the countries where we go in to help. He’d find the hardened wardens, the ones that wouldn’t quit. He’d know them on sight and if the Feds would back him he’d take it all to another level. Marquez felt excitement as he turned the idea.

They had a final drink then left the bar. As Chole walked away, Marquez zipped up his coat and turned up the collar. The night was very cold. The night was the start of something and he felt things moving. At midnight he took over from Verandas, and then was alone in the darkness of trees on a dirt road a half mile from Stoval’s hacienda gate and a very long way from home.

SIXTY-SIX

T
he next day they flew in a spotter plane alongside a forested ridge and looked down on Stoval’s estate. A black ribbon of road climbed two miles from the gate in the valley to a plateau fringed with fir and pine and bare stands of
lenga
, the local beech. Marquez counted six buildings and took in the plateau with its remarkable view of the Andes. He picked up the spotting scope, turned to the pilot.

‘That fenced area down there with the track running to it. That looks like it’s on his property. What is it?’

The pilot didn’t know and acted like he didn’t want to know. With the spotting scope it was easy to follow the dirt track crossing the plateau and dropping into the trees. He saw a stream silvered now in sunlight and the track picking up on the other side. He turned the scope on a fenced area. The fence cut through forest. Trees had been logged so they weren’t too close to it and that said animals to Marquez. He tapped the pilot.