The Banker’s Wife

by Cristina Alger

  Marina closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Jesus Christ, Duncan, she thought to herself. You were talking about it at my engagement party? Whatever happened to discretion?

  “Are you all right, dear?” Marina blinked her eyes open. Her parents were staring at her, concerned. “You look tired.”

  “I’m sorry. I have a horrible headache. I should probably get on the road soon.”

  “You should eat a brownie. Have you eaten anything today?”

  Marina stood up. She folded the blanket quickly, draping it over the sofa’s arm where she had found it. She was itching to get back to the city and, more important, back to Owen Barry’s apartment.

  “Thanks, Mom. Maybe I could take some home? I’m sure Grant would love some.”

  Alice pursed her lips, disappointed. “All right. I’ll just get a Ziploc from the kitchen. Maybe you could bring him up here for dinner sometime.”

  Marina nodded. She leaned in and embraced her mother, for longer than either of them expected. “I would love that,” she said. She felt the words catch in her throat. “I really miss you both. It was good to see you.”

  “We miss you, too, Marina.”

  “Be careful out there, sweetheart,” her father said. “It gets dark so quickly this time of year. And it’s a Saturday night. You never know who’s out there on the road.”

  You’re not kidding, Marina thought to herself. “I’ll be safe, Dad. I promise.”

  Annabel

  Khalid Nasser stood at the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport, looking for Annabel. Though it was technically morning, it was still dark outside. Everyone in the airport, Khalid included, looked bleary-eyed and in need of coffee. Annabel’s flight was practically empty. As Khalid watched what appeared to be the last of the passengers deplane and head toward the baggage claim, he grew worried. Had Annabel missed her flight? Had she lost her nerve? Or had he misunderstood when she was supposed to arrive? Her phone call the previous night had woken him up, and admittedly, he’d had a few drinks. Several, in fact. He might have still been drunk when he spoke to her. Somehow, he’d managed to understand that he needed to set an alarm before passing out again, so that he could be there to pick her up at the airport. She’d seemed skittish—scared, even. She needed to leave Geneva immediately, she said. She was going to take the next flight out. Could she stay with him? Of course, he had said. I’ll pick you up.

  When his alarm had gone off five hours later, he had considered snoozing it for only half a moment before snapping upright, heart racing, head throbbing. He hadn’t left himself time for a shower. He’d thrown on track pants and his glasses—no time for contact lenses—and headed to the airport, teeth unbrushed, mass of wavy black hair unkempt. There were few people he would do this for, he thought, as he had pulled onto the M4. Annabel Werner was one of them.

  An older woman with a set of monogrammed Louis Vuitton luggage was eyeing him. Khalid was familiar with the look: it was one of suspicious concern, of heightened awareness. He got that look everywhere, but especially at the airport. When he was traveling on business, he made a point to wear one of his Savile Row suits and to comb his hair neatly to the side, like a proper banker. He booked seats in first class. He was gratuitously courteous to anyone who spoke to him. Otherwise, he kept to himself. This didn’t stop the looks—nothing would. But mostly, it kept them shorter.

  He ran a hand through his hair, trying to tame it a little. The woman was considering reporting him, he could tell. There was a sign overhead about suspicious packages. “If You See Something, Say Something,” it read. She was looking around for a security guard. He regretted the decision to wear his “Bad and Boujee” sweatshirt, which a friend had gotten him as a gag gift when he took the gig at Goldman Sachs. He thought it might make Annabel laugh, and God knew she needed to laugh right now. But in retrospect, he could see how a six-feet-three, unshaven Syrian guy in a hoodie at the airport might set a granny on edge.

