“I’m going with you,” Grant said.
“If you like,” the officer replied.
Grant took Marina’s hand. Wordlessly, they followed the officer through a discreet white door. He gestured to a bench. “You may wait here,” he said to Grant. To Marina, he said, “Follow me, please.”
Grant squeezed Marina’s hand three times: I love you.
She squeezed back twice: So much.
“Don’t worry,” she said to him.
“Our flight starts boarding in forty minutes,” Grant said, more to the officer than to Marina. Marina smiled at him, trying to appear calm. As she followed the officer into a small room, she ran through all the possible scenarios in her head. It could be a mix-up of some kind, or perhaps she had been randomly selected for some additional security screening. Maybe she had mistakenly put something in her carry-on that alarmed security. A nail clipper. An aerosol can.
The more alarming possibility was that this had to do with the USB. Marina tried to remember exactly what her contact had told her to say. The password was russell1. The USB contained personal information. Photos. Nothing work related.
“Please have a seat,” the officer said, gesturing at the small table with metal chairs. “Someone will be in shortly.” With that, he left the room. Marina sat in a chair and crossed her hands in front of her on the table. Overhead, a clock ticked away the seconds. Thirty-seven minutes until boarding, Marina thought. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, trying to relax.
“Bonsoir, Ms. Tourneau.” Marina’s eyes popped open. A slight man in wire-rimmed glasses and an ill-fitting blazer entered the room. He carried a notebook under one arm, and in his hand, he held her carry-on bag. He placed it on the table between them and extended his hand. “Antoine Fournier. Police Nationale.”
Marina stood and smiled as she shook his hand.
“I’m sure you are wondering why you are here.”
“Yes.”
“Ms. Tourneau, what was the purpose of your trip here to Paris?”
“I’m celebrating my engagement.”
“No work?”
“No.”
“When was the last time, Ms. Tourneau, that you spoke to Duncan Sander?”
“He called me a few days ago, but we spoke only for a few minutes.”
“About what?”
“He wanted to wish me a good trip.”
“You didn’t speak about work?”
“No. I’m on vacation. And Duncan is on a sabbatical.”
“You’re aware, of course, that Mr. Sander was murdered shortly after that call.”
“Yes. That’s why I’m returning home. For the funeral. Are you investigating Mr. Sander’s murder?”
“No, madam. He’s an American citizen. However, we have reason to believe that Mr. Sander was planning a trip to Geneva and may have been trying to illegally obtain information from inside a Swiss bank.”
Marina frowned. “That doesn’t make sense to me. Duncan wasn’t working. As I said, he was on sabbatical.”
“People work on sabbaticals, Ms. Tourneau.”
“Maybe. I don’t understand what this has to do with me. Or you, for that matter.”
“It involves the theft of confidential information from French citizens. So it does concern me.”
“I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. I haven’t spoken to Duncan about work in weeks.”
“Did you meet anyone while you were in Paris, Ms. Tourneau?”
“We had dinner with a college friend of my fiancé.”
“No one else?”
“No.”
“Did anyone leave anything at your hotel or ask you to bring anything back to Mr. Sander?”
“No. I’d say you could search my bag, but I imagine you already have.”
Fournier smiled and wrote something down in his notebook.
“Did you purchase anything while in Paris?”
“I took some photographs. And I bought my mother an Hermès scarf.” Marina glanced at the clock. “My flight will be boarding soon.”
“I’m aware.” Fournier didn’t glance up from his notebook. Marina watched him write. She realized he had produced no identification. She wondered who he was and who he worked for. Duncan, what did you get yourself into? she thought, as she shifted nervously in her seat.
“All right, Ms. Tourneau. Thank you for your assistance. I just have one last question.”
“All right.”
“Did Mr. Sander ever speak to you about Swiss United Bank?”
“Not that I can recall.”
“You don’t believe he was working on a story at present?”
“That’s two questions.”
Fournier smiled again.
“No, I don’t,” she said. “To be frank with you, Duncan had a drinking problem. It had become quite severe. He was on medical leave from the magazine. I truly do not believe that Duncan had either the time or the capacity to be working.”
