“I just don’t know why he’d lie to me. If he said he was going to London to see a client, it wouldn’t have bothered me. Even if it was a beautiful woman like Fatima Amir.”
Bloch and Julian exchanged glances. Annabel realized she sounded jealous. She was jealous. Fatima Amir was beautiful. Objectively, intimidatingly so. In the few photos Annabel found of her, she appeared to be in her late thirties. She had striking, photogenic features: a strong Romanesque nose; pronounced cheekbones; full, sensual lips. Her coffee-colored skin was luminous and her thick hair was so black it shone blue in sunlight. In every photograph, she was elegantly dressed, always in slacks and turtlenecks and blazers. Fatima Amir was the sort of woman who did not need to flaunt her exceptional looks. She was, by all accounts, a woman of substance. This was worse. Zoe, Matthew’s assistant, seemed like a potential mistress, a fling, a regrettable mistake that Matthew might make on a business trip after an extra glass of scotch. But Fatima was not a mistake. She was not a fling. She was the kind of woman for whom a man would leave his wife.
“Was he having an affair? Would you tell me if he was?”
“Annabel, stop. He adored you. You know that. You’re just tired.”
“She died with my husband. He was on a trip I didn’t know about, to a country I didn’t know he was in. How could I not know these things?” Her voice was reaching a hysterical pitch. She knew she needed to calm down, to control herself, but she couldn’t. She wanted to stand out on the veranda and scream at the sky as loud as she could, for as long as she could, until she couldn’t anymore.
“I’ll see what I can find out. I’m sure there’s a perfectly reasonable explanation for his trip to London.” Julian went to her and put a hand on her shoulder. He looked at Bloch. “Perhaps Annabel could speak to whoever is conducting the investigation? It might put her mind at ease.”
“Of course. She can call me anytime. And she’s welcome to speak to the tech who examined the black box. He can tell her more about the system malfunction.”
“I think that would be helpful. Thank you. And what about the search teams? They are continuing to look, are they not?”
“They are, yes,” Bloch said. “Standard protocol is that the search will continue for another twenty-four hours.”
Twenty-four hours. Annabel’s heart seized. It hadn’t occurred to her that they’d stop looking. At least, not so soon.
“That seems hasty.” Julian frowned. “I’ll talk with Jonas. With private funding perhaps we can continue the search.”
“Maybe I should lie down now. I don’t feel well, I’m sorry.”
Bloch stood, recognizing his cue to leave.
“I think that would do you good, love,” Julian said. “Get some rest. I’ll show Agent Bloch out.”
Annabel paused outside her bedroom. She could hear their muffled voices in the foyer. She craned her neck to listen.
“The search will likely end tomorrow. Is Mrs. Werner prepared for that?” There was concern in Bloch’s voice. She could picture his stern expression: the furrowed brow, the crossed arms. He adjusted his glasses when he was nervous, she had noticed. She imagined he was doing this now.
“Is anyone ever prepared for this kind of thing?” Julian responded. “She’s thirty years old, for God’s sake.”
“Of course. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive. I just meant—”
“So you don’t think his body will be recovered? I thought perhaps that might bring some closure.”
“We don’t expect that. Typically, in these sort of malfunction cases, the planes are largely consumed by fuel fires midair.”
“If it’s an issue of money . . .”
“It isn’t. Personally, I find that it’s in the best interest of the families to close the investigation as expeditiously as possible. A prolonged investigation can be very hard on them. It plants a seed of doubt where none should exist.”
“So your office is confident this was just a system malfunction? No foul play? You’re certain of it?”
“Yes. We were lucky to retrieve the black box intact. This was a tragic accident, nothing more. I know that doesn’t change the outcome for Mrs. Werner. But at least she can take comfort in knowing that no one intentionally brought harm to her husband.”
Julian said something that Annabel could not hear. She tiptoed farther down the hallway, until she was standing fewer than ten feet from Julian and Agent Bloch.
