"Better get to class." With a parting nod, the agent drove off.
Gary threw an arm over Tristan's shoulder. "You want to tell me why she took off on you?" he prodded gently.
"Not really." The pressure filling his chest suggested he might start crying if he did.
"Hey, but now you have a reason to talk to her. Maybe you could mend things," Gary suggested.
Tristan's thoughts went back to the way Juliet had rejected him on the patio of the aquarium. His pride stung all over again. "Nah." He'd get the message to Hack, who would pass it along. Looking down at the card in his hands, he frowned at familiar-looking name.
Gary squeezed his son's shoulder, went to say something more, and said instead, "Let's sprint the rest of the way. I've got to get to class by 0900."
* * *
"Stuart, I need you to promise me something."
Stu was busy noticing that the meals listed on the menu were printed both in alphabetical order and by price, from least to most expensive. The statistical odds of those two criteria coexisting had his brain crunching numbers to determine the exact ratio.
"Sorry, what?" he asked, dragging his attention to his lunch companion's earnest expression.
They'd ordered drinks already, and Hilary was clutching a sangria the same color as her hair. Sunlight shone through the umbrella overhead, bathing them both in a soft blue light.
She spared a glance for the other professionals enjoying lunch in downtown Fairfax, a block from her office. Stretching her small hand across the table, she covered Stu's and said again, "I need you promise me something."
Hilary's intensity made him instantly wary. As infatuated as he was, he'd agree to anything, which wasn't the best scenario for making reasonable choices. "Promise you what?"
Hilary worried her lower lip. "I can't tell you until you make The Unbreakable Vow."
The allusion wasn't lost on Stu. He'd read all the Harry Potter books over the course of his childhood. "How can I do that if I don't know what I'm promising?"
She frowned in disapproval and released his hand. "Then I'm not telling you anything," Hilary retorted.
Stu's curiosity niggled. He tried to guess what it was she wanted him to promise. "Can I get a hint?"
"No. If you don't make The Unbreakable Vow, you can't help me anymore with my work. You'll have to go home."
Her words both startled and dismayed him. Leave now when their relationship was just beginning? Was that what Hilary wanted? Both the drooping corners of her mouth and the pleading look in her eyes assured Stu it wasn't.
He reconsidered her request. Keeping information confidential was practically second nature to him, so why not agree? "OK, I'll promise," he said.
Relief lit her face, and Hilary reached for him again, seizing his wrist in the manner that J.K. Rowling described in The Half-Blood Prince. Mirroring her grip, Stu engulfed her wrist in his hand and let her turquoise gaze ensnare him.
"Do you, Stuart Rudolph, solemnly vow not to tell Tristan Halliday that Juliet is still investigating Coenen?"
Stu could sense a trap about to spring. He'd learned from Hilary that Juliet and Tristan were no longer seeing each other. He could only assume Juliet didn't want Tristan knowing her business anymore. He could respect that, so he said, "I do."
Hilary eyed him more severely. "Do you swear never to tell Tristan that Coenen approached Juliet in secret at the aquarium in Monterey?"
And there was the snare. Tristan would probably want to know that. "How could that have happened?"
"Juliet went outside to take a call from Renata Blumenthal. Tristan stayed inside by the touch pool, so he could pet the stingrays. He never saw Coenen. Swear it," Hilary added, "or else we probably shouldn't see each other until after Coenen goes to jail."
Considering the odds against Coenen ever going to jail, Stu figured he had better quickly swear, though he needed more information first. "What did Coenen say to Juliet?"
"He threatened to unleash Kapova on Tristan if she didn't leave the past alone."
"Kapova?"
"She was inside the building, standing near Tristan holding a stiletto in her hand. Coenen told Juliet his girlfriend used to be KGB. He said Kapova would either shoot Tristan or slit his throat if Juliet continued to investigate him."
Uneasiness settled in Stu's intestines. He was confident Tristan could hold his own against two aging Cold War operatives. Still, his teammate ought to be made aware of a threat against his life. "Is Juliet going to tell him?"
