The Banker’s Wife

by Cristina Alger

  She sprinted to the car. Her hands shook as she put the key into the ignition. She was backing out of the gas station when her phone rang. It was a Parisian number, one she did not recognize. Inside the gas station, she could see the clerk on the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Zoe, it’s me.” Zoe’s body shuddered with relief when she heard Arthur’s voice.

  “Where are you? I’ve been calling you and—”

  “I’m in Paris. It wasn’t safe for me in Luxembourg.”

  “They know you’re there. You can’t go to your apartment. Jonas Klauser is looking for you.”

  “I know. He’s at my apartment.”

  “How do you know?”

  “I’m at the hotel across the street. I can see him in my window. He has bodyguards with him. Standing on the curb right outside. Where are you? Are you safe?”

  “No.” Zoe began to weep. “I’m driving to Paris. But Arthur, there was an accident.”

  “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

  “Yes. I mean, yes, I’m fine. But—”

  “Don’t tell me now. Listen, Zoe, very carefully. I spoke to Owen Barry. All the stories are going to be published at midnight, New York time. That’s in just a few hours. Once they are, it’s only a matter of time before arrest warrants are issued for all the top people at Swiss United and Schmit & Muller.”

  “It could be days before that happens. Weeks, even.”

  “I don’t think so. They won’t see it coming, so they won’t be able to run. Owen said it would happen within the day.”

  “So what do we do? Until the arrests.”

  “Stay alive.”

  “I’m trying. Where do I go?”

  “Owen said for us to go to the Le Monde office in Paris. Simon Cressy is there; he’s working with them. He said we’ll be safe there.”

  “And you trust him?”

  “We have to.”

  “I’ll meet you there, then?”

  “Yes. I’m going to stay here at the hotel until Klauser leaves my apartment. He can’t stay there all day.”

  “Please be careful, Arthur.”

  “I will. I love you, Zoe.”

  “I love you, too.”

  “I’ll see you soon.” The line went dead. Zoe threw her cell phone onto the passenger’s seat and took one last look at the gas station clerk. He was staring at her. Without bothering to fasten her seat belt, she shifted into reverse and slammed her foot on the gas. By the time she reached Paris, it would be getting light. The newspapers would be out on the stands. She had a full tank of gas and, for the moment, no one on her tail. She was almost home free.

  Marina

  On Kalorama Road, it was dark, illuminated only by infrequent streetlamps that let off an eerie, yellowish glow. Most of the neighbors’ lights were out now. This was a quiet block, made up of single-family townhomes filled with young children. The few cars that were parked along the street were of a suburban variety: Subaru Foresters, Volvo Cross Countries, Toyota Siennas. Cars built for lacrosse sticks, juice boxes, weekend luggage. All except one. Directly across from Hunter Morse’s house was a black sedan with tinted windows. Though she couldn’t see inside, Marina was certain there was someone in the driver’s seat. And just as she was watching him, she knew he was watching her.

  Marina picked up her phone and dialed Owen’s number.

  “Hey,” Owen said when he picked up the phone. “What’s up?”

  “He followed me down here.”

  “To DC?”

  “Yeah. He’s parked outside of Morse’s house.”

  “Okay, Marina, you have to get out of there. Guy’s a private detective. Used to be a cop. He’s been on James Ellis’s payroll for a while.”

  Marina clenched her jaw. She stared out at the street. She wasn’t surprised that James had her followed. But when he found out that she was paying a visit to Hunter Morse, things would get ugly, and fast.

  “Hey, Owen?” Marina said. She stood on her toes, looking at the car parked next to the sedan. “What if the neighbor was wrong? What if the car she saw was a Honda Element? I’m looking at one now. It’s boxy. Looks an awful lot like a Kia.”

