The Banker’s Wife

by Cristina Alger

  It occurred to her now that if she were to enter witness protection, she would never see Paris again. They might send her back to some small town like the one from which she’d come, except she’d know no one, have nothing, be no one. It was a heartbreaking thought.

  “How would we pay for this private security?” Arthur asked. “How will we survive? I won’t ever be able to practice law again.”

  “Here’s the thing. If you are to cooperate fully—and that means giving us the names of every client you’ve ever spoken to, worked with, or were aware had money stored offshore—we believe the IRS will be able to recoup at least a billion dollars in fines and unpaid taxes.”

  Arthur nodded. “At least a billion.”

  “Are you aware that the IRS will pay informants an award of up to thirty percent?”

  “What?” Arthur leaned forward, as though he hadn’t quite heard.

  “You would pay us?” Zoe asked.

  “If the information you provide to us leads to the recovery of funds, yes.”

  “Thirty percent?”

  “Up to thirty percent. To be frank, we’ve never had a recovery of this size, so we would need to discuss internally—”

  “That’s three hundred million dollars. Conservatively,” Arthur said.

  “It could be far more,” Simon added. “The offshore economy is in the trillions.”

  “Up to, I said,” Moyes repeated nervously. “And of course you’d need to pay taxes—”

  “What about Annabel?” Zoe asked.

  The men stopped and stared at her.

  “Annabel?” Arthur asked. “What about her?”

  “She should get some of the money, too.” Zoe ignored the look Arthur was giving her. She turned to Bill Holden. “Matthew Werner died because he was an informant for the Department of Justice. He was doing the same thing we are, except he trusted the wrong person. His wife should get his share of the money.”

  “Annabel Werner will be well taken care of, I assure you,” Bill Holden said.

  “Where is she now?”

  “We—we’re not sure.”

  “You’re not sure? Is she safe?”

  “We don’t know. But rest assured, we’re looking for her.”

  “Find her. And when you do, make sure she goes into protective custody. Whatever award we get, she gets a third. I won’t have it any other way.”

  “All right, Ms. Durand.” Bill Holden offered her a tight smile. “You have my word. I will do everything in my power to ensure that Annabel Werner is safe.”

  “So which is it, then?” Moyes asked. “Do you want to be in protective custody? Or do you want to be heroes?”

  “Heroes with a nine-figure bank account?” Arthur smiled. “Absolutely.”

  “Arthur, are you sure? The money would be there either way.”

  Arthur turned to Zoe. He took her hands between his hands and pressed them against his cheeks. “Zoe,” he said. “I love you. I can’t live without you. I won’t. I’d rather take our chances together.”

  Zoe felt tears well up in her eyes. Arthur leaned in for a kiss. It was a deep, slow, sensual kiss. His mouth on hers, his hand pulling her body against his. Zoe closed her eyes and felt a lightness in her body that she hadn’t felt since she first fell in love with Arthur.

  Holden cleared his throat.

  “Sorry,” Arthur said, as he pulled back. He looked at Zoe, his fingers interwoven with hers, and they laughed. “Heroes?” he said.

  “Heroes.” She nodded.

  “All right, then,” Moyes responded. “We’ll still need you in protective custody before and during the trials. And you’ll need to give an interview. The sooner, the better.”

  “Marina Tourneau,” Arthur replied. “I want it to be with her.”

  Holden hesitated. “Not the New York Times? Or the Wall Street Journal?”

  Arthur shook his head. “With Marina Tourneau. At Press magazine. We wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for her.”

  “Fine.” Holden nodded. “Marina Tourneau. I don’t know who she is, but she’s about to win the goddamn Pulitzer for reporting. And you two are about to become the most famous sources since Deep Throat.”

  Zoe smiled. She pushed up onto her toes and whispered into Arthur’s ear. “Mark Felt, I love you.”

