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.
Matthew grinned as though nothing at all was wrong. Either he was a very smooth liar or he didn’t think he had misled her. Was he working late? Did work happen at the Griffin’s Club? Annabel wondered.
“What a surprise,” he said. “This is my wife, Annabel. Annabel, these are clients of Jonas’s. He’s under the weather and asked that I show them a good time tonight.”
Annabel smiled, a tight smile that was the best she could manage given the circumstances. She noticed that Matthew didn’t ask her to join them, and so the four of them stood awkwardly outside the club, listening to the reverberation of the bass from within.
“I should get home,” she said, nodding briskly. “It’s been a long day and I’m tired.” She thought she saw Matthew’s guests exchange a look of relief when she said it, but perhaps she was simply being paranoid.
“I’ll be home soon,” Matthew said. He kissed her on the cheek—a chaste, dismissive sort of kiss—before opening the door for his guests.
Annabel realized now that Matthew had never said their names. But now she recognized them both: Lorenzo Mora and Fatima Amir.
“Could I chat with you, Lorenzo? Privately, please.”
“Perhaps I can offer you a ride home? Once you’re ready to go, of course.”
“Thank you.” Annabel nodded. “In fact, I’m exhausted. I think I would like to go home now, if that’s all right.”
“Annabel, there are so many people here who want to speak with you,” Julian said. He put his hand on her shoulder. “And the Klausers—”
“Jonas and Elsa will understand. It’s been a long day for me.”
“Of course they will,” Zoe interjected. “Go rest, Annabel. I’ll let them know that you left.”
“Please thank them for everything.”
“I will.” Zoe gave Annabel a hug. “I’ll come see you soon,” she whispered, before letting go.
Annabel kissed Julian on both cheeks and followed Lorenzo to the driveway. A silver Mercedes pulled up and Lorenzo held open the door. Annabel felt a flutter of nerves; she didn’t want anyone—even the driver—to hear their conversation. But once she’d given the driver her address, Lorenzo pressed a button and a tinted glass window slid up, separating them. Finally, they were alone.
“Thank you,” she said. “You have no idea how much I wanted to get out of there.”
“It’s my pleasure. You remember me, don’t you? From that night in front of the Griffin’s Club. I was with your husband and Fatima Amir.”
“Yes.”
“And you want to know about Fatima, no? That’s why you came over to talk to me.”
“I . . .” Annabel hesitated. “I just recognized you at first. But I wasn’t sure from where.”
“Do you know who my family is, Mrs. Werner?”
“Call me Annabel, please. And no. Well, yes. Just what Julian said, when I asked him who you were.”
“He told you my uncle was the head of the Mora Cartel?”
Annabel’s eyes widened in surprise. “No!” she exclaimed. “No, no. Nothing like that. He said your family runs the largest sugar business in the world.”
Lorenzo laughed. “We do that, too,” he said. Annabel couldn’t tell if he was joking. She forced a smile. Here in Geneva, she’d learned to be discreet about money. There was so much of it here, and not all of it clean. It was always better not to ask.
“Our family does many things. Mora International has become a many-headed beast. I run Mora Crystals, the sugar business. Have you been to the Dominican Republic?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“I live on a very small island off its southern coast. Isla Alma. It’s the most beautiful place on earth. We have a private club there, Cane Bay. I’m away much of the time. Miami, New York, Paris, Panama. But that is where I think of when I think of home. Our sugar plantations are on the main island.”
“It sounds lovely.”
“Well, Isla Alma is. The sugar fields are brutal places. It takes a very specific kind of person to work in the sugar business. Someone who is comfortable running things with an iron hand.”
Annabel didn’t know what to say, so she just nodded. It occurred to her that perhaps she’d made a mistake. She was alone in a car with a dangerous man, and for what? To ask him about a chance encounter on the street?
“You’re welcome to visit my island anytime. My door is always open to you. I came to Geneva to tell you that. I wanted you to know that you have a friend in me.”
“That’s very kind of you. Where does the rest of your family live?”
“My brother runs another subsidiary of our family business in Miami. My sister is in New York. My father lives mostly in Palm Beach. I have one uncle in Paris and another in Venezuela. It is not easy for all of us to agree when it comes to running our various businesses. This is why we came to Swiss United. Jonas is known for being good at navigating complicated family structures. And Jonas trusted Matthew’s judgment, especially when it comes to tax matters.”
“Matthew was a tax lawyer in New York. One of the best.”
“I came to rely a great deal on Matthew’s counsel. He had a very calming way about him. Particularly as conflicts have arisen between the older and younger generations in our family.”
“I always said Matthew should have been a psychologist. People tell Matthew things, private things. It happens all the time. On our first date, I told him about my parents dying when I was young. He has—he had—just the warmest way about him. I’m sorry. I keep using the present tense. It hasn’t sunk in yet. I keep thinking he’ll just walk through the door.”
Lorenzo patted her hand. “I know exactly what you mean.”
They were quiet for a minute. Annabel thought she might cry, but her eyes remained dry. She had run out of tears. She had cried them all out. Instead she looked out the window and felt achingly empty.
“I don’t know why we came here,” she said. “It all feels like a bad dream.”
“You came to make money. Matthew wanted to buy a big town house in London or Paris or maybe a mansion on the beach in Malibu, retire at forty-five, spend his days with you. No?”
“I suppose that was the idea. Nothing so grand as a town house in London. Maybe a little house with a wraparound porch and a view of the ocean.” Annabel looked away, cringing with discomfort. What else could she say? That at five months pregnant, she’d miscarried their baby? And then, just two weeks later, Matthew’s father had died of a heart attack? They had been devastated, twice over. They had needed a fresh start.