Fournier nodded. He rose to his feet. Marina did the same.
“Thank you for your time, Ms. Tourneau,” he said, extending his hand.
“My pleasure. May I take my bag?”
“Yes, of course.” Marina picked up her carry-on and slung it over her shoulder. She couldn’t help but notice that the zipper was fully closed. It had not been when she placed it on the X-ray machine’s conveyor belt. As discreetly as she could, she opened the bag and slipped her hand inside. She felt around for the inner pocket, which held the USB. When her fingers closed around it, she breathed a small sigh of relief.
Outside, Grant was pacing nervously in the hallway. “There you are,” he said, when Marina emerged. “I was starting to worry.”
“No need.” Marina forced a smile. Inside, her heart was racing. “Sorry to hold us up.”
“We’re good. We’ll make it.”
As they hurried toward the gate, Marina reached for Grant’s hand.
“What did they want?” he asked.
“I don’t really know. I think it was just a mix-up.”
“That’s odd.”
“It was, a little.”
At the gate, boarding had not yet begun. In fact, there were no airline personnel behind the desk. Marina looked around, surveying the scene. A large crowd was standing around a television in the corner.
“What’s going on?” Marina whispered to Grant. “This doesn’t feel right.”
“There’s a terrorist attack at Stade de France,” a woman beside them said. “Suicide bombers, they’re saying. At a football match. President Hollande is there.”
“Oh my God,” Annabel whispered. “Is anyone hurt?”
“They don’t know yet.” The woman nodded at the television. “They’re reporting live.”
“That explains the security,” Grant said. He put his arm around Marina and pulled her close.
Marina nodded, unable to speak. She couldn’t take her eyes off the screen. It was too small and too far away for her to make out much, except for smoke and what looked like people fleeing in all directions.
“What a world we live in,” Grant said quietly, shaking his head.
“Horrible.” Marina leaned her head against Grant. To the right, she noticed a group of soldiers in fatigues circling the perimeter of the gate. Though she now understood why they were there, she couldn’t shake the feeling that her own interrogation had nothing to do with the terrorist attack. Hers was not a random screening Antoine Fournier, whomever he was, had been waiting for her. He suspected, correctly so, that she was trying to leave the country with highly valuable information. Either he had not thought to check her USB, or he had and was unable to uncover the hidden data. Marina suspected it was the latter. If he had been able to, she would still be in the small white room with the metal chairs. It was possible they would be h
andcuffing her and telling her to contact a lawyer. The thought of it caused her body to shiver in fear. Grant felt it and wrapped his arms around her. He kissed the top of her head.
“I’m here,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”
“I know,” Marina answered. She was lying, of course. Grant couldn’t protect her now. Maybe no one could. If Antoine Fournier had found her this quickly, there would be others. And they would be more forceful in their interrogation than he had been.
Annabel
Six days after the crash, a memorial service was held for Matthew Werner at the Klausers’ home in Cologny. Annabel did not plan it. Julian handled the logistics. Jonas Klauser made sure to invite all the members of the firm and their most important clients. Elsa Klauser arranged for flowers and programs and catering for the reception afterward. The morning of the service, it snowed again, and the Klauser estate was coated with white. The sky was gray and clear, but another storm would arrive by evening. Dark clouds loomed over the mountains in the distance. Annabel stared at them as Father Moreau, a priest whom she met for the first time only the day before, delivered Matthew’s eulogy. He talked mostly about God and very little about Matthew. Annabel stopped listening early on. It all felt surreal to her, as though she were watching a movie about a memorial service and not an actual memorial service, for a man she’d married just four years earlier. Others around her were crying, but she felt surprisingly, unsettlingly numb.
At the reception afterward, everyone quietly agreed that the service was beautiful and elegant and flawlessly organized. A fitting tribute to Matthew Werner. When they said so, Annabel nodded in assent but could hardly speak. For her, it was all a waking nightmare.
“She’s hardly said a word,” she heard someone say to someone else.
“I can’t imagine,” was the reply.