  Owen chuckled. “I’m way ahead of you there. My friend thought the same thing. Turns out there was a blue Honda with a New York plate, last digits 434, that crossed over from New York into Connecticut multiple times in the days leading up to Duncan’s death, including the day he died. And get this: it was purchased at a secondhand lot by an ex-SEAL, Charlie Platt. Guy is a trained sniper. Haven’t been able to tie him to Ellis yet, but—”

  “We will. I know how,” Marina said, without expounding further. “I’ve got to go. Ellis knows I’m here. Did you get the files we sent? All of Morse’s emails and his calendar.”

  “Yup. Story can be online in one hour. Christophe Martin is waiting for you at the ICIJ headquarters.”

  “Thanks, Owen.”

  “Be safe, Marina.”

  Marina hung up the phone. Agnes was standing in the doorway, watching her.

  “You sure you need me to go with you?” she said, looking hesitant.

  “You can’t stay here. It isn’t safe.”

  “But what if . . .” Agnes bit her lip.

  “Agnes, he’s not coming back. At least, not right now. Okay?”

  “I know. I know that.” Still, she didn’t move from the door frame.

  “Look, I don’t want to scare you, but there’s a car across the street. He’s watching us. I think if we walk out the front door, we’re in trouble.”

  Agnes frowned. “Are you sure? It could be anyone.”

  “It isn’t. Just trust me on this. Is there a way to get out from your backyard?”

  “Not really. I mean, there’s a hedge that separates us from the neighbor. Maybe there’s a place we can crawl through?”

  The car door opened. The driver emerged. He was dressed in all black, a black cap obscuring his face. Marina inhaled sharply and pulled away from the window.

  “We need to go. Right now.”

  She sprinted toward Agnes, pushing her back down the hallway. Wordlessly, the women ran through the back door and across the brick patio. Agnes tripped when she reached the steps and fell to her knees on the grass. When they heard the gentle chime of the front door opening and closing, Agnes let out a yelp of fear. Marina turned back and caught Agnes by the wrist, yanking her to her feet.

  Marina saw what she thought was a gap in the hedge and she ran toward it.

  “No!” Agnes hissed from behind her. She pointed toward the far end of the yard. “There.”

  “We have to go now!”

  “Trust me. This way.” Agnes took hold of Marina’s elbow, propelling them both forward into the darkness.

  “Hurry,” Agnes whispered, and pushed Marina hard into the hedgerow. She felt a sharp pain as the pointed edge of a twig sliced across her cheek. She covered her face with her hands and, with the sheer force of her body, pushed through a small opening between the branches.

  On the other side, she found herself facing a neighbor’s screened-in porch.

  Agnes ran up the steps and stooped at the back door, pulling up the corner of a welcome mat. From beneath it, she pulled out a key.

  “He’s a friend,” she whispered as she fumbled with the door. “When he’s away, he asks us to feed his cats.”

  “Someone’s in your backyard. Hurry.”

  Agnes frantically shook the doorknob. Marina was about to run when she heard the door give way. The two women tumbled into the house. Marina pulled the door closed behind them, her hands shaking as she did.

  “Is your friend home?” she called after Agnes, who was jogging down the hall. She glanced over her shoulder, but all she could see in the backyard was darkness.

  “Maybe,” Agnes said. “
Probably sleeping. But he always leaves his car keys on the front table.”

  “You’re going to take his car?”

  “You have another idea?”

  Marina froze. Outside she heard someone pushing through the hedgerow. Branches snapped, the leaves rustled in protest.

  “Go!” Marina barked. They fled to the front door, Agnes barely stopping to scoop a set of keys off the foyer table. Upstairs, they heard the muffled sound of footsteps.

  “I’ll explain this to him tomorrow!” Agnes called, as they jumped down the front steps. She hit a button on the key chain and the front lights of an SUV flashed across the street. “There’s his car. C’mon.”

  Agnes hopped into the driver’s seat. Marina skidded into the passenger’s side, pulling the door shut as Agnes revved the engine. The SUV peeled out into the street, its tires screeching against the pavement.

