The Zurich Conspiracy

by Calonego, Bernadette

  Josefa shrugged. “This will be disappointing for you. Claire never told me the name, and I never asked what it was, as incredible as it may sound.”

  Kündig stuck with it. “The locals also call the Mattental ‘Güldeli.’”

  “Güldeni? No, doesn’t ring a bell.”

  “Güldeli, not Güldeni.”

  Josefa sank back into the pillows in despair. She’d been rescued by courageous people, but there was nothing she could do to help find Claire. “Güldeli for gülden or golden,” she murmured, exhausted.

  Kündig scowled. “I’ll phone my colleagues again; maybe they’ve dug up some more information in the meantime.” He went to the door.

  “Dorita!”

  “Beg your pardon?” Kündig turned on his heel.

  “Dorita. Don’t you remember? You asked me at the police station if I knew who Dorita was. Translate ‘Dorita’ into German and it comes out ‘the little golden one.’ Or ‘Güldeli’ in the dialect. Maybe it’s not coincidental.” Josefa’s cheeks glowed.

  Kündig was puzzled. He looked at her without saying a word, then asked, “In what language?”

  “What did you say?”

  “What language is ‘Dorita’ in?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe Spanish. But I’m not sure.”

  “Spanish.” Kündig frowned. “Spanish,” he repeated slowly. “Yes, that makes sense. That makes sense.”

  “Who is Dorita?” Josefa asked.

  But Kündig was already out the door.

  That sound again—a crunching, like footsteps in the snow. She peeked out the window but could only make out the shadowy silhouettes of fir trees. Maybe it was an animal; she’d seen deer around the chalet.

  She put on her down jacket and slipped on her trekking boots. Then she grabbed the key, clutching it like a talisman. She climbed carefully up onto the table and opened the little window at the rear of the chalet. She slid over the sill and glided down into the soft snow, then closed the shutters, leaving a small crack. Now she listened. There was a faraway buzzing noise like the sound of a helicopter. She quickly ran behind the nearest fir. She circled the chalet under cover of the trees. The snow was trampled down right beside the walls all around the building. Were those her tracks? She had to make sure. Her hand felt for the reassuring cold metal in her pocket. She couldn’t hear anything suspicious. Trudging ahead as quietly as possible, she checked the tracks in the snow by the dimming light. No doubt about it, they were hers. Relieved, she stood up straight and stalked toward the door. She pulled out the key—and stopped short. Her eyes fell on something that made her blood run cold. A large, unfamiliar footprint.

  The window. Opening the door would take too long. She ran around the corner, pushed the window open, and pulled herself up on the sill, holding the key in her teeth. She pulled one leg up after her but couldn’t get any purchase on the sill.

  She tried it again.

  “May I help you?” A loud, mocking voice. A man’s voice. Claire’s knee was stuck between her arm and the sill, so she couldn’t turn her head to see him. Now she heard him coming closer. She figured out at once from which direction: from the shadows behind the fir tree where she’d hidden.

  Her arms slackened, and she let herself drop. The key plopped into the snow. The man was already right behind her.

  “Criminal Investigation. Do exactly what I tell you,” he commanded. “Pick up the key.”

  She bent down, turning slightly, and when she straightened up, she was staring down a gun barrel. The man had a dark ski suit on, a hood that revealed just a bit of his face, and opaque sunglasses.

  “Now go to the door.”

  Cops out of uniform. How did they find her? Or were they not looking for her at all?

  Maybe it was all a mix-up. Best to play the innocent.

  “Please put that gun away, it scares me,” she requested in a soft voice.

  “Just a precautionary measure,” the man said. His voice was calm, superior. “Unlock it.”

  How did he know the door was locked? How long had she been watched?

  She turned the key, and the lock stuck, as always. She turned around. “Could you push the door open, it’s so heavy.”

  Maybe he’d fall for it.

  “You can easily do it yourself,” the man replied. “And don’t try to make a run for it; our men have the place covered.”