“The Amir family is making arrangements for a memorial service. Do you know if Mrs. Werner is doing the same?”
“I’ll speak to Annabel about it after she’s had some rest.”
“Thank you. There is one other thing. This is a bit of a delicate matter.”
“You can tell me.”
“Some of Mr. Werner’s personal effects were found at Ms. Amir’s home in London. Should I arrange to have them sent? I don’t want to upset her.”
Annabel inhaled sharply. Bloch’s words felt like a punch to the gut. It hadn’t occurred to her that Matthew was staying at Fatima Amir’s home in London instead of a hotel. That seemed so intimate, so familiar. Irrefutable evidence of an affair.
“I can take care of it,” Julian said. “Just let me know who to contact.”
“I will. Thank you for your help.”
“Of course. If you get any further information, please reach out to me. Annabel is in a very fragile state. If you discover anything suspicious or have any reason to doubt that this was more than an accident, let me know first. This has been an enormous shock to her. To all of us, of course, but particularly Annabel. She was so devoted to Matthew. I think she will handle news better if it comes from someone she trusts.”
“She is lucky to have a friend like you, Mr. White. She will need you now.”
Annabel heard the front door click closed. She slipped back down the hallway and disappeared into her bedroom before Julian caught sight of her. From inside her closet, Annabel pulled out the box of notes.
She set them out in neat rows on the bed, like a quilt made of small scraps of paper. Concert tickets from their third date. A Polaroid photograph of Matthew sleeping, which he had placed on the pillow beside her one morning before leaving for an early flight. A matchbook from their honeymoon. A page torn from a day planner on the day Matthew proposed. She looked at each one until her eyes blurred with tears. She lay down on top of them. For a long time, she stared at the blank white of the ceiling. Eventually she drifted into a deep and dreamless sleep.
* * *
• • •
HOURS LATER, Annabel jolted awake. She had been in the middle of a terrible dream, and her heart was racing. The street outside was quiet, and a full moon gleamed through her window. She glanced around her bedroom, orienting herself. A sweater of Matthew’s hung over the back of the desk chair. The novel she’d been reading lay on the ottoman. For a moment, she wondered if the past few days had been some kind of hellish nightmare from which she’d finally awoken. Maybe Matthew was in Zürich. Maybe he was on his way home. Maybe it was all just a horrible mistake.
Annabel sat up. She could hear a voice in the living room. A man’s voice. She was awake now, alert. Could it be Matthew? Her heart leapt at the thought. That’s absurd, she told herself. Stop it. Still, she hopped out of bed and stumbled toward the bedroom door.
When she opened it, the voice became clear. Annabel paused in the hallway, listening.
“There’s something not right about this,” Julian said, his voice low. “I have a bad feeling.”
Annabel tiptoed closer and peered around the corner. Julian was standing by the bookshelves in the living room. His back was to her. His cell phone was cocked between his shoulder and his left ear. He held a picture frame in his hands.
“I don’t know,” he said. “It just feels to me that the investigation is being rushed . . . yes. Exactly. That was my sense, to
o. I mean, two people are dead. Two important people.”
Julian turned then and replaced the photograph to its place on the bookshelf. Annabel bit her lip when she saw it. The photograph was of the three of them. Arms interlinked in front of a chairlift in Zermatt. Matthew was in the middle. His head was tilted back, his mouth in an open grin. Annabel loved that photo of him. One of their happiest times since they’d left New York. They had stayed at Julian’s chalet, just the three of them. Matthew had been so carefree that weekend, so relaxed. In the photo, he was laughing at something Julian had said. A joke, Annabel remembered, about Jonas. Julian did a pitch-perfect Jonas impression, especially after a few drinks.
Annabel watched as Julian picked up the picture again. He rubbed his thumb gently across it. “Jonas is as shocked as I am,” he said to the person on the other end of the line. “Yes, he agrees. Just do me a favor. Look into Agent Bloch at Fedpol. Find out what you can about him and let me know.” He paused, nodding his head as the person on the other end of the phone spoke. “Thank you. That would be quite helpful. And of course, this is between us.”