  Marina turned to look back over her shoulder as Agnes pulled out onto the darkened street. The man burst through the front door. He looked both ways, then zeroed in on their car. He sprinted toward them, nimbly jumping over a low fence like an Olympic hurdler. When he reached the pavement, he stopped.

  “Gun!” Marina shouted, as the back window of the car shattered with a deafening pop. Her hand reflexively shot out, pulling Agnes down with her. Both women ducked and the car swerved. The tires hit the curb with a sickening crunch. Agnes jerked upright and yanked the wheel. The car bounced back into the road and she floored the gas.

  “Fuck, that was close,” Agnes said, as they reached the end of Kalorama Road. “Where did he come from?”

  “I don’t know,” Marina whispered. “I didn’t realize he followed me down here.”

  “Wait—he was following you?” Agnes shot Marina a sidelong glance.

  “Yeah. This might be a bad time to mention this, but I’m actually engaged to Grant Ellis. Or was.”

  “What?” Agnes shouted. A car honked as she ran a red light.

  “Jesus! Watch the road. Let’s just get to the ICIJ alive, okay?”

  “I’m going to pull the car over right now unless you tell me exactly who you are and what you want.” Agnes’s voice had a steel edge to it.

  “I told you who I am. I’m a journalist. I worked with Duncan Sander. After he was murdered, I began investigating his death. That led me to Hunter. And, unfortunately, back to the Ellis family.”

  “And that’s it? You still want to write the story, even if it means that your fiancé will go to jail?”

  “It’s a story that needs to be written.”

  For a moment, they were both silent. Agnes pulled to a stop at a light. Two blocks down, Marina could see the building where ICIJ was headquartered. She checked her watch: 10:45 p.m. When the clock struck eleven, Owen would upload the Ellis story. It would contain everything. James Ellis’s millions stored in offshore accounts. His business ties to Assad. His blackmailing of a DOJ agent. And his hand in Duncan Sander’s murder. The only thing Marina hadn’t told Owen was that Grant was far more involved than she’d ever imagined.

  “It’s hard, isn’t it?” Agnes said softly. “When they aren’t who you thought they were.”

  “So hard,” Marina said, and she began to cry. She covered her face with her hands.

  “You’re brave. You’re doing the right thing.”

  The light turned to green. Agnes paused and looked over at Marina.

  “Just go,” Marina said.

  Agnes nodded. A small, resolute grimace appeared on her lips as she pressed her foot against the gas.

  Annabel

  Lorenzo Mora stood at the helm of a sleek twenty-two-foot Donzi, his black hair just visible over the boat’s tinted windshield. Annabel watched as the boat approached the dock. Its low-slung hull cut through the darkness like a shark. The dock itself was poorly lit, but the moon was full. The light from it rippled off the water and illuminated the boat just enough for Annabel to read the name that was painted down its side: Caballo Oscuro. Dark Horse.

  As he pulled alongside the moorings, Lorenzo cut the engine. In the passenger’s seat was a large, bearded man, who hopped out of the boat with practiced ease. Lorenzo tossed him a dock line. Despite the heat, both men wore windbreakers. Annabel wondered if one or both of them were armed. She hoped so.

  Annabel glanced behind her. Though it was past midnight, the port in Boca Chica was well populated. For the past thirty minutes, she had sat in the back of Lorenzo’s chauffeured car, watching and waiting for Lorenzo to come get her. The faint dulcet tones of merengue filled the warm night air. The bar across from the port—a thatch-roofed space with plastic chairs and tables set out on the sidewalk—had a line of people waiting to be seated. It was high season here in the Dominican Republic. Couples strolled down Calle Duarte arm in arm. Most looked like tourists. The men swayed slightly from too many Santo Libres and were red-faced from playing golf in the sun. The women wore gauzy, floral dresses and sandals that had no place in their daily lives back home. None of them noticed Annabel. Some passed right by the car without so much as a glance. She felt strangely assured by their nearness. She liked to believe that if someone had followed her halfway around the world in order to kill her, they would have done it by now. And even if he was lying in wait, this would not be the place to do it. It was too public. Too obvious. Lorenzo’s driver was armed. A trained killer would bide his time. When she was in a hotel room, perhaps. Or driving alone on a quiet road at night.

