“Annabel, listen to me. Where are you?” Khalid’s voice was scratchy and faint, and muffled by what sounded like a passing train.
“Khalid?” Annabel pressed the phone tight to one ear and covered the other with the palm of her hand. “I can hardly hear you.”
“Where are you?”
“I’m at the airport. Why? My flight is boarding. I’m on my way to you.”
“Annabel, you can’t go to New York. Morse—”
“Khalid, you’re cutting in and out.”
“I did some digging into Morse. He’s getting paid by James Ellis. Ellis is a client of Jonas Klauser’s. I think Ellis paid Morse off to tell him who the leak was inside of Swiss United. He can’t be trusted.”
“Morse at the DOJ?” Annabel’s head was spinning. The last of the passengers were boarding her flight to Heathrow. She watched as a red line appeared around the flight number on the board, indicating final boarding call.
“Yes. He’s working for—”
Annabel heard a scuffling sound, a thump. Then, the line went dead.
“Khalid?” Annabel screamed. “Khalid?” But all she heard was dead air on the other end of the line.
People around her were staring.
“Are you all right?” a woman beside her approached, her face clouded with worry.
“Do you speak French, miss?” a man asked. “Qu’est-ce qu’il y a?”
“Madam, it’s final boarding call for London, Heathrow Airport,” the attendant said. “Dernier appel d’embarquement.”
Annabel spun around. A crowd was gathering. At the back of it, she saw a familiar face. It was the man who bumped into her at the library, just as she was leaving the microfilm room. He had knocked the photographs out of her bag. When she made eye contact with him, he turned away and disappeared into the crowd.
She looked at the attendant, not comprehending.
“Madam, are you boarding?”
Annabel shook her head. “No,” she said, her voice a whisper. “No.” She picked up her bag and backed away, nearly colliding with the woman who had asked after her as she sprinted out of the gate.
Zoe
Zoe’s shift at Café Hugo was ending. It was late afternoon, and the trickle of lunchgoers had dried up. The dinner crowd would start arriving in an hour or so, mostly fishermen and shopkeepers who came in for a beer and oysters after the workday. Zoe’s uncle, Clement, liked to close the kitchen for an hour or two before dinner so he could smoke and play cards with his friends. Zoe was the only waitress on the day shift. Rose, the other girl, was supposed to come by four, but usually she didn’t turn up until five. Rose didn’t like Zoe; Zoe could tell. She showed her disapproval in small ways. Showing up late. Leaving food residue in the sinks. It didn’t really matter. It wasn’t like there was much work to do. This time of year, Café Hugo only needed a bare-bones staff. Tourist season was over. The terrace—Café Hugo’s only real asset—was too cold to enjoy. Yesterday, Zoe had asked Clement if he wanted her to put the tables and chairs downstairs in the basement. “Prochaine semaine,” he said. Next week. That was Clement’s answer to most things. Zoe had forgotten how slow people moved in Saint-Thérèse-de-la-Mer. Before, the snail’s pace of things here had made her crazy. No one ever got anything done, she complained to her friends. They just went day by day; no real plans for the future. Before, she would have just taken the chairs downstairs anyway. It needed to be done, and why wait? Now she just nodded and went back to wiping down the bar. Next week was fine with her.
She loosened the knot of her apron and slipped it over her head. She could hear laughter from the alley outside and smell the faint earthiness of Clement’s hand-rolled cigarettes. She sat down at a table and began to count her tips. She made less money here in a week than she did in a day at Swiss United. But here, she could live on practically nothing. Clement was letting her stay in the apartment above the restaurant for free. He fed her, too, mostly leftovers from the kitchen. She couldn’t live off his generosity forever, of course. But it was temporary. Eventually, one way or another, this would be over. She just hoped she’d be alive at the end of it.