After one phone call with his father’s old friend Jonas Klauser, Matthew decided that private banking was the perfect fit for him. With his background in tax law, his Ivy League pedigree, his prep school connections, and his immense charm, he’d be a natural. Jonas promised him that he’d spend most of his days flying first class to New York, London, Paris, Madrid, Hong Kong, where he’d hobnob with CEOs and sultans. No more sad takeout dinners at his desk; at Swiss United, he’d be expected to wine and dine his clients at Michelin-starred restaurants all over the world. He’d ski with them in Gstaad, he’d sunbathe with them on their yachts off the coast of France. Private banking was a business built on trust, Jonas said. It was about gaining the client’s confidence. It was about making them feel like you were their best friend in the world, and that no matter what, you’d take care of them—and more important, their money. All this for three times the salary he’d been making at Skadden, plus a healthy bonus each time he brought in a client of his own. And the perks, which included a lease on a 500-series Mercedes, a 2,000-square-foot flat in Old Town, access to the firm’s ski chalet in Zermatt, and a Corporate Amex with no fixed spending limit. It all seemed so romantic, so exotic, so new. Matthew was hesitant, but Annabel had pushed him to accept. It was exactly what they needed, she said.
Try it for a few years, Jonas said. If you don’t like it, we’ll find you something in New York. And in the meantime, you’ll be making good money. You’ll clear your head. You’ll get to experience Europe. What could be better?
“Did Matthew talk to you about his work? His clients?” Lorenzo asked.
“Never. He worked all the time. I hardly ever saw him. And he told me everything he did was confidential, so I tried not to ask.”
“Did you see Fatima Amir after that night?”
“No. That was the only time. He never mentioned her name.”
“She was a client of his.”
“I gathered that.”
“You didn’t know he was going to London to see her?”
“He told me he was in Zürich.”
“They weren’t having an affair, if that’s what you think.”
Annabel frowned. “How could you know that?”
“I knew them both reasonably well. That night at the Griffin’s Club wasn’t the first time we met. Matthew introduced us about a year ago. Fatima and I had much in common. Matthew thought I could help her. And I did. I tried to, at least.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”
“Fatima’s family is in the oil business in the way mine is in the sugar business. The Amirs have legitimate business pursuits and not so legitimate. Understand?”
“Yes.”
“Fatima ran her own hedge fund. She wanted nothing to do with the illegitimate side of the family finances. But it’s hard to keep your hands clean when the pot is dirty.”
“Ah. I see.”
“Matthew was helping her do that. But it was complicated. And dangerous. Between us, Fatima’s second cousin is Assad. Her brother works for him. They are dangerous people, with many, many enemies. And they take family loyalty quite seriously. They don’t like to think they are being betrayed, even in the smallest way. Especially by a woman.”
Annabel felt a chill run through her body. She pulled her jacket closer around her shoulders, hugging herself. Why had Matthew involved himself with these people?
“Julian told me the Amir family weren’t terrorists. That Swiss United wouldn’t do business with them if they were.”
“They aren’t terrorists. They’re money launderers. Their cousins are the terrorists.”
Annabel shot Lorenzo a look of exasperation.
“Anyway, Swiss United will bank with anyone. Terrorists. Dictators. Drug dealers. If they didn’t they’d be out of business. Who do you think keeps their money in Swiss bank accounts? Accountants? Housewives from Tulsa?”
Lorenzo laughed. Annabel felt her cheeks beginning to burn. Of course she’d heard stories about Swiss banks. She’d even met a few clients of Matthew’s here and there—mostly old college friends of his who had made money in New York or London and wanted to tuck a few dollars away in a numbered account. Annabel knew they were doing it to avoid taxes, or maybe a wife who might one day try to take it all in a divorce. She knew that was a gray area, legally speaking. But it also seemed relatively harmless, like a crime without a victim. And Matthew was a lawyer. A tax lawyer! Wasn’t that why they’d hired him? To make sure it was all technically within the bounds of the law? Wasn’t that what he spent all day doing? Finding loopholes and mechanisms that saved money without triggering any tax implications?
“If your friend Julian told you that, he is lying. He knows better than that. Be careful who you trust, Annabel. You are in Wonderland, my friend. Here in Geneva, criminals can be your friends and your friends can be criminals. Do you understand me?”
Annabel nodded. “Which are you?”
The car hit a bump in the road, and Annabel let out a small scream. Lorenzo’s arm shot out, protectively pinning her back against the seat. The driver lowered the partition.
“Lo siento, Señor Mora,” he said. “Hay hielo en la carretera.”
“¿Es el plano de los neumáticos?”
“No, no.”
Lorenzo nodded. He leaned forward, pressed the button to put the partition back up. As he leaned forward, she glimpsed a black strap beneath his jacket. At first she thought it was a suspender. But then she realized what it was. Lorenzo Mora was wearing a gun.
“Just ice on the road,” he said. “The tire’s fine.”
“I speak Spanish,” Annabel whispered.
Lorenzo raised his eyebrows. “Smart woman. Any other languages?”
“French. A bit of German. You didn’t answer my question.”
Lorenzo nodded. “Annabel,” he said, with an unreadable smile. “Right now, I’m the best friend you have. So listen to me when I tell you: don’t trust a soul from Swiss United. Do not trust Julian White. Do not trust Jonas Klauser. They are not your friends. You have no friends here in Geneva. You should go back to New York. Or visit your sister. You can come to Isla Alma, if you like. It doesn’t matter where. But if I were you, I’d leave as soon as possible, and I wouldn’t ever look back.”