"Of course not. If Tristan knows Coenen threatened Juliet, he's not going to stay away, regardless of any risk to himself. He could end up getting hurt, or worse, killed, and she doesn't want that. That's why you can't say anything."
Stu stared at Hilary, suddenly torn.
Her grip tightened. "Do you ever want to have sex with me or not?" The question compelled a woman at the next table to turn and stare at them. Hilary promptly blushed.
Oh, Stu wanted sex. Being denied at this point would probably result in his slow death from sexual frustration. "I won't tell Tristan," he promised, hoping he never regretted those words.
Hilary beamed at him. "Thank you." Releasing his hand, she sat back just as a college-aged waiter ducked under their umbrella to take their orders.
"What can I get you?"
Stu glanced at the menu. Distracted by his buzzing phone, he selected the first entrée on the list before checking to see who was calling. Tristan, of course. Glancing up at Hilary's watchful gaze, he decided he'd better let Tristan leave a voicemail.
"Was that Tristan?" Hilary asked as soon as the waiter departed with their orders.
He wasn't going to lie. "Yes," he admitted. Stu's phone chimed, letting him know Tristan had left a voicemail.
Hilary glanced down at it then back at him. "Aren't you going to listen to that?"
At her urging, he accessed the message, keeping his expression as blank as possible while absorbing its lengthy content.
"What did he say?" she prompted when Stu pulled the phone from his ear.
"That there's a task force keeping watch on Renata Blumenthal already. The lead wants Juliet to call and talk to him. Tristan's going to text me the contact information."
Hilary's eyes widened behind her lenses. "I knew it!" she exclaimed. "Blumenthal is one of Goebel's minions."
His phone chirped as the text message arrived.
"Let me see that?" Hilary requested, pulling out her phone to copy the name and number of the task force lead. "Juliet's going to freak when she hears this," she asserted. "Did Tristan say anything else?"
"Not really." Stu kept the second part of Tristan's message to himself. The Golden Boy would be flying into Dulles Thursday evening. Tristan was hoping Stu could pick him up at the airport, then hang out with him and Jeremiah at a popular Irish pub in Fairfax.
Stu was planning on it.
Having a band of brothers who enjoyed spending time together was the best part of being a SEAL. Why shouldn't he spend a night out with the boys while he was on leave?
But what if Hilary didn't see it that way? What if she automatically assumed Stu was breaking his promise by hanging out with Tristan? At the risk that she would end up denying him his boys' night out, Stu kept the invitation to himself.
Uneasiness caused him to break into a light sweat. Damn it. He was already regretting that vow.
Chapter 18
"Were you a SEAL?" Juliet asked the man behind the massive mahogany desk. The trident, prominently displayed in the military medals case behind him, had caught her eye as she lowered herself into one of the armchairs facing his massive desk.
Isaac Calhoun, the Taskforce lead, had "invited" her to the National Counterterrorism Center to discuss what she knew about Hans Coenen. His ruggedly handsome features betrayed a hint of respect for her awareness. "Yes," he said, but his tone did not invite more personal questions.
He looked like a SEAL, ultra-alert and in terrific shape. But whereas a cer
tain other SEAL would have put Juliet at ease by smiling and saying something humorous, Isaac Calhoun struck her as super serious. He was likely also a devoted family man, given the number of framed pictures of a pretty woman and a toddler, and his apparent disinterest in Juliet's looks.
"Let's talk about Renata first," he began, opening a thick file on his desk and flipping through it. The day before, when she'd called Calhoun at Hilary's urging, he'd made it clear Renata Blumenthal was his primary target. However, since her boyfriend Goyle/Goebel may have directed both Renata and Hans Coenen's actions, Calhoun agreed to look into Juliet's allegations that Coenen had murdered her parents.
He handed her several pages from the file. She set them on her lap, tucked the facility badge that dangled from a lanyard around her neck out of the way, and skimmed the contents. They appeared to be observation notes, dating back to 2015.
"We've been monitoring Blumenthal's activities for a couple of years. Nine months ago, we placed an agent on the inside to attend her community meetings. He keeps us informed of developments."