  She pushed the door open with great effort. She’d found her role, the helpless victim.

  “Shut the window,” the man said as he sat down on the sofa. She saw he was wearing thin leather gloves. When she got to the window, he changed his mind.

  “No, leave it open.”

  She turned around and faced him. He was still pointing the gun at her.

  “Take your jacket off.”

  She did what he asked and laid the jacket gently on the floor.

  “Sit over there.” He pointed to the corner near the stove and looked around. “You have a nice little workshop here,” he said. “A workshop for bomb-throwers or what?”

  If only he’d take his hood off, he must be sweating in that outfit.

  “And now tell me how you killed Westek.”

  His sunglasses reflected the fire in the stove. She couldn’t see his eyes.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Claire had quickly realized there was something fundamentally wrong. But she instinctively felt it was smarter not to let on about anything.

  “Don’t play dumb, that won’t help.” The man’s voice was razor sharp.

  She tried offense as the best defense. “Can I see your police ID?”

  “How did you kill Westek?” the man repeated. One hand held the gun in his lap, the other lay carelessly on the back of the sofa.

  He didn’t frisk me, Claire thought. Maybe he’s not a cop after all, a thought that invigorated and terrified her at the same time. Her jacket was too far away. A cold draft was coming from the window. She tried soft-soaping him once again. “I’d very much like to help you, but you must appreciate that first I’d like to know who I’m dealing with.”

  “How did you kill Westek?”

  “I’d like to talk to my lawyer,” Claire said, shifting around in her chair.

  “Stay where you are!” the man barked. Now Claire was certain that she was in real danger—and not from the police.

  “How did you kill Westek?”

  Claire said nothing.

  The man leaned forward. “Then I’ll tell you how you murdered Westek. You went to Düsseldorf with him. You went to the Investors Convention with him, and he gave you his car for the rest of the day. That’s what he told me on the phone. Just in passing; he didn’t know how important that was.”

  Claire winced inwardly. What else did Westek blab to this man?

  “You jiggered the brakes into a death trap, madam. A trap that would snap shut at high speed on the autobahn. That’s how it was, right?”

  His tone grew scarier and scarier. Claire listened with bated breath.

  “You planned everything down to the last detail. Here, in this chalet, right? Here, in this neat little workshop in the mountains where nobody ever comes. You had a fight with Westek, and then he threw you out the door—he told me that too. Then you disappeared and let him drive to his death. Was that not so, madam?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Claire said, as composed as possible. “You must be confusing me with somebody else. I barely knew Herr Westek. I’ve nothing to do with his tragic death.”

  “Oh, really?” the man said sarcastically. He took his cap off with his left hand and his sunglasses as well but kept his leather gloves on.

  Claire stared at him, mystified. She knew the man from somewhere—and yet she wasn’t sure. Was it him? But that was impossible! No, it must be a delusion. A nightmare.

  The man gave her a vaguely smug smile. “Good camouflage, huh? The miracle of plastic surgery. Nobody recognized me in Düsseldorf.”

  His face was cont
orted in a sardonic grimace. “A little cocaine can’t wipe out a terrific plan like Westek’s and mine. I can pull strings behind the scenes too. Things actually turn out better if you’re out of sight, as you know well, my pretty one. Nobody knows who I am. It’s a more comfortable life anyway, living in secrecy. Am I right, Dorita?”

  Claire instinctively bit her lip. Her muscles were aching from the tension.

  But Westek’s treachery hurt her even more—another betrayal. And it pained her that she couldn’t kill him a second time. He’d handed over her pseudonym to him. Why had she used the same password for Schulmann and for Westek? Dorita. A serious blunder.

  The man on the sofa ran his leather fingers through his blonde hair. His hair used to be dark. He must have dyed it, Claire thought to herself. And his eyebrows too. His tinted contacts were a bright blue, a good disguise for anybody trying to hide his true eye color. His nose wasn’t as fleshy as before, and his teeth were white, straight—perfect. Only his shoulders were as broad as ever, his figure bullish, like in the pictures in the papers.