  Arthur smiled at the reference. It was the name he’d given to Duncan Sander when they had first started talking, back when Duncan was looking for Morty Reiss. Duncan had gotten the Watergate reference right away and had laughed. He’d never once pressed Arthur for his real identity, something for which both Arthur and Zoe had been grateful.

  Now Zoe felt a small wash of sadness, as she realized that Duncan would never learn his sources’ real names. He would not see this monumental story in print, or Morty Reiss, the man he had been chasing for so many years, finally taken to task for his crimes.

  Zoe squeezed Arthur’s hand.

  “Are you okay?” Arthur whispered.

  Zoe nodded. “I’ll be fine.”

  After these men were gone, she thought, she’d go out onto the balcony. She’d gaze out over the Tuileries. She’d kiss Arthur where the whole world could see them. And that would be worth everything. Even if it lasted for only a second, it would be worth it all.

  Marina

  A knot of journalists stood outside her apartment building. Marina saw them as the cab pulled up to the curb. It took her a moment to realize they were waiting for her. Her name had not appeared on the bylines of any of the stories. Marina had made sure of that. She didn’t want to be part of the takedown of the Ellis family. She was, publicly, anyway, still Grant Ellis’s fiancée. Reflexively, she touched the ring finger of her left hand. It was bare. The ring was in the dish on her bedside table. She would never wear it again.

  It was too late to escape them. The crowd had spotted her. A reporter named Martin Wilkes, a friend of Owen’s from the Wall Street Journal, called out her name.

  Marina put on a pair of sunglasses and stepped out of the cab. As the reporters crowded around her, she kept her eyes trained to the curb.

  All around her, they were shouting questions. When she reached the entrance, the doorman, Hugh, stepped protectively in front of her.

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Tourneau,” he said. “I didn’t see it was you. Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, Hugh,” Marina replied. “Thanks.”

  Martin called out, “Marina! How does it feel to be a part of the biggest news story of the year, instead of reporting on it?”

  Marina turned. She looked him in the eye.

  “It feels like I’m on the wrong side of things,” she said. “Now, please excuse me.” She lowered her head and pushed her way inside.

  “Is Grant home?” Marina asked Hugh.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Marina swallowed and nodded slowly.

  “They arrested his father early this morning. I saw it on the news.”

  “Yes, I know.”

  “I’m so sorry, ma’am.”

  “Don’t be. It’s not your fault.”

  “Mr. Ellis is such a good man. Grant, I mean. Always polite. Knows my kids’ names and asks after them.” He paused and then added, “Not that his father isn’t a good man. I just meant—”

  “It’s okay, Hugh. I know what you meant.” Marina gave him a small smile. “I should go upstairs.”

  Hugh nodded. He held open the elevator and pressed 12 for her. When the doors slid shut, Marina collapsed onto the bench at the back of the elevator. She’d been on her feet for more than twenty-four hours. Suddenly, she felt as though she couldn’t stand up for another minute.

  The doors pinged open. Marina stood and peered out. The twelfth floor was empty. Marina was grateful not to have run into any of her neighbors. She hurried down the hall, her heart racing. Her han
ds shook as she pushed open the front door.

  “Grant?” she called out, as she placed her key on the foyer table.

  “Look who’s home.” Grant was sitting in an armchair in the living room, his legs casually crossed. His hair was ruffled, and it looked as though he hadn’t slept. He was wearing some kind of uniform, all blue with white stitching on the front pocket.

  Marina walked toward him. She stopped short when she realized what was in his right hand: a .45-caliber pistol, resting on his knee and pointed directly at her.

  “How was your trip to DC?” Grant said, his voice cold. “I hope you sent my best to Hunter Morse.”

  “He’s dead, actually.”

  “Is he? That’s too bad. I liked the guy. So helpful.”

  “You bribed him. To give you the identity of the whistle-blower inside Swiss United. And then you killed the whistle-blower.”

  “Don’t get ahead of yourself, Marina. All I did was have lunch with the guy.”