Her tips were counted. Zoe looked up and was surprised to see a man sitting on the terrace. She hadn’t heard him come in. He had chosen the table in the far left corner, the one with the best view of the sea. From his vantage point, he could see a swath of the glittering water from between the apricot-colored roofs of the surrounding houses. It was the best table at Café Hugo. Zoe wondered if he was one of Clement’s regulars. Some of them remembered her from when she was a child. They would ask her about Geneva and if she was married now. They would ask her how long she was planning to stay in Saint-Thérèse-de-la-Mer. She was getting better at answering with nonanswers.
Zoe stood and slipped her apron back on. She tucked her pencil behind her ear. She shivered when she opened the door; the temperature was dropping with the sun. A stiff cold wind sent the frayed awning over the terrace door flapping. The man didn’t seem bothered by the breeze. He turned his head, put a cigarette to his lips. He cupped one hand around the lighter to protect the flame.
It wasn’t until he tilted his head back that Zoe recognized him. His profile was unmistakable. Julian White had a sharp aquiline nose and a slender, almost feminine neck. He pushed his sandy blond hair off his forehead and closed his eyes as he savored the first drag. Then he crossed one leg over the other and slouched back in his chair. Clement’s laughter drifted up from the alley behind the restaurant. Overhead, a gull squawked and swooped. Otherwise, they were alone.
Zoe’s feet felt like lead. She had tried to prepare herself for this moment, when someone from Swiss United came for her. She stood still, rooted to the spot. I should run, she thought. But what if Julian saw her? Then he would know she was hiding something. If she ran, she was as good as dead.
Zoe forced herself to put one foot in front of the other until she was standing at Julian’s side.
“Julian?” She conjured a smile. “How funny to see you here.”
Julian looked up. The moment they locked eyes, she knew he knew. How much, she wasn’t sure. But Julian White knew something. His visit to Café Hugo was neither coincidental nor was it friendly. Of course it wasn’t. Zoe had been at Swiss United long enough to know better. No one at Swiss United would turn up here, at a café populated mostly by locals in a small fishing town in the South of France. Least of all Julian White, who, the last time she saw him, was complaining about the lack of caviar on the room service menu at Grand-Hôtel du Cap-Ferrat. No. Julian White was as calculated and deliberate as they came. He was here on business, and the business was her.
“Zoe,” he said, cool as the breeze. “How nice it is to see you again.”
“And you. What brings you to Saint-Thérèse-de-la-Mer?”
Julian gestured at the sea. “Oh, I love this corner of France. Look at this view. No wonder Van Gogh loved this town.”
“You’re thinking of Saintes-Maries-de-la-Mer. On the other side of Arles.”
“Am I? Well, the coast is all lovely. You’re lucky to live here.”
“Just for a while. My mother is ill.”
“Yes, I heard. I was sorry to hear that.”
“This is my uncle’s restaurant. They needed the help.”
“Of course. How good of you to fill in.”
“Are you staying in town?”
Julian smiled. “I don’t know yet,” he said. “I have some work in the area. I’m not sure how long it will take. Any recommendations?”
Zoe shrugged. “Vila de la Mar is nice. But there are prettier places, in my opinion. Nice. Saint-Tropez.”
“Are you trying to get rid of me?”
“Of course not, no,” Zoe exclaimed. She felt her face flush with embarrassment. “Here,” she said, thrusting a menu at Julian. “The kitchen is closed, but—”
“I don’t want to inconvenience you.”
“It’s no trouble. Really. Whatever you want.”
Julian smiled. She felt his eyes slide down her neck and torso and linger on the gap between her thighs.
“Just a drink, maybe,” he said, after he had finished appraising her. “Could you find me a nice bottle of red?”
“Of course.”
“Bring two glasses,” Julian called after her.
Zoe hurried back inside and slipped behind the bar. Her hands shook as she gripped the counter. She could sense Julian watching her through the glass. She bent down, as though getting something from a low shelf. When she was out of his sight line, she pulled her phone out of her pocket and texted her boyfriend, Arthur.
