“Agent Bloch is in a meeting,” the assistant had said, when Annabel turned up at the front desk.
“That’s all right,” Annabel said.
The assistant looked irritated but said nothing. Only a polite nod, an offer of coffee. Then she whisked out of the conference room, leaving Annabel alone. She didn’t mention how to find her or where the bathroom was or how long Annabel could expect to wait.
Finally, at noon, a knock came at the door. Agent Bloch entered, an accordion file beneath one arm. He’d cut his hair, Annabel noticed. She wondered how he’d had the time to do that in the middle of an investigation. But then, maybe he’d done it himself. His hair was cropped close to the skull now, a military cut. He could have done it over the bathroom sink with an electric razor. He seemed like the type who might cut his own hair. His clothes, his mannerisms, his glasses: all of it was utilitarian. She wondered what his apartment looked like. Blank white walls, she suspected. No feeling of home.
Annabel rose to her feet. She tried to smile.
“Thank you for seeing me,” she said. “Perhaps I should have called first. I just knew if I didn’t come today, I’d lose my nerve.”
Bloch nodded. He gestured for her to sit. “I’m sorry you had to wait. Julian White mentioned you might have some questions about the investigation.”
“Yes.” Annabel paused. Now that she was here, she wasn’t sure why she had come. This morning it had seemed urgent, so much so that she had run through the Genève-Cornavin train station as though her life depended on it. She stared at the file under Bloch’s arm. “Are those photos?” she asked. “Of the plane?”
“Photos, yes. Black box recordings. Interviews with airport personnel and the report from the plane manufacturer. You’re welcome to look at any of it. We want you to feel satisfied that the investigation was thorough.”
“I’m sure it was. I just—”
“You needn’t explain yourself, Mrs. Werner. It’s natural to have questions.”
“Thank you. I don’t know why I want to see the photos, really. I suppose it doesn’t feel real to me yet.”
“There’s no right way to approach this kind of loss.”
“Have they stopped looking? The search parties, I mean?”
“Yes. Earlier this morning. I’m sorry.”
Annabel managed a nod. Though it was what she expected, hearing it aloud knocked the wind out of her.
“The search was extensive. Jonas Klauser insisted upon it. In fact, he offered to fund a continued search himself.”
“I didn’t know that. That was kind of him.”
“We would have continued looking if we thought there was anything more to find.”
“May I?” Annabel gestured at the file.
“Yes, of course.”
Bloch produced a thin stack of images. He slid them across the conference room table to Annabel.
She ran her hand over the top image. It was an aerial view of a ridged mountaintop, covered in snow. She peered closer. The ridges were debris, she realized. A wing, broken in half. The round barrel of plane fuselage. Twisted pieces of metal lay on the pristine white snow like sculptures, like an art instillation. The sun glinted off the edges. It was almost beautiful, she thought. If you didn’t know what you were looking at. The final resting place of her husband. She felt bile rising in the back of her throat. She closed her eyes for a second, steadying herself.
The next few photos showed the debris in greater detail. A catalog of broken plane bits. Some of the images were pixelated and dark, hard to interpret. Like Rorschach inkblots. Annabel stared at one, her eyes tracing the curve of what at first looked like a human skull, a body curled in the fetal position. But the longer she looked, the less human it appeared.
“That’s a window,” Bloch offered. “Of the plane. We look closely at where the damage occurred to the body of the jet. It helps us determine the cause of the crash.”
“What’s this?” Annabel pointed at a white piece of metal. She picked up the photograph, narrowed her eyes. Letters were barely visible at the upper edge. They disappeared on the curve of the plane, in the reflection of the snow. Something about it struck her as familiar. “JKE,” she murmured aloud.
“You have a good eye. That’s hard to read, even for me.”
“I’m a curator. Or I was in a past life. I spent a lot of time looking at small details in photographs and paintings.”
“Where did you work?”
“At Christie’s, for a while. In the Impressionist department. Then later at a gallery. I got my master’s at Yale.” Annabel blushed. She didn’t know why she felt compelled to give this man her résumé. To be taken seriously, she supposed. She did that more often now. In New York, she didn’t feel the need to credential herself. But then, in New York, she had an answer to the question: What is it you do?
“You don’t work here in Geneva?”
“No.”
Bloch nodded. “Most of the expat wives don’t.”
Annabel tried not to read into that statement.
“Here is one of the search team.” Bloch pushed another photo in front of her. A group of men in bright orange suits, surrounding the side of the plane. A few held ice axes, most wore helmets. The sky behind them shone like an iron curtain. “As you can see, this is a challenging area to excavate. The plane crashed into the western face of the mountain, below which is a sheer drop of several hundred meters. Particularly in adverse weather conditions, it can prove difficult even for the most seasoned search team to reach the site and to recover wreckage.”
“They were able to find the black box, though.”
“Yes. Here, just below the wing. I can explain to you its contents, if you like.”
