by Camilla Monk
“In 2009, following an investigation for insider trading, he left his position in the firm as a partner to fund his own investment company based in Vaduz: Adventia AG. It’s mostly been a succession of shady but profitable deals and long-simmering lawsuits, since. He’s banned from operating a business in most of the United States and in three European countries.”
Alex nodded. “Okay, and beyond that? What’s your feeling about him?”
Murrell leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms. “I’d say Van Kreft doesn’t fit the profile. He’s made some exceptional deals, also sold a lot of junk to his clients. Still, he was never really big enough or connected enough to interest us.
“Never been linked to any homicide before, no significant ties to any government, and the amounts he lost or swindled from his clients remain within an acceptable range for a financial advisor: less than twenty million worldwide in six years, for a ninety-seven million net benefit over the same period. The guy is sketchy, but he’s solvent, and he doesn’t play in the big leagues.”
“Well, maybe he decided to up his game. All our evidence points to him, so far.”
“Or maybe he’s not acting alone,” I suggested. “Maybe he’s doing the thinking, and someone else is handling the killing.”
On the screen, Murrell’s lips pursed. “Would make sense, Miss Chaptal. Van Kreft lives in the manor most of the time. Are you planning on paying him a visit, Morgan?”
“I certainly am.”
“What about—” Murrell paused, his eyes darted to me. “Mr. November? He’s not with you?”
“He’s in Vaduz already. He had some input of his own regarding Van Kreft’s crib, which I have yet to hear,” Alex said, his tone cooler.
“All right, just be careful.”
With this, the call window turned black, indicating that Murrell had hung up.
I drove for a while in silence afterward—yes, the autopilot was driving, shut up—pondering our conversation with Murrell. Alex seemed just as deep in thought. We were entering a tunnel when I had an idea. “Alex, what sort of stuff do you need to make someone think you’re rich? Would it work if someone showed up with, say, really expensive jewelry and a suitcase full of cash?”
He shifted to look at me in the darkness, the tunnel’s lighting casting golden flashes of light across his face. “I’m not sure where you’re going with this.”
“Well, I was thinking that breaking into that manor would be difficult and maybe even dangerous if it’s well guarded. So maybe one of us could pretend to be a potential client, you know, to get invited there.”
“Island, the CIA doesn’t send us undercover with millions of dollars to blow as we please. That’s in James Bond.”
“But what if someone used their own money?” I risked.
He chuckled and shook his head. “It’s a terrible idea, and I don’t think your savings account will be enough for that. Were you planning on asking March?”
No, I was actually planning on using my own money—just some real estate here and there, and a few million euros my mom had hidden in various offshore bank accounts before her death, and which I had inherited from her at the same time I discovered the Cullinan’s existence. Not much, really. It dawned on me, though, that Alex’s lack of reaction suggested that this was not in the CIA’s files, maybe because I had been so uncomfortable with all that money until now that I hadn’t dared touch it, or even contact those banks, for that matter. I decided against telling him.
My fingers tightened on the wheel. “No, I meant . . . Sorry, I guess that was a stupid idea.”
He chuckled. “Infiltration is a bit more difficult than you imagine, but don’t worry, we’ll find a way to meet Van Kreft. For now . . . how about we take a lunch break, baby?”
I flinched upon hearing the b-word. Carried away by our investigation, I had allowed myself to once again postpone the inevitable. “I’ll take the next exit, Walenstadt. We can probably grab a sandwich there.”
Alex stretched in his seat. “Sounds great!”
After we had bought cheese sandwiches and some Toblerone in a bakery, we both leaned against the car on the side of the road and ate in silence. Alex had confiscated the car keys from me—because I was apparently undeserving of my driver’s license—and gazed at the grandiose scenery of the Swiss Alps surrounding us as he finished his chocolate bar.
I was nibbling on the last bite of my Toblerone as well. The sound of his voice startled me. “What’s the deal between you and March?”
I breathed deeply. Here we are. Breakup talk in three, two, one . . . “Alex, listen—”
He shifted to face me, perusing me with a sudden intensity that raised goose bumps on my forearms. “Did you lie to me? When you said you hadn’t slept with him?”