Julian White from Swiss United is here, she typed. What do I do?
Zoe waited for a response but none came. She grimaced and shoved the phone back into her pocket. She pulled a bottle of red out of the cabinet, placed it on her tray, and hurried back outside, hoping she hadn’t been gone for a suspiciously long time.
“This is my uncle’s favorite,” she said, holding out the bottle. “Spicy and full bodied. From Corbières.”
“You sound like you know your wine.”
Zoe blushed again. “No. Not really. Just enough to get by as a waitress.”
“Or to work at Swiss United.”
“I didn’t realize knowledge of wine was part of that job.”
Julian laughed. “Oh, but it is. You need to know about the finer things to work in private banking.”
“I was just an assistant.”
“Matthew didn’t think so. He trusted you. Relied on you quite a bit.”
“I did my best to be helpful.”
“Sit. Have a glass with me.”
“Oh, no. Thank you. I have to work.”
Julian looked around at the empty terrace. “There’s no one here. You said the kitchen was closed. Have a drink with an old friend.”
Zoe sat. At least it’s daylight, she told herself, as Julian poured her a glass of wine. Clement is downstairs. Patrons will start to arrive soon.
“You left right after Matthew’s service. Why didn’t you say good-bye?”
“I did. Well, to Annabel Werner, anyway. My mother was ill. It all happened quickly.”
“Your mother.”
“Yes.”
“It’s funny, I thought I remembered Matthew saying that your mother had died when you were young.”
Zoe blanched. “Yes. Well, I misspoke. It’s my aunt that’s sick. My mother died when I was a baby. My aunt raised me. I think of her as my mother.”
“Ah. And she owns this place?”
“Yes. With my uncle. He’s the chef.”
“Where are you staying?”
“They lent me the apartment upstairs.”
“You should have said good-bye. To Jonas, at least. He was worried.”
“I— Yes, of course. I should have. I wasn’t thinking so clearly after Matthew died.”
Julian nodded. He took a sip of wine and stared out at the sea. “Terrible thing,” he said.
“Yes. Yes, it was.”
“You know, Matthew was my closest friend at the bank.”
She nodded.
“He was a terrific guy. Loads of fun. Before he died, though, I felt like something had changed. There was a darkness hanging over him. Do you know what I mean?”
“Perhaps,” Zoe said. She shrugged. She began to pull apart a cocktail napkin, rolling the paper between her fingertips into small, compact balls. “It was a tough job.”
“Yes, that’s true. Long hours and all that. But there was something else. I couldn’t quite put my finger on it at the time.”
“What do you think it was?” Zoe asked.
“I think he was in some kind of trouble.”
“Trouble?”
“Yes. I don’t know if it was financial trouble or what. But there were rumors.”
“Rumors of what?”
“That he was selling financial information. From inside Swiss United.”
“Matthew would never.” Zoe frowned.
“I agree. It seems out of character for him. But there was information leaking out of the bank. Some of it may have fallen into the hands of reporters.”
Zoe shivered. “Reporters?”
“Yes. Jonas is aware of it. As you can imagine, he’s quite upset. The idea that private financial information would leak out of the firm is devastating. Criminal, in fact.”
“And you think Matthew was the one leaking the information?”
“Well, that’s the interesting thing.” Julian paused and finished what was left of his wine. “At first, yes. I assumed so. But from what I understand, the leaks continue.”
Zoe gazed out at the gulls. There were only two today. Last week there had been more; the rest must have departed for warmer climes. They squawked and swooped over the alley behind the restaurant. Zoe could hear the rustling of the trash bags being changed, the creak and whine of the back door. The faint smell of bouillabaisse wafted up from the kitchen. One gull rushed by overhead, a crab claw in his beak. Victory. He would drop it on the stone steps at the end of the street. All the gulls did this. In the summer, the shopkeepers had to sweep them twice a day because of all the broken bits of shell and crab carcass.
