Schulmann exploited her brief hesitation. “That sounds like a rut to me, don’t you think, Josefa?” he said in a deprecating tone.
Ignoring his familiar “Josefa,” she replied resolutely, “Maybe you will change your mind, Herr Schulmann, when you study the evaluations of our guests’ reactions. Our customers’ and business partners’ needs are more conservative than you think. It’s for good reason that golf rules are not changed every year.” Her last remark earned her a laugh from the group; even Schulmann offered an arrogant smirk.
“I don’t require any lessons on business practices, Josefa. And I’ve spoken to a few important customers, or rather, they have spoken to me.” He paused for a beat. “We will go at the catering differently, I know some really good people in that line, and we will reorganize the concert program.”
Josefa intervened as calmly as she could. “That won’t be possible, Herr Schulmann. We have signed the contracts long ago, as you can well imagine. Nothing can be done this year.”
“I’d like to strike that last sentence from our staff’s vocabulary,” Schulmann counterattacked. “There is always something that can be done.”
Josefa had trouble masking her irritation. “Don’t forget that I bear responsibility for this event, for the budget, and for its execution as well. I am accountable directly to management. A massive cost overrun due to penalties for breach of contract is not in the cards.”
She turned to Bourdin. “How do you see it?”
He cleared his throat. “Herr Schulmann is the marketing head. He makes the decisions now, and that also applies to the golf tournament at Lake Geneva.”
A murmur went round the room. Chairs scraped, paper rustled, a pen fell on the shiny tabletop. Josefa felt like she’d taken a blow to the head. She didn’t look at Schulmann, didn’t want to see the look of triumph on his face.
Bourdin continued as if nothing had happened. “We shall have a magnificent team for a magnificent event with magnificent guests…” His words cut Josefa like a knife, but then she heard a high, thin voice say, “If things are the way Herr Bourdin says they are, then I shall have to consider whether I shall continue to work for this magnificent company.”
All heads turned to Claire.
The Explorer Bar in Zurich’s First District was a product of aesthetic Puritanism: just steel and blonde wood, nothing superfluous. Josefa ordered the Lebanese wine the bartender touted as having a “slightly coffee finish.”
“You want out?” Pius asked, seated on the stool next to her. She looked at him, but it was hard for her to concentrate on his words. The tension she felt was slowly subsiding. At the end of the day Pius had summarily carried her off into Zurich’s night life.
“I think that on a day like this it’s better for you not to go home alone,” he reasoned. “I’ll take you wherever you want to go.”
The bar was full. Josefa couldn’t help but notice that women were turning their heads at Pius. It wasn’t only his good looks, but his carefree, ironic charisma that attracted them. He was rather rakish, like the cowboy in the Marlboro ad. And they were checking her out too.
Josefa scrutinized herself in the mirror behind the bar. She saw a tired face, a few gray-black curls that had escaped the knot. Even her mouth was droopy. She looked away.
“So you want to leave the company?” Pius asked again. Josefa didn’t answer; she was too tired to make any decisions. The last straw came just after lunch, when she received another e-mail, again in English: A woman cannot be careful enough in the choice of her enemies. That finished her off, three weeks of vacation blown away in one day.
“You should stay and let Schulmann walk into the trap,” Pius said.
“What’s the trap?”
“The trap Bourdin set for him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bourdin needs somebody to manufacture chaos and insecurity. If he did it himself, he’d come into conflict with Walther. But Bourdin needs chaos around him, that’s his elixir. Schulmann will deliver it. Then Bourdin can pull the strings, and we’ll all be dangling on them.”
Josefa shook her head. “Walther will defend Bourdin through thick and thin. Bourdin doesn’t need Schulmann”—she stopped to correct herself—“or to put it better: Bourdin needs Schulmann for some purpose I can’t figure out. He’s got some goal in mind, but I can’t imagine what it might be.”
Pius poured her wine. “Forget Bourdin for now, Josefa. Come, my dear, grant me the gift of your fair smile.”
