Chapter 5
Tristan eyed the George Mason University campus across the street from Juliet's office with reservation. The substantial buildings, expansive lawns, and tree-lined sidewalks all screamed higher education—an experience he had personally avoided, though his adoptive siblings had both pursued postgraduate degrees.
Students taking advantage of the mild weather lounged on grassy areas flecked with crimson and gold leaves. Making up his mind to tackle the unknown, Tristan crossed the street to cruise a walkway that appeared to lead to the heart of the campus. A hum of intellectual curiosity sharpened the air. Looking at the bright faces of the young adults around him, he realized he was seeing the next generation of doctors and lawyers, teachers and scientists. Suddenly, the future didn't look so bleak.
Would he have become a different man if he'd taken the academic route? As a kid, he'd been too restless to sit in a classroom using only his brain. He'd wanted to challenge his body at the same time. That's what made Special Operations the perfect fit for him. Yes, he'd been the oddball in his family, but his parents had celebrated his uniqueness, and he'd never felt any less worthy. Until now.
He wondered if the young woman coming up the sidewalk toward him could tell he was the by-product of a sexual liaison between a teenage entertainment star and what had most likely been some groupie?
The pretty redhead blushed at his greeting, smiled, and looked away.
Apparently not.
He didn't need to feel like a worthless, unwanted bastard just because Juliet was rebuffing him. His valiant efforts to woo her were evidently failing, even though he'd endured six months of abstinence for her sake. Apparently, that wasn't enough for her. Now she wanted him to meet his birth mother. What next, jump off a bridge?
Arriving at a plaza boasting a life-sized statue of the university's namesake, Tristan followed the stream of students swarming into a building designated as the Johnson Center. He found himself in an atrium-style food court looking up at the second, third, and fourth levels. The building looked more like a luxury mall or a high-end office complex than a college. His gaze snagged on a door labeled Gateway Library, and he wondered if there might be information not readily available on the internet in a brick and mortar library.
Only one way to find out, he supposed. Climbing the stairs, he pushed into the hushed, multi-level library only to come face-to-face with endless shelves of books. He almost turned and fled. But Tristan reasoned if he could ferret out insurgents hiding in the ruins of a bombed city, he could sure as hell find books about the Main Intelligence Directorate for the Stasi and its mysterious leader.
An elderly lady smiled at him from behind the checkout desk. Aha, an informant! He headed straight for her, determined to make an ally.
Ten minutes later, he sat at a window-side table, about to wade through five books on Dieter Goebel. While he'd never been much of a reader, SEAL training had taught Tristan to be observant. Cracking open the first book, he began his quest for information.
The books proved engrossing—various accounts of moles like Juliet's mother, people whose ideals had led them to risk their lives sneaking information through the Wall and into Dieter Goebel's hands.
Setting the first book aside, Tristan realized he'd been reading for an hour.
The second, third, and fourth books contained much of the same information, making them redundant. He pushed them aside. In the fifth, he stumbled upon a chapter devoted to Goebel's artwork.
"Hooyah," he muttered, thumbing through the pages and skimming the passages that caught his eye.
The author had included photos of several paintings from Goebel's private collection, which went to auction shortly after his arrest. On each work of art, Goebel had marked his ownership using the Stasi emblem in lieu of a signature. The author provided a close up of that symbol, along with an explanation.
Goebel inked the emblem of the Main Directorate for Intelligence on the back of every painting in his collection. It consists of a hammer signifying the workers of the Democratic Republic, a compass representing the community's thinking men, and a ring of rye representing farmers, all surrounded by a twelve-point star, for the People's Police, as he was its leader.
With rising excitement, Tristan teased his cell phone out of his pocket and took a photo.
Call him naïve, but his instincts told him this emblem was significant. If, in fact, Goebel had identified all the pieces of his collection in this manner, that might make them traceable.
Tristan sat a minute wondering what to do with his discovery. Hilary would want to know, of course. He pulled out her business card while recalling her comment about Hack. Making up his mind to connect the two techno-nerds, Tristan dialed Hack's number instead of Hilary's. He glanced at his watch while waiting for Hack to pick up.
It was just after four. Tristan had become so caught up in research he hadn't realized the sun was already setting on the campus below him. Juliet hadn't sent him so much as a text. Since she'd never asked for his number, how could she?
