The Banker’s Wife

by Cristina Alger

  Matthew grinned as though nothing at all was wrong. Either he was a very smooth liar or he didn’t think he had misled her. Was he working late? Did work happen at the Griffin’s Club? Annabel wondered.

  “What a surprise,” he said. “This is my wife, Annabel. Annabel, these are clients of Jonas’s. He’s under the weather and asked that I show them a good time tonight.”

  Annabel smiled, a tight smile that was the best she could manage given the circumstances. She noticed that Matthew didn’t ask her to join them, and so the four of them stood awkwardly outside the club, listening to the reverberation of the bass from within.

  “I should get home,” she said, nodding briskly. “It’s been a long day and I’m tired.” She thought she saw Matthew’s guests exchange a look of relief when she said it, but perhaps she was simply being paranoid.

  “I’ll be home soon,” Matthew said. He kissed her on the cheek—a chaste, dismissive sort of kiss—before opening the door for his guests.

  Annabel realized now that Matthew had never said their names. But now she recognized them both: Lorenzo Mora and Fatima Amir.

  “Could I chat with you, Lorenzo? Privately, please.”

  “Perhaps I can offer you a ride home? Once you’re ready to go, of course.”

  “Thank you.” Annabel nodded. “In fact, I’m exhausted. I think I would like to go home now, if that’s all right.”

  “Annabel, there are so many people here who want to speak with you,” Julian said. He put his hand on her shoulder. “And the Klausers—”

  “Jonas and Elsa will understand. It’s been a long day for me.”

  “Of course they will,” Zoe interjected. “Go rest, Annabel. I’ll let them know that you left.”

  “Please thank them for everything.”

  “I will.” Zoe gave Annabel a hug. “I’ll come see you soon,” she whispered, before letting go.

  Annabel kissed Julian on both cheeks and followed Lorenzo to the driveway. A silver Mercedes pulled up and Lorenzo held open the door. Annabel felt a flutter of nerves; she didn’t want anyone—even the driver—to hear their conversation. But once she’d given the driver her address, Lorenzo pressed a button and a tinted glass window slid up, separating them. Finally, they were alone.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You have no idea how much I wanted to get out of there.”

  “It’s my pleasure. You remember me, don’t you? From that night in front of the Griffin’s Club. I was with your husband and Fatima Amir.”

  “Yes.”

  “And you want to know about Fatima, no? That’s why you came over to talk to me.”

  “I . . .” Annabel hesitated. “I just recognized you at first. But I wasn’t sure from where.”

  “Do you know who my family is, Mrs. Werner?”

  “Call me Annabel, please. And no. Well, yes. Just what Julian said, when I asked him who you were.”

  “He told you my uncle was the head of the Mora Cartel?”

  Annabel’s eyes widened in surprise. “No!” she exclaimed. “No, no. Nothing like that. He said your family runs the largest sugar business in the world.”

  Lorenzo laughed. “We do that, too,” he said. Annabel couldn’t tell if he was joking. She forced a smile. Here in Geneva, she’d learned to be discreet about money. There was so much of it here, and not all of it clean. It was always better not to ask.

  “Our family does many things. Mora International has become a many-headed beast. I run Mora Crystals, the sugar business. Have you been to the Dominican Republic?”

  “No, I haven’t.”

  “I live on a very small island off its southern coast. Isla Alma. It’s the most beautiful place on earth. We have a private club there, Cane Bay. I’m away much of the time. Miami, New York, Paris, Panama. But that is where I think of when I think of home. Our sugar plantations are on the main island.”

  “It sounds lovely.”

  “Well, Isla Alma is. The sugar fields are brutal places. It takes a very specific kind of person to work in the sugar business. Someone who is comfortable running things with an iron hand.”

  Annabel didn’t know what to say, so she just nodded. It occurred to her that perhaps she’d made a mistake. She was alone in a car with a dangerous man, and for what? To ask him about a chance encounter on the street?

  “You’re welcome to visit my island anytime. My door is always open to you. I came to Geneva to tell you that. I wanted you to know that you have a friend in me.”

