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 certain 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 you 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.
"I think I know him." The lead sat back in his chair and reflected.
Seriously? This man knew Tristan? Dismay vied with illogical relief.
"I was his platoon leader, my last tour in Afghanistan. I think it was his first. Anyway, back to Coenen's warning. Who is the girlfriend he mentioned, and was she there, too?" He sat forward again.
"Yes, she was, standing next to Tristan and clutching a stiletto while he watched the stingrays get fed," she added shortly. "And then, of course, he had to pet them. Her name is Irena Kapova—you know, the famous ballet dancer who defected from the Soviet Union in the mid-eighties?"
Calhoun had covered his mouth with a hand as though to stop himself from commenting on Tristan's deplorable lack of awareness.
"Coenen told me Irena used to be KGB."
The lead's silver eyebrows shot to his hairline, and he dropped his hand. "KGB?" He looked like he might laugh.
"I don't know if he was just trying to scare me, but it makes sense that Renata and Coenen would have ties to a Russian agent, right? Coenen lives with her in the Russian Hill neighborhood. Maybe they've known each other since the Cold War."
"Did she act like she would knife Tristan right there in public?"
Recalling the smirk on Irena's face, Juliet relived the fear she'd felt at that moment. "Yes. She momentarily showed it to me. Coenen said Irena would take great pleasure in slitting his throat or just shooting him." Juliet barely masked her shudder.
"What does Tristan say about that?"
"He doesn't know," she admitted after a slight pause.
"Why not?"
She had asked herself that question at least a hundred times in the last two days. "I don't want him getting hurt, that's all. As long as Tristan's not around me, he's safe," Juliet insisted.
Her attention was drawn to Calhoun's long fingers as he drummed them on the edge of his desk. "If someone threatened to slit my throat, I'd sure as hell like to know about it," he stated.
She swallowed down her rising guilt and didn't answer.
Picking up a pen, Calhoun scribbled a note on a yellow notepad before looking up at her. "You've been very helpful, Ms. Rhodes." He laid down his pen and pushed his chair back.
Realizing the interview was over, she handed Renata's bio back to Calhoun, shouldered her purse strap, and stood up. "Thank you for working on this."
"I'll be in touch," he said, following suit and shaking her hand. "In the meantime, if there's anything you remember later, please don't hesitate to call." His firm grip conveyed a depth of concern and a sincere willingness to help. "Like I said, our primary suspect is Renata Blumenthal, but we'll look into your allegations and see what we can piece together."
"Thank you." With a parting smile, Juliet retreated through the closed door to pick up the escort who'd waited patiently in the outer office. That woman walked Juliet through the process of turning in her badge and returning to her car in the visitor's parking area.
As Juliet drove away from the facility, she had to admit it was nice to have the help of an inter-agency task force. Honestly, though, Hack and Hilary would probably find proof of Renata's connection to Hans Coenen before anyone else did.
* * *
Standing behind her office chair, Hilary watched in admiration as Stu filled all four of her monitors with photos and data pertaining to Irena Kapova. Not wanting to distract him, she kept her mouth closed and her eyes open. The tan length of his sturdy neck distracted her. Lured toward the clean scent emanating from his skin, she inclined her head and drew a deep breath. Stu tensed, then tipped his head to give her better access.
They were supposed to be seeking evidence of Renata Blumenthal's and Hans Coenen's familial relationship. Upon her return from the NCTC an hour earlier, Juliet had delegated them that task and promptly departed for the gym to work out.
Stu had balked. Pointing out that nothing short of an SNP-based autosomal DNA test could prove consanguinity, he'd suggested they test Coenen's assertion that Irena Kapova had worked for the KGB. He had promptly set about reconstructing Kapova's history.
Hilary found the work tedious. She would much rather brush her lips over the jugular vein pulsing at the side of Stu's neck. Yielding to temptation, she flicked her tongue over the sensitive spot, pleased to find his skin both sweet and salty. At his sharp inhalation, she raked her teeth along the path she'd licked and felt him shiver. Her confidence soared. Tonight would be the night, Hilary decided. She had played the demure maiden long enough. Stu had overcome his inherent shyness. Their consummation of passion was inevitable.