  “Annabel?” Khalid saw her just as she was about to walk into the baggage claim. In jeans and a backpack, she looked so young that he hardly recognized her. When they had first met, back in New York, he’d found her stunning. Back then, she wore her hair cropped in a pixie, a cut that ordinarily he didn’t care for on women but found sultry on Annabel. It showed off her delicate neck, her large, watchful eyes with their incredible fringe of dark lashes, which she highlighted with smudged, kohl-black eyeliner. Even on the weekend, she wore cool, streamlined clothes that were never overtly sexy. Khalid had been impressed—and yes, jealous—that his college buddy had done so well for himself. Mostly, though, he was happy that he would never have to suffer through another dinner with one of Matthew’s dull country club girlfriends. The woman Matthew had dated seriously before Annabel—Kelly, was it? Casey? Khalid could hardly remember—was an interior decorator who lived at home with her mother on the Upper East Side. If Matthew had married her, it was only a matter of time before he was out in Darien carpooling his three kids to their tennis lessons on the weekends. Khalid would never hear from him again.

  Annabel turned, her ponytail flying over one shoulder, and her face lit up with relief.

  “Khalid! Thank God.” Annabel ran to him and buried her head into his chest. Khalid noted, with satisfaction, that the suspicious woman had witnessed the whole encounter. He smiled at her over the top of Annabel’s head. She looked away, pretending she hadn’t been staring at him.

  “You didn’t have to come pick me up,” Annabel said.

  “I figured you wouldn’t take such a bloody early flight if it wasn’t important.”

  “I’m sorry. I know I’m asking a lot of you.”

  “Annabel.” Khalid shook his head. “I’d do anything for you. You know that. And God, I’m so sorry. There’s really nothing I can say. It’s horrible, what happened. Heartbreaking.”

  “You’re kind. Matthew loved you. Even though we hadn’t seen you in a while, I know he considered you one of his closest friends.”

  “Likewise.” Khalid gave her a squeeze around the shoulders. “Check anything?” He nodded his head toward the baggage carousel.

  Annabel tapped her backpack. “This is it.”

  Khalid nodded. He had a lot of questions, but he figured they could wait until they were home. He would need coffee first. He imagined she would, too.

  * * *

  • • •

  KHALID LIVED IN an oversize loft off Brick Lane in Shoreditch, an artsy, edgy neighborhood in London’s East End. His building was once a warehouse that was now primarily used as live/work studios for artists. Khalid was the only suit in his building and he liked it that way. He liked having interesting neighbors. George, the celebrity tattoo artist, who occasionally supplied him with shatter, an intense weed concentrate that blew his socks off. Natalia, the leggy model who Khalid guessed moonlighted as an escort between gigs. He liked the Brick Lane bars and the street art and the pop-ups, which nestled themselves in railway arches and old warehouses, and the galleries that all kept their doors open late on the first Thursday of every month. Sure, the neighborhood was gentrifying, and this was both good and bad. There were a lot of man-buns now and overpriced coffee and girls with blown-out hair on their way to lunch at Soho House. But to Khalid, Shoreditch still felt alive and humming, a swatch of color in a mostly black-and-white city. It was where he felt most at home.

  Brick Lane was also a nice counterpoint to what Khalid saw as his daylight life. He was a tech geek who had, for the moment, sold out to Goldman Sachs. Technically, Khalid was a freelance programmer. He occasionally took on finite and highly lucrative gigs at banks and law firms to help them beef up their cyber security. Then he would take off several months and travel. This gig at Goldman, though, had gone on for two years and had no foreseeable end in sight. Khalid didn’t particularly mind, since the pay was so good. But the idea of working for a big bank in perpetuity chafed on him, and he was begi
nning to feel restless. Annabel’s arrival gave him a nice excuse to call in sick, a break he sorely needed.

  “There’s only one bedroom,” he said apologetically when they arrived at his flat. “But you take it. I’m happy enough on the couch.”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t,” Annabel said. “Please. I’m sorry to drop in on you like this. To be honest, I didn’t feel safe in a hotel. And I didn’t know who else to go to in London.”

  Khalid bit his lip. He knew she’d reveal everything soon enough. He took her backpack and coat from her and tucked them away in the coat closet. “Don’t apologize to me. And you are staying in the bedroom.” Before she could persist, he asked, “Do you want coffee? A shower? A nap?”

  “All three?” Annabel laughed.

  “Which one first?”

  “Coffee. And maybe a quick shower. And then let’s talk.”

  Khalid nodded. He pointed toward the bedroom. “Back there. There should be fresh towels. I’ll get some breakfast going. I only know how to scramble eggs and toast bread, so if you want anything else, we’ll need to go out.”

  “Eggs are perfect,” Annabel said. “Thank you. For everything.”

  “Don’t thank me. It’s good to see your face, old friend.”

  * * *

  • • •

  A HALF HOUR LATER, Annabel sat at Khalid’s kitchen counter, sipping coffee and shoveling eggs into her mouth as quickly as she could move the fork. Khalid tried not to stare—it seemed as though she hadn’t eaten in weeks—but instead refilled her mug and kept busy cleaning up the kitchen. Her auburn hair was damp from the shower, and her lovely, delicate face was free of makeup. She was exhausted: Khalid could tell from her eyes. And she’d lost weight, if that was physically possible. But other than that, she looked as beautiful as he remembered. Her hair was longer now, and she had a few lines on her forehead, but she was the same Annabel from his days in New York.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t call you about the service,” she said, finally. “I should have. It all happened so fast. The firm arranged it.”

  Khalid waved her off. “I can’t imagine what you’ve been through. I called you when I heard, a few times, actually. But a fellow named Julian answered the phone. I wasn’t sure the messages got to you.”

  “He told me. You were kind to call. Thank you. It was all just so overwhelming. I shut down, I think. I’m still shut down.”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you know he was here before he died? In London?”

  Khalid turned on the water in the sink and began scrubbing the egg pan. “Yes, I think I heard that,” he said, not looking at her. In truth, he had heard a good deal more. The London tabloids had reported that Matthew had been staying at the home of Fatima Amir, a well-known hedge fund mogul, and that he had died aboard her private plane. The papers hadn’t gone so far as to say they were having an affair, but they certainly had suggested it. Khalid didn’t want to believe it. He knew Matthew, and he knew the way Matthew felt about Annabel. Or at least, he knew the way Matthew had felt about Annabel years ago, when they were all in the same city. But even he had to admit that Fatima Amir was sensationally beautiful, and that the one photo that had emerged of the two together—huddled over a candlelit dinner at a restaurant in Soho—made them look like more than banker and client. He wondered if Annabel had seen that photo. He hoped she hadn’t.

  “His client lived here. Fatima Amir. Have you heard of her?”

  Khalid nodded. “She’s Syrian. Syrians in London are like New Yorkers in Geneva. We all mostly know one another. She grew up in Saint John’s Wood, too. Not far from my parents.”

  “Matthew was her banker. Or so they tell me. I’d never heard of her before . . .” She trailed off.

  “She ran a hedge fund, no?”

  “Yes. Apparently she was quite successful. Matthew left some things at her house. I wanted to retrieve them myself. Now that I’m here, though, I’m not sure I can handle it.”

  “I can do that for you.”

  Annabel gave him a weary smile. “Thank you. Maybe. Let me think about it. I have something else that I need you to help me with. Am I officially the most annoying houseguest you’ve ever had?”

  “You’re the best, actually. And look, I’m charging you a thousand pounds a night, so you should get your money’s worth.”

  Annabel laughed. She glanced around his loft. “I hope that’s the friends-and-family rate.”

  “Of course. This is a posh area, despite what my mother thinks.”

  “Are your parents still in Saint John’s Wood?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you know the Amirs? Personally, I mean?”

  “No, not personally. But I know who they are.” Khalid paused. He could sense where this conversation was going, and it made him nervous. The Amirs—and particularly their cousins, the Assads—were not people to be trifled with. From everything he had heard, Fatima Amir was a legitimate financier. But when he read that Matthew was her personal banker, alarm bells had gone off. Any business with a family like that was dangerous business.

  “Swiss United does the banking for the whole family. They have billions of dollars stashed in offshore accounts.”

  Khalid couldn’t conceal his surprise. “Do you mean Fatima? Or her cousins?”

  “Both.”

  “But the cousins—the Assads—are on sanctions lists. Goldman wouldn’t touch their money with a ten-foot pole. And don’t get me wrong. Goldman does business with some shady characters. But not like that. Bashar al-Assad is a dictator. A war criminal. It’s illegal to do business with a man like that. Not to mention, immoral as hell.”

  “I know. And Jonas, Matthew’s boss, is his private banker.”

  Khalid let out a low whistle. For a moment, they were both silent. “I hope this isn’t out of line,” Khalid said slowly. “If it is, tell me to shut the hell up. But was there an investigation into Matthew’s death?”

  “There was. It was an accident. Or so they tell me. Something about an ice protection system.”

  “They found the black box?”

  “So they say.”

  “But you have your doubts.” He studied her face. She looked up at him, her green eyes meeting his.

  “Yes,” she said, her voice a whisper. “Wouldn’t you?”

  Khalid hesitated. “I would.”

  “I went to meet with the agent in charge of the investigation. Agent Bloch at Fedpol. He gave me photographs of the crash site. Or, at least, he told me it was the crash site. But it wasn’t Fatima’s plane.”

  “What do you mean, it wasn’t her plane?”

  “The photographs were of a different plane. A Dutch plane that crashed a year earlier.”

  “How did you figure that out?”

  “I did some research. Everything they told me about the crash—the failure of the ice protection system, the location of the crash, everything—it lines up exactly with this crash from last year. It’s either a very eerie coincidence or they are lying to me.”

  “But why? Why would a Fedpol agent lie to you?”

  “I imagine someone paid him off. He wanted me to believe that the crash was an accident. So he showed me the black box data and the photographs from another crash, which was an accident, and hoped I didn’t ask any more questions.”

  Khalid nodded slowly, considering this. “Who do you think paid him off?”

  “Fatima, allegedly, was trying to cut ties with her family.”

  “So you think they had her killed?”

  “Maybe. Or maybe it was Matthew who was murdered, and she just happened to be with him.”

  “Why would anyone murder Matthew?”

  Annabel closed her eyes and took a breath. “You must promise this stays between us. I’ve told no one but you.”

  “Of course.”

  �
�Someone Matthew worked with told me she thought Matthew was cooperating with someone at the US Department of Justice. That he was a whistle-blower. A mole.”

  “Oh God.”

  “She didn’t know for sure. But he was in contact with someone at the DOJ. He even flew to the States to meet him. And then his plane went down a few weeks later.”

  “Do you have access to his email?”

  Annabel shook her head. “No. But I have his laptop. It’s encrypted, though.”

  Khalid smiled. “Well, I can help you with that. That’s kind of my thing, you know. Not to brag or anything, but I’m really quite good at it. I imagine I’m better than whoever they’ve got over there at Swiss United, anyway.”

  “That’s what I hoped.”

  “The bank didn’t come looking for it?”

  “His colleague—the one who told me he was cooperating with the Feds—she said he asked her to hide this one. She gave it to me. That’s why I flew here this morning. It’s only a matter of time before they come looking for it.”

  Khalid rubbed his hands together. His eyes gleamed with excitement. “Well, before they do, let’s find out what’s on it.”

  * * *

  • • •

  ACROSS THE RIVER THAMES, Thomas Jensen sat in his office at MI6 headquarters, folding a stack of his monogrammed handkerchiefs neatly into squares. Though Jensen detested the exterior of the building, which, in his opinion, looked like a stack of giant Legos, he did enjoy the view from his desk. On clear mornings, he liked to watch the sculls gliding silently beneath the Hammersmith Bridge. Jensen himself had rowed for Oxford some years ago. Indeed, he’d captained the team to victory at Henley. These days, he rowed when he could, but it was usually on a machine in some foreign hotel gym, and it wasn’t nearly the same as being out on the river. Watching the rowers on the Thames felt nostalgic and meditative, and he liked to do so in silence for a few minutes before attending to the business of the day.