“I went for a run. And yes, I’m a slob. I’m not used to having a roommate.”
“No, I don’t care! I just—”
“Thought I’d been kidnapped?”
“Yes! Or something like that.” Annabel put her hand over her heart. “Jesus, that was scary. I’m sorry. I guess I’m a little on edge.”
“I am, too. That’s why I went for a run. We have to talk about Matthew’s computer. But first—how was your visit with Fares Amir?”
“Maybe you should—” Annabel gestured at Khalid’s torso. “I can give you a minute.”
“Oh Christ, sorry. Let me get dressed.”
Annabel closed the bedroom door behind her. She picked up Khalid’s running clothes from the floor. Not knowing where else to put them, she left them in a tidy pile on an armchair. Matthew used to do that, too. After a workout, he’d shed his clothes into a pile on the floor and hop into the shower, not bothering to transfer them to the hamper. She wondered now why it had bothered her so much. Back in New York, she hadn’t minded. But in Geneva, it felt like an insult. Like he assumed she was there to pick up after him. As though she had nothing better to do.
She began to straighten up the mess on Khalid’s dining room table. She threw away an empty Starbucks cup, put a plate with sandwich crust in the sink. A loose pile of printed emails caught her eye. She picked them up, zeroing in on Matthew’s name. It was a different email address, one she’d never seen before.
“I got into his computer,” Khalid said from behind her. “Took a while. He did not fuck around when it came to security.”
Annabel held up the pile of emails. “What are these?”
“His emails. To a guy at the Department of Justice, Hunter Morse. He was negotiating a deal with him. An immunity deal.”
“But he didn’t do anything wrong.”
“Well, that’s not exactly true.” Khalid pulled up a seat at the table and gestured for Annabel to sit. “I mean, these guys—these private bankers—their job is to help their client hide money offshore. So at the very least, he was probably knowingly assisting people in avoiding taxes.”
“How did he get in touch with someone at the DOJ?”
“From what I can see, Hunter Morse approached him a few months ago. He was investigating Swiss United and was looking for an insider to talk. It seems like Matthew was fed up with the way Jonas Klauser was doing business, especially with people like Bashar al-Assad. Matthew flew to New York to meet with Morse. After, he was supposed to fly back to Geneva and start collecting backup data from inside the bank on USBS. The deal was that he would FedEx the USBs to PO boxes in the US, where they would be picked up and delivered to Agent Morse. The information was to include the names and statements of any US citizens hiding assets at Swiss United, as well as any individuals on international sanctions lists.”
“He was supposed to. So did he?”
“Well, this string of emails occurred about a week before he died. He said he had sent some of the information but wanted a guarantee of immunity from prosecution before sending the rest of it. I think the remaining information pertained to clients of Matthew’s. So my guess is, by sending it to Morse, he would be incriminating himself.”
“But—he was a whistle-blower! He was helping them voluntarily. Why would they turn around and prosecute him?”
“Morse said they wouldn’t. That the DOJ wouldn’t, anyway. But that he couldn’t speak for the SEC or the IRS. Matthew seemed angry; he wanted a guarantee from the SEC and the IRS, too. But Morse thought it was too risky. Said the fewer people who knew about this, the better. He wanted Matthew to trust him.”
“And then? Did Matthew send him the data or not?”
“I don’t know if he got the chance. He died two days later.”
Annabel slumped back in her chair. “Oh God.”
“I know. I’m so sorry, Annabel.”
They sat in silence. Minutes ticked by. Finally, Annabel looked up. “Is the data on this computer? The data he was sending to Morse?”
Khalid nodded. “I don’t know if it’s everything. But there’s a lot there. Annabel, it’s terrifying stuff.”
“What do you mean?”
“On this laptop, he had client data for 117 people. About half of them are just run-of-the-mill tax evaders. You know, CEOs who stash money at Swiss United and use it to buy art or yachts or whatever. And don’t pay any tax.”