“I have a hunch,” Julian said. “Do you want to hear it?”
“Certainly.”
“Did you ever meet Arthur Maynard? At Schmit & Muller?”
Zoe felt faint. Before she could answer, Julian chuckled. “Of course you did; what am I saying? I saw you together at the firm retreat in Zermatt.”
“In Zermatt?” Zoe whispered.
“Yes, last winter. You don’t remember? You were coming off a chairlift together.”
“Oh, yes. I remember now. You have quite a memory.”
“I remember everything. One of my many quirks.”
“You were saying you had a hunch?”
“Oh, yes. A few months ago, I wondered aloud to Jonas if the leak was coming from Schmit & Muller. After all, they have access to many of our clients’ financial records, as well as clients at CIB and a number of other banks.”
“And what did Jonas think?”
“That it was worth pursuing. We started keeping a close eye on all of our senior bankers, as well as the lawyers at Schmit & Muller with access to our clients.”
“And what did you find?”
Julian smiled. “I think you know what we found.”
A tear slipped down Zoe’s cheek. She didn’t bother to wipe it away. Instead, she kept her eyes trained on the horizon, and the fading golden sky beyond it.
“Arthur and I are in a relationship.”
“He’s married, you know.”
“He’s separated.”
“His wife didn’t think so. She’s been very helpful to us.”
Zoe turned, her eyes blazing. “What have you done to Arthur?”
Julian shook his head. “Aren’t you curious what Arthur did to us? Or did you know all along?”
Zoe began to cry. “I don’t know anything,” she said. “Except that he’s a good man, and I love him.”
“He was stealing confidential information from inside Schmit & Muller and feeding it to reporters in the States.”
“You have proof of this?”
“All the proof we need. And you know what I find curious?”
“What?”
“That these two men, Matthew Werner and Arthur Maynard, both decided to leak information at around the same time. Matthew went to the DOJ. Arthur, to the press. And there you are, in the middle of all of it.”
“Maybe they both came to their senses. After learning these firms did business with the Assads. Did you think of that?”
“I’ve done nothing wrong. And neither has Arthur.”
“Well, we’ll see. I think Jonas will be paying Arthur a visit shortly. He’s in Paris, you know. At his flat there. His wife threw him out of their home in Luxembourg after she found out about you two.”
The door to the terrace clattered open. Julian and Zoe turned. There was Rose, late as always, busily knotting her apron at the back of her waist.
“Je suis désolée,” she was saying, as she strode toward Zoe. She paused when she noticed Julian. “Excusez-moi.”
“Rose,” Zoe stammered. She brushed her wet cheek with the back of her hand. “This is an old colleague of mine, from Geneva. I’m sorry, Julian, but I need to get back to work. Our dinner shift is about to start.” Zoe rose to her feet, ignoring Rose’s inquisitive look.
“Of course.” Julian stood as well. “Good to meet you, Rose. Nice to catch up, Zoe.”
“Yes, such a surprise.”
Julian glanced at his watch. “It’s getting late. I think I’ll stroll down to that place you mentioned—what was it called?—and see if they have a room.”
“Vila de la Mar.”
“Yes. That one. If I stay for a few days, perhaps we will see one another again.”
“Perhaps.”
“How much do I owe you? For the wine?”
“On the house.”
Julian nodded. “Merci,” he said. “Bonsoir.” He stuck his hands into his pockets and strolled to the door leading back inside. Before opening it, he paused. “Oh, Zoe? One last thing.”
“Yes?”
“After Matthew died, no one could find his laptop.”
“His laptop?”
“Yes, you know. The one he used when he was traveling.”
“I imagine it was on the plane with him.”
“Maybe. I just thought you would know where it was. It has so much confidential information on it.”
Zoe shook her head. “I’m sorry.”
“Worth a try.” Julian nodded. “Good night. See you again soon, I hope.”
The Banker’s Wife Page 22