Annabel peered out of the small, round window of Lorenzo Mora’s private plane. Through the clouds, she could make out the brilliant blue of the Pacific Ocean and the craggy outline of the Baja coast. She didn’t know where, exactly, she was supposed to land, only that it was a private airstrip, owned by the Mora family, somewhere north of Cabo San Lucas. But for the pilot, she was alone on the plane. Lorenzo had offered to fly with her, but Annabel declined. He had done enough for her already.
The plane circled and then began its descent. When the wheels touched the earth, Annabel felt a wash of relief. She was here. It was over.
The plane door opened. Annabel hurried down the stairs onto the tarmac. She blinked, her eyes adjusting to the bright light. The Mexican sun was at its apex. She shielded her eyes with her hand and glanced around.
There, beneath the shade of the single-story structure that served as an airport terminal, was Matthew. He had grown a thick beard and his skin was deeply tanned. He wore a linen shirt, blue jeans, and sandals. As he stood, Annabel noticed that he even carried himself differently. His hands were in his pockets, his stance relaxed. He bore only a fleeting to his former, suited self. But to Annabel, he was instantly recognizable.
“Matthew!” She dropped her bag and flew into his arms.
“Annabel,” he murmured, and buried his face into her neck. She felt the familiar crush of his forearm around her waist as he picked her up, spun her around.
They held each other for a long time. Then Annabel pulled back, admiring her husband. “You have a beard,” she said, finally. They both laughed.
“You like it?”
“It’s a good look for you. Relaxed.”
“Well, I’ve been forced into early retirement.”
“You picked a nice spot for it.”
Matthew glanced around. “I didn’t have much choice, but I’ll take it. Good fishing and the sunsets are spectacular. I think we’ll be happy here.”
Annabel burst into tears. Matthew pulled her close again, pressing her face to his chest. “Shhh, it’s okay now. We’re okay.”
“I thought you were dead.”
“I know. I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine what it’s been like for you.”
“We had your funeral.”
“I know. It was the only way, Annabel. I didn’t want to put you at more risk until it was over. As long as you didn’t know I was alive, I had to believe they wouldn’t hurt you.”
“Is it over? Will it ever be over?”
“I think so. It’s the only story on the news now. They’ve arrested Jonas. Julian’s dead. There’s a manhunt under way for Fares Amir.”
“Where is Fatima?” Annabel hadn’t thought about her until just now. “And the pilot?”
“I don’t know. I know they’re safe. All of us are under CIA protection now. In fact, there are two men I want you to meet.” Matthew nodded toward the open door to the terminal building. Inside, it was un-air-conditioned but pleasant. A fan whirred overhead. In the corner, two men sat on folding chairs at a plastic table. One had neatly groomed hair and wore a crisp pair of white linen pants and loafers. Aviators sat on the bridge of his crooked nose. The other, a large, red-faced man, was sweating profusely in the heat. When he waved in greeting, damp patches appeared under his arms.
“Annabel, this is Thomas Jensen and Alexei Popov. Mr. Jensen works for MI6. Mr. Popov is CIA. They orchestrated everything. Because of them, I’m alive.”
Popov extended his hand, but Annabel threw her arms around him instead. The Russian let out a surprised laugh. He patted her uncomfortably on the back before pulling out of her grasp. She grabbed Jensen next.
“Thank you,” Annabel said, a fresh set of tears welling up in her eyes. “Thank you for saving my husband.”
“Your husband is a hero,” Thomas Jensen said. He removed his sunglasses and placed them on the table. “Because of him, we’ve been able to shut down Fares Amir’s money-laundering operation. Mr. Amir has been the single biggest supplier of funds to Syrian terrorist organizations in the UK. We knew it, but without proof, we were unable to do anything about it.”
“And that’s just one example,” Popov added. “For years, the CIA has been looking for a way into one of the offshore banks. If it hadn’t been for Mr. Mora, your husband never would have found his way to us, and we would have never found a way to take down Swiss United.”
“Does Lorenzo work for the CIA?” Annabel asked. “I don’t understand how he got involved in this.”
Popov and Jensen exchanged glances. “He doesn’t,” Popov said. “But he has been a good resource for us. We needed an asset close to Jonas Klauser. It was too risky to approach employees of the bank. So we decided to send in a client instead. Mr. Mora is exactly the kind of client Jonas Klauser wants. Extremely wealthy and very definitely corrupt. Lots of assets needing to be hidden offshore. And since he’s part of a known criminal enterprise, Klauser would never suspect that Mora was a CIA asset.”
“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.