  “That’s very kind of you. Where does the rest of your family live?”

  “My brother runs another subsidiary of our family business in Miami. My sister is in New York. My father lives mostly in Palm Beach. I have one uncle in Paris and another in Venezuela. It is not easy for all of us to agree when it comes to running our various businesses. This is why we came to Swiss United. Jonas is known for being good at navigating complicated family structures. And Jonas trusted Matthew’s judgment, especially when it comes to tax matters.”

  “Matthew was a tax lawyer in New York. One of the best.”

  “I came to rely a great deal on Matthew’s counsel. He had a very calming way about him. Particularly as conflicts have arisen between the older and younger generations in our family.”

  “I always said Matthew should have been a psychologist. People tell Matthew things, private things. It happens all the time. On our first date, I told him about my parents dying when I was young. He has—he had—just the warmest way about him. I’m sorry. I keep using the present tense. It hasn’t sunk in yet. I keep thinking he’ll just walk through the door.”

  Lorenzo patted her hand. “I know exactly what you mean.”

  They were quiet for a minute. Annabel thought she might cry, but her eyes remained dry. She had run out of tears. She had cried them all out. Instead she looked out the window and felt achingly empty.

  “I don’t know why we came here,” she said. “It all feels like a bad dream.”

  “You came to make money. Matthew wanted to buy a big town house in London or Paris or maybe a mansion on the beach in Malibu, retire at forty-five, spend his days with you. No?”

  “I suppose that was the idea. Nothing so grand as a town house in London. Maybe a little house with a wraparound porch and a view of the ocean.” Annabel looked away, cringing with discomfort. What else could she say? That at five months pregnant, she’d miscarried their baby? And then, just two weeks later, Matthew’s father had died of a heart attack? They had been devastated, twice over. They had needed a fresh start.

  After one phone call with his father’s old friend Jonas Klauser, Matthew decided that private banking was the perfect fit for him. With his background in tax law, his Ivy League pedigree, his prep school connections, and his immense charm, he’d be a natural. Jonas promised him that he’d spend most of his days flying first class to New York, London, Paris, Madrid, Hong Kong, where he’d hobnob with CEOs and sultans. No more sad takeout dinners at his desk; at Swiss United, he’d be expected to wine and dine his clients at Michelin-starred restaurants all over the world. He’d ski with them in Gstaad, he’d sunbathe with them on their yachts off the coast of France. Private banking was a business built on trust, Jonas said. It was about gaining the client’s confidence. It was about making them feel like you were their best friend in the world, and that no matter what, you’d take care of them—and more important, their money. All this for three times the salary he’d been making at Skadden, plus a healthy bonus each time he brought in a client of his own. And the perks, which included a lease on a 500-series Mercedes, a 2,000-square-foot flat in Old Town, access to the firm’s ski chalet in Zermatt, and a Corporate Amex with no fixed spending limit. It all seemed so romantic, so exotic, so new. Matthew was hesitant, but Annabel had pushed him to accept. It was exactly what they needed, she said.

  Try it for a few years, Jonas said
. If you don’t like it, we’ll find you something in New York. And in the meantime, you’ll be making good money. You’ll clear your head. You’ll get to experience Europe. What could be better?

  “Did Matthew talk to you about his work? His clients?” Lorenzo asked.

  “Never. He worked all the time. I hardly ever saw him. And he told me everything he did was confidential, so I tried not to ask.”

  “Did you see Fatima Amir after that night?”

  “No. That was the only time. He never mentioned her name.”

  “She was a client of his.”

  “I gathered that.”

  “You didn’t know he was going to London to see her?”

  “He told me he was in Zürich.”

  “They weren’t having an affair, if that’s what you think.”

  Annabel frowned. “How could you know that?”