“Is she alone here?”
“I think so. I’m sure she’ll go back to New York soon enough.”
The women passed by her on the way to the table where drinks were being served. They didn’t see her. She didn’t know most of these people anyway. They were almost all Swiss United people, employees or clients. A few Geneva acquaintances. Matthew’s aunt and cousins had flown over from New York, but Annabel had met them only a handful of times before today. Annabel’s sister, Jeannine, still lived in upstate New York. A single mom of two young kids, Jeannine couldn’t afford to fly over, and Annabel didn’t want her to. The sisters had never been close. The cracks between them had widened into a chasm after Annabel settled in New York City, married a lawyer. If Jeannine was resentful of Annabel’s life in Manhattan, Annabel couldn’t imagine what she’d think of her life in Geneva. She felt only relief when Jeannine apologized for not coming, and she could sense Jeannine’s relief when Annabel said she understood.
The Klausers hadn’t asked for contact information for their New York friends, and Annabel hadn’t volunteered. She just wanted the whole ordeal over with, as quickly and as painlessly as possible. She couldn’t handle the idea of lingering houseguests. Or the people who would stay in some five-star hotel in Geneva and expect to take her out for dinner the following evening and look into her eyes and tell her that she could call them for anything, anything at all. She’d known those people. They’d pick up the dinner bill and disappear again. They would check in with her once a month or so, then even less often, just to feel as though they’d done something for her, that they’d really been there. And at home they’d talk about how sad it had all been, but how they were happy they went, because really, it was the right thing to do.
“Who are these people?” Annabel asked Julian. “Why don’t I know them?”
“A lot of banking clients. It’s quite amazing, really, how many people flew in to pay their respects.” Julian pointed to a cluster of men by the bar. “That’s Vitaly Abramovich. He owns the largest oil company in Russia. He’s speaking to Clive Currie, the record label owner. Clive recently sold Vitaly his interest in Chelsea.”
“The place?”
“The soccer team.”
“And who is that?” Annabel pointed toward a man she’d met once before. She wasn’t sure he remembered her, however, and she wanted Julian to introduce them.
“The man with Jonas? That’s Rohan Agarwal. Steel magnate. Lives in Monaco.”
“No. Him, there. Talking to Zoe.”
“Ah. Lorenzo Mora. He’s a client of the bank. Heir to the largest sugar fortune in the world.”
“Matthew’s client?”
“Jonas’s, I think.”
“Introduce me.”
Julian raised his eyebrows but said nothing. Annabel knew what Julian was thinking. Lorenzo Mora was shockingly handsome. He was built like Matthew, tall and broad-shouldered, and had thick black wavy hair. He had the kind of smile that was perfectly imperfect. His two front teeth overlapped slightly and he had a dimple in just one cheek. Even though the day was overcast, he wore dark sunglasses and a scarf wrapped up to his chin, as though he’d rather not be recognized, even at a private, high-profile gathering such as this. As the heir apparent to the Mora sugar fortune, Annabel had no doubt that a great many women asked to be introduced to Lorenzo Mora. But she was not interested in his looks or his money. She wanted to talk to him about Matthew.
Julian nodded and ushered Annabel over to where Zoe and Lorenzo were sharing a cigarette. Not for the first time, Annabel thought how pretty Zoe was, and how young. Her pale skin and translucent blue eyes appeared even more ethereal against the slate sky. Her blond hair was pulled back into a low bun; tendrils escaped around her hairline, framing her face. She did not appear to be wearing makeup, but she hardly needed any. Annabel knew she was young, maybe twenty-four or -five, just a year or so out of university. All the assistants at Swiss United looked like Zoe. Elegant, young, thin enough to disappear as they slipped silently in and out of conference rooms filled with men. Annabel had mentioned this to Matthew after her first visit to his office. He shrugged, dismissed it as optics. Optics. A word Annabel had thought a lot about over the past six days. A word she should have thought more about over the past two years. How much of what happened at Swiss United was just optics?
“Hello, Zoe.” Annabel leaned in to kiss Zoe on the cheek and found herself trapped in an unexpected embrace.
“Oh, Annabel, I’ve been so worried about you,” Zoe breathed into her ear. Annabel felt the crush of Zoe’s slight frame against her own. When she pulled back, Zoe held on to Annabel’s arm. From her worried expression, Annabel could tell that Zoe’s concern was genuine. She felt a wave of regret. She’d always been a bit cold toward Zoe. Even though the girl seemed professional and kind, Annabel couldn’t help but be bothered by the idea of her husband spending endless hours with such an attractive young assistant. They even traveled together, and this was what bothered Annabel the most.
“I assume you get separate rooms,” Annabel sometimes joked, “or does the concierge think Zoe is your daughter?” But her jokes came across as insecure and childish instead of lighthearted, and Annabel always regretted making them afterward.
Matthew had remarked on a few occasions that Zoe had a boyfriend, a French lawyer who he claimed was “brilliant” and “charming” but who may or may not have left his wife for Zoe. Matthew said he was worried that Zoe would get her heart broken. She spent every weekend now traveling around Europe with him, sometimes even sneaking out early on Fridays to catch a flight, thinking Matthew didn’t notice. But Matthew said others at the bank had noticed, and her performance was suffering, and he was worried she would be fired. Even Jonas had said something to him about it.
Annabel assumed Matthew didn’t really care about Zoe’s absences. He talked about Zoe’s boyfriend to make Annabel feel more comfortable around Zoe. It didn’t work. Did that ever work? Was any wife anywhere made more comfortable by her husband’s frequent chattering about an attractive colleague? In fact, the boyfriend
, in Annabel’s opinion, was a strike against Zoe. It made Annabel uneasy that Zoe was dating someone she met through work, someone who appeared to have been married until very recently. Wasn’t that how most affairs started? Annabel suspected this sort of thing happened all the time at Swiss United. These men worked such long hours. Most nights, they ate dinner at the office. They were on calls all weekend, and when they weren’t, they were distracted, unable to hold a sustained conversation about anything other than exchange rates and tax loopholes and the world price of gold. They skipped birthday parties and other social engagements. They showered and dressed in the dark, slipped out of the house before the sun was up without so much as a good-bye to their wives. The pretty assistants at Swiss United were more than just optics. They were a work perk, an enticement, salve for the sixteen-hour days the men spent huddled in conference rooms over a pile of trust agreements and tax forms. Men like Zoe’s French lawyer left their wives every day. It could have just as easily been Matthew. Maybe it had been Matthew. Annabel was determined to find out.
“I’m sorry I haven’t called,” Annabel said to Zoe.
“Please, you needn’t explain. I can’t imagine. I just wanted you to know that I’m here for you, that I’m thinking of you.”
“Of course. You’re kind.”
“I’d like to come visit you, if that’s all right.” Zoe was staring at Annabel with such intensity that Annabel glanced away. She murmured something affirmative to Zoe and turned to Lorenzo.
“I’m Annabel Werner,” she said. “Matthew’s wife.”
“Yes, of course.” Lorenzo extended his hand. “Lorenzo Mora. I’m so sorry for your loss, Mrs. Werner.”
“We met once before, Mr. Mora. You probably don’t remember.”
“Of course, yes. And it’s Lorenzo, please.” He removed his sunglasses and blinked uncomfortably in the afternoon light. Annabel wondered if he did remember their meeting or if he was merely being polite. It had lasted only five minutes, maybe less. She had run into Matthew with Mora on Boulevard Helvétique one evening around nine. It had stunned her when she caught Matthew’s eye from across the street. She was coming from a theater, where she’d watched a movie alone. Matthew was with a man and a woman, and they were laughing. The man was opening the door to the Griffin’s Club, a posh member’s-only restaurant and nightclub where celebrities and the ultrawealthy hobnobbed to the beat of internationally known DJs. For a minute Annabel thought Matthew was going to duck into the club and pretend not to have seen her. Instead, he waved her over. She crossed the street, her heart pounding in her chest as she steeled herself for an unpleasant marital confrontation.
The Banker’s Wife Page 7