“Mr. Mora’s brother is facing money-laundering charges of his own in the UK,” Jensen explained. “So we offered him a deal. He helped us get inside Swiss United and the Amir Group, and his brother stays out of prison.”
“During a meeting, Jonas told Lorenzo that he had a source within the Department of Justice who had identified me as a whistle-blower,” Matthew explained. “He suggested that Lorenzo cut off communication with me. Lorenzo offered to take care of the problem, but Jonas said he’d do it himself. So Lorenzo went straight to Jensen and told him that there was a whistle-blower inside the bank who was in danger.”
“We had to work quickly,” Jensen said. “We knew we had to extract both Matthew and Fatima, who had been informing MI6 about her brother’s dealings with Assad. We thought it would look suspicious if they both disappeared at the same time, so we decided to orchestrate the plane crash. There were so many people who wanted them both dead—the bank, the Assad family, Schmit & Muller—that we reasoned that they would all assume someone else had caused the crash. It was ingenious, really.”
Popov laughed. “It was your idea.”
“And that’s why MI6 values me as much as they do.”
Popov rolled his eyes. “You were the wild card,” he said to Annabel. “We didn’t know if you’d have the wherewithal to investigate. But you did. And I have to say, you were quite resourceful. I couldn’t believe you found those photographs of the crash at the library.”
“How did you get the Fedpol agents to give me fake photographs of the crash?” Annabel asked.
“Agent Vogel worked for us. Agent Bloch worked for Fedpol until we came knocking. Now he’s with us permanently.”
“That man who was following me that night—was he CIA?”
“No. He was Klauser’s man. He was just keeping an eye on you, to see if you knew anything. Fortunately for you, you didn’t.”
“Why did you let me twist in the wind for so long? It’s been two weeks. Once you had Matthew in protective custody, why didn’t you arrest Jonas and the rest of them?”
“That was unfortunate. Matthew had been downloading financial data onto his personal computer for weeks. He also carried on with Hunter Morse at the DOJ, so we could have evidence that Morse was indeed feeding information to Klauser. But then we heard chatter about a hit man, hired by Swiss United. We needed to extract Matthew and Fatima, but we couldn’t take the risk that Fares would look through Matthew’s computer. So Matthew left it with Zoe Durand. We hoped to retrieve it from her, once Matthew and Fatima were safe.”
“But she gave it to me. And I gave it to Khalid.” Annabel winced. “Is Khalid—”
“Safe,” Jensen said. “A black eye, I’m afraid, but otherwise intact. We staged a mugging to remove the computer. We thought that if he was being followed and seen turning over a laptop to an MI6 agent, our cover would be blown. So, instead, we arranged for some thugs to take his bag outside the tube station.”
“Oh, thank God. I thought—”
“He’s fine.”
“He must be terrified. Can you tell him I’m safe? Please? After everything he did for us . . .”
Popov and Jensen exchanged glances.
Jensen nodded. “I’ll let him know you are safe.”
“Thank you.”
“So you recovered the laptop, then.”
“We did. But as it turns out, we didn’t need to. Zoe took matters into her own hands. She had been leaking information to a journalist all along.”
“Zoe?” Annabel’s mouth dropped open in surprise.
“Zoe warned me that an article was going to come out about the bank. That’s why, when Morse called me, I decided to cooperate. I was trying to save my own skin,” Matthew said.
“Zoe and her partner, Arthur Maynard, had been communicating anonymously with a journalist in New York for months. Arthur was a lawyer at Schmit & Muller, so he had access to information from several offshore banks, not just Swiss United. And Zoe had access to most of Swiss United’s files. Biggest data leak in history, they’re saying.”
“Oh my God. That’s why it’s all over the press.”
“Yes. And the good news is, this will make it a lot easier for you two to disappear.”
“Because everyone will think that Zoe and Arthur are the source of all the information—and the cause of the arrests.”
“Precisely.”
“What will happen to them? Are they safe?”