Juliet nodded. "She was holding a meeting the day we toured the murals."
"There's one every second Sunday," he confirmed. "Attendance at Renata's gatherings has tripled in the time our agent's been in place. At every meeting, she extolls the virtues of Marxism and encourages social protest—nothing illegal about that. Our Constitution guarantees freedom of speech. What's alarming, however, is the number of juvenile delinquents participating in the program. They get a kick out of painting their struggles with society on the walls of buildings. Apparently, 'beautification' of the city qualifies as community service."
Calhoun's derision was so understated, Juliet wondered if she'd imagined it. "The courts have funneled dozens of young offenders her way, but they don't leave once they've completed their service hours. They flock to her center every second Sunday. Now and then, they rally for a protest. It all looks very commendable on the surface. With more than three hundred disciples, though, she's starting to make the local law enforcement nervous."
A thought shifted in Juliet's mind at the mention of juvenile delinquents. "Wait. Before his retirement from the SFPD, Hans Coenen won an award for getting gang members off the streets. I wonder if some of them wound up in Renata's program?"
Calhoun tipped his head the same way Tristan did when pondering a new piece of information. "We'll talk about Coenen next," he promised, trading the pages he'd given her for another set. "Have a look at Blumenthal's bio."
Calhoun gave her a moment to skim the pages before commenting, "Nothing about her upbringing explains her political extremism. Parents emigrated from West Germany right after World War II. They settled in western Illinois, and she grew up on a farm, attending public school and a Lutheran church."
Juliet tried to picture Renata's childhood as he'd described it. "You mean she was born in the United States?"
"Affirmative. July 15, 1958."
Juliet mulled that over. "Why would she speak with a German accent if she's a native English speaker?"
Calhoun's green eyes narrowed at her question. "She has an accent? Our agent never mentioned it."
"Probably because it's faint. If you don't know what you're listening for, you may not hear it, but I can. My mother spoke the same way."
He sat back, crossed his arms, and gestured for her to finish reading.
Juliet flipped the page to find a group photograph on the last page. "Do you have any more pictures? I'd like to see Renata as a child."
"That's the only one, taken from a yearbook published by the school she attended. Apparently, her parents' home burned down, destroying all the photographs from her childhood."
"How convenient," Juliet murmured, holding the page closer to her eyes to focus on the girl's face circled in red marker. A boy at the front of the group held a sign identifying the children as Mrs. Markle's fifth-grade class. Renata would have been about ten. Seeking some similarity between the unremarkable girl in the photo and the striking proprietor of The People's Eyes, Juliet saw that while the girl pictured was fair-haired, her eyes were far darker than the pale orbs that had regarded Juliet so keenly the weekend before.
With rising excitement, Juliet looked up at the lead's watchful expression. She brandished the photo. "If this child is Renata Blumenthal, the woman calling herself by that name has stolen her identity," she asserted.
Her words didn't seem to surprise Calhoun. "We've suspected as much," he admitted. "Question is, who was she before she became Renata?"
The gears had been turning in Juliet's head since the mention of the juvenile delinquents in Renata's program. "Well, I have an idea," she said, drawing the envelope she'd brought with her out of her purse and handing it to Calhoun.
He opened it and pulled out the contents. "This is the letter you told me about," he said, referring to their phone call. "And your parents' marriage certificate." Calhoun looked up at Juliet. "I have to tell you, I looked into your story, and it checks out."
He'd spoken with the U.S. Marshal's Service, then, about Anya Ausfeld and Gerard Brause, just as he'd said he would.
"Good." At least he would know Juliet had been honest and upfront with him. Watching Calhoun peruse the letter, she directed his attention to the pertinent information. "In the second paragraph, my mother describes how the older brother of a college friend recruited her. Mom's friend became a spy, as well. The older brother mentored and protected the two young women. He took them through the Wall at least once to visit Dieter Goebel.