Annabel scanned the photograph. Her mind whirred as she processed it. Something about it felt not quite right. Her eyes fell again to the lettering on the plane. Then it clicked.
Annabel stood up. “That’s all right. Can I keep these?” she said, picking up the photographs.
“Well, technically those aren’t—”
“Matthew had a life insurance policy. And they’ve asked for a death certificate and all these other documents and I just want to make sure I’m giving them everything they need. It’s really quite overwhelming, all the paperwork.” Annabel was lying and she hoped Agent Bloch couldn’t tell. She stared nervously at the table, waiting for a response. She didn’t know why she’d said that, about the life insurance. It was just the first thing she’d thought of. And she needed to leave this room with those pictures.
Agent Bloch hesitated. “That’s fine.”
“Thank you so much.” Annabel slipped the photos into her bag and extended her hand.
As she turned to leave, Annabel paused. “May I ask one last question?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Do you happen to have a picture of the plane? Before the crash, I mean.”
Agent Bloch frowned. “No, I don’t think so. Would you like me to try to locate one?”
“No, it’s all right. I was just wondering. I appreciate your help.”
“You’re welcome, Mrs. Werner. They say a storm is coming in from the north. The snow is picking up already. You didn’t drive here, did you?”
“I took the train. I’ll be fine, but thank you.”
“Get home safely, Mrs. Werner.”
Annabel nodded and mumbled something in thanks. She checked her watch as she made her way down the hall. If she caught the next train, she could make it to the research library in Geneva before it closed.
* * *
• • •
ANNABEL SAT ALONE in the microfilm room. Two students had been there for most of the afternoon, but they had left around dinnertime. Now her head throbbed from fatigue and hunger, and her eyes ached from staring at a lit screen. Annabel didn’t care. She was used to studyi
ng images down to the pixel. She had an eye for it, a natural ability to assess minute detail, which had been honed over her years in the art business. Today, it had paid off. After hours of fruitless searching, she had found what she was looking for. It was there in front of her, in black and white.
She turned the knob, enlarging the image. Then she held up one of the photographs that she had retrieved from Agent Bloch. It was not the same photo, as she had originally suspected. The image on the screen appeared to have been taken later in the day. The mountain face was dappled in long, dark shadows, and there were fewer rescue workers around the site. In the first image, the one given to her by Agent Bloch, Annabel counted twenty-three men in orange suits. In the image on the screen, only nine. But it was the same plane. She was sure of it. The crack down the middle of the plane’s midsection had the same ridged edge; a dismembered wing lay on the glistening snow, sheared cleanly from the body of the plane. The angle of the camera in the second image showed the lettering on the side of the plane more clearly: JKE.
It was an act of sheer willpower that Annabel was able to translate the newspaper article from German. The version she had read on the internet, before her meeting with Agent Bloch, was abbreviated, translated into English for the Daily Mail. She already knew the depressing statistics: the plane was a Gulfstream G450, which had flown out of the Netherlands and crashed in the Alps, almost exactly one year to the day before Matthew’s plane went down. There were no survivors. At the time she’d read it, she hadn’t wanted to know more.
But now, she wanted to know everything. The plane, she read, had crashed in the Bauges Mountains, just east of Chambéry.
The wreckage was spotted atop Mont Trélod.
The plane was part of the Royal Netherlands Air Force. Koninklijke Luchtmacht in Dutch. That explained the JKE emblazoned on what was left of the plane’s body. The last three letters of KONINKLIJKE.
After an intensive search, the black box of the plane had been recovered. It indicated a failure in the ice protection system. A common occurrence, the article said, in private jets of this size.
Annabel felt her hands shake as she hit print. In the corner of the microfilm room, the printer whirred to life. Annabel hurried over, snatched the papers off the printer as they came out. They were still warm as she tucked them away in her bag.
“Arrête ça, madam.” A voice behind Annabel stopped her in her tracks.
“I’m sorry?”
A man with a mustache and ink-stained fingers glared at her from the doorway.
“You cannot print items from the microfilm without a library ID card or a university pass.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. How can I get one?”
The man gestured impatiently at the clock overhead. “It’s too late now. The circulation desk closes at five p.m. You’ll have to come back tomorrow.”
“No, no. I’m happy to pay for it, but I need this article tonight.”
He pursed his lips. Finally, he held out his hand. “Let me see, please.”
Reluctantly, Annabel handed over the article.
The man licked the tip of his finger and counted out the pages. “Five pages. Fifty cents, please.”
Annabel dug through her purse, hoping to God she had fifty cents. At the bottom of her bag, next to her ChapStick, she found a single euro. She handed it over to the man. “Keep the change,” she said, and took the article out of his hand before he could protest.
“For the future, please get a printing pass,” the man called after her, as she hurried down the hall.
She turned into the stairwell and collided with a man wearing a backpack.
She fell backward, landing squarely on her behind. The strap of her handbag slipped from her shoulder, and its contents scattered across the floor.