"What's up?"
Hack's Vermont dialect always tickled Tristan's funny bone.
"Hey, I'm calling from a library," he whispered, gaining several sharp looks from students close enough to overhear him.
"I can't even picture that," Hack stated after a brief pause.
"It's true. Listen, I'm sending you an image via text. It's the Stasi emblem that Dieter Goebel painted on his artwork to identify it as his. Look him up, and you'll see who I mean."
"I know who he was—head of Intelligence for the Stasi."
There wasn't much Hack didn't know. Tristan shook his head, marveling at the genius's range of knowledge.
"I need you to run a search on the picture I'm sending you. See if it shows up anywhere after 1990. I'll call you later. I'm getting dirty looks."
"OK, but—"
Tristan hung up with a grimace of apology for both Hack and the students glaring at him.
Feeling his stomach rumble, he wondered if Juliet had finished her work yet. He'd hoped they might rent a thriller on DVD that evening and hang out at her place. But after her suggestion that he fly out to confront his birth mother, he had reason to doubt she wanted him around.
Maybe he should fly to California like she wanted.
He sat still a moment recalling Cassidy King's hauntingly familiar features. There wasn't any question she had given birth to him.
He had two weeks of leave, and Juliet didn't want him hanging around her place, so why not go west to meet this woman? If he couldn't find a military standby seat, he could purchase eleventh-hour airfare relatively cheap. On the West Coast, he could try to meet Cassidy King, explore the area, and still have leave time left over on the off-chance Juliet changed her mind.
Making a decision as suddenly as he did most things, he pushed back his chair and scooped up the books to return them to the information desk.
Apparently, you didn't have to be a student to get something useful out of a college library.
* * *
Juliet pushed the door to her dark apartment open and drew up short.
"Tristan?"
It was nearly ten o'clock at night. She reached out and snapped on the lights. Her astonished gaze searched the empty kitchen. Given the silence of her apartment, Tristan wasn't there. Her fluttering pulse subsided while her thoughts went into overdrive.
Where could he be? His motorcycle was still in the parking garage downstairs. She'd expected to find Tristan kicked back on her couch, waiting for her.
All the way home, Juliet had imagined what he'd been up to while left to his own devices. In her mind's eye, he had cooked her something delicious for dinner, waiting with a glass of wine for her and stories about his day. She had plenty to tell him, in turn, about the shenanigans of Rolf Royer's irresponsible and soon-to-be-ex-wife. The woman had spent two hours getting painted and waxed at her favorite boutique. After that, she'd driven her Lexus to a mansion in McLean that happened to belong to a professional football player.
Juliet had sat outside the ostentatious house in her SUV with her bladder about to burst from sucking down two cups of coffee. The woman had finally emerged with her lover still pawing at her under the lights above his doorstep. Juliet had raised her long-range camera just in time to snap off some highly incriminating photos before putting her car in gear and burning rubber in search of the nearest restroom.
She hadn't heard from Tristan in all that time—not that she'd ever given him her number. But he'd probably gotten it from Emma or Jeremiah ages ago. Since he wasn't waiting at her office, which Hilary had locked up tight when she'd left work for the day, Juliet had decided Tristan must have found his way back to her apartment.
Except, he wasn't there.
Maybe she should have texted Jeremiah to find out Tristan's number. Why should she have to keep tabs on him, though? He was the one who'd swept into her life demanding to be her boyfriend.
She paused to consider his behavior. In all fairness, he hadn't ever used that word. Nor had he demanded much of anything from her. He'd driven her to Arlington to meet her grandmother. He'd bathed her and put her to bed. Don't think about that! Her girl parts tingled at the memory. He'd shopped for groceries and cooked breakfast that morning.
And now he wasn't there, which felt very odd because she hadn't expected him to give up so easily.
"Tristan?"
She headed toward her bedroom, hoping to find him passed out on her bed. She knew he'd hardly slept a wink in the past two days. The light blinked on, revealing her empty bed, still unmade from when she'd awakened late that morning.
Juliet wheeled away, marching to her study where Tristan had stowed his duffle bag that morning. Snapping on the light, she stared at the spot on the futon where it had been earlier. The bag wasn't there now, which meant he'd broken back into her apartment to get it, and now he was gone.