“And the other half?”
“Not as nice. Your friend Fares Amir is on there, for example. He was acting as a go-between for Assad and all his henchmen. Through Amir, more than four billion dollars flowed into Swiss United and then disappeared into numbered accounts. That place is like a giant black hole of dirty money.”
“Was Fatima Amir aware of it? Was her money dirty, too?” Annabel winced. She couldn’t bear the thought of Matthew helping a war criminal like Assad. It was one thing to show a CEO how to circumvent US tax law. It was another to help finance an endless, brutal war against innocent civilians.
“I don’t think so. Matthew was trying to help her. He was asking Morse if he could get asylum for her in the US, in exchange for information about her brother and the Assad network.”
“And did Morse agree?”
“He didn’t have the chance.”
Annabel closed her eyes. “I’m scared, Khalid. I’m terrified.”
“I am, too, honestly. What did you think of Fares Amir?”
“There’s something very wrong with him. If he wasn’t the one who had them killed, he certainly isn’t crying over it.”
Khalid grimaced. “I’m far more afraid of Fares Amir than I am of Swiss United. And frankly, Swiss United is pretty fucking scary.”
“He bought a painting. A Monet. After she died.”
“That seems like an odd thing to do. I mean, right after losing your sister. Who grieves by spending millions on art?”
Annabel shook her head. “It’s not that he bought it. It’s the painting itself that disturbs me.”
Khalid cocked his head, confused.
“It’s of the Alps,” Annabel said. “Mont Trélod. And it’s hanging over his goddamn fireplace.”
Annabel watched as Khalid registered what she had just said. “The plane—” he said, his eyes widening. “It crashed—”
Annabel nodded. “I have to leave,” she whispered. “I don’t think I’m safe here. I don’t think I’m safe anywhere, as long as I have that.” They both looked at the laptop.
“You have to get to Morse. He can help you.”
“I think so, too. I’d better go back to Geneva first. Pack up my things. Make it look as though I’m leaving for good. Then after I’m back in the States, I’ll bring this to Morse. If I just disappear now, they’ll know something’s up. They’ll come looking for me. And chances are, they’ll find me.”
Khalid paused, considering. “That’s risky,” he said finally.
“I know.”
“But you might be right. If you go back, play dumb, and then leave, they might not suspect you. Even when people get arrested, they might assume it was Matthew who gave Morse the information.”
“Right. I have to go back. It’s the only way.”
Khalid chewed his lip. “Leave it here with me,” he said.
“The laptop? I can’t ask you to keep it.”
“It’s safer that way. Leave it here. Then on your way back to the States, connect through Heathrow. I’ll meet you there and give this to you. Then go straight to Morse. All right?”
“Are you sure? I feel like I’ve put you in enough danger already.”
Khalid smiled. He took Annabel’s hand, pressed it between his own. “You can always come to me, old friend.”
“Thank you,” Annabel whispered. She used the back of her other hand to wipe away tears. “For everything.”
&nb
sp; “Don’t thank me. Just come back. Come back to me in one piece. All right?”
Annabel nodded. “I will,” she said. She thought about the last time she had spoken to Matthew, and how he’d made her repeat his words back to him.
You know I always come back, don’t you? As soon as I possibly can? Tell me you know.
Yes, of course, she’d said. I know you always will.
Marina
Hey, it’s Miles. Ran the partial on the Kia. Came up with nothing. Fingerprint analysis came back, too. Nothing there. I think we’ve hit a dead end. Call when you get a chance.
Marina stood at the center of the ballroom of the Mandarin Oriental hotel, beneath a crystal chandelier so immense that it approximated a starry night sky. Partygoers swirled around her. They chatted and laughed, complimented one another’s dresses while criticizing those of others who passed them by. Some networked; others tried to catch the eyes of the society reporters who roamed the party, in pursuit of the guests worth photographing. Marina had been one of those reporters not long ago. At the time, she found benefits like this one—where tables cost $50,000 and sold out before the invitations went out—as exhilarating as a big-game hunt.