“I’m so precious that you can’t pay enough for my smile,” she retorted.
“You hardly ever laugh, Josefa, there’s always a trace of sadness in your eyes.” He gave her an almost tender look. She felt herself going limp.
“That sounds downright poetic. I thought you were a photographer, not a poet,” she remarked, her voice filled with irony, though secretly she knew he was right. How long had it been since she laughed until the tears rolled down her cheeks? She couldn’t recall, but she must have done it often as a little girl; before her mother died she must have fooled around with her friends…In a strained, sober voice she added, “But it’s nice of you to be looking after me.”
“I didn’t want to leave you all by yourself after so much aggravation.” His voice was like velvet.
“How come you think there’s not somebody waiting for me to come home?”
Pius slid his stool closer, as if he were about to tell her something confidential. Josefa thought she could feel the warmth of his strong body; she felt like leaning on his shoulder that very moment. Just for a little while. Or maybe a bit longer.
“I’ve wanted to know for a long time who you share your nights with, Josefa,” he whispered. His dark eyes were burning.
“And you?” she shot back.
“Me? With Gelyella.”
“And who is this exotic unknown woman?”
“A living fossil,” Pius disclosed with a grin, his face still very close. He didn’t take his eyes off her. “Gelyella is about twelve thousandths of an inch long. In the microscope it looks like a bizarre crustacean. It was discovered by Swiss scientists in an underground spring in the midnineties. These miniscule thingies have been around for twenty million years, imagine that. And Gelyella is a veritable beauty: she’s got a perfectly transparent body and no eyes.”
“Sounds exciting. I’ve never heard of a Gelyella,” Josefa said, suddenly feeling a leaden fatigue spreading through her body. The red wine.
“People forget about creatures they can’t see, creatures that live in underground worlds.” His finger was fumbling around in one of her bouncing curls.
“Your creatures are afraid of daylight,” she said, reaching for her wine glass.
“They’d die miserably in the light.” Pius panted out the words between clenched teeth, his eyes twinkling.
Josefa knew he was kidding, but a sudden, cold shudder ran down her spine nevertheless. Today had simply been too much.
Pius laughed as he put his arm around her shoulder and drew her toward him for a second. “Did I frighten you, my dauntless warrior?”
Josefa pressed her face against the soft material of his jacket—then quickly pulled back.
“I’ve got every reason to be afraid,” she said, admitting to the anonymous e-mails she’d been receiving. Pius listened attentively—listening was his strong suit.
“Maybe someone can trace where they’re coming from. You always leave a trail when you’re on the Internet. Go and see Joe Müller at the Internet café in Central Station. Joe’s an old buddy of mine and one smart Internet geek, first class.”
Josefa was almost awake again. “I know Joe Müller. I took an Internet course from him once. Why didn’t I think of him earlier? Thanks for the tip.” She slipped off the stool. “Let’s get going, Gelyella’s waiting.”
“But you still haven’t told me who you’re—”
“Maybe it’s somebody who doesn’t like the light as well,” was Josefa’s rejoinder as she
made for the exit.
Once again construction was underway in the enormous hall of Zurich’s Central Station. Men in orange work clothes were setting up metal scaffolding and carrying boards around. It looked very much like the stands for a sporting event, probably a fashion show. Niki de Saint Phalle’s huge, colorful sculpture, Guardian Angel, seemed to look down with disapproval on the turmoil below. The magnificent, broad hall was so often brimming with market stands, rows of benches, and party tents.
Josefa knocked on the Internet café window, though a “Closed” sign was hanging there. Peering in she spotted a young man cleaning the bar with a rag who motioned for her to go away.
“I want to see Joe,” she shouted, pointing to the man standing at a computer inside. The bartender said something to Joe, who turned toward her. He took his time coming to the door—she’d never seen him in a hurry—and pulled a lever.
“You look in real good shape,” he said by way of a welcome.
“Don’t make fun of me; I’ve only had four hours of sleep,” she retorted.
“Yeah, that wild Zurich will do it to you,” Joe purred. “You’re not trying to tell me that those e-mails have kept you awake all night?”
“No, it was a man,” she said, smiling.
Joe whistled through his teeth. Josefa had first met her male namesake years ago when he was a nurse, Josef Müller, who was working with blood donors. She’d kept this bit of information from Pius; she didn’t want him visualizing her on a gurney. Back then she’d jokingly called Joe her “medical brother,” whereupon he exalted her as his “sister in spirit.” He had introduced her to the Internet when it was still a foreign word in most offices. In the meantime he’d quit his hospital work for a part-time job in the Internet café and dyed the tips of his short hair white.
Josefa turned on her laptop and showed Joe the anonymous e-mails. He shook his head in chagrin when he saw the sender’s address.
“There’s really not much you can do about Hotmail. From our angle it’s an anonymous re-mailer, so that doesn’t give me much to go on. If it were a very specific provider, one based in Zurich, or if it was sent from a company or an Internet café, then it might be traceable. Sorry, but I can’t help you.”
“Too bad,” Josefa said, wondering what a re-mailer was anyway. “But I wanted to try at least.”
Joe shrugged an apology. “If this were a police investigation, then service providers like Hotmail would probably have to open their IP log files because it would be a criminal investigation. Log files record all visitors to a website by their IP address, and that’s how you can get the senders.”
“Aha,” Josefa mumbled. She certainly didn’t want to start a criminal investigation on account of a few e-mails.
Joe seemed to be reading her thoughts. “These aren’t murder threats,” he said soothingly.
Josefa nodded. “I don’t even know if the guy’s—or the chick’s—native language is British or American English.”
Joe reflected for a moment. “If you don’t mind, I’ll shoot these e-mails to my friend Jack to read, he’s an English colleague of mine. Maybe he’ll come up with something.”
“OK, but he has to be discreet about it.”
“Not to worry. I’ll filter out your address.”
She pressed a leather armband with metal inserts into Joe’s hand, something she’d promised him earlier. It was one of Loyn’s gifts for customers, a limited edition.
“Cool,” he said with a grin. “I used to work with these gadgets in my phlebotomist days with blood donors.”
Josefa gave him a playful shove for an answer. She could take liberties like that with him.
Josefa realized she’d have to be more circumspect with Paul Klingler than she’d been with Joe. She was already running twenty minutes late when she got off at the Rennweg stop. She walked up the street past the elegant shops with her heavy laptop case slung over her shoulder. The weather was sultry, and she felt the heat in spite of her summer dress. The sign in the Hotel Widder lobby indicated that the library was downstairs.
Paul was waiting in a leather armchair in front of the empty fireplace. When he caught sight of her, he stood up, greeting her with outstretched arms. His suit was high quality and made-to-measure—it had to be, given that he was six-foot-six.
“Welcome to the club,” he said ceremoniously.
“Stop, stop,” Josefa parried. “Not so fast. Why this place? Why all the secrecy?”
“I’d call it ‘discretion,’ the heart and soul of our business.”
Josefa noticed that Paul had a different hairstyle, and little blonde strands sparkled prominently in his ash-colored hair. He gestured toward another leather armchair.
“Do have a seat. What would you like to drink?”
Josefa ordered tomato juice and looked around the library. The medieval stonework and the modern styling of the room made for an interesting blend.
“When?” Paul asked after returning from the bar with her tomato juice and a cognac for himself.
“When what?”
“When are you going to start working for me?” He looked her straight in the eye.
“Paul, if I left Loyn, I would not want another job somewhere—I’d like to set up my own company.” She waited, wondering how he’d react.
But he was nonchalant. “Good idea, Josefa. I’ll outsource a few projects to your firm. Done deal. Have you already handed in your resignation?”
She choked on her tomato juice. Paul held out a white linen napkin.
“I’m still working on the Lake Geneva Golf Tournament in September because I feel some responsibility for it. I’ve known some of the guests a long time. Maybe I can firm up some good contacts there. Then I’ll decide if I leave and how soon. I have to give two months’ notice, and I’ve got some vacation days and overtime on top of that. All that work’s finally going to pay off, don’t you think?”
Paul was giving her all his attention, leaning his tall frame toward her.
“Surely you’ve got enough contacts already, Josefa. But if you think you still want to do the tournament—fine. Now you’ve got one guest less.”
Josefa didn’t respond.
“Henry Salzinger. Loyn used to invite him all the time.”
Josefa quietly sipped at her tomato juice.
“The so-called independent auditor for Swixan…You remember Färber Brothers? That’s what his company used to be called. He gave those scoundrels at Swixan a clean bill of health. He shut his eyes to all the executives’ shoddy tricks instead of rapping those crooks on the knuckles.” He threw her a challenging look. “He’s had a hunting accident.”
Josefa gave a start. “Another one?”
“Thought that would surprise you,” Paul said. “Salzinger was in the mountains in the Canton of Wallis, if I’m not mistaken. He apparently picked up the rifle the wrong way, and it went off. Shot himself right through the lung. I didn’t know he hunted game as well as undervalued companies.”
Josefa recalled that Salzinger had been drinking quite a bit in St. Moritz and that poor Claire had to put up with his boozy monologues. She recalled Salzinger’s flabby, expressionless face, his giraffe-like shape.
“Paul, you’re pulling my leg. There’s no hunting season in Wallis in the summer. It doesn’t add up.”
“These guys with money don’t follow the rules,” he retorted. “A farmer looking for a lost cow in the mountains found the body when his dog started barking like mad.”
“It might have been suicide,” Josefa ventured, still feeling that this was some crazy fairytale. Paul shrugged.
“Maybe, maybe not. The family prefers to call it ‘an accident’ and says that this trip was just Salzinger’s way of assessing his progress after his knee operation last year.” He straightened his tie. “Feller-Stähli, the lawyer, Thüring, the CEO, and now Salzinger, the auditor. All of them got off scot-free after the Swixan bankruptcy, and now all three are dead as doornails,” he said with a sarcastic und
ertone.
What about Karl Westek, the CFO, another Loyn guest? Josefa thought. “Nobody knows whether Thüring is dead or alive. No body’s been found,” she countered.
The men appeared in her mind’s eye: the wiry Westek with the jaws of an attack dog, Salzinger leaning over the table like a weeping willow. Feller-Stähli had been in St. Moritz as well, as had Thüring, with whom she’d exchanged a few words; later she’d seen him sitting with the mysterious Curt Van Duisen.
“So you think it’s not a coincidence?” she persisted.
He fixed her with an unwavering stare. “Oh, of course it could all be a coincidence. But a lot of people will be asking themselves some questions. The media already are—it’s right up their alley. And when the media begin poking around, the police will soon be getting into it too.”
“Paul, why are you telling me all this? I don’t have any interest in these people; they just happened to be on Loyn’s guest list, and anyway, I don’t make up the list.”
“Happened to be on the list? Is it a coincidence that Thüring was able to even show his face at your event? Even though he’d driven Swixan into the ground? Thüring was the most hated man in Zurich. He’d caused a lot of people a lot of grief.” Paul laughed dryly. “He was trying to reestablish himself as a respectable entrepreneur, and who was helping him do it? Loyn. Oh, yes, the brotherhood sticks together, through thick and thin. After all, every one of them has a skeleton or two in the closet.”
Josefa sometimes found it hard to follow what her old friend was saying. His clientele was drawn from prominent business circles, and Paul was helping them do a better job of selling themselves to the public. He was polishing their image. And here he was, sitting in a luxury hotel, drinking what was surely the most expensive cognac in the place, and talking about human misery. But Paul had always been a riddle to her; when other high school students were acting like revolutionaries in the struggle against the establishment, Paul was reading anniversary brochures from Swiss businesses. And after those same revolutionaries were transformed into respectable members of capitalist society, Paul joined the advisory board of an ethical mutual fund and promoted alternative energy.
The Zurich Conspiracy Page 8