“Je suis vraiment désolé.” The young man knelt down and began to collect the photographs off the floor.
“C’est bien.” Though her lower back smarted from the fall, Annabel popped up. She snatched the photos out of the man’s hands and shoved them back into her bag. He glanced up, eyes wide. Annabel felt a twinge of embarrassment at the sharpness in her voice. “Merci beaucoup,” she said. “C’est ma faute.”
“No, I was rushing,” the man offered in English. He gestured down the hall. “Is that the microfilm room?”
“Yes. They’re closing now.”
“I should hurry, then.”
“I hope you find what you’re looking for,” Annabel said, and began to descend the stairs.
* * *
• • •
TWENTY MINUTES LATER, the young man emerged on the front steps of the library. It was dark outside, and the landscaped grounds were silent. He looked both ways. Annabel Werner was gone.
As he crossed rue De-Candolle, he pulled out his phone. “She had quite a busy day,” he said to the man on the other end of the line. “First she was in Bern, visiting Agent Bloch at Fedpol. He gave her photographs of the crash. A whole stack. She has them in her bag. Then she spent several hours at the library.”
“Looking for what, exactly?”
“She left with a printout of an article. About a plane crash from last year. Similar statistics. G450. Crashed in the Alps, no survivors.”
“Why, do you think?”
“Maybe she suspects that Agent Bloch hasn’t been entirely forthcoming about the details of the accident.”
“There’s something off about Agent Bloch,” Jonas Klauser said. “I’ll have someone look into it. Do you have a copy of the article?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring it to me. And keep following her. I want to know her every move. Where she goes, who she talks to. I want to know what she’s thinking.” Then: “Any update on Matthew’s computer?”
“No, sir. It hasn’t turned up.”
“Perhaps it was on the plane with him, then.”
“I don’t think so. According to Amir security, he didn’t have it with him when he left for the airport.”
“All right. Keep looking. And stay on top of the wife.”
With that, Jonas hung up the phone. Andre Lamont hopped onto his moped and sped off into the night.
Marina
There was more security at Charles de Gaulle Airport than Marina remembered seeing. Everywhere she looked, there were police in blue berets. There were soldiers in fatigues, too, patrolling in pairs with intimidatingly large firearms.
“What do you think is going on?” Marina whispered to Grant as they waited in line to have their carry-on luggage scanned. “This place looks like a military base.”
Grant shrugged. “I find it reassuring. At least they take security seriously.”
Marina nodded, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off. There was a tension in the air that crackled like electricity.
“This line hasn’t moved in ten minutes.” Marina nodded at the queue ahead of them. She went up onto her tiptoes, trying to determine the source of the holdup.
“You need to relax.” Grant put his hand on her shoulder and dug his thumb into a pressure point. “You’re tired. I’m sorry this flight is so late. It’s the best I could do.”
Marina groaned. “Oh my God. That feels so good.”
“I had us scheduled for a couples massage at the hotel tomorrow. But since we’re missing it, I had Rachel book us one in the city instead. I thought it might be nice for you after the flight.”
Marina narrowed her eyes in mock suspicion. “What’s wrong with you?”
“What’s wrong with me?”
“I’m serious. There has to be a catch. You’re handsome and smart and funny and possibly the most thoughtful man on earth. There has to be a catch.”
Grant chuckled. “I have plenty of flaws.”
“Name one.”
“I’m a very hairy person.”
&
nbsp; “I think that’s cute. You’re like a pet.”
“I eat a pint of ice cream basically every night.”
“Also cute.”
“I work too much.”
“Preaching to the choir.”
“I should work out more.”
Marina shook her head. “Guys that work out all the time are boring. You’re in great shape. Perfect. Best butt I’ve ever seen.”
“You should have seen it when I was in the navy.”
“I did. Once. I asked you out. Remember?”
“Go.” Grant patted her on the behind. “The line is moving. You’re up.”
Marina patted him back and winked. She felt lighter now. Happy, even. Grant had that effect on her. She slipped her bag off her shoulder and put it onto the scanner’s conveyor belt.
Grant’s bag came through the scanner first. Marina watched as he slipped on his shoes, put his laptop back into the bag. The couple behind them retrieved their belongings, too, and headed toward their gate. Marina frowned. The line was moving efficiently now, but there was no sign of her bag.
“Excusez-moi,” she called out to the guard behind the scanner. “Ou est mon sac?”
“I’m sure it will just be a minute,” Grant said, putting his arm around her waist.
Marina ignored him. She stepped closer to the scanner. “J’ai besoin mon sac,” she said, louder this time.
Marina felt a tap on her shoulder. A stern-looking police officer stood behind her. “Madam,” he said, flashing a Police Nationale badge, “please come with me.”
Grant stepped forward. “What is the problem here?”
The officer looked directly at Marina. “You need to come with me.”
Marina took a deep breath. People around them were staring. “It’s all right,” she said to Grant. “I’m sure it’s nothing.”
The Banker’s Wife Page 6