Annabel leaned forward and the floorboard groaned beneath her weight. Julian looked up. “I’ll talk to you soon,” he said. He set the photograph back and hung up the phone.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. I was just getting a glass of water.”
“Don’t be silly. This is your apartment. I hope I didn’t disturb you?”
“No. I was up anyway. I’m glad you’re still here.”
“I wasn’t going to leave you alone. I thought I’d sleep on the sofa, eventually.”
“I don’t think either of us is going to do much sleeping tonight.” Annabel took a seat on the couch and patted the cushion beside her.
“I love that photo,” she said.
“Me, too. What a weekend that was.”
“It was the first time I felt at home here. Actually, it’s one of the only times I’ve ever felt at home here.”
“Really? It doesn’t show.”
“When I moved to Greenwich Village, I felt like I was home, right away. But here . . .”
Julian nodded, as though he understood. He patted her knee. “It’s not easy to be an expat. Especially in Geneva. But you’ve handled it well.”
“I don’t know. I don’t exactly fit in with the other bankers’ wives.”
“Maybe that’s the reason I like you so much.”
“Because I’m a scrappy upstart from a blue-collar town?”
Julian laughed. “Because you’re smart and tough and interesting.”
“I don’t know. That weekend in Zermatt was the first time I felt like myself. Like I wasn’t just putting on a show. Honestly, I felt lost before I found you.”
“You have no idea how many women have said that to me.”
Annabel smiled.
“Who were you talking to?” Annabel asked then, her voice serious again.
“A friend. Who has connections at Fedpol.”
“Why?”
“Do you really want to know?”
“Yes.”
“I’m not sure I trust Agent Bloch. Or at least, I’m not sure he’s doing his job.”
“You don’t think the crash was an accident.”
“I think they’re being hasty in concluding that it was an accident. I don’t want to scare you, Annabel. But Matthew was my friend. And if someone caused this, I want to know who it was.”
“Me, too. And I don’t trust him, either.”
For a moment, they sat together in silence. Then Julian’s arm dropped around Annabel’s shoulder and she rested her head against it. She squeezed her eyes shut, but tears welled up anyway, and began to slip down her cheeks.
“Everything about this feels wrong,” she whispered. “Why would anyone—” She stopped, unable to finish the sentence.
“I don’t know,” Julian said, kissing the top of her head. “But trust me, if someone did, I’m going to find out.”
“Let me help.”
“No. You’ve got enough to deal with. Please. Just let me make some inquiries. I know the right people to talk to. If anyone can get to the bottom of this . . . I promise I’ll tell you anything the moment I hear it.”
Annabel frowned. She didn’t like the dismissive tone in Julian’s voice, but she could sense this wasn’t an argument she was going to win. “All right,” she said. “Thank you. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
“Just get some rest, all right?” Julian patted her thigh. “You need it.”
“We both do. Will you be all right on the couch? I’ll bring you some sheets and a pillow.”
“I’m fine. I can sleep anywhere. I have some calls to make.”
Annabel stifled a yawn. “Don’t stay up all night,” she said, and kissed him on the temple. “Good night.” Then she rose and padded off toward the bedroom. For a long time, she stayed awake, listening to the faint sound of Julian on his phone. From her bedroom, Annabel couldn’t hear what he was saying. That was fine. She had her own work to do. She stayed on her computer until the room grew light and her eyelids grew heavy. But she pushed on, even when she heard the living room fall silent. When Julian slept, Annabel rose, showered, and headed out to catch the first train to Bern.
Marina
Sander is dead. We have a serious problem now.
