The Zurich Conspiracy (14 page)

Little white clouds were sailing like dabs of whipped cream in the deep blue sky over Lake Geneva, the Alps forming a dramatic backdrop. The sun seemed too warm for this time of year—the beginning of September—and Josefa yearned to cast aside her dove-blue linen suit, but that would have violated the company dress code.

The two hundred and fifty guests at the golf tournament were in high spirits. The weather was perfect, and everyone was looking forward to the concert that evening. Loyn had imported a world-famous German violinist and a star conductor from the US for the festivities.

The event was turning out to be another triumph for Josefa. Her good connections—aided and abetted by Walther’s financial clout—were the reason this much sought-after pair of artists had agreed to perform. Her coup helped foil Schulmann’s plans to revamp the program as well—that and the fact that the company’s patron did not brook last-minute changes. Walther’s personal intervention had stopped Schulmann when he was still in the starting blocks; when all was said and done, it was his money on the line, after all.

That Schulmann had no choice but to accept defeat was balm on Josefa’s wounds. Still she was anxious about future confrontations with Schulmann. How long would she be able to control herself?

She had other more pressing matters on her mind now, though: The media circus that had descended on this beatific lake being one of them. Almost a hundred and twenty people from the press had come to the tournament. They weren’t just after a story on Colin Hartwell and his impressive exploits on the links. They were also interested in Hartwell’s wife, Pamela, a young starlet hailed as the new Sharon Stone.

Josefa didn’t find Hartwell all that exciting herself, but then again, she didn’t play golf. To her, he was just another multimillionaire with a trophy wife by his side. Josefa found his endless chatter tiresome (
Aren’t golfers supposed
be tight-lipped?
she asked herself), and his heavy Australian accent nearly impenetrable. It was a mystery to her why a man of such wealth and success had agreed to be an advertising tool for suitcases and handbags. Helene was the only one she dared admit this to, of course, but her friend saw nothing puzzling about it. “You can never make too much money,” was her terse response.

Josefa watched as the security people checked in the photographers and TV cameramen who then quickly made their way out to the green. The VIPs had left their tables in the tent as well to watch Hartwell’s super swing, take part in the golf tournament afterward, or just tag along as spectators. Claire was in charge of those guests, and Josefa was confident that it would all go smoothly. Josefa could tell that her assistant was as stressed as she was. Claire had her lips pressed together, giving her pretty mouth a hard edge. Every now and then Claire’s impatience would show—something that had never happened before.

But how about now? Josefa watched as Claire, wearily nodding, tried to shake off a man who was going on and on, relentlessly, while gesticulating vigorously. Josefa could not make out the identity of this importuning guest, his tall, slightly bent back was turned to her.

Adjusting Hartwell’s blue golf cap with the strategically placed Loyn logo on it, Josefa looked around for the event’s unexpected media sensation. But Pamela Hartwell was surprisingly nowhere to be seen. Normally, if there were cameras on the scene, Pamela was right there. Geneva’s high-end boutiques had probably lured her away.

Josefa noticed Claire obviously taking a deep breath—somebody had taken Herr Blabbermouth by the arm and was angling him away. Claire’s rescuer appeared to be none other than Karl Westek, the former CFO of the ill-fated Swixan Corporation.

The thin, wiry Westek was not much taller than dainty Claire and had a jaw cocked like a rifle bolt. Did Westek give two hoots about what might have happened to Beat Thüring, who was still missing? Or to Henry Salzinger, the “independent” auditor who went over Swixan’s books every year, signing off and certifying to the bitter end that everything was in order—really, really in order—at the moribund company? Josefa couldn’t help but wonder
. Salzinger—dead, just like Feller-Stähli, the lawyer.

But Josefa couldn’t be bothered with these questions just now.

“Fire away, boys,” she shouted to the photographers, realizing her sexist faux pas. After all there were some female photographers in the group. But before she could rectify her lapse, an utterly unforeseen event occurred.

Colin Hartwell was just taking his backswing when Josefa noticed something out of the corner of her eye: a shadow hurtling right at Hartwell. There was a scream from the crowd, and the next thing she saw was blood spattered on the Australian’s white polo shirt. He was staring at the ground, aghast, holding his club in both hands.

Francis Bourdin was lying on the ground, twisted, groaning softly, and bleeding from his head. For a few seconds everyone was silent. Then Josefa heard the rattle of shutter releases and knew what she had to do.

“Call an ambulance!” she shouted at the security guard standing immobilized next to her. Her eyes hunted around for Marlene Dombrinski, one of her project managers, who was standing a few yards away, petrified. “Marlene, get Colin away from here,” she commanded. “And you go with them,” she called to two security people.

The photographers and cameramen were having a field day.
Where the hell were the others?
Josefa thought, frantically looking all around her. Fortunately the paramedics arrived almost immediately. She always made sure they were nearby at these events. A doctor was attending to Bourdin.

Hans-Rudolf Walther suddenly appeared in front of her, his face red with rage, clad in a business suit and tie despite the hot sun.

“Why are these photographers still here?” he shouted at her. “Tell them to go away! Get them out of here!” His voice grew louder. “Do something! Don’t just stand there!”

Josefa stared at him, momentarily dumbfounded. Then she spun around without a word and looked for the yellow jackets of the security personnel. Soon—she fervently hoped—this nightmare would come to an end.

At three in the morning Josefa found herself in a Mercedes limousine speeding through the darkness. It was a car she’d driven frequently, since part of her job was to take special company guests to the airport. Carl Van Duisen was in the car with her, probably because he was an old friend of Walther’s. The events of the day were looping endlessly through Josefa’s mind.

Her ears still rang with Richard Auer’s verbal assault on her in the hotel corridor earlier that night.

“You know, Frau Rehmer, I don’t think it’s…er…dignified to stir up sentiment against Schulmann. The corporation is more important than personal animosities. He did superbly well today after this…unfortunate incident.”

She was speechless.

“Perhaps you’ve let yourself be influenced too much by Paul Klingler,” Auer continued.

“That’s going too far, Herr Auer. Paul Klingler has nothing to do with it.”

“Depends on how you look at it, Frau Rehmer. It’s a known fact that Klingler’s been Schulmann’s enemy ever since he got him kicked out of Harckmüller, Sinclair and Partners.”

“What?” Josefa couldn’t believe her ears.

“Klingler’s a poor loser, Frau Rehmer. You shouldn’t take him as a role model.”

Josefa gave Auer a stony glare and turned on her heel.
Keep calm. Calm and controlled
.

She’d love to have relayed all this to Van Duisen, who seemed half as tired as she was in spite of the late hour. No wonder: He’d been pumped up by chatting with other guests during the champagne and caviar canapés. But she’d had to pass an acid test.

As it turned out, Hartwell’s swing had broken Bourdin’s nose and given him head lacerations. But the golf champ insisted on continuing to play with the important invitees, so the tournament was only delayed by an hour.
The show must go on
.

Werner Schulmann spoke to the press, of course, draping himself in the mantle of a veteran crisis manager and scoring points with the VIPs. His shining hour. But it was Josefa who was responsible for overseeing the whole evening program—cocktail reception, concert, gala dinner, evening entertainment—so she smiled, she performed, she put on a good face.

Claire never strayed from her side, and Josefa was touched by her assistant’s loyalty. Later that night, though, as Josefa hurried to the “office”—a hotel room that had been transformed at short notice into Loyn’s staff headquarters—she heard a high, muffled voice coming from inside the hotel room. The door was ajar so she opted to listen for a moment from the corridor.

“You traitor. Your place is on our team, and you just went over to the other side. You’re a dirty rotten turncoat.” It was Claire.

“But Schulmann gave me instructions to take charge of the presents for the guests. How was I to know it was Bourdin of all people…” Josefa recognized the voice of Albert Tenning, the youngest member of their team.

“Am I hearing right? Did you say Schulmann? Your place is with
Josefa
! How
could
you stab her in the back, you loser!” Claire scolded.

“But nobody knows exactly who’s in charge anymore of—” Albert sounded flustered and anxious.

Claire interrupted him sharply. “You’re a slimy toad, and I feel like crushing you under my heel until your guts spill out.”

Josefa hesitated. Did she hear right? Time to intervene before the situation escalated out of control. They were all exhausted, and the continual stress was taking its toll. That damn Schulmann had managed to pit members of her team against one another.

She cleared her throat and entered the room. The first thing she saw was Claire’s face, frozen into a mask, her mouth a little pinched, hands on hips. Albert was sitting in front of her, hanging his head and squirming in his chair like a punished schoolboy. Josefa felt sorry for him, but she couldn’t protect him with Claire around.

“Claire? Albert? You’re still up? It’s half past two and really time for you to catch some sleep. Grab a couple of hours. You’ve done a terrific job and you’ve earned a little peace and quiet,” Josefa suggested in her calmest voice.

Albert quickly took her up on it. Exiting the room with a curt “Good night,” as Claire butted her cigarette in the ashtray.

“The last one for today,” she said in her normal, chirpy voice. She gave Josefa a sympathetic look. “Who’s the lucky one this time?”

“Van Duisen.” Josefa sighed.

“Wangle at least a few million out of him,” she remarked sarcastically.

“Has he got more than one?”

“You can bet the store on it,” her assistant replied, forcing a weary smile.

“Maybe that’s why Walther made it his business to take him in tow. I’d rather leave him to you, Claire. You’ve more luck with men than I do. They’re docile as lambs in your hands.”

“Stupid as sheep, you mean?”

“I noticed how Karl Westek saved you from that blabbermouth today. Maybe he wanted to make an impression on you.”

“Eeeeeuuw!” Claire squealed, shutting her eyes.

Josefa spread her fingers to block a nervous tremor. “I can’t fathom why Walther invites those guys from Swixan. That’s not good for business.”

Claire laughed dryly. “They’re conversation pieces, Josefa. They give everybody so much to talk about. Every gathering needs a black sheep—that’s good for social hygiene.”

“God knows people can’t complain that there was nothing to talk about today.”

“Oh well, things can only get better. That’s something.” Claire handed her a nice paper bag lying on the table. “For your trip,” she said. Butter croissants, fresh from the oven.

And now here she was at three in the morning, ferrying a man to the Geneva airport who could well afford a private jet. At least Van Duisen was empathetic—or, at the very least, polite.

“You shouldn’t have to drive me after such a hectic day,” he said apologetically.

Josefa was too worn out to make the usual small talk. “Yes, it was a really awful day, and I don’t know what will come of it.”

“This might be small comfort, but occasions like these are soon forgotten.”

Josefa was about to say something in reply when it dawned on her that Van Duisen had lost his thirty-year-old son in a car crash six months earlier, his only child. How could she have forgotten?

“I’m sorry about your son,” she suddenly said.

“Yes, me too,” Van Duisen answered. “You know, I spent so little time with him. I was always at the office, in meetings, traveling. The company was my whole life. And now he’s dead, and I can’t make up for it.”

Josefa was quiet. She didn’t know what to say.

“I would do many things differently today: live more, work less. Not make the same mistakes.” He cleared his throat. “I’m going to quit soon and retire. But don’t tell a soul.”

They were both silent for a while. Just before the airport he suddenly said, “You can’t help wondering why people run straight into their own misfortune.”

“What do you mean?”

“Why Herr Bourdin runs into a golf club at the top of a swing.”

Yes, that was something Josefa very much wanted to know as well.