The Banker’s Wife

by Cristina Alger

  * * *

  • • •

  TO BIDE THE TIME until Matthew came home, Annabel pretended to read a novel in the waning afternoon light, but her eyes kept dancing over the words and straying toward her phone. It was a domestic thriller, about a wife who disappears on her commute home from work. It felt like the kind of book she’d read a million times before, a book with “Girl” in the title and an unreliable narrator, and she kept forgetting all the characters’ names. Why hadn’t Matthew called? It wasn’t like him. If it got too much later, she would have to leave for the Klauser party alone. Annabel never felt comfortable at the Klausers’, with their uniformed staff and stiff friends, most of whom were decades older than Annabel. Matthew knew that. Matthew was mindful when it came to things like that. He wouldn’t ask her to walk into that party alone. “If Jonas wasn’t my boss . . . ,” he always said with an apologetic smile. He never finished that sentence. Jonas Klauser wasn’t just Matthew’s boss. He was the head of Swiss United, the biggest bank in Switzerland. He was Matthew’s godfather. He was the reason they were in Geneva to begin with. As long as they were there, the Werners had to make nice with the Klausers. “It’s just business,” Matthew said. But everything with Matthew had become business.

  The church bells rang. Annabel put down her novel. The wife had been missing for ten days, but Annabel didn’t care what happened to her. She didn’t bother to mark her page. She hadn’t finished a book in ages. The verandas off the neighboring apartments were empty; it was too cold now for most people to sit outside the way Annabel did, even with heat lamps. She liked the cold. It made her feel awake, alive. A brisk wind picked up, causing her eyes to water. Snow began to drift down from the darkening sky. The party was beginning. If there was a miscommunication and Annabel was meant to meet Matthew at the Klausers, she would embarrass him if she were late. Annabel hated embarrassing Matthew. Her lateness was something he found charming back in the States, part of the bohemian allure of dating a downtown gallerist instead of one of those Upper East Side socialites Matthew dated before Annabel. Bonfire Blondes, Annabel called them, after the X-ray-thin women in Bonfire of the Vanities. Matthew, having grown up on the Upper East Side, seemed to know them all. The Lindseys and Bitsies and Kicks. The ones with fancy last names for first names: Lennox and Merrill and Kennedy. Girls who had been raised to write thank-you notes on engraved stationery and arrive fashionably late, but not forgetfully late, as Annabel often did. Here in Geneva, her lateness bothered Matthew, especially when it happened in front of someone from the bank. It wasn’t as though she had a reason to be late. She had no job. No children. No friends, except for Julian. She couldn’t chance it. Back on went the heels.

  The Klausers lived in Cologny, a suburb northeast of the city with winding roads and open fields. They kept a flat in town, too, for the nights that Jonas worked late (or, Annabel suspected, for holing himself up with his mistress, a B-list French actress Jonas had met in Cannes, and whom he squired about openly while his wife was off riding horses or shopping the Paris fashion shows), but they never entertained there. Why would they, when their chalet—château, really—had a nine-hole golf course, a tennis court, a pool, a ten-car garage for Jonas’s car collection? The art was not Annabel’s style—it was all flashy, recognizable stuff, the sort of collection that an art advisor would foist onto a client with no taste and no budget to speak of—but it was outrageously, jaw-droppingly expensive. More impressive than the best galleries in New York on a good day, Annabel thought. Most of the rooms in the Klauser house had at least one major piece: a Damien Hirst, a Jasper Johns. A hideous Botero sculpture of an obese woman on a chaise, dead-smack in the middle of the living room. “They might as well wallpaper the house in money,” Annabel had said to Matthew, the first time they went there. “They must be richer than God, to have a collection like that.”

