The Zurich Conspiracy (3 page)

The phone rattled, wrenching Josefa out of her sleep. It was the hotel’s wake-up service no doubt. Reaching for the receiver, she squinted at the clock: quarter after six.

She’d hardly slept at all. A few guests had kicked up a row in the hallway in the middle of the night.
Imagine a thing like that in a grand hotel in St. Moritz,
she thought crossly. But now, when she had to get up, it was quiet. The noisemakers were no doubt having sweet dreams right about now. She ordered breakfast from room service, opened her laptop, and checked her schedule to see when the VIPs were to be taken to the airport. Then she quickly browsed through her new e-mails, a lot of junk mail in spite of the filter the company had installed.

One e-mail in particular jumped out at her, though. It didn’t seem like normal spam—but why was it in English? She reread the text several times, translating it as best she could:
The devil is most devilish when he comes in respectable dress. Recognize the evildoer before he tears you to pieces with his claws.

What a peculiar warning! Josefa looked at the sender; it made as little sense to her as the message did:
[email protected]
. Somebody was clearly playing a trick on her, her e-mail address was easy enough to find, but who could it be?

She thought about deleting the ominous message but moved it to a folder instead. Maybe it would make more sense later. Besides, she had more important things to think about now.

That afternoon, sitting beside Joan Caroll in the Mercedes limousine on the way to Zurich-Kloten airport, she watched villages and meadows whiz by in the rain. The model was wearing jeans and a white T-shirt under a short, orange leather jacket, she’d put her blonde hair up in a ponytail, and her full lips were unpainted. No longer on the clock for Loyn, she seemed relaxed as she described the fondue evening in the rustic cabin that Yvon, the multimillionaire, had added onto his luxurious chalet. Musicians had played accordions and clarinets after the meal, and Joan quipped that all that was missing was some yodeling.

As the two ladies chatted, a stone-faced Bourdin sat across from them. He’d hardly said a thing since they’d left the hotel, which made Josefa wonder whether Yvon had lived up to his lofty expectations. It was Bourdin’s practice to do all the talking, to radiate charm incessantly, to be unstoppable. She was often amazed at his verbal acrobatics. Francis, who was named “Franz” at birth, preferred to talk in speech bubbles: “Loyn is the culmination of the Here and Nothing in the infinite spectrum of innovative potential,” inspiring men and women to march out and buy deluxe luggage as if they really wanted to culminate in the Here and Nothing. And even Josefa could wax poetic about bags and suitcases of the finest leather (albeit with a slightly different spin).

Thanks to Bourdin, upscale leather bags had become a quality Swiss product, like watches and chocolate—she had to grant him that, in spite of the smoldering anger she felt for him at present. She could even acknowledge at certain times, and today was one of them, that she too had made a considerable contribution to Loyn’s success. She efficiently orchestrated how the company was presented in public; her meticulous and reliable oversight of last night’s VIP gala event was a case in point. Loyn’s celebrity walking advertisements—they were called “ambassadors”—constantly affirmed and reaffirmed how much they valued Josefa’s dependability. And after all, there were several film stars, international sports heroes, and some icons in the music business among them. She was on call twenty-four hours a day—at least for four more days.

Josefa sighed to herself. Good that her vacation was approaching. Three weeks away from the company, three weeks of doing nothing, three weeks of sun and sand. Yet she hadn’t planned anything, nothing was booked; she simply hadn’t had time until now to give it any thought.

“Frau Rehmer,” Bourdin said, interrupting her thoughts. The limousine had arrived at the airport; it was still raining.

“I’ll take Joan to the VIP lounge,” he said. “Tomorrow there’s a briefing in my office. Right this way, Joan.”

But Joan paid no attention to him and took Josefa gently by the sleeve.

“I want to buy a souvenir for my sister. Can you come with me?”

Josefa thought for a moment; Joan in a souvenir shop—that wasn’t a good idea, people would be sure to recognize her.

“What would you think if we went to the VIP lounge, and I got someone to bring you a selection?” she suggested. Joan acquiesced.

Bourdin stayed close to them because there was an interesting audience for him in the lounge, and soon he was schmoozing with one of the world’s most photographed models. Although Joan hadn’t prepared for a grand entrée, all eyes were on her svelte figure and long legs. A ground stewardess brought them an assortment of Swiss souvenirs, and Joan selected a silk foulard adorned with droll cows. Kelly, her assistant, soon arrived to escort Joan on her flight to the US, and Josefa seized the opportunity to bid the model farewell.

“You did a fantastic job,” Josefa enthused, and Joan made a gesture resembling an embrace.

“Josephine, it’s not hard with you around,” she replied warmly, before exchanging a few polite noises with Bourdin and disappearing with Kelly at her side.

“Do you share my opinion that Joan did it again, magnificently?” Josefa asked, turning toward Bourdin, but he was already on his way out of the lounge. Not a word. She was simply left behind, like an umbrella. The company limousine wouldn’t be taking her back to Zurich, then. Damn it. Bourdin was treating her as if she were his maid, a second-class citizen. She, Josefa, who had just helped Loyn stage that glamorous show!