“No!”
I was taken aback not so much by his blunt approach but by the lack of emotion in his voice. As if it didn’t matter either way. When he spoke again, I could no longer meet his eyes. “So? I’m all ears, Island.”
“He helped me find the Ghost Cullinan that my mother had stolen. I’m sure you already know that. We gave it back to . . . the person who wanted it.” One more word and we’d have to discuss the Board, or Dries’s implication in the theft. I chose to stop there.
A bitter smile appeared on Alex’s lips. “He came to help you, just like that? Out of nowhere? And as soon as Erwin strikes a deal with you, he’s back in the picture. I suppose that’s a coincidence as well?”
My fingers dug into the cotton of my dress. “Alex, it’s a little complicated, even for me. There are . . . things from the past tying me to him. And when we were looking for the Cullinan—” I tried to ruffle my hair so it’d conceal my ears. I could tell they were on fire and that the rest of my face would follow soon.
“He’s the ex you told me about.”
There was no questioning in voice, just a calm certainty. His tone was light, conversational. He wasn’t even looking at me anymore; his gaze focused on a point in the horizon, far beyond me. His eyes had never been so cold, not even when he had questioned me back at EMT.
I managed to get the words out of my throat, struggling to form each syllable. “Alex, I’m sorry. I don’t think we’re good for each other. I want to stop . . . I want to stop for good.”
I’m not sure what reaction I expected, but I stared at him in incomprehension when he ducked his head and I heard a dry chuckle. “Oh fuck. Did you just dump me for him?”
I didn’t like this—his tone, his apparent indifference, the nervous laugh. I took a step back. “It’s not about March.” Yes, that was a lie.
Alex moved fast, much faster than I could process, and in a split second my back hit the side of the car hard as he flattened me against it. His hands locked my wrists alongside my body in a bruising grip. Air escaped my lungs in a brutal rush as the pain registered in my ribs and shoulder blades. I think I cried out, but the sound died in my throat when he pressed his forehead to mine. A feverish breath traveled between us that carried the sweet smell of chocolate as his lips moved closer. There was a little sweat on his brow, matting his brown curls to my skin; my stomach heaved at the cool, sticky wetness connecting us. I gritted my teeth and tried to turn my head away to escape this sudden invasion.
My heart was beating so loud I could barely hear my own voice over the thumping in my eardrums. “Alex, please, calm down!”
“This is too easy, baby. You get caught up in your own game, things get tough, and you dump me on the side of a road to escape the shit you got yourself into. It doesn’t work like that, Island!” he shouted, his face close enough for me to feel the rasp of his stubble on my cheek. My brain conjured that scene in Alien 3, where the xenomorph is inching closer and threatening to drool all over a terrified Ripley’s face. In that moment, I wondered how I had ever allowed this guy—whoever he was—to touch me.
I squeezed my eyes shut and one of my legs jerked in a futile attempt to kick him off me. He dodged it and pressed his thi
gh between mine, blocking me completely.
“Let me go! I said we’re done! We’re done!” I wished it would have come out as a roar, to free the fear and rage building in my chest, but in truth I was begging, and that near sob sounded foreign even to my own ears.
Around my wrists, his fingers tightened. Pain shot up my arm. “That’s my call. And I’ll be sure to let you know when we’re done.”
With this, at last, he let go, leaving me panting and shaking against the Tesla’s door.
“Now get in,” he ordered, his voice softening.
I looked at him with uncertainty, trying to catch my breath with a series of gasps.
I think Alex finally figured just how badly he had screwed up. Warmth returned to his eyes, and along with it a spark of distress. He shook his head, raking a hand through his hair. “Baby, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. I just think you’re making a mistake.”
I wasn’t sure what to think of this typical wife-beating pattern of unexpected violence followed by a—no doubt sincere—apology. Tamed by the Lone Wolf would have equated it to a display of alpha male amorous frustration, something along the lines of “Babe, you drive me crazy. I brutally banged you in my cabin in spite of your explicit protests because it was the only way I could express my feelings.” How romantic. In any case, I didn’t want to discuss the incident further and see just how much worse things could get. I climbed in the passenger seat with slow, controlled movements, my eyes never leaving him in case he lost it again.
TWENTY-FOUR
The Rendezvous
“Don’t lie to yourself, babe, your body wanted this! You say no, but your tits say yes.”
—Azure Typhoon, Tamed by the Lone Wolf
The rest of the ride to Vaduz was mostly silent. And awkward. As awkward as it gets when your ex who just turned Mr. Hyde on you half an hour ago is now attempting to make small talk to ease the atmosphere, only to earn monosyllabic responses and the occasional nod. My wrists still hurt, and reddish-blue bruises had appeared on my skin, like ugly bracelets. I pulled my dress’s sleeves over them and looked at the scenery to distract me, blocking Alex’s voice as he commented on the beauty of the Alps.
I had never visited an actual tax haven, even during those years traveling with my mom, and I sort of expected that everything would be different the second we crossed the border to Liechtenstein. Like Marco Polo sailing across the oceans, I in my cool electric car, dreamed of the golden roofs of Cipango. Vaduz wasn’t like that. It looked in fact more like a village than an actual city—or even a capital—and possessed the same quiet alpine charm that could be found in the Swiss villages we had driven through. A flock of tiled roofs encased in a valley, scattered among pine trees, church steeples, and traditional half-timbered buildings—not what you’d imagine for a country boasting one of the highest GDP per capita in the world. Perched on a hilltop and overlooking the city was the medieval castle, a massive and somewhat random stack of ancient stone towers.
“March texted me that he’s waiting for us at the Sonnenhof Hotel. Phyllis took care of the rooms,” Alex announced, typing the hotel’s name in the GPS.
I acquiesced. March. Could I tell him what had happened? God, I wanted to. I wanted to be the five-year-old who points at the bully who hit her and asks an adult to avenge her. But I knew what it would entail, and I didn’t want any more violence. It was best I popped back into my shell and bore Alex’s presence until this investigation was over and I was able to put a galaxy or two between us.
The Sonnenhof Hotel was on the outskirts of the city, facing the still, white summit of the Alpspitz. I wished we had actually been there on a vacation, because its chalet-inspired design and the lush scenery of its garden made the whole place look like a fairy tale.
Alex was opening the trunk to retrieve our luggage when March’s voice echoed behind us. “I wouldn’t call this proper parallel parking.”
The single wrinkle on his brow was self-explanatory. Those few hours spent alone had done little to improve his mood.
I cast him a pleading look. “Not now—I promise to bring a protractor next time.”
“You won’t have to,” he said in a lofty tone.
My mouth fell open in a scandalized O when he pulled out his phone from his pocket and aimed the screen at our car briefly.
“Thirteen degrees. Would you like help with your suitcase while Mr. Morgan fixes this?”
I had no idea what to answer to that, so I just let him pick up my suitcase and followed him toward the ivy-covered arch leading to the hotel entrance. Behind me, I heard Alex mutter that March needed professional help as he opened the driver’s door. Mr. Clean ignored his diagnosis to follow me into the lobby.
Once we were alone, he seemed to relax a little. “Phyllis booked you a very nice room. I think you’ll like it.”
“Thank you,” I mumbled.
“There’s a table waiting for us at the restaurant. We can discuss our next course of action over lunch.”
Lunch. The very word brought up the memory of Alex’s body pressed against mine, of his hands crunching my wrists. Blood started pulsing rapidly in my neck; I felt dizzy. “I-I’m sorry, we already ate on the road. But maybe we can have a drink?”
On March’s forehead, the creases reappeared, this time out of concern. He removed one of his black gloves, and his hand rose to graze my cheek with the back of his knuckles. “Biscuit, are you all right?”
“I’m good. It’s just that I’m exhausted and—” My voice faltered, and in spite of myself, March’s touch made me flinch. “I’ll go unpack; I won’t be long.”
He fitted back his glove with doubtful eyes. “Very well. Take your time; I’ll see you at the bar.”
I rubbed my temples tiredly and followed a young hostess to my room on the hotel’s first floor. Once in, I let go of my suitcase and opened the bay window to stand on the balcony, staring at the view for a while. I could see the castle well, its outline sharp against the blue sky and frothy white clouds. The slope of the hill it stood atop was covered with bright green fields and blooming trees, creating a soothing postcard.
March had been right—the room itself was really nice, brightly lit, with its warm wooden furniture and white linen enlivened by black strip cushions here and there. I briefly contemplated slipping into a bathrobe, turning the TV on, and calling him and Alex to inform them that I had changed my mind and no longer cared about finding Thom’s killers or Ellingham’s money, because I had no energy left for either. A rage-quit, if you will.
I didn’t. Because there was too much at stake. I needed to clear Thom’s name. So I took a gianduiotti from the minibar to give myself some courage, brushed my teeth because I didn’t want to get diabetes and cavities, and left the room like the winner I was.
Alex’s spoon tinkled against the porcelain of his cup as he twirled it in his Vienna coffee. “This is all we’ve got so far. We need to approach Van Kreft carefully. If he’s our guy, after what happened on Roosevelt Island, it’s a given that he knows someone is on his track.”
“I know you didn’t take my idea seriously,” I said between two sips of hot chocolate, looking at Alex. “But, like I said, I could go undercover and pretend to be a potential client.”
“Island, we’ve talked about this already—” He sighed.
March glanced at me over his coffee cup. “Agreed. There will indeed be no undercover mission involving Island.”
I raised a finger. “I think we should take the time to discuss the pros and cons—”
For a second, I thought I had gotten through to March. His features had lit up, and he was looking at me intently. He squinted his eyes in apparent incomprehension, before his expression morphed into something complicated that I wasn’t sure how to interpret—worry, disbelief . . . rage.
And I understood. Upon raising my hand to defend the merits of my plan, my sleeve had been pulled back, revealing the purple imprints of Alex’s fingers on my skin.
Across the rustic
wooden table, March was very still, and his gaze was now set on Alex, unblinking. “Mr. Morgan, will you follow me outside?”
I winced at his velvety tone. Polite as the invitation might have been, his clenched fists and flaring nostrils promised a world of hurt. I shook my head in a silent plea. He didn’t listen—probably couldn’t, at this point.
Alex’s glare suggested he believed himself to be up to the challenge. “Certainly, Mr. November.”
I should have felt vindicated that Alex was about to learn a painful lesson in not handling a breakup like the Hulk, but I found the idea brought me no comfort, filling me instead with an asphyxiating sense of guilt. I was the one who had allowed the tension to escalate between the three of us . . . until this. A distant part of me was able to analyze the situation rationally and conclude that Alex had brought this on his sorry ass, and that March wouldn’t kill him anyway—that was no longer who he wanted to be. But I couldn’t shake off that damn guilt, and I watched, petrified, as they both got up and left the table.
I thought of going after them, even started to get up as well, but then I caught my own reflection in the window, and I realized how pale I was, how hollow my eyes looked. I looked like Dobby the fricking house elf. This wasn’t me. I needed to get over this, find myself again, and it dawned on me that the best way to accomplish that wouldn’t be to stand and watch while those two fought. It was to act!
Master is busy beating the shit out of Alex! Dobby is free!
I took out my phone, following from the corner of my eye until they had disappeared behind a wall and, I gathered, inside the garden.
It was a little weird for me to call Valorbank for the first time and give my client code. My personal set of moral values was still fairly traditional, making me feel bad for calling a Liechtenstein bank where I supposedly had a couple million dollars stashed. In any case, there’s no problem a well-stocked bank account can’t solve, and when I told my newfound financial advisor—a charming guy named Anders—that I was looking to invest my money and asked him what he thought of Adventia AG, he was all too happy to offer to call them for me and see if a meeting could be arranged. Of course, confidentiality being a chief concern in Valor’s particular field of business, I was assured that my identity would not be disclosed. I was a nameless, faceless client looking to purchase stock with cash currently sleeping in a dozen different tax havens, and everybody here was just fine with that concept.
