Fog of War

Chapter Twenty-three

Costa del Sol or Sunny Coast in southern Spain was still quite pleasant, even in the fall, true to its name. The temperature was sixty-nine degrees, and a soft breeze came from the Mediterranean Sea. The warm waters had plenty of swimmers, the gentle waves splashing against the golden sandy beaches.

The area of Puerto Banus attracted mostly the rich and the famous, local and international celebrities. It was a place of money, power, and prestige. The place Claire Johnson had chosen to spend her holidays.

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.

Justin aimed his pistol and fired a single shot. The bullet hit the man in the left thigh. He fell back for a second, but managed to stay on his feet. His submachine gun sprayed bullets, but they were off target. Justin slipped to the front of the truck, then raised his pistol again. This time the bullet found the man’s chest. The submachine gun flew out of his hands and fell next to his dead body on the road.

Only now Justin noticed the screams and the glares of bystanders. People got out of their stopped cars and stood on their balconies. A few were pointing at him. Others were looking to the left.

Justin stared in that direction. His eyes caught a glimpse of a red Vespa turning into a back alley. Now she really wants to get away. He tucked his pistol back into his shoulder holster and broke into a sprint.

Having no illusions he could keep up with the scooter, he cut through the nearest alley. He ran hard and fast, almost crashing a few times into pedestrians or vehicles. As he came to the other side of the building, the Vespa was nowhere in sight.

He took a moment to pause and think. Johnson had turned left, heading toward the marina. Her boat. Is she going there? Or is she tricking me? He had to make a fast decision. After drawing him into a trap, he decided Johnson was not returning to her yacht. But she was headed toward the marina.

Justin remembered the layout of that part of the city. The marina stretched for a few city blocks and Ribera Road ran parallel to the shore. She’s going for another yacht. Maybe a more powerful one. He remembered seeing a few one hundred-foot yachts anchored near the marina entrance. Yes, that must be her plan.

He began to run toward the marina. As he came to Ribera Road, he heard loud shouting coming from one of the marina piers. A woman’s voice was giving orders to a couple of men on a large yacht. She was threatening them with a pistol.

It was Johnson.

Justin hastened his pace, his feet hardly touching the ground.

Johnson turned her head around. She noticed him. A gunshot rang out. The front glass of a store in front of him exploded in a hail of sharp slivers. Justin fell behind a parked car. Two bullets banged against a wall, feet away from him.

Justin moved forward using parked cars as his cover. He glanced through the glass of one of them. The yacht was still there with the two men on board. Johnson was not on the pier.

“Where did she go? Where did she go?” Justin shouted at the men.

“She took the jet ski,” replied one of them.

He pointed to the right side of the yacht. The whine of a jet ski engine and the water spuming arch showed Justin his target’s location. Johnson had an advantage of about fifty yards.

Another jet ski was on a carrier tied to the pier.

“The keys,” Justin asked the men, “of that jet ski.”

One of them handed them over. Justin jumped on the carrier and pushed the jet ski into the water. He slipped the key in, punched the green start button, and pulled the throttle lever. The jet ski — a newer model Yamaha — jumped into action. Water spurted out of the back. Justin began to ride the waves.

His jet ski picked up speed, and the warm waters sprayed his face. Justin gripped the handles, his legs tight around the seat. He cranked up the engine, cutting through the gentle waves.

Johnson zipped over the surface of the water. She turned right, heading for a large catamaran sailing about a mile away from the shore. Justin fingered the throttle. The jet ski leaped forward, and Justin bounced on his seat.

Johnson must have noticed him trailing behind her. She slowed down and raised her right arm. Justin instinctively ducked on the jet ski, then made a sharp left turn. He clung to the handles as the jet ski almost tipped over.

If Johnson had fired a shot, she missed. Justin twisted on his seat, then pulled the throttle. The jet ski responded by climbing out of the whirlpool around him. He stared ahead.

Johnson was still waiting for him. Her right arm moved, but Justin did not feel the bite of the bullet. He leaned to the left, putting the jet ski between him and Johnson and eased on the throttle.

The water splashed his face and blinded him. He cleared his eyes with his left sleeve, which was also soaked.

Johnson was on the move.

Justin followed the line of foam trailing behind her jet ski. He steered clear of the waves formed by her, carving instead his own course, about six feet away from hers. His jet ski was leaping and bouncing as he kept his finger pressed on the throttle.

Johnson was almost at the large catamaran flying the Spanish flag. Justin kept his steady path, hoping to catch up to Johnson before she boarded the vessel and took hostages.

“C’mon, c’mon,” he shouted.

His finger hurt, the shape of the throttle lever cutting into his skin. The jet ski was going at its top speed, sixty miles per hour. His feet were planted hard on the jet ski’s rubber footwells, but the water had turned them slippery. He struggled to keep from falling off.

The rumble of Johnson’s jet ski died down. She was docking near the catamaran. A man appeared on the deck. Johnson was waving her arms, then pointed toward Justin. The man seemed to nod, then disappeared. A moment later, he tossed her a life ring. Johnson grabbed it, and the man began to pull her and the jet ski.

“No, no, no,” Justin shouted.

He was not sure if the man could hear him over the roar of his machine.

Johnson began to climb the ladder near the catamaran’s stern. As soon as she was on board, she turned toward Justin. She raised both arms in a shooting position. Justin eased his finger on the throttle and turned the handle just an inch. He plunged forward as the jet ski lost speed and responded to his command.

The first bullet struck the right side of the jet ski. Justin went for his pistol. Johnson recalibrated her aim and fired another shot. This one missed. Justin fired a quick burst. Johnson dove down. Justin waited for her to pop up, sweeping the entire side of the catamaran with his gun.

She stood up close to the bow. Justin fired a hurried shot and missed. Johnson fell back.

He gunned the engine and reached the catamaran. He put his left foot on the jet ski’s handles and leaped high. As he landed near the stern, a bullet bored a hole in a large cooler behind him, inches away from his shoulder.

Justin scurried for cover behind the cooler. He checked his gun. Locked and loaded. His shoulder was scrapped, probably by a sliver from the gunfire.

He crawled around the cooler and a few boxes, making his way to the other side of the catamaran.

“Justin,” he heard Johnson’s voice. “You relentless bastard. You never stop, do you?”

A gunshot punctuated her words. It came from the bridge deck cabin.

Justin moved closer to the cabin. He looked through one of the windows but could not see her. Her voice put her a few steps away on the port side. She must have just stepped out of the cabin.

“Justin, I know you can hear me, you coward.”

He resisted the urge to respond and give away his position. Instead, he stood up and took another quick peek through the window. He saw Johnson moving slowly on the walkway between the hull and the bridge deck cabin.

He waited until Johnson took another step. Her head came in full view of the window glass. She crossed through the doorway inside the galley and crouched low beside the stove.

“Drop the gun,” Justin shouted.

Johnson turned her head toward his voice and fired a quick shot. She missed. The bullet shattered the window. A sliver sliced through Justin’s left cheek, missing his eye by an inch. Blood gushed out of the wound.

He returned fire blindly through the window. A three-bullet burst. He smelled gas. A bullet must have pierced the stove’s propane tank.

“Gas leak,” he shouted. “Johnson, get out of there.”

Johnson stood up. Her gun was pointed at him.

Their eyes met for a second.

Justin hesitated, his finger on his pistol’s trigger.

“Drop the gun,” he shouted again.

“Or what? You’re going to kill me?”

Justin kept his eyes on Johnson.

Johnson blinked, then pulled the trigger.

The entire cabin exploded in a massive fireball. The blast threw Justin against the catamaran rail and overboard. He fell head first in the water six feet below.

The salt water flooded into his mouth. He was drowning, but his survival instinct kicked in. He pushed himself around and began to swim upwards, toward the surface. He came up above the water, almost out of breath. He spat and coughed, clearing his mouth and took a few deep breaths.

His face felt hot, very hot. The smell of smoke and burned flesh filled his nostrils. Floating debris from the explosion filled the water around him. Fire continued to eat away at the catamaran.

Justin began to swim toward the catamaran’s stern. He found it difficult to move his left arm, which slowed him down. His right leg also had developed a kink, right above the ankle. I must have injured it during the fall.

As he reached the stern, he clung to the ladder and struggled to climb up. Aboard the catamaran, it looked like a war zone. A pile of burning rubble stood in the place of the cabin. He saw a human leg sticking out from underneath the pile.

He heard water splashing on the other side. The man who had helped Johnson board the catamaran was struggling to stay above water.

“Help! Help!” he shouted.

Justin jumped into the water and swam fast to go to the man’s rescue.

“Relax, relax,” Justin said. “And breathe. I got you.”

The man’s head was bobbing in and out of the water.

“You’re gonna be OK. I got you.”

The man made eye contact with Justin and nodded. He stopped thrashing and began to dog paddle.

“I’m right behind you,” Justin said, approaching the man with caution. He was worried the drowning man would panic and drag them both under water. “Relax and swim. Yeah, like that.”

The man nodded. His head was staying above water, although he was breathing with difficulty.

Justin reached the man and placed his right arm under the man’s armpits. “Swim toward the boat. That way.”

A big wave covered them both. The man began to flail and kick. He slipped away from Justin’s arm and disappeared under water.

Justin dove in. He found the man three feet away and took hold of his arms, pulling him toward the surface. Once his head was above water, Justin let go.

The man spat out mouthfuls of water. He shouted and cried, beating his arms and kicking his feet.

Justin kept his distance, calling out to the man to calm down and swim.

Another wave splashed against them, but their heads stayed above water.

Justin drew near the man and attempted to rescue him again. The man was calmer this time. Justin locked his arms around the man’s body and slowly began to bring him toward the boat. The man almost slipped his grasp a couple of times, but Justin was able to hold on to him.

Five minutes later, Justin pulled the man aboard the catamaran. It took a big effort to climb each step of the ladder, but finally, they lay over the stern.

Justin leaned over the man still struggling with his breathing. His hair was singed, and his face and white shirt and shorts were blackened by the fiery explosion. Burnt marks marred his arms, and he was bleeding out of his left knee.

“How are you feeling?” Justin asked.

The man opened his eyes and looked around. He spat and coughed and spat again. “What… what happened here?” he asked between gasps.

“The cabin must have had the perfect mix of propane and oxygen. When she fired her pistol, a spark lit up the mixture.” Justin’s attention was glued to the human leg underneath the burning debris.

“I’ve… I called the police before the explosion,” the man said.

“I’ll call an ambulance and the firemen. We can still save your boat.” Justin gave him a tired look. “If there’s still a phone somewhere around here.”

The man’s breathing was calmer, more regular. He was going to make it.

Justin stood up and gazed at the shoreline. Then he walked over and looked at Johnson’s body buried under the rubble.

“I wish it ended differently,” was all he said.