Kirk Russell - Redback

Neither looked back much. Whatever they were here for was ahead. The barest first edges of the coming spring showed as mud and a softening of the snow in the sun between the trees. In many places were larger snow banks and the trail moved through forest and then climbed steeply, switchbacking up, and higher on to exposed rock. The wind blew hard off the Andes. It scoured away the early clouds and cut through Marquez’s clothes. His boots crunched through snow and slid on wet rock.

At roughly the five mile mark his radio no longer reached Verandas. He got only static. Ahead, strands of cirrus whitened the sky above the high peaks and he watched as Stoval and the other man rose through a long stand of trees to a saddle. They walked close together, Stoval carrying his gun with an easy confidence. They moved higher and into a longer stretch of trees and he saw only flashes of their clothing, the red bandana, the back of Stoval’s dark blue coat, and beyond them the dark gray rock of a ridge ahead. When Marquez reached the saddle he followed their boots’ prints through the snow, saw where they’d tromped through a muddy patch and picked up the rockbound trail again.

The trail left the trees and climbed a steep rock slope toward a knife blade of a ridge. It steepened and the snow among the rocks was windblown with a hard smooth crust that broke under his weight as he left the trail and worked sideways. He didn’t know if they’d hiked over the ridge and down the other side, or were on top, so he stayed below the crest. When he climbed up he was well down the ridge, away from their line of sight, and edged up. He stayed low and now with binoculars he saw them easily. They stood behind a granite outcropping and above them eagles circled raggedly in the cold wind.

Stoval watched the eagles, and as the guide pointed out two condors flying toward them from out across the deep forested valley ahead, his attention left the eagles. The condors were still small at this distance, but their wingspans were striking. They held a clean line cutting cross to the wind. They looked thick-shouldered and dark as they neared. Spring melt had begun and winter-killed carcasses were becoming exposed, so maybe they were searching for food.

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.

Someone 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.