Now she was a guest. She was one of the photographed. Tickets to these events appeared in her mailbox without her having to lift a finger—because of how much money Grant’s family gave to charity, because of who they were and how much they were wanted at events just like this. It was what she thought she wanted when she had started at Press, nearly a decade ago. Real access, not the kind that came with a press pass around her neck.
Usually crowds exhilarated Marina. Especially well-dressed crowds of interesting and important people. Tonight, however, she was too skittish to enjoy a party. Ever since her run-in up in Connecticut, Marina was dogged by the feeling that she was being followed. She looked for him everywhere: on the street, buying groceries, at the gym. In a city as busy as New York, it was enough to drive a person mad. Too many unfamiliar faces; too many windows behind which he might be lurking. Just because she hadn’t seen him since Connecticut didn’t mean he wasn’t there.
Any luck with either plate? Marina texted Owen.
Found the sedan, Owen texted back. Call me ASAP.
“Hi, Marina.” Marina closed her text messages and looked up. Her face lit up when she saw Leon Diaz, Press’s most sought-after photographer, smiling at her.
“Leon, hi,” she said gratefully, and moved in for a double kiss. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”
“Oh please, I’m just one of the hoi polloi. Look at you.” Leon gestured at her dress, a navy shantung sheath held up by a single, dramatic ruffle over her left shoulder. It fit her perfectly because it had been custom-made to her slender frame. The color made her blue eyes pop and her pale skin glow. From each earlobe dangled a chandelier of brilliant sapphires. “Valentino?”
Marina nodded.
“It’s beyond. It looks like next season, but tweaked a bit. Custom?”
“Yes,” Marina said demurely. “Thank you.”
“And the earrings, Dios mío.”
“Loaned!” Marina laughed. “I’m honestly terrified to wear them around. I feel like I need a bodyguard.”
“Don’t you have one?” Leon frowned. “If you don’t, you should.”
Marina bit her lip. Grant had suggested the idea of security before their trip to Paris, but Marina had dismissed it as extravagant and unnecessary. Now she had begun to regret that decision.
“A woman this beautiful should certainly have security.” Marina startled when she felt a hand at the small of her back. Beside her stood her future father-in-law, wearing a tuxedo and a generous smile. “She’s my son’s prized possession,” he said to Leon. “We can’t have anyone stealing her from us.”
“You’re too kind,” Marina said, forcing a smile. She bristled at the word “possession” but tried not to show it. She shifted slightly, forcing James’s hand to drift from her back. “James, this is Leon Diaz. A friend from Press.”
“Any friend of Marina’s,” Ellis said, extending his hand.
“It’s an honor, sir,” Leon replied. Marina breathed deep, forcing herself to keep smiling. She found it absurd how people kowtowed to James now that he was expected to run for president. She wondered, not for the first time, if he really wanted the position itself, or if he merely wanted the celebrity and authority that came along with it.
“Could I get your picture?” Leon asked, his eyes hungry. “For the magazine?”
“Of course.” Marina felt James’s hand grip her side. They stood, locked in their smiles. Passersby turned to gawk, a few didn’t bother to disguise their whispers. Marina’s pulse quickened. She wished Leon would get on with it.
“Thank you,” he said, after what felt like an eternity. “These are terrific.”
James Ellis dismissed Leon with a short nod. Marina hoped that James would slip off into the crowd, to go mingle with people more important than his daughter-in-law-to-be. Owen’s text lingered on the screen of her phone, tucked in the recesses of her jeweled clutch.
“Marina, we need to talk,” James said. His smile was gone, replaced instead with a look of concern. He gestured toward the eighteen-foot windows at the edge of the ballroom. “Let’s go look at the view.”