Stripped of anticipation, it took her a second to realize Tristan had left a note in place of his belongings. She plucked up the folded piece of paper and warily opened it.
Hey, beautiful. I'm taking the first flight from Dulles to Monterey Regional tomorrow, so I opted to stay at a hotel by the airport. Please look after my bike for me. When I come back, we can finish this. Tristan
She swallowed at the last sentence, her stomach twisting with a mix of relief and consternation.
He'd scribbled his cell phone number at the end of his message, providing her a modicum of comfort. Now she could reach out to him. She'd managed to get rid of him, if only for a while. He'd said he was coming back. And what did finish this mean, exactly?
Balling up his note with inexplicable frustration, she hurled it at the trash bin and stalked out of her study to find some supper.
The contents of her refrigerator offered no inspiration. Fortunately, Tristan had put away their leftovers from breakfast, so she had two pieces of bacon and some toast to grind between her teeth.
As she warmed her makeshift meal in the microwave, she stood with her arms crossed, feeling like a cat with its fur rubbed the wrong way.
Juliet had wanted Tristan out of her life; now he was gone. Why was she feeling so put out?
Because he hadn't given her what her body wanted, that was why. He had primed her for sex with his selfless foreplay the night before, and tonight, he wasn't there to follow through. Damn it!
Her bacon popped in the microwave, and she snatched open the appliance, burning her fingers on the hot plate as she pulled it out.
Ouch! Shit! Hot. Hot. The plate clattered onto the counter where she dropped it.
Oh, wait, she had Tristan's phone number. Should she call him? Text him? What would she say to him—that he hadn't needed to leave so suddenly? He'd already ensconced himself in some hotel so he could take the first flight out in the morning. What was his hurry when he had almost two weeks of leave left?
Was it selfish of Juliet to want to stop him at this juncture? Yes. Obviously. She was the reason he had taken off. Guilt bit into her for making Tristan feel unwanted.
"Way to go, Juliet," she muttered, turning to the fridge to get butter for her toast.
She'd just popped the lid off the container when her cell phone rang. Dropping the knife, she pounced on her purse, pulling out the phone with the irrational hope that Tristan was calling.
Seeing Emma's name on her caller ID, she expelled a ragged breath and answered the call. "Hey," she said. "How'd it go?"
Emma had met their newfound grandmother that afternoon, taking Jeremiah and Sammy with her.
"Oh, my gosh," Emma exclaimed. "It was... so bizarre and yet so gratifying."
"Do you like her?"
"I love her! I can see Dad in her when she talks."
"The eyes," Juliet agreed, picking up the knife again and carving out butter to spread on her toast.
"Exactly. Dad got her eyes, and her intelligence, too. And guess what? She used to teach English at the college level, just like me."
"No way."
"And she's giving me her classic book collection, which she keeps in storage."
"Awesome."
"And she told me so many stories about Dad when he was growing up. He sounded just like you, really into information-hunting. Once, when he was ten, he cracked the case of a neighbor's dog that went missing."
Juliet took a bite out of her toast. The crunch of crisp bread between her teeth drowned out the rest of Emma's story.
"That's interesting," she said, realizing Emma was done talking and waiting for Juliet's reaction.
"Oh." Emma hesitated. "Sorry, I wasn't thinking. You've got company right now."
Juliet stopped chewing. "Tristan's not here," she stated tersely.
"Why not?" Emma sounded puzzled. "Where is he?"
"Some hotel near the airport, about to fly out to California to meet his biological mother."
Emma's muffled voice made Juliet realize she'd covered her speaker so she could relay the news to Jeremiah.
"Emma." Juliet tried to recapture her sister's attention.
"You just let him go?" The shrill voice had Juliet pulling the phone from her ear.
"I didn't let him do anything. I told him where I found his birth mother, and he took off."
"By himself?"
"Of course, by himself. Tristan is a SEAL. He doesn't need anyone holding his hand."
"But—"
"Listen, I'm eating supper right now. Gotta go." Severing their call with a jab of her finger, Juliet laid the phone on the counter and reached for her bacon. Using her teeth to tear it viciously in half, she lifted a brooding gaze to the dark window overlooking her neighborhood.
Tristan was out there, not too far away, lying alone in some hotel room, wondering how his birth mother was going to receive him.