Josefa suddenly felt rooted to the spot, unable to move. Her breathing became shallow, the air blocked like steam in a kettle with the lid on. Her arms and hands cramped up. She only half perceived what was going on around her. Her ears were ringing.
All of a sudden she felt a metal handle in her hand, linked to a taut wire rope with a monstrous steel ball at the end. And Josefa was spinning round and round, holding onto the handle as the heavy ball began to swing around. It spun in ever larger circles, turning and turning, shattering everything in its way, smashing walls to bits, mowing down metal scaffolding like matchsticks, breaking windowpanes to pieces.
Get out of the way, get out of the way!
She was turning faster and faster, the ball careening more and more powerfully through the air, relentless in its triumphal march of destruction. Finally, after everything was flattened, Josefa let go of the ball, releasing it in one last, erratic spin, and watched it rocket off and disappear into the vague, blurry distance.

And then, all of a sudden, she could breathe deeply again, the air moving in and out of her lungs unobstructed, which stopped her cramping. Josefa heard a voice and blinked. The veil slowly lifted: A woman was standing in front of her. She wore a blue-and-red uniform and put a hand on her arm. Josefa could now understand her words.

“The driver of your company car gave me your luggage.”

“My luggage?” Josefa asked in a daze. “Oh, yes.” She’d completely forgotten about it.

“Don’t you want to sit down? You look pale,” the stewardess offered, exuding a subtle perfume.

“No, no, everything’s fine,” Josefa assured her as she slowly regained her composure.

The lady in uniform gave her a worried look.

“You’re really very pale.”

“I sometimes get dizzy,” Josefa quickly explained. “I’ve got low blood pressure, you see. But that’s really…that’s not a disease. Typical woman’s problem.” She attempted a feeble smile. “And better than high blood pressure. I’ve obviously been working too hard lately and haven’t had enough sleep. Many thanks for your concern.” She nodded quickly at the stewardess, who still looked dubious, picked up her luggage, and headed to the taxi stand.

On the ride to Zurich Josefa was lost in thought as she watched the ugly suburban houses pass by. She still felt the fear in her bones. She’d thought she’d left that scary phase behind her long ago. Something in her mind’s eye had persecuted her as a girl growing up—and she
had
said goodbye to those years, hadn’t she? It was the anger of a helpless teenager, not
her
anger. And yet, here it was again, suddenly breaking out, uncontrolled, unbridled—that made her afraid.
Probably nerves
, she said to herself.
The sooner I’m home, the better
.

The rain had stopped in downtown Zurich, and it was already dusk. Josefa unlocked the door to her apartment building and went up the stone stairs to the fifth floor—there was no elevator in this somewhat neglected building that defied the modern age. A feeling of warmth and security suffused Josefa in spite of her great fatigue. Home again. No more hotel rooms and restaurants for the time being.

She walked through her apartment like a cat that had come home after days of roaming and was now taking in the old familiar scents. She opened the windows onto the green back courtyard and soaked in the cool evening air. For three years, Josefa had been renting an apartment in this building, located in a large quarter of the city that had Jugendstil buildings several stories tall with high, stuccoed ceilings. Plopping into the rocking chair, she let her eyes wander around the room: the oil paintings on the walls that she’d painted when her life wasn’t dictated by the day planner; the pile of unread magazines (no doubt featuring ads for Loyn bags); the colorful cushions on the parquet floor; the long, narrow Oriental rug; the bookshelves; the clay figurines from Peru; and the lamp with the antique china base that had fortunately survived all Josefa’s moves, an heirloom from her mother who’d died of cancer at thirty-six. On a little cabinet of sea-green glass stood her favorite photo of her mother, taken in her native Piedmont before her illness. She was leaning over a wall; an old church and a square dotted with people could be seen in the background. A polka-dot band kept her dark hair, streaked with silver, out of her very pretty face. Josefa was struck by the fact that if she were her mother, she would only have one more year to live. Suddenly her head began to ache just a little.

She quickly put on a CD, floating away for a while to the sound of Jeff Buckley’s mesmerizing voice. Then she unpacked her small suitcase and took a pile of clothes down to the laundry room she shared with the other tenants. Both washers were full; Josefa sighed and headed back upstairs. The city administration had been housing asylum seekers on the second and third floors; some of the long-time tenants had protested, but without results. Josefa couldn’t care less; she was traveling most of the time anyway.

When she woke up it was five o’clock in the morning. Slightly numb, she dragged her tired body out of bed, splashed cold water on her face, and gazed at herself in the mirror. Her skin seemed pale in spite of a slight redness, and there were shadows under her eyes. She clung to the edge of the sink, feeling a little dizzy, and then trudged into her small kitchen. The freezer was filled with TV dinners, but she managed to find enough oatmeal for breakfast. As she stirred some hot water into the bowl, she powered up her computer.

Stefan—her married lover who was on a business trip in New York at the moment—had sent her an e-mail. “Back on Tuesday,” it read. What was that about? Would he be with his family, or would she be able to see him then?

“Call as soon as you’re back,” she replied. But it was the next e-mail that sent a cold shiver down her spine: Once again it was from
[email protected]
. Her fingers trembled as she opened the message. It was written in English again:
I’m really glad to hear you lost control. It’s a good sign when sick people get angry
.

She stared at the words as if seeing a ghost. How could that be? Was somebody watching her at the airport? Did somebody see how she’d drifted off into a dark world? Maybe Francis Bourdin? Impossible—she saw him leave.

Frightened, she switched off the computer, grabbed her jacket and her briefcase, and five minutes later was in the little Italian shop on the corner that thankfully opened at six. She bought two apples, a sandwich, and a bottle of water before taking the streetcar to company headquarters.

Claire Fendi approached her in the fifth-floor hallway, wearing her lime-green Loyn uniform. A lