Justin raised his binoculars and looked at Lazy Affaires, the yacht Johnson had rented to sail along with her three girlfriends. It was a brand new seventy-five footer, which could do up to twenty-five knots. A true beauty.
CIS had traced all calls from Johnson’s four cellphones and had monitored her two laptops, concluding she was the source of the leak. She had used a number of anonymous Internet e-mail accounts and had left shadow messages — draft messages in an account shared with others — for al-Shabaab members. She had successfully hidden the location where the leaked intelligence was dropped until now.
Justin’s orders were simple and straightforward: detain Johnson and put her on a plane to Ottawa, so she can stand trial for treason. If she resisted, he was authorized to seek the cooperation of local police. He preferred to resolve this in-house, just him and Nathan.
Johnson and her girlfriends had partied hard last night in Marbella. Nathan had observed them stumbling back to their yacht around two-thirty in the morning. They had stayed inside until Justin had taken over the surveillance shift at six that morning. There had been no movement in the yacht during his first hour, then Johnson had climbed out on the deck. She was wrapped in a pink housecoat that fell down to her knees. She took in some fresh air, stretched, and paced around. She had reappeared again five minutes later with a mug in her hand, from which she sipped slowly while perched on the bow of the yacht. Then she had returned to her cabin.
Justin had followed all her moves from his white van, parked on Ribera Road across from the marina. Nathan was catching a couple of hours of sleep at their hotel a few blocks away. Justin hoped Johnson would not be on the move before Nathan’s return.
Must have read my mind, he thought, as Johnson came up again on the deck. She was dressed in a yellow-and-red sundress, had done her make-up and had fixed her hair. She glanced at the pier, then unlatched the yacht’s ramp. She swaggered proudly toward the parking lot.
Justin slid down in his passenger seat. His eyes followed Johnson, while his fingers dialed Nathan’s cellphone number. He was not answering. Come on, Nathan. Pick up the phone.
Johnson disappeared behind a cluster of palm trees and a Range Rover. Justin put the van in gear and drove forward a couple of feet, so he would not lose her. Johnson appeared on the other side of the SUV and stopped next to a scooter. A shiny red Vespa. She took a set of keys out of her small handbag and turned on the scooter. She produced a helmet from a compartment under the scooter’s seat.
Nathan said nothing about her ride. Nathan, where are you?
Johnson was already on her Vespa and zoomed across the parking lot. The streets were not very busy yet, so Justin put some distance between his van and her scooter. Johnson drove down Ribera Road, heading east.
The scooter made a left turn, and Justin slowed down, so he would not appear in Johnson’s side mirror. She was out of the Service, but thirty years of spy tradecraft did not just disappear at retirement. Johnson would figure it out right away a white van was on her tail.
Justin glanced at the red scooter. It stopped before turning right at Julio Iglesias Avenue. His eyes followed the zooming Vespa through the thin palms of the nearby park and alongside the avenue. It was an easy mark. He stepped on the gas pedal.
A traffic circle came up around a giant statue. The scooter rounded it a bit faster than necessary, while Justin kept the same speed. Johnson turned her head to check over her shoulder before changing lanes. The van was about a hundred feet behind her scooter, the only vehicle in that stretch of the road. Justin signaled right and began to park on the side of the road, so Johnson would not think the van was following her.
The scooter slowed down and did not change lanes. It seemed Johnson was observing his van. Justin kept his head down, hoping the windshield would shade him from Johnson’s gaze. He fiddled with the steering wheel.
The scooter finally began to move, but it was going fast. Justin recognized the Service’s tactic of speeding to draw out a suspected tail. His dilemma was to blow his cover and give chase or stay parked and lose Johnson. He picked the first option.
He slammed on the gas pedal. His van missed an incoming convertible Audi by inches as it entered the lane with a big swing. Fishtailing and wheels screeching, Justin turned the steering wheel. He straightened the wheels and raced behind his mark, now a small red dot in the distance.
Johnson had to be going at over seventy miles an hour, since Justin was up to sixty and still falling behind. The van was built for space, not speed. It groaned as Justin pressed his foot to the floor, but it slowly picked up its pace. The scooter was still a long way ahead, the shiny chrome reflecting the bright sun rays.
Then it disappeared.
Justin blinked rapidly, scanning both sides of the road. He found the Vespa on the pedestrian median, on the left side of the avenue. Johnson had used a crosswalk and had zigzagged her way onto the median. It was a simple feat for her small scooter. Justin began to look for a space large enough for his van between vehicles parked along the median. He would soon lose Johnson, especially if she decided to change direction, which is what she did at that same exact moment.
A small opening came up ahead behind a small Fiat, and Justin turned the steering wheel sharply to the left. The van responded a second too late. Its right side banged against the rear of the Fiat, breaking a window and triggering its alarm. Justin hit the brakes, and the van stopped with a big jolt.
He glanced at the scooter. Johnson was driving straight ahead on the median, dodging benches and palm trees. Justin’s foot found the gas pedal, and the van climbed onto the median. It began to regain speed. Justin kept it on a steady course. He tapped the brakes to avoid flattening an elderly couple still reeling from the shock of the scooter flying by too close to them. He swerved right, then left, as the van came to an island of shrubs and palm trees in the middle of the median. The van rattled, threatening to topple over. Justin eased on the gas.
The scooter cut a sharp turn to the right, crossing to the other side of the avenue. Justin had to force his way once again through parked vehicles and the flow of traffic. The front left side of the van destroyed the back end of a Smart car, pushing it away as if it were a toy. A jeep crashed into the back of the van, shattering a window. Justin lost control of the van, which spun around in a half circle.
He gripped the steering wheel and fought to steer the van in the right direction. The whiplash had caused him to lose his mark. He glanced around for the red Vespa and spotted it straight ahead. It’s still there? Like she’s teasing me. Why isn’t she on the sidewalk? Or disappearing into a back alley?
Justin had no time to fully analyze his situation. He felt something was wrong, but he had to continue the easy-looking chase. The scooter shot through the rest of the avenue, then returned to Ribera Road.
As Justin’s rattling van entered the same road, he realized his mistake.
Johnson had lured him into an ambush.
A black SUV backed up from a side alley, battering the van on the passenger’s side. The crash tossed Justin against the door. His head slammed against the window.
Before he could move, a volley of bullets from the SUV peppered the van. Luck was on his side as no bullets hit him, though plenty broke the windows and pierced the doors. Justin unbuckled his seat belt and threw his shoulder to the door. He hit the ground and rolled underneath a truck parked on the other side of the road.
More gunshots rang, thumping against the truck’s doors. Justin unholstered his pistol. He got to a crouching position behind the truck and took a peak at the SUV. A thick-built, young man was running toward him with a small submachine gun in his hands.