  “I knew them both reasonably well. That night at the Griffin’s Club wasn’t the first time we met. Matthew introduced us about a year ago. Fatima and I had much in common. Matthew thought I could help her. And I did. I tried to, at least.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

  “Fatima’s family is in the oil business in the way mine is in the sugar business. The Amirs have legitimate business pursuits and not so legitimate. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “Fatima ran her own hedge fund. She wanted nothing to do with the illegitimate side of the family finances. But it’s hard to keep your hands clean when the pot is dirty.”

  “Ah. I see.”

  “Matthew was helping her do that. But it was complicated. And dangerous. Between us, Fatima’s second cousin is Assad. Her brother works for him. They are dangerous people, with many, many enemies. And they take family loyalty quite seriously. They don’t like to think they are being betrayed, even in the smallest way. Especially by a woman.”

  Annabel felt a chill run through her body. She pulled her jacket closer around her shoulders, hugging herself. Why had Matthew involved himself with these people?

  “Julian told me the Amir family weren’t terrorists. That Swiss United wouldn’t do business with them if they were.”

  “They aren’t terrorists. They’re money launderers. Their cousins are the terrorists.”

  Annabel shot Lorenzo a look of exasperation.

  “Anyway, Swiss United will bank with anyone. Terrorists. Dictators. Drug dealers. If they didn’t they’d be out of business. Who do you think keeps their money in Swiss bank accounts? Accountants? Housewives from Tulsa?”

  Lorenzo laughed. Annabel felt her cheeks beginning to burn. Of course she’d heard stories about Swiss banks. She’d even met a few clients of Matthew’s here and there—mostly old college friends of his who had made money in New York or London and wanted to tuck a few dollars away in a numbered account. Annabel knew they were doing it to avoid taxes, or maybe a wife who might one day try to take it all in a divorce. She knew that was a gray area, legally speaking. But it also seemed relatively harmless, like a crime without a victim. And Matthew was a lawyer. A tax lawyer! Wasn’t that why they’d hired him? To make sure it was all technically within the bounds of the law? Wasn’t that what he spent all day doing? Finding loopholes and mechanisms that saved money without triggering any tax implications?

  “If your friend Julian told you that, he is lying. He knows better than that. Be careful who you trust, Annabel. You are in Wonderland, my friend. Here in Geneva, criminals can be your friends and your friends can be criminals. Do you understand me?”

  Annabel nodded. “Which are you?”

  The car hit a bump in the road, and Annabel let out a small scream. Lorenzo’s arm shot out, protectively pinning her back against the seat. The driver lowered the partition.

  “Lo siento, Señor Mora,” he said. “Hay hielo en la carretera.”

  “¿Es el plano de los neumáticos?”

  “No, no.”

  Lorenzo nodded. He leaned forward, pressed the button to put the partition back up. As he leaned forward, she glimpsed a black strap beneath his jacket. At first she thought it was a suspender. But then she realized what it was. Lorenzo Mora was wearing a gun.

  “Just ice on the road,” he said. “The tire’s fine.”

  “I speak Spanish,” Annabel whispered.

  Lorenzo raised his eyebrows. “Smart woman. Any other languages?”

  “French. A bit of German. You didn’t answer my question.”

  Lorenzo nodded. “Annabel,” he said, with an unreadable smile. “Right now, I’m the best friend you have. So listen to me when I tell you: don’t trust a soul from Swiss United. Do not trust Julian White. Do not trust Jonas Klauser. They are not your friends. You have no friends here in Geneva. You should go back to New York. Or visit your sister. You can come to Isla Alma, if you like. It doesn’t matter where. But if I were you, I’d leave as soon as possible, and I wouldn’t ever look back.”

  Marina

  Duncan Sander’s funeral was held at St. James’ Episcopal Church on the Upper East Side, an unusual choice given that Duncan was neither an Episcopalian nor an Upper East Sider. But St. James’ was the de rigueur house of worship for the fashionable ladies with whom Duncan kept company, and it was the place for a high-society Manhattan funeral. Even if he’d met his end eating a sandwich alone at his desk, his head blown apart by a .45-caliber gun fired at close range, Duncan Sander would make damn sure he’d have a dignified, elegant good-bye. Apparently, he’d left an extensive list of demands and directions for his funeral with his attorney for when the time came, specifying everything from the music to be played to the color of the urn that would hold his ashes. It was exactly the way he would have wanted it. In this, Marina took comfort.