  Why hadn’t she recognized Beat Thüring’s voice right off? But she’d only had one long conversation with him, in St. Moritz, when she could hardly shake him off. She couldn’t think straight. She needed a new strategy; she had to play for time. For space.

  She had to play to win.

  “Dorita?” she heard herself say in a soft voice. “A pretty name, isn’t it? Westek didn’t tell me the big secret until Düsseldorf—that you didn’t drown at all. Just disappeared from view. And that you were rather dependent on Westek’s good graces. Poor Beat. That’s what he called you. Sure he confided in me, everything. He was proud of me. It made him proud to have a mole at Loyn. Dorita. I gave Westek all the key information. Well, he suddenly decided it would work better without you, Herr Thüring. Westek didn’t want to split anything with you; you were just a nuisance to him.”

  The man opened the top of his ski suit and peeled his sleeves off. The pistol lay beside him on the sofa.

  “Westek should have rubbed you out right away, you piece of shit,” he said. “But he was too cautious; he always wanted to make absolutely precise plans so he would be safe and above suspicion. Well, I don’t bother with those things.” He stood up and slipped off his boots, not letting Claire out of his sight. “But first let’s have a little fun.” His smile was unambiguously lewd. “Westek said at least Dorita’s useful in bed.”

  “Westek faked you out beautifully on that one,” Claire said with feigned ease. “He wanted to move ahead with the Walther business. He wanted to buy the company from him for a pile of cash. And throw you to the wolves.”

  Thüring’s laugh was rough and dry. He opened his zipper down to his belt, snaked out of his overalls, and stood in front of her in his long underwear.

  Claire kept on talking—talking to save her life. “I knew all about the locker in Düsseldorf. Karl told me everything: that you’d leave him a lot of money in a locker. And you’d leave the key at stand 412 at the convention, hiding it behind the coffee machine. He didn’t want to meet you face to face. That might’ve been too dangerous.” She took a deep breath. “He also gave me the combination for the lock on the briefcase with the money. He wrote it down for me, just in case. Everything he told you on the phone was a decoy. He wanted to con you, Thüring. That’s why you killed him, right?”

  “Aren’t you laying it on a bit thick, you lousy little bitch? Why should he pick you of all people to tell all of this?” Thüring was still standing in front of the sofa and looking down at her. It was clear that he didn’t believe her. Or not completely. But at least she’d unsettled him a little—and got him distracted. He had to wonder how she knew about the locker. How she knew the number of the stand. And maybe the combination too. His face was twitching a bit. She could read his uncertainty: Maybe she’d seen compromising bank documents at Westek’s? The secret accounts for illegal transactions? He had to find out how much she actually knew. She and any potential accomplices.

  “I’ve got proof right here, in this chalet,” Claire said.

  Thüring’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You’re lying, you dirty rotten whore.”

  “Westek gave me the number. The paper with the combination on it is in the bag under the sofa.”

  “You sneaky little slut. You think I’m going to fall for that?”

  “Just stick your hand under there. You’ll see I’m telling the truth.”

  He hesitated a moment. Then reached under the sofa without taking his eyes off her and pulled out a green leather handbag.

  “The note’s in the little side pocket.”

  He sat down on the sofa and rummaged around in the bag. A white piece of paper surfaced in his hand, folded over several times.

  Claire’s muscles tensed. This was her one chance. Thüring would need both hands to unfold the paper. The gun was lying on his thigh.

  Claire bounded over to the stove, grabbed the hot, half-full coffee pot, and threw it in Thüring’s direction. She heard him scream. She ducked down, grabbed her jacket, pulled out the pistol, and took aim. Her burned fingers brought tears to her eyes.

  She saw Thüring’s face as if through a veil; it was stained with the brown liquid. Her opponent stood up and waved his arms. Claire fired.

  His large body sagged and hit the floor. Claire prepared to shoot again. Thüring lay before her with his legs twisted. She came a little closer. He was holding his stomach; blood was gushing out. She couldn’t see his gun.

  “Don’t shoot,” he pleaded. “Don’t shoot.”

  “Keep nice and still. Or else…” She kept watching him, tense and alert, her fingers trembling on the trigger.

  “Westek never wrote the combination down,” she said scornfully. “You dickhead. Why should he? That weasel. I taped him in the parking lot. We were all set to drive away when his cell phone rang and he told me to get out of the car.” She was talking more to herself than to the man whimpering and bleeding on the floor.

  “Ordered me out of the car, the bastard. As if he shouldn’t get out and take the call. I said I wanted a cigarette in my handbag. I had a tape recorder in there and secretly turned it on.”

  Claire laughed dryly. “That idiot never could learn anything new. Always being spied on and never even noticed. The person on the phone gave him the stand number and the combination for the attaché case. There was talk of a lot of money. Westek repeated everything out loud as he wrote it down. In exact detail. So that he would understand everything perfectly. Now I know who the caller was. Thank you, you rat.”

  Suddenly Thüring kicked out at her with all his strength. He caught her on the shin. Claire lost her balance and fell against the stove. But she kept a tight grip on the pistol.

  He couldn’t get up as fast as she did.

  She fired. And fired.

  Until Beat Thüring lay lifeless on the floor.

  The ward looked like a flower shop. Josefa had already arranged to give the bouquets to the nursing staff. She sat by the window waiting for Helene to pick her up. The doctor had finally discharged her but prescribed therapy in Zurich for post-traumatic stress symptoms. “The effects of experiences of this kind always show up later; it’s important to take care of them with specialized treatment,” she explained.

  Take care. It would be nice, Josefa thought, if everything could be taken care of, like a bad dream. If she could only wake up and find it had merely been a nightmare. She thought of the people in Kosovo. What was it like for those Muslim women who bore children by the men who’d raped and tortured them? Did they get specialized treatment too; did that take care of everything? Josefa looked at the flowers, the white bedcovers she’d slept under for the last time, the leftovers from lunch on the tray. Her packed travel bag was beside her.

  But she hadn’t packed the letter lying on the night table.

  Esther had forwarded her mail to the hospital. There was a letter from Herbert Rehmer; it had been postmarked one day before Josefa’s
trip to Crans. Verena Rehmer, who’d called the hospital daily, knew about the letter and expressed some concern about how she would cope with its problematic contents in her “fragile condition.”

  “We don’t want to burden you with more worries,” she said. That “we” is what struck Josefa. She thought it was actually none of her stepmother’s business. She exchanged a few words with her father on the phone—Josefa had expressly forbidden him to come to the hospital—but all she said was, “Thanks for the letter.” It was still too fresh, too early; there would be time later for getting things straight. She had to sort out her own feelings first.

  She took the handwritten pages out of the envelope and read the lines that by now she almost knew by heart:

  Dear Josefa,

  This letter is for your eyes only, and I want to expressly request that under no circumstances will you ever make it public knowledge.

  It is not easy for me to reopen the painful past. But if it helps you cope with the present, I cannot deny you your wish.

  When the doctors told your mother that she had an advanced stage of cancer, she reacted by repressing it. Filomena did not want to hear one word about chemotherapy and radiation but sought help from a miracle worker in her homeland. You might remember that she often went to Italy in those days. But she did not visit her relatives, as she told you two kids, but one of the slickest of quacks instead.

  Please excuse my blunt language, but I have my reasons. Your mother came increasingly under the sway of this miscreant, mainly whenever there was a clear, but temporary, improvement in her condition. I tried to hold her back but couldn’t; I wanted to give her the liberty of dealing with her disease in the way she wanted to. And I felt powerless against that tumor.

  But one day when she came back from Italy, Filomena started talking about a separation. She wanted to move to Italy and take you with her. That’s when I began to defend myself. I did not want to lose you. I sought help from doctors and psychologists. Filomena and I gradually became closer again; we talked long and hard, something we had done all too rarely in our marriage.