Kirk Russell - Redback

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.

Marquez 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.

The 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.