  The pews were nearly filled when Marina arrived, and so she took a seat toward the back of the church. At the front, on the left-hand side by the pulpit, Marina saw the staff of Press magazine, all kissing one another hello with great solemnity as they subtly vied for positioning near Philip Brancusi or, at least, toward the center aisle so that they might be seen. On the right-hand side of the church, the socialites were doing the same. Marina smiled. Duncan would have loved it all. Everyone who was anyone was here. It was the best-dressed crowd she’d ever seen outside of Fashion Week. All in black, of course, but in the latest collections off the runways in Paris. Marina had never seen so many black Birkin bags in one room at one time. The altar was festooned with lilies and white roses and potted arrangements of giant Dutch tulips that bowed their petals to the ground as though the very flowers themselves were in mourning. Marina wondered if they had been styled by society florist Jerome Cotillard, with whom Duncan once had a brief, tempestuous affair. She hoped so. He was, after all, the best.

  Marina herself was dressed simply in a black dress with three-quarter-length sleeves, and over it, a vintage Lanvin coat that Duncan had once told her was “perfection.” She wore little makeup and no jewelry but for her engagement ring. Her black hair was pulled back in a ponytail. Her porcelain skin was nearly translucent from lack of sleep, and deep blueish circles were stamped under her eyes like bruises. She looked like hell, but she didn’t care. Unlike the other staffers from Press, Marina was there to mourn, not to be seen mourning. Though she was having trouble focusing; her eyes kept darting around the room, wondering if she was being watched or followed. She kept her hands tightly wrapped around her small black clutch. In it, she had sunglasses, a package of tissues, and the heart-shaped key ring Grant had given her when she first moved in with him. On the key ring was her house key and, more important, the USB.

  The USB had not left Marina’s body since the airport. She was terrified to have it and even more terrified to lose it. She hadn’t dared open it on her computer, though she desperately wanted to. What if someone hacked into her laptop? She knew anything with an internet connection was vulnerable. These days, hackers
could spy on anyone through their cell phones, their laptop cameras. She had to be sure the information remained secure. She needed help from someone with far greater tech skills than her own, but it had to be someone whom she could trust. There was only one man she could think of for the job, and with any luck, she’d find him there.

  “Is this seat taken?”

  Marina heard the familiar voice and looked up. There he was.

  She slid down the pew, making room for Owen Barry. He looked much the same, though it had been at least a year since they’d seen each other. He was still as tall and lanky as she remembered, his thinness accentuated by an ill-fitting suit. His strawberry-blond hair had a touch of gray around the ears, and he wore it short now, which she thought made him look more sophisticated than usual. Even though Owen’s fiftieth birthday had come and gone, he had a boyish charm about him. When he smiled, Marina couldn’t help but smile back.

  “I was hoping to see you here,” she said.

  “How are you, gorgeous?” Owen kissed Marina on both cheeks. “You look smoking hot, as always.”

  An older woman in the pew in front of them turned around and glared.

  “Sorry,” Owen whispered in Marina’s ear. “You do look incredible, though.”

  Marina stifled a laugh. Duncan had always loved Owen and it was easy to see why. When Owen wasn’t hitting on her—and even when he was—he was terribly charming. He was also a damn good journalist. He was one of the few who Duncan considered a peer. He had helped them break the Morty Reiss story years ago; since then, he’d won two Pulitzers—one for a story about arms dealers in the Middle East; the other, about the water crisis in Flint, Michigan. Marina had heard a rumor that he’d left the Wall Street Journal to become the head of a website called the Deliverable but had not had confirmation of this from Owen himself. They had kept in only loose touch over the years, occasionally trading emails or bumping into each other at industry events or at Duncan’s annual Christmas party. Though she enjoyed his company, Marina had made a point to keep Owen at an arm’s length once she was engaged. He was just flirtatious enough to make her nervous.