"I don't need to feel guilty for that," Juliet muttered, pulverizing her meager dinner with her molars. But she did. She felt guilty. And cheated. And oddly alone.
* * *
Tristan lurched out of a deep sleep to the sound of his phone ringing. He found himself sprawled face down on the bed in the hotel room, having collapsed there in a fit of despondency over an hour earlier, according to the bedside clock.
"S'up?" he asked, recognizing Hack's number with a pang of disappointment. It wasn't Juliet calling to wish him bon voyage. She was probably glad to see the last of him.
"Oh, were you sleeping?" Hack asked.
Tristan cleared his throat and rolled over, rubbing the grit from his eyes. "Yeah, well, some people do that, you know." But not Hack, who seemed to be up at all hours of the night keeping tabs on terrorists lurking on the internet.
"You said you'd call me back and you never did," Hack reminded him.
"Oh, yeah. Sorry." Tristan had been a bit preoccupied with thoughts of landing on Cassidy King's doorstep unannounced. Plus, he'd been feeling sorry for himself. If Juliet had been so relieved to see him gone, Tristan had to doubt his ability to win her over, even if he was able to track down Goebel through his scattered art collection.
Unwilling to throw in the towel just yet, he swung his feet to the floor and started at the beginning, explaining to Hack why Juliet was looking for Goebel. Right up to the part where her mother had been a mole.
"No shit," Hack exclaimed.
Tristan gave his buddy a condensed version of the facts uncovered over the previous two days, adding that Goebel might have tracked Anya down, exacting revenge for her betrayal.
"I suppose it's possible," Hack commented. "When East Germany crumbled in '89, Goebel got tossed into prison only to disappear right out of it two years later. How he managed his escape remains a mystery. There are lots of conspiracy theories about that."
"Well, fast toward twenty-two years." Tristan interrupted before Hack could dive into a history lesson. "The night Anya and her husband were killed, Juliet saw a stranger peering in one of the windows of the wrecked car, making sure her parents were dead. So the million-dollar question is, could it have been Goebel? Or did he send someone to kill her on his behalf?"
"That's two questions," Hack pointed out.
"Right. But we start with Goebel. Maybe we can locate him by tracking down his art. If he was that passionate about it, he might have tried to reassemble his collection."
"That's not a bad tactic," Hack agreed. "Since he identified these pieces with his mark, there might be some record of them showing up in a transaction somewhere. I'll see what I can find in online art auctions."
Tristan could almost hear the gears turning in Hack's head. "Thanks," he said. "Uh, listen, I'll be on a plane for most of the day tomorrow. If you find anything interesting, you'll need to contact Juliet's assistant. She's a geek like you," he added, "only smoking hot and conveniently available." Unlike someone else who was smoking hot but wanted nothing to do with a relationship.
Hack went warily quiet.
"I'll send you a picture of her business card. She wants to see if you're any better at finding information than she is. I guess she's got a competitive streak. Please call her tomorrow if you find anything. Here's your chance to impress a woman. Go ahead and knock her socks off," he encouraged, picturing Hilary's garter and stockings.
"Come on," Hack mumbled. "You know I can't talk to women."
Hack had been raised by a single mother. He ought to know how to talk to women. "Dude, if I haven't seen you staring at hot chicks, I would think you were gay. Not that I'd care if you were. I'd find you a hot guy instead."
"I'm not gay," Hack insisted.
"OK. Prove it. You still have Oscar, right?" Tristan was familiar with Hack's leopard-sized cat.
"Yeah," Hack said with a question in his voice.
"Send her a picture of him. She's crazy about cats."
Hack heaved a sigh. "Fine," he finally agreed. "Let me have her number."
"I'll send you her contact info now. Get some sleep," Tristan added, ending the call. Taking a picture of Hilary's business card, he forwarded it to his teammate.
Pleased with his matchmaking efforts, Tristan put his phone down, snapped off the light, and laid down only to stare at the hotel-room ceiling. His hopes had been so high yesterday. He'd been sure that after meeting Juliet's challenge to forgo dating for six months she would welcome him with open arms. Instead, she'd deflected his efforts to win her over, then tossed him a bone in an obvious ploy to distract him.
Hell, Hack had more chance of finding happily ever after with Hilary than Tristan had with Juliet.
Heaving a long, despondent sigh, he closed his eyes and fell asleep.