Popov sighed. “Well, no. Their cover is blown. But they have the benefit of being public figures now. They are being lauded as heroes, crusaders. So that makes them slightly more difficult to kill.”
“Also there’s a matter of the money,” Jensen added. “To the extent they need protection, they’ll be able to afford it.”
“The money?”
“The reward. From the IRS. Up to thirty percent of reclaimed funds.”
“How much—” Annabel looked at Matthew.
“We won’t know for months,” Matthew said. “But the conservative estimate is three hundred million dollars.”
“Wow,” Annabel whispered. “Three hundred million in recovered taxes?”
“No. The reward is three hundred million. Before taxes, of course. And split three ways.”
“Three ways?”
“Between Zoe, Arthur, and me.” Matthew grinned. “So call it fifty million. Not a bad retirement fund.”
“I’m sorry,” Annabel said, shaking her head. “You’re telling me that the IRS is going to give you fifty million dollars.”
“Give us,” Matthew said.
“Give us,” Annabel repeated, dumbstruck.
Jensen reached for a briefcase, which he laid out on the table. He popped it open and, from it, pulled out two manila envelopes. He handed one to Matthew and the other to Annabel.
Annabel opened hers and reached inside. The first thing she pulled out was a Canadian passport. She opened it and was surprised to find her own picture smiling back at her. It was an old photograph, from her days in New York. Her hair was short, cropped close around the ears.
“I always liked that look on you,” Matthew whispered. She smiled as he pressed his lips to her neck.
“Josephine Ross,” she read, and nodded. “I like it.”
“Elegant,” Matthew said.
“Who are you?”
“I’m your husband. I’m the man you married.”
“I know you are,” she said. She took his hands and kissed them. “Whatever I call you, I know you are.”
“You can call me Nathan.”
“A wealthy entrepreneur from Toronto,” Jensen explained. “You fell in love with this area while on vacation. And purchased a big house with a wraparound porch overlooking the sea.”
Annabel’s eyes lit up. “How did you—”
Matthew shrugged. “I had a few requirements.”
“There doesn’t happen to be an art studio?”
“Of course.”
Annabel threw her arms around Matthew. “And you. You’ll be there.”
“We’ll never be apart again.”
“Would you like to see it?” Jensen asked. He pulled a car key out of his pocket.
Matthew nodded toward Annabel. “Up to her.”
“Yes!” Annabel laughed. “Of course.”
Jensen tossed her the keys. She caught them with one hand and then offered the other to Matthew. They walked together out of the airport building, Jensen and Popov trailing behind. When she got to the small parking lot, she stopped and laughed. There were two cars: a Jeep and a silver Porsche convertible.
“What?” Matthew shrugged. “I told you there were a few requirements.”
She held up the keys. “I’m driving, though.”
“Whatever you want, Josephine.”
Matthew opened the car
door, and she slid behind the wheel. As she put the car into drive, she felt Matthew’s hand fall to her thigh. The top was down and the breeze tousled her hair. She would have to cut it all off again, she thought, as she picked up speed. Especially if she was going to drive this car, on this open highway, beneath this endless blue sky. The thought of that made her glad. She tilted her head back and laughed. She would follow Thomas Jensen’s Jeep south for another twenty minutes before pulling into a long, private drive that someone would miss if they weren’t looking for it.
This was it, Annabel thought, as they pulled up to the house. For the first time in years, she was home.
Epilogue
TWO MONTHS LATER
Marina could feel someone watching her. She opened her eyes and blinked in the late afternoon sun. A book lay on her stomach, pages splayed open. She must have fallen asleep while reading. When she sat up, she felt a sharp pain in her shoulder where the bullet had entered and then exited her body. The wound was just four inches from her heart. She’d been lucky. If Owen hadn’t called the FBI as she was heading to her apartment to confront Grant, an agent wouldn’t have burst through the apartment door just as Grant was about to fire at her. If the agent hadn’t fired first, the bullet would have lodged in her heart.
Grant was still in the hospital. His lawyers were working out a plea agreement for, among myriad other charges, attempted murder. He would spend at least a decade in jail, she was told, for what he’d done to her. Charlie Platt, Grant’s military buddy, was still in the wind. If they found him and got him to implicate Grant in Duncan’s murder, there would be no deal. Grant would go to jail for the rest of his life.
Marina winced and lay back, chastising herself for putting weight on her left hand. Two surgeries later, Marina was mostly stitched back together. She was still doing physical therapy, though, and would be for several more months before her left side was fully functional. She might not ever get there, the doctors said. The muscular damage had been substantial. But the doctors didn’t know how tough Marina could be when she set her mind to something. She wasn’t about to let a weak shoulder slow her down. She had work to do.
“Careful, there, sleeping beauty.” Owen stood over her, holding out a cocktail. He wore a bathing suit and a linen shirt. It was an icy concoction, garnished with a wedge of pineapple. “I was going to get us champagne, but . . .” He gestured at the white powdered sand and the turquoise Caribbean Sea beyond it.
“When in Rome.” Marina eased into a sitting position, letting her feet swing over the edge of the hammock. She reached for her drink. “How long was I asleep?”
“Who cares?”
Marina nodded. “Good point. I keep forgetting we’re on island time.” She took a small sip of her drink, and then another, longer slurp. “God, this is delicious.”
“First drink in how long?”
Marina laughed. “Two months? Alcohol and pain meds don’t mix, you know.”
“Well, we have to celebrate. I have a surprise for you.”
From behind his back, Owen produced a magazine.
Marina sat up fully. Her eyes gleamed. “No,” she breathed. “You didn’t. How?”
“I have my ways.”
“But it doesn’t hit the stands until tomorrow. And I had to fight the front desk this morning to get me yesterday’s New York Times.”
“Island time. It’s good for you.”
Marina laughed. “To be one day behind the news? On a remote island with terrible cell reception?”
“You needed a break.” Owen shot her a stern look. “Anyway, connectivity is a small price to pay for a weekend away with the handsomest guy you know.”
Marina tipped her glass. “Cheers.”
“You’re dying to see it, aren’t you?” Owen dangled the magazine in front of her, teasing.
She lunged for it. He snatched it away, but she was too quick for him.
“You have good reflexes for an old man.” She laughed. “But not good enough.”
“I got distracted by that very low-cut bathing suit you’re wearing. Unfair advantage.”
“I do what I need to do to get the information I need.” She shrugged as she paged through the magazine. “It’s why I’m so good at my job.”
“You are good,” Owen said, his voice suddenly serious. “It’s an incredible interview, Marina.”
Marina didn’t answer. She was too busy reading. Her interview with Arthur Maynard and Zoe Durand was a full seven-page spread, one of the longest lead stories ever published by Press. She had written it mostly from her hospital bed, dictating the words to Owen as he sat beside her with a laptop. Though she had yet to meet Zoe and Arthur in person, Marina felt as though she knew them. She had spent nearly twenty hours Skyping with them. It was the most challenging—and rewarding—interview she’d ever done. Of everyone she had spoken to over the past two months, she was most impressed with Zoe. At first glance, Zoe was quiet and young, still traumatized from her experience at Swiss United. But the longer they spoke, the clearer it became to Marina that Zoe had been the instigator of the leak and the mastermind behind the theft and dissemination of 2.5 terabytes of information that had, to date, led to more than a hundred arrests, the dismantling of several drug cartels, money-laundering operations, and one significant terrorist network. Not bad for a small-town girl from the South of France.
After Marina was finished, she paged through the rest of the magazine in reverent silence. The entire issue was dedicated to the leak that was now known worldwide as the Swiss Files. There was a piece on the arrest of James Ellis and the plea deal taken by Grant Ellis, as well as the suicide of Hunter Morse. Another story detailed the Americans who had been indicted for tax fraud, including three senators, two congressmen, two federal judges, and several CEOs of major corporations. There was an article about Fares Amir and his connection to the Assad family, penned by a Press correspondent in Europe. At the very end, there was an article about Morty Reiss. Two weeks after the collapse of Swiss United, Reiss had been arrested in Argentina. He had been living under an assumed name, pretending to be a retired real estate developer from Miami. The article detailed how Reiss had avoided detection for eight years with the help of offshore banks like CIB and Swiss United. It was cowritten by Marina Tourneau and Duncan Sander.
Finally, she flipped back to the front cover. She bit her lip as she studied it, willing herself not to cry. It was one of her favorite photos of Duncan, a black-and-white shot of him from the Met Gala, four years earlier. He looked slim and dapper in a tuxedo, his hair trimmed short and combed neatly back with gel. He was standing at the center of a group of beautifully dressed and powerful women. Anna Wintour stood at his side, laughing at something he had just said. In his hand, he carried a small leather-bound diary, in which he wrote down not only engagements but snippets of interesting conversations he planned to use later in stories. If one looked hard enough, one could see a silver pen in his left hand, poised over the notebook. Marina knew it was the pen she’d given him after the Darlings story. It was emblazoned with the date of their first story together.
Beneath the photograph, in simple white lettering, read: In Memory of Duncan Sander, Editor in Chief, May 1, 1958–November 11, 2015.
Press’s art director had fought Marina about the cover. Marina knew she was in the minority; most of the staff thought the cover should feature Zoe and Arthur, the faces of the Swiss Files leak, not a photograph of Duncan. But Marina had overruled them. It was not something she planned to do often, but in this case, she felt it was of vital importance. To her, Duncan would always be the face of the Swiss Files leak. After all, he had launched the investigation. Zoe and Arthur were his sources. Without him, this issue—this story—wouldn’t exist. It was one of the few perks of being the new editor in chief of Press. It was a title she wasn’t totally comfortable with, at least not yet. But in this case, it had worked in her favor.
“The cover is great,” Owen said quietly.
“Thank you. Not sure anyone else agrees, but I love it.”
“Duncan would have loved it.”
Marina nodded. “I know,” she said. “And he deserves it.”
“That he does.”
“Thank you for getting this to me. It means a lot to hold it in my hands. I mean, I’ve seen it. But it never feels real until you see the final copy, right?”
Owen smiled and nodded. He understood. He picked up her drink where she had left it on the sand and handed it to her. Then he leaned behind the hammock and pulled a beer out of an ice bucket. He cracked it open, tossed the opener on the sand. “Toast,” he said, raising his beer. “To Duncan.”
“To Duncan.” Marina nodded.
“To the story of our lifetimes.”
“He said it would be.”
“He was almost always right.”
Marina tipped her glass, its frosty edge clinking against Owen’s bottle. They both took a sip and stared out at the sun, which was dropping low on the horizon.
“What should we do tomorrow?”
“This?”
“We could. Or, if you’re getting bored, I’ve been kicking around a story for a while. It would require a short boat ride over to the Dominican Republic. It’s just there—do you see it?” Owen pointed at a dark mass across the water.
Marina sat up a little straighter.
“Are you suggesting we work on vacation?” She cocked her head, looking nonplussed.
Owen laughed. “Let’s not call it work. Let’s call it exploring. You in?”
“You know I am. But tonight we celebrate. Right?”
“Tonight we celebrate.”
They clinked their glasses together. The sun was beginning its slow descent into dusk. Marina could make out the white form of a yacht out on the ocean. She watched it growing smaller and smaller, until finally it disappeared in the direction of the Dominican Republic. Tomorrow she would be there, too. Tomorrow, she reminded herself. Not tonight. She took a long, slow sip of her drink and lay back in the hammock. Then she pulled open the magazine and began to read in the fading evening light.
The Banker’s Wife Page 28