Taking advantage of Juliet's absence from the office, she ran her fingers through his thick hair and sighed. His dark gaze rose from the monitors to gauge her intent.
"Sorry. Am I distracting you?"
His gaze dropped from Hilary's eyes to her mouth, driving a shaft of desire through her. The air seemed to thicken as he realized, perhaps, that her restraint had reached a snapping point. Juliet would be at the gym for at least another hour. They could have sex right there.
"I don't think Kapova was ever KGB." Stu clung to his purpose with commendable tenacity. "She wouldn't have had the time. All she ever did, from the age of four on, was dance."
Nothing could deter Hilary from her sensual exploration. Moving her hand to the front of Stu's shirt, she released the top button, then the next one. "Maybe the Irena who defected is an imposter."
"Doubtful." Stu's voice deepened. "She looks the same at sixty as she did at age ten."
Sliding a hand under his shirt, Hilary zeroed in on a stiff male nipple and circled it intently. "Maybe the real Irena had an evil twin who took her place."
Stu's concentration visibly disintegrated. Without warning, he hooked an arm around Hilary's waist and hauled her across his lap. She gave a squeal of approval. The chair rocked beneath their combined weight but didn't fall over.
His impulsive response aroused her beyond bearing. "Stu," she exclaimed, planting fevered kisses along the hard line of his jaw, "I really can't wait much longer. Please take me!"
His grip tightened. If the hard column riding the curve of Hilary's thigh was any indication, Stu couldn't wait much longer either. Capturing her lips with his, he bestowed a kiss so blistering her toes curled, and her panties became wet.
"Lay me down," she whispered. "Lay me on the carpet and take me." Peeking through her lashes to measure Stu's response, Hilary caught him sneaking a peek at his watch.
He lifted his head with a look of raw regret. "I have to go," he said.
"What?" Surely she had misheard.
"I told Tristan I'd pick him up at the airport. His flight lands in thirty minutes."
Hilary froze. Stu hadn't mentioned Tristan's name since making the Unbreakable Vow. "You waited until now to tell me this?" Her voice rose in proportion to her plummeting disappointment.
"I'm sorry." But Stu's tone made it clear he was sticking to his plans.
Suddenly indignant, she struggled free, gained her footing, and planted herself before him, arms akimbo.
"Have you forgotten what you promised?"
He shook his head, avoiding her gaze. "Nope."
"What are you not supposed to tell Tristan?" Hilary demanded.
"That Coenen threatened Juliet."
"Right." A portion of her indignation waned.
"I won't tell him," Stu pledged.
Mollified by his calm assurance, Hilary reconsidered the evening's potential. "So you're just picking him up at the airport and taking him somewhere, and that's it?"
Stu hesitated. "Not exactly. First, we're meeting Jeremiah for drinks. When we leave, I'll drive Tristan to Juliet's to get his motorcycle. He left it in her parking garage."
Hilary pressed a fist to her aching stomach. "You're going out with the guys," she stated.
When all Stu did was sit there, she whirled away from his gaze to conceal her devastation. The wishing stone on Juliet's file cabinet resembled a couple locked in a passionate embrace.
Behind her, the office chair squeaked as Stu rolled out of it. Coming up behind her, Stu tentatively encircled Hilary with his arms. Tears sprang to her eyes.
"I have to go," he said.
Part of her wanted to yell Don't bother coming back, but Hilary wasn't ready to end their affair before it even began. "Remember your promise," she begged him.
Glancing at the tears that rimmed her lashes, Stu dropped a kiss on her lips and released her. On his way to the door, she saw him check that his phone was in his belt clip and his keys were in his pocket.
"How am I supposed to get home?" she asked as he reached the door.
Given the look on his face, he hadn't considered her need for transportation.
"Forget it. Juliet can give me a ride. Just go, or you'll be late." Hilary waved him away so she could cry alone.