"Mom wrote that her school friend fancied herself in love with the spymaster. Two years later, when Anya confessed her espionage to my father and the intelligence authorities, she warned her colleagues so they could flee to the East and avoid imprisonment. In spite of her forewarning, I doubt they viewed her defection as anything but the deepest betrayal. They had every reason to want to kill her."
Calhoun looked up from the letter. "And you think Coenen was the older brother of your mother's friend?" he guessed.
Juliet had considered that possibility for some time. However, the realization that Renata Blumenthal was likely Bergit Coenen had only just occurred to her. "Yes, except the last name of Coenen is probably an alias. He and his sister, Bergit, came to the United States with South African papers. My mother never named them in her letter, although she would have identified them to U.S. intelligence officers when they debriefed her. I have a thought," Juliet added, scooting to the edge of her seat to articulate her latest suspicions. "I think Bergit may have taken on a second alias."
Calhoun's green-as-grass eyes narrowed with interest as he waited for her to proceed.
"If Hans and Bergit are the brother and sister pair she described, immigration shows them coming to the States just before the Wall fell. Goebel was already in prison. Suppose, at his behest, they settled in Arlington, where my father's parents lived, so they could hunt my mother down and take revenge for her betrayal. Being in love with Dieter Goebel, naturally, Bergit would have wanted to follow his orders.
"While in Arlington," Juliet continued, "Coenen found a job with the police. His sister, Bergit, on the other hand, got into trouble and was accused of murder. Rather than face the justice system, she disappeared, possibly fleeing to Chile, where she recently bought one of Goebel's paintings at auction. Did you know he was a painter?"
"No," the Taskforce lead admitted.
"That was something he, my mother, and Bergit all had in common. They were all artists. Anyway, I assumed Bergit Coenen was in Chile all this time. Now I realize she wasn't." A tingle of excitement skittered up Juliet's arms to crawl across her scalp.
"When Goebel gained asylum and moved to San Francisco, she would have wanted to join him there, assuming she still loved him. By adopting the identity of a girl with scarcely any record of her childhood, Bergit arrived in San Francisco as Renata Blumenthal. Together she and Goebel could spread their Marxist ideals, with him keeping a low profile and her in the leading role. Are y
ou with me so far?"
Calhoun's expression hadn't changed one iota. "I'm with you," he agreed, causing Juliet's burgeoning excitement to expand. "Especially since the real Renata may have perished in the fire that destroyed her home."
Juliet's excitement mushroomed. Proving Hans and Bergit Coenen murdered her parents seemed suddenly attainable.
"She called me," Juliet continued, relaying the gist of her conversation with Renata two days earlier while at the aquarium in Monterey. "She was expecting me to show up at the center this morning so she could show me the rest of Peter Goyle's murals. I guess I missed our appointment."
"She has your number?" A crease appeared between Calhoun's silver eyebrows.
Juliet's thoughts went briefly to how ingeniously Renata had acquired it in the first place. The woman must have recognized her as Anya's daughter and quickly sought a way to follow her movements. Specialized equipment for tracking the global positioning of a cell phone was easy enough to purchase. As a P.I., Juliet owned such equipment herself.
"Well, not anymore," she assured him. "Hans Coenen threw my phone onto the rocks at the aquarium. I haven't replaced it yet."
Calhoun sat forward, betraying an interest in her statement. "The aquarium? I thought you met with him at Rockaway Beach. McNulty forwarded your digital recording."
"I did. But Coenen followed me to Monterey. Renata must have given my number to him, which enabled him to find me—on more than one occasion," she added, kicking herself for not realizing it earlier. "He showed up seconds after my call with Renata." Recalling Coenen's seeming friendliness even as he'd sought to blackmail her, Juliet shivered involuntarily. "He told me if I didn't stop persecuting him—those were his words—he would unleash his girlfriend on Tristan."
"Tristan Halliday, right?" Calhoun interrupted.
The weight of regret pressed upon Juliet's breastbone. She'd been doing her best not to think about Tristan, let alone draw him into her story. "Yes, he's a SEAL, actually, a friend of my sister's husband." Her gaze darted to the trident in Calhoun's display case.
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