  Now Lorenzo was here, and so for the moment, she was safe. It was dangerous, of course, to align herself with a man like Lorenzo Mora. But Matthew had trusted him, so she would, too. Annabel didn’t have the luxury of thinking about the long-term consequences of her short-term decisions. She just wanted to stay alive until morning.

  Lorenzo waved at her as she emerged from the backseat of the Mercedes sedan. Annabel noticed a few pedestrians staring as she strode down the dock. Lorenzo, she realized, must be a local celebrity of sorts. The Sugar King of Cane Bay. The Man from Isla Alma. She wondered how often he made an appearance on the local docks. She guessed not very often.

  “Thank you,” she said. “You’re kind to come.”

  “It’s my pleasure. Annabel, this is Maurizio. He can help you with your luggage.”

  Maurizio nodded.

  “Thank you,” Annabel said, handing over her suitcase.

  “Did you bring a bathing suit? We have excellent snorkeling off the island.”

  “I’m afraid I didn’t pack for a vacation.”

  Lorenzo laughed. “I imagine you didn’t. Hop in. We’ll find some things to make you comfortable at the house.”

  Maurizio offered Annabel a hand, and she stepped into the boat. Then he untied the dock lines and hopped in behind her. Lorenzo shifted the boat into gear and the engine whirred to life. Soon, they were out on the open water.

  “Just a few minutes to the island,” Lorenzo said. It was so dark that Annabel couldn’t tell where the water ended and where the sky began. The ambient light from the port was fading away. Overhead, the sky was littered with stars.

  “I’m so sorry to arrive in the middle of the night like this,” Annabel said. “You must think I’m crazy. I thought someone at the airport in Geneva was following me and I panicked. I didn’t know where else to go.”

  Lorenzo nodded. If he was surprised to see her, he didn’t show it.

  “I told you, you are always welcome here. Matthew helped me once, when I needed it most. In my culture, you don’t forget that kind of thing.”

  “May I ask you something?”

  “That depends.”

  “Did you know that Matthew was an informant for the Department of Justice?”

  Lorenzo didn’t react.

  “Maybe that’s wrong,” Annabel corrected herself. “He was talking to someone at the Department of Justice. I don’t know if he gave them any infor
mation. He was supposed to meet this agent right before the crash. I think maybe he was killed so that the information never made it out of the bank.”

  “How did you find that out?”

  “I had his personal computer.”

  “Do you now?”

  “No. I left it with a friend.”

  “A friend?”

  “A friend in London. He’s dead now.”

  Lorenzo turned and stared at her. “Your friend is dead? Are you sure?”

  Annabel paused, considering. “No. Not sure. Something happened to him, though. I was supposed to meet him at Heathrow on my way to the States. But he called me as I was about to board my plane. He told me that Hunter Morse—the agent who Matthew had been speaking to—was corrupt. He told me not to go meet him. And then I heard a thump and the line went dead.”

  “When was this?”

  “When I was at the Geneva airport. Right after, I saw someone following me. I knew I needed to leave Switzerland, but I didn’t know where to go. Matthew told me I’d be safe here, with you. I saw a flight leaving for Miami, so I got on it.”

  “You made the right decision.”

  “Thank you. You’ve been very kind. Whatever debt you owed to Matthew, you’re certainly repaying it now.”

  Annabel could make out a dock and a well-lit beach ahead. Where the sand ended, there was a stone wall, and behind that, a thatch of palm trees. There were men on the beach, posted at regular intervals along the base of the wall. Even from afar, Annabel could tell that they were carrying automatic weapons. Annabel shivered. The wind off the water was stiff. She felt a light spray on her face and the taste of salt on her tongue.