Marina followed James across the room. They stood by the glass, each one silently observing the panorama of Central Park and the gleaming buildings of Midtown. James’s stern face glowed in profile from the city lights. In a tuxedo adorned with antique ebony studs and cufflinks and his silver hair neatly coiffed, he looked as presidential as they came.
“I wanted to thank you.”
“Thank me for what?” Marina said, genuinely surprised.
“For making my son so happy.”
Marina smiled. “Oh my. I don’t know what to say. He’s made me so happy. I feel lucky that he wants me to be his wife.”
“Grant is a good man. Perhaps the best I’ve ever known.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more.”
“This campaign—my campaign—it won’t be easy on him. And I feel guilty about that. He didn’t ask for it. All the publicity. The reporters—forgive me, I know you’re a reporter—but all the reporters who will inevitably hound him. And for the position he’ll have to assume at Ellis Enterprises. I’ve asked a lot of him. And he’s been so gracious about it.”
“We’re all very proud of you.”
“That’s kind of you to say. But I think he’s been amenable to it because he’s so happy. And he’s been happy because of you.”
“Well, I’m glad,” Marina murmured, her cheeks flushed.
“I’m asking a lot of you, too. It may be more than you bargained for. Being in the public spotlight is not easy. You’re beautiful, of course, and very poised. Wonderful pedigree. Lovely family. You have all the things that make for a successful politician’s wife. But I want to be sure you know what you’re in for.”
“I wasn’t aware I was marrying a politician.” Marina laughed lightly.
“Well, not yet. But if I win—and I think there’s a good chance of it, Marina, I really do—I hope Grant might consider a run himself. Are you prepared for all that?”
Marina paused, considering how to answer. She wasn’t sure she understood the question. Was he asking her if she was uncomfortable with celebrity? Or was he asking her if she had any skeletons in her closet that would embarrass him and his family?
“I think I’m as prepared as one can be,” Marina said carefully. “I love Grant, and I’ll support whatever he decides to do with his career.”
“Good, good.”
“So, have you decided to announce your candidacy, then?” Marina asked. She realized she had never spoken to her future father-in-law alone for this long before.
He nodded. “Tonight,” he replied. “During my sp
eech.”
“Tonight,” Marina replied, surprised.
“It was a last-minute decision. But I think it’s a good time. I’m being honored by the NYPD. It’s a friendly crowd. And tomorrow, every newspaper in America will be running a story about Senator Murphy and the illegitimate child he fathered ten years ago with his housekeeper. Who, by the way, is in the country illegally.”
Marina’s mouth dropped open. “Oh,” she said. “My.”
“Oh my, indeed.”
“Well, congratulations, then. It’s an exciting night.”
“For all of us.”
“For all of us. Yes.”
“Grant mentioned to me that you thought you were being followed.” James turned and looked Marina in the eye. “You should have come to me, you know. Right away.”
“I’m sorry,” Marina stuttered. “I didn’t realize—”
“Don’t apologize. I just want you to know you can always come to me if you are having a problem. Of any kind.”
“Of course. Thank you.”
“Grant is worried about your safety. I told him it was likely just a reporter trying to dig up dirt on the family. They do that, you know. Once someone is in the public eye. They’ll be watching you day and night.”
“I know. I’m ready for it.”
“But you were still worried, Grant said.”
“I just thought someone was following me when I went to Connecticut to visit my parents, and it spooked me a bit,” Marina said. She regretted having said anything to Grant now. It hadn’t occurred to her that he’d tell his father.
James nodded. “You both need to be wary now. For that reason, starting tomorrow, I want you both to start interviewing security teams. I have some excellent people lined up for you to speak to. You can choose whomever you feel most comfortable with. All ex-NYPD, all highly trained. They won’t interfere in your daily life. But they’ll be there to keep you safe. I’m doing the same for myself. I hope that will help ease your mind.”
“I’m not sure it’s necessary, but thank you.”
The Banker’s Wife Page 16