  More impressive to Annabel than the Klausers’ art collection were their unobstructed views of the Alps and the peak of Mont Blanc. She’d been to their home a dozen times, but those snow-capped mountains in the background never ceased to strike her into awed silence. It looked like a postcard, a fairy tale. She just couldn’t believe a view like that was real. The sky was so blue and the snow was so crystalline and the lines of the mountains were so precisely drawn, it looked as though it had all been digitally enhanced somehow. Everything about the Klausers felt that way. Elsa Klauser, for example. She claimed to be the daughter of a minor Austrian royal, a viscount maybe, or something similarly ridiculous. Annabel suspected this was made up, part of a carefully curated pedigree that Elsa had adopted once she’d landed Jonas Klauser as a husband. It didn’t jibe with her slightly too-large breasts, her shock of white-blond hair, or her accent, which was muddled and unplaceable. She wore all the right clothes—Loro Piana and Chanel and Brunello Cucinelli—but her leather pants were ever so slightly too tight, her hemlines too short, her necklines alluringly low, for a woman of supposedly noble birth. She draped herself in fur all year long, even in the summer. “Like a character from Game of Thrones,” Matthew had joked one night after too much wine. It didn’t matter now, anyway. The Klausers were royalty of a different kind. In this world of hidden bank accounts and secret money, Jonas Klauser was king.

  Unlike his wife, Jonas carried himself like a true aristocrat. He remembered the names of everyone’s children and parents and spouses and mistresses, even if he’d met them only once, years ago, during a cocktail party at which they were the least important person in the room. He could chatter on about art or wine or parasailing or stamp collecting—anything, really—and he could do it in five languages. He was a true gentleman’s banker, Matthew said about him. Whenever he talked about Jonas, his voice was steeped in reverence. During their first week in Geneva, the Klausers arranged a welcome party for Matthew and Annabel at Skopia, a gallery known for promoting Swiss artists. Jonas took Annabel by the arm and introduced her to a mix of local curators, gallerists, and artists. He wanted her to feel welcome, he said. Matthew was family to him, and now so was she. If there was anything he could do to make Geneva feel more like home, all she had to do was ask.

  * * *

  • • •

  ANNABEL CALLED ARMAND, the driver. She jotted a note on a napkin and left it on the foyer table, where Matthew was sure to find it. Matthew kept all their notes in a box in his closet. Even the throwaway ones, written on receipts or napkins or old movie ticket stubs that Annabel had dug up from the bottom of her purse. Annabel discovered this after they were married and still found it terribly romantic. She was more careful with her handwriting now that she knew the notes would be preserved. Sometimes she drew little sketches for him, knowing it would make him smile. She had, over the past few years, cultivated a talent for naughty drawings.

  Today there would be no sketch. She signed it, x, A. Less affectionate than Love you, A., which she wrote sometimes, but warmer than simply A. He’d better have a good excuse, Annabel thought. He’d better not be with Zoe.

  When she opened her front door, Annabel inhaled sharply. Two men stood in the vestibule outside her apartment. One held a briefcase. Both wore suits, overcoats, somber expressions. Their cheeks were red from the cold. Their hair was damp from the snow.

  “Annabel Werner?” the one with the briefcase said. He pronounced her name Verner, with a hint of a Germanic lilt. His dark eyes blinked at her from behind clear-rimmed glasses.

  “Yes?”

  “Sorry to have startled you.”

  He reached into the breast pocket of his overcoat and withdrew a badge, which he held up for her. His partner did the same.

  “My name is Konrad Bloch, I’m with the Fedpol. This is my colleague, Phillip Vogel. May we come in? We have a personal matter to discuss with you.”

  Before she could reply, Annabel’s phone buzzed.

  “I need to get this,” she said. “Could you excuse me for a moment?”

  Bloch nodded but
didn’t move aside. Instead, she could feel his eyes on her as she fished about in her purse, searching for the phone.

  It wasn’t Matthew.

  “Hello? Yes, Armand. I’m on my way down. Could you wait just a moment . . .” She cupped her hand over the phone. “It’s the driver. I’m on my way out. Perhaps you could come back at a different time—”

  “Mrs. Werner, it’s urgent that we speak to you. I suggest you let the car go.”

  * * *

  • • •

  IN THE APARTMENT, Annabel gestured for the men to sit. She thought to offer them water or coffee but didn’t; she wanted them to leave as soon as possible. Outside, the sky was dark. Snow collected on the window ledges. The roads to Cologny would be slow. The men removed their coats. Annabel left hers on as she perched at the edge of the sofa. It was too hot to be inside in a fur coat, and she felt herself growing light-headed.

  “Mrs. Werner,” Bloch started. “Your husband’s plane from London did not land as scheduled. We believe it crashed in the Alps.”

  Annabel stared at him, blank.

  “A search has commenced in the Bauges Mountains, just east of Chambéry. There is a storm there, which is making the search difficult. But wreckage from what we believe was the plane was spotted atop Mont Trélod.”

  Annabel frowned, processing this.

  “No,” she said, after a long moment. She shook her head. “That’s not right. My husband has been in Zürich, on business. There’s been a mistake.”

  “Your husband is Matthew Steven Werner?”

  “Yes.”

  “An employee of Swiss United Bank.”

  A siren shrieked by, piercing the air. Annabel waited until it passed before answering. She was unnerved by the sound of sirens here. They weren’t like the ones in New York. Here, they were eerie instead of merely loud, like a howling dog, a cry for help.

  “Yes, that’s where he works.”

  “He was listed as the second passenger aboard a private plane that departed from Northolt Airport in London this morning. It was scheduled to land at Genève Aéroport at 8:20 a.m. The other passenger was a woman named Fatima Amir. The plane belonged to her.”

  Annabel shook her head. She had never heard of Fatima Amir.

  “It’s not possible,” she said. “Matthew was in Zürich. For a bank off site. They hold them once a quarter. I spoke to him last night.”

  After saying this, she realized it was not true. It was two nights ago that she had spoken to Matthew. He was at the office. He was scheduled to take a train to Zürich after a meeting, he had said. He’d be home in time for the Klausers’ party. He sounded rushed, brusque, even. She could hear voices in the background and she knew she did not have his full attention. He had been reticent to set up a time later that evening when they could talk and say good night, and this had upset her. She had grown snappish, said something about how it felt as though he was never home anymore. He said that he hated being apart, more than she knew. That he’d be home soon, that he’d always come home to her. He’d made her repeat that back: 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. This had lessened the sting, though only slightly. She had not heard from Matthew since.

  Annabel said none of this to Bloch. She was not wrong about the essential point, which was that Matthew was in Zürich, not London. Annabel was certain of this. Matthew had flaws, but dishonesty was not among them. She felt suddenly protective of her husband. She did not want these men to think Matthew was the sort of person who didn’t call his wife when he was away on business. A typical American banker who cared only about making money and not a lick about his family. Matthew was not that.

  “Perhaps there was a miscommunication. Or a last-minute change of plans. I am very sorry, Mrs. Werner.” Agent Bloch spoke with finality, as though there was no possibility for error on his part. Annabel looked at his partner, Vogel. He, too, looked at her with sympathy. For the first time, she understood what was happening. These men were here to tell her that Matthew was dead.

  “There’s been a mistake,” Annabel repeated. She had to force the words out of her mouth. Her throat was tightening, making it hard to talk or breathe. “Isn’t that right? You’ve made a mistake?”

  “Mrs. Werner, the likelihood that anyone might survive a crash such as this is extremely low. We do not expect it in this case. We understand this is a very difficult thing to hear. Is there someone we can call for you? A family member, perhaps?”

  “Matthew’s my family. I have no one else.”

  Later, Annabel would not remember what happened next. Only that she began to scream as she fell to her knees on the floor.

  Marina

  Ditching Grant proved to be surprisingly easy. Marina felt a flicker of guilt when she lied to him—they were going to be married, after all—but it was fleeting. It wasn’t really a lie, she told herself. She was going for a run. She just happened to be meeting Duncan’s source halfway through it. As she laced up her sneakers, her heart pounded with nervous excitement. There was no high like the one Marina got when she was on the tail of a good story.

  The late November air stung her cheeks as she set off across rue de Rivoli. Her breath crystalized in front of her; the sun had yet to rise above the trees. She lamented the fact that she hadn’t brought her running hat or her polar fleece jacket. Running hadn’t been on her agenda. She had planned to spend her vacation eating cheese and drinking wine. And yet, here she was, working and running like always.

  Marina picked up her pace to a near sprint in order to stay warm. She usually ran to music, but not today. She needed to have her wits about her. The exchange would happen quickly and, if all went well, it wouldn’t attract so much as a glance from passersby. Even at this early hour, Marina was aware of a handful of others in the Tuileries. To her right, there was an older woman walking her dogs. A man in an overcoat and a thick gray scarf cut in front of her, as though too much in a hurry to slow for a jogger. A pair of teenagers kissed by a gate. A security guard walked toward the entrance of the Louvre.

  As she neared L’Orangerie museum, Marina’s breath quickened. As planned, a man in a black windbreaker and running sneakers stood by the entrance, stretching out his quads. He was taller than she expected and in excellent shape. He looked to be in his late thirties and, like her, a seasoned runner. Marina knew she would learn nothing more about him. She suspected he was not the real source, but someone sent by the source as a middleman, a go-between. The source had already taken extreme measures in transmitting this data safely, a fact Marina found simultaneously reassuring and thrilling. After nine years in the field, Marina had developed a keen sense for sources. She could feel it in her gut when someone had a hidden agenda or was peddling false information. Everything about this felt right. According to Duncan, the source had not asked for money. He insisted on transmitting the data in person. He communicated via encrypted messages. He had done his due diligence on both of them and seemed as wary of them as they were of him. Most interestingly, he hinted at a wealth of information, beyond the data on Morty Reiss, which he promised to transmit at a later date, should they be interested. So far so good. This source seemed like the real deal.

  The man turned and they made eye contact. Marina slowed her pace to a walk and stopped beside him. She pulled her ankle to her glutes, imitating his stretch. They both glanced around to ensure they were alone.

  “Marina?” He spoke with a touch of an accent that she couldn’t place.

  “And you’re Mark.” This was the name she’d been given via text.

  He nodded. “I have something for you,” he said, his voice low. “How long are you in Paris?”

  “Three more days. You?”

  “A little while longer. You can reach me at the number on the bottom of this card if you run into any t
rouble.” He pulled a business card from the pocket of his windbreaker. With a second glance over his shoulder, he handed it to her. Her fingers curled around it and the small USB hidden beneath.

  She tucked both into the zippered pocket of her running pants.

  “There is a password, I assume.”

  “The external password is your mother’s maiden name, followed by the number one: russell1. No caps.”

  “How did you know my mother’s maiden name?”

  “If you are detained at the airport, refuse to give the password. Say that the USB contains personal data, photographs and such. But if you are pushed to do so, it will be all right. The information of real consequence is hidden beneath the photos, in a secret section of the hard drive. The password for that section is forty-eight characters long. For your safety, I will send that password to Duncan Sander via encrypted message. That way, even if you wanted to, you will not be able to grant US Customs or anyone else access to that data.”

  “Of course,” Marina said, trying to sound calm. In fact, she felt dizzy from excitement. It hadn’t occurred to her that she might be detained or that the government might want this information. “What sort of photos? In case someone asks.”

  “Generic pictures of Paris. Photos you might have taken on vacation.”

  Marina nodded. “Is this everything?”

  “This is nothing. It’s the tip of a very large iceberg of data. But it’s the data Duncan Sander was interested in receiving. I understand that he has been looking for Mr. Reiss for quite some time.”

  “He has. But you’re willing to give us more.”

  “Yes. Enough to keep you and a team of journalists busy for months. Years, even. Mr. Sander was interested in the Reiss story. But there are others.”

  Marina’s lips parted. She had so many questions, she didn’t know where to start.