  “How stupid do you think I am?”

  “Not stupid at all. Too smart for your own good, as it turns out. To think, all this time I thought you were actually with me for the right reasons.”

  “I was!” Marina snapped, exasperated. “Do you really think I wanted this? This is hell for me, Grant. I trusted you. I loved you.”

  “Then why did you do this?” Grant shouted. He rose to his feet and pointed the gun at Marina’s heart. “You’ve torn apart this family.”

  Marina shook her head angrily. “No. I’ve been protecting you all this time. I believed your father when he said you weren’t involved in all this dirty offshore business. I believed him right up until I learned that it was you who paid off Hunter Morse, and it was your old military buddy Charlie Platt who murdered Duncan.”

  For one uncomfortable moment, they stared at each other in silence. Then Grant said, “He deserved it, Marina. He turned you against me.”

  “He did no such thing.”

  “I heard your conversation in Paris. He was telling you to meet someone from Swiss United. Don’t deny it.”

  “That had nothing to do with you.”

  “Like hell it didn’t,” Grant snarled. “That bastard never liked me. He was using you as a way to get inside our family. It was disgusting. The man had no boundaries. No sense of family.”

  “And so you had him murdered.”

  “You’re damn right I did!” Grant shouted. “And I should kill you, too, for what you’ve done.” Marina flinched as Grant waved the gun in her direction. For a split second, she considered running. But what good would that do? Grant was an expert marksman and he was only fifteen feet away. She’d be dead before she reached the foyer.

  She put her hands up. “You don’t want to do that, Grant,” she said slowly. “Just put the gun down.”

  Grant kept it trained on her. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t pull the trigger right now.”

  “Because you’ll get caught. There’s a throng of reporters downstairs. Don’t be stupid.”

  Grant snorted. “Please. Why do you think I’m wearing this? Hugh lent it to me this morning.” He kept the gun trained on her as he reached in his back pocket with one hand and pulled out a cap, which he put on his head. Suddenly, Marina recognized the outfit: it was the building mechanic’s uniform. She was close enough now to read the stitching on the front pocket: “Mendoza,” it read. The building address was beneath it. “He’s a good guy, Hugh. He realized I might need to make a quick exit.”

  “And where will you go? They’ll be waiting for you at the airport.”

  Grant laughed. “That’s the nice thing about having a private plane and a new passport. Plenty of sunny countries out there with weak extradition policies.”

  “You’re just going to leave and let your father rot in jail? And Charlie Platt, too?”

  “Oh, no.” Grant frowned in mock seriousness. “You’ve wildly underestimated Charlie. He’s one of the best spooks we had. He’s terrific at disappearing. He’s probably on the beach already, sipping a mai tai. Thanks to me, he’s got enough cash in a Swiss bank account to last a lifetime. As for Dad, he’ll be fine. You don’t get to where he is in life by rolling over every time you hit a bump in the road.”

  Grant turned his wrist and checked the time. “This has been fun, Marina, but I’ve got a car waiting for me in the alley behind the building.”

  He raised the gun, cocking his head slightly as he took aim. She knew she should run, but she was paralyzed with fear. She opened her mouth to protest but no sound came out. Instead, a shot reverberated through the apartment. A sharp pain exploded in her shoulder. She felt herself falling. Then everything went dark.

  Annabel

  Annabel peered out of the small, round window of Lorenzo Mora’s private plane. Through the clouds, she could make out the brilliant blue of the Pacific Ocean and the craggy outline of the Baja coast. She didn’t know where, exactly, she was supposed to land, only that it was a private airstrip, owned by the Mora family, somewhere north of Cabo San Lucas. But for the pilot, she was alone on the plane. Lorenzo had offered to fly with her, but Annabel declined. He had done enough for her already.

  The plane circled and then began its descent. When the wheels touched the earth, Annabel felt a wash of relief. She was here. It was over.

  The plane door opened. Annabel hurried down the stairs onto the tarmac. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the bright light. The Mexican sun was at its apex. She shielded her eyes with her hand and glanced around.

  There, beneath the shade of the single-story structure that served as an airport terminal, was Matthew. He had grown a thick beard and his skin was deeply tanned. He wore a linen shirt, blue jeans, and sandals. As he stood, Annabel noticed that he even carried himself differently. His hands were in his pockets, his stance relaxed. He bore only a fleeting to his former, suited self. But to Annabel, he was instantly recognizable.

  “Matthew!” She dropped her bag and flew into his arms.

  “Annabel,” he murmured, and buried his face into her neck. She felt the familiar crush of his forearm around her waist as he picked her up, spun her around.

  They held each other for a long time. Then Annabel pulled back, admiring her husband. “You have a beard,” she said, finally. They both laughed.

  “You like it?”

  “It’s a good look for you. Relaxed.”

  “Well, I’ve been forced into early retirement.”

  “You picked a nice spot for it.”

  Matthew glanced around. “I didn’t have much choice, but I’ll take it. Good fishing and the sunsets are spectacular. I think we’ll be happy here.”

  Annabel burst into tears. Matthew pulled her close again, pressing her face to his chest. “Shhh, it’s okay now. We’re okay.”

  “I thought you were dead.”

  “I know. I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you.”

  “We had your funeral.”

  “I know. It was the only way, Annabel. I didn’t want to put you at more risk until it was over. As long as you didn’t know I was alive, I had to believe they wouldn’t hurt you.”

  “Is it over? Will it ever be over?”

  “I think so. It’s the only story on the news now. They’ve arrested Jonas. Julian’s dead. There’s a manhunt under way for Fares Amir.”

  “Where is Fatima?” Annabel hadn’t thought about her until just now. “And the pilot?”

  “I don’t know. I know they’re safe. All of us are under CIA protection now. In fact, there are two men I want you to meet.” Matthew nodded toward the open door to the terminal building. Inside, it was un-air-conditioned but pleasant. A fan whirred overhead. In the corner, two men sat on folding chairs at a plastic table. One had neatly groomed hair and wore a crisp pair of white linen pants and loafers. Aviators sat on the bridge of his crook
ed nose. The other, a large, red-faced man, was sweating profusely in the heat. When he waved in greeting, damp patches appeared under his arms.

  “Annabel, this is Thomas Jensen and Alexei Popov. Mr. Jensen works for MI6. Mr. Popov is CIA. They orchestrated everything. Because of them, I’m alive.”

  Popov extended his hand, but Annabel threw her arms around him instead. The Russian let out a surprised laugh. He patted her uncomfortably on the back before pulling out of her grasp. She grabbed Jensen next.

  “Thank you,” Annabel said, a fresh set of tears welling up in her eyes. “Thank you for saving my husband.”

  “Your husband is a hero,” Thomas Jensen said. He removed his sunglasses and placed them on the table. “Because of him, we’ve been able to shut down Fares Amir’s money-laundering operation. Mr. Amir has been the single biggest supplier of funds to Syrian terrorist organizations in the UK. We knew it, but without proof, we were unable to do anything about it.”

  “And that’s just one example,” Popov added. “For years, the CIA has been looking for a way into one of the offshore banks. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Mora, your husband never would have found his way to us, and we would have never found a way to take down Swiss United.”

  “Does Lorenzo work for the CIA?” Annabel asked. “I don’t understand how he got involved in this.”

  Popov and Jensen exchanged glances. “He doesn’t,” Popov said. “But he has been a good resource for us. We needed an asset close to Jonas Klauser. It was too risky to approach employees of the bank. So we decided to send in a client instead. Mr. Mora is exactly the kind of client Jonas Klauser wants. Extremely wealthy and very definitely corrupt. Lots of assets needing to be hidden offshore. And since he’s part of a known criminal enterprise, Klauser would never suspect that Mora was a CIA asset.”