The ping of the email woke Marina up. She hadn’t really been sleeping. She had dozed off after going nearly blind from staring at her phone in the dark while Grant slept beside her. After reading the article about Duncan’s death, she’d emailed every journalist she knew in New York. No one knew anything. They were saying it was a robbery gone wrong. They were saying it was a scorned lover. They were saying there had been a rash of break-ins in Duncan’s typically quiet corner of Connecticut. Some reports said that valuable antiques and a painting had been stolen. Others heard that nothing had been taken. The police thought Duncan might have startled an intruder and ended up dead.
The email was from a Mark Felt. In a groggy haze, Marina racked her brain for the name. It sounded familiar. Mark was the name she’d been given for her contact in the Tuileries. Was this him?
Then it clicked: Mark Felt was the FBI agent who helped Bob Woodward and Carl Bernstein break the Watergate scandal in the 1970s.
Mark Felt was Deep Throat.
Marina felt the hairs on her arms stand on end.
This person—these people—whomever they were—were Duncan’s Deep Throat. Now they were hers.
I know. How can we talk? she typed back.
Encrypted channels only.
Marina hesitated. She wanted to do this right. Goddammit, Duncan, she thought. Where are you when I need you?
She could wait until she returned to New York. There she at least could consult another journalist about how best to communicate safely. Owen Barry at the Wall Street Journal, maybe. Another one of Duncan’s protégés and known to be something of a tech whiz. She could trust Owen. But she wasn’t scheduled to return to New York until next week. This could hardly wait that long. Given that she had a USB of data stuffed in the toe of her running sneaker in the back of the hotel closet—a USB loaded with information so sensitive that her boss was now dead—Marina didn’t know if this could wait until tomorrow, much less next week. She had to get home, as soon as possible.
“Fuck it,” she murmured aloud, and typed out contact details for further encrypted communications. She hit send.
“Hey there.”
Marina turned. Grant was sitting up, looking at her. He was shirtless, the sheet covering him only from the waist down. In the semi-darkness, he gave her a sleepy smile. “Are you okay?”
“Sorry,” she said. “Didn’t mean to wake you. I couldn’t sleep.”
Grant reached out and cradled her face with his hand. “I know. It’s awful.�
��
“I can’t believe he’s gone.”
“Listen, I’ll do whatever you want to do here. It’s your call. But I think we should go back to New York. In the morning, if possible.”
She winced. “This trip. You put so much work into it and—”
“Paris will be here. We’ll come back another time.”
“But the expense . . .”
Grant shrugged. “Forget the expense.”
Marina covered her face with her hands and let out a small sob.
“Oh, don’t do that,” Grant said. “Please, I don’t want you to be sad.”
“You’re just such a good man,” she said. “How did I get so lucky?”
Grant’s face relaxed. “I’m the lucky one.”
“You really wouldn’t be upset if we left?”
Grant shook his head. “I’d prefer it,” he said, his voice firm. “Duncan was family to you, Marina. And family is the most important thing in the world. Everything else is just collateral damage. Don’t worry about the trip.”
Marina pulled his hand to her lips and kissed it. “Thank you,” she whispered. “Thank you for understanding.”
“Of course.” Grant pulled her in and wrapped his arms around her body. He held her for a long time in silence. Eventually he pulled back, picked up the phone, and called the airline.
Annabel
It was snowing in Bern. Annabel stared out the window of the conference room at the Fedpol headquarters, watching a drift collect on the sill. A flat-screen television flickered on the wall across from her, the sound muted. Annabel glanced at it, then back out the window. A BBC journalist was walking through a dusty street in Aleppo, between the bombed-out shells of what had once been apartment buildings. A handkerchief shielded her nose; a bulletproof vest, her torso. What good would those things do, Annabel thought, if they dropped another bomb on that godforsaken place? Annabel could see her reflection in the windowpane. The thought of Aleppo made her even queasier.
In front of her sat a cold cup of weak coffee, brewed for her by Agent Bloch’s assistant. There was no milk in it and no sugar. Annabel had abandoned it after just one sip. A clock ticked overhead. She had been there for more than an hour. That was fine. She had expected to wait; after all, she hadn’t called to say she was coming.
The Banker’s Wife Page 5