With a guilty nod, Stu turned and let himself out.
Hilary hugged herself as the door closed behind him. She'd never been the type to demand that a boyfriend abandon his friends and devote himself exclusively to her. Besides military men were especially close-knit, sharing a bond that rivaled matrimony for its intimacy. She would not begrudge Stu that.
But if he told Tristan what he'd sworn to keep secret, she would know she'd never be his first priority. And that would break her heart.
"Please keep your promise," Hilary whispered.
* * *
Juliet tapped out the old combination at her door only to recall that she had changed it the morning after her return from California. Regret pierced her. So much for the hope that Tristan was sitting in her apartment with his feet propped up on her coffee table, waiting to demand that she take him back.
At this point, sleep deprived and lonely beyond words, Juliet probably would take him back. Luckily, since he didn't know the new code, there would be nothing to test her resolve.
Tapping out the new number sequence, she shoved her door open. Silence filled the dark rooms beyond the foyer. Her blinds had remained closed all day because she hadn't had the desire or the energy to open them before heading to the office.
Rolling her eyes at her pathetic moping, Juliet flicked on the lights as she shut and locked the door behind her. She hadn't realized when she'd walked away from Tristan how much she'd come to rely on his sunny disposition to brighten her day.
Work was her only refuge from loneliness. In fact, she might have stayed at the office all night if Hilary hadn't informed Juliet—rather huffily—that Stu had gone to fetch Tristan from the airport, so she needed a ride home. Hearing that Tristan was in the vicinity and planned to swing by her building to pick up his bike had made Juliet's heart beat erratically all evening.
What if Tristan stopped by to see her? Then, again, why would he? He had made it clear at the aquarium that he would never come crawling to her. This was what she had wanted, to be left alone.
Stepping out of her pumps, she plodded barefoot to the kitchen, dumped her purse on the counter, and opened the refrigerator. Why was she now hoping Tristan had changed his mind?
"I'm not," Juliet insisted while she glared at the paltry contents of her refrigerator. Breaking off their affair was the best possible thing for Tristan. Juliet was moody, inflexible, and secretly insecure. Tristan deserved better than her. If he had any sense of self-preservation, he would grab his motorcycle and ride away.
Still, she hoped he wouldn't.
Juliet grabbed a Dr. Pepper from the fridge before flopping down on the sofa in her living room, where she recalled the thrill of a stubborn Tristan tossing her upon it.
That day, he'd gotten what he wanted—to spend some of his vacation with Juliet. Look how that had turned out. She couldn't be his other half. It didn't matter that they looked good together. That they were good together. Juliet lacked the faith it took to believe that nothing bad would happen to him.
Her fear went beyond the thought of what an aging KGB agent could do to him. Life had a way of throwing curve balls, and Tristan's career was dangerous enough as it was. Fear that he would be snatched away from her as violently and unexpectedly as her parents dwelled deep within her psyche, and it would never go away.
"God, I have issues," she sighed, taking a swig of her soda.
A rap at her door put an end to her lamentations. Only Tristan would have knocked that hard.
With a cry of hope, Juliet set the drink can on the coffee table and raced for the door. Emotions collided in Juliet—relief, anxiety, contrition, joy.
Maybe Tristan would give her one more chance. Maybe she could get counseling for her issues. Afraid he might change his mind if she took too long, she flipped the lock without glancing through the peephole and hauled the door open. "Tris—" Her smile of welcome fled.
Standing before her, holding a large, flat, rectangular object wrapped in brown paper, was Renata Blumenthal. The woman looked far less welcoming wearing a pair of black slacks and a black knit top. Renata's pale eyes noted Juliet's response as she reached for the door jamb to counteract her shock.
"Ms. Blumenthal," Juliet exclaimed.
"You missed our appointment this morning," the woman stated with a tight smile. "So I came to you, instead." Producing a silenced 22-caliber pistol from behind the package, Renata aimed it at Juliet's pounding heart. "The least you can do is invite me in, dear."