Something in the Water(52)

And there’s the rub. Mark. And our life. That one cord. The way my whole body loosens when I think of him, like stepping into a patch of sun. Mark. The only thread connecting me to that old life, to my life. A life that I’ve just realized I could slough off like an old husk.

Mark and our life. And our baby. Our unborn baby. We can change together, right? We’ll move forward together.

Mothers don’t run. Wives don’t run. Unless they’re running away from something.

And Mark is all I have. Why would I run from him? If we run we’ll run together. All three of us. I let my free hand rest on my lower abdomen, my womb. In there, safe, is everything worth fighting for. I squeeze my eyes shut tight; this is for our future, for us, for our family, for this family I am creating out of blood and bone inside me. I will tell Mark soon. I will. But for now I like this little connection. Just the two of us, me and my passenger, for just a little while longer. When all of this is done, then we’ll share our secret. When it’s safe. I tighten my grip around the duffel bag’s handles, my knuckles blotching white and pink as the door pings open and I stride across the vast lobby and out into the chilly September air.



* * *



—

It’s so much simpler than I’d ever have imagined!

Tanguy greets me on the steps of the bank. I’m introduced to Matilda, a petite and impeccably chignoned brunette who’ll be handling my account today. She’s polite and efficient as she explains the account setup procedures.

I feel a light tug of shame as I hand the duffel of cash over to her, even though we’re already tucked away in the privacy of a client room and no one but she can see. Matilda takes it, unmoved; I needn’t have bothered with the shame. I may as well have handed her my dry cleaning, for all the impact it has on her.

Her right shoulder slumps slightly with the weight of the bag. Business as usual, I suppose.

“I’ll just be a moment.” She nods curtly and clips out of the room.

She’s taken it to be counted. Isn’t it funny how in a world of electronic banking and constantly evolving technology, paper money still needs to be physically counted? Well, electronically counted, obviously, but you get my point.

They’ll feed the crisp note-wedges into a machine, bundle by bundle, until they get the final figure of a million dollars. Perhaps there’s a money handler back there whose only job is to run paper money through those little machines.

I sit alone. I wait. My mind wanders.

The vague thought that the notes might be marked, that they might be traceable back to whatever illegal practice they came from, flickers across my mind. Police, government agencies—anyone, really—can mark bills, either by physically marking them with a highlighter or a stamp, or by recording the serial number sequences. I’ve Googled it all, of course. I’ve checked the notes for sequences.

But more than that, I just know these bills are unmarked. There’s no way the plane people would have had government-marked money, police-marked money. They obviously knew what they were doing. Granted, not in an aviationary sense, but they were doing well businesswise, all things considered.

Of course, they could have marked their own money, couldn’t they? If they wanted to trace it for themselves. Why would they, though? They didn’t know we’d find it. They didn’t know we’d take it.

Sometimes I have to stop and remind myself that the plane people weren’t omniscient. They didn’t see any of this coming. What happened to them, and subsequently to us, was a random event. They couldn’t have known they’d crash, that we’d find the bag. It was all unforeseen, unknowable. The money definitely isn’t marked. No one is coming for it. No one is coming for Mark and me.

Matilda returns with the empty duffel bag neatly folded and places it next to a still-hot printout. It is the deposit amount receipt. She offers me a pen. The figure I’m looking for is in the far left column: $1,000,000 USD—Cash Deposit.

I sign.

We set up a monthly standing order into my own business account back in the UK. The Swiss account will pay me a nominal monthly retainer; the payment reference will be the name of a shell company. I’ll explain the payment for tax purposes as freelance film consultancy. Then when we require larger amounts for the house or whatever, we’ll transfer chunks out and call those project commissions. We’ll bang out some company invoices for a shell company—something Arabic. It’s got to look like someone who’d believably give a British documentarian large chunks of money through a Swiss account for short private filming projects. Don’t worry, I’ll pay tax on it all. I’ll keep records. I’ll be very, very careful, honest. All correspondence will be forwarded to a private mailbox on-site here at the bank. Matilda supplies me with two small keys for my mailbox.

After rather less paperwork than one would imagine, given the sheer quantity of cash I’ve just handed over, she twists the Montblanc ballpoint back into its housing and smiles. All finished.

We shake, businesslike, a deal done.

I am a millionaire. That money is safe; that money is, as they say, “in the bank.”

I make my way out to the waiting car, gliding on success, unencumbered now by the physical weight of the bag. The numbered account information, SWIFT code, IBAN number, password, and keys all tucked safely in my purse.

As I clear the bank entrance and walk down the stone steps toward the Mercedes, that thought surfaces again, like a butterfly flitting in and out of sight: Don’t go back. Don’t get in the car. Don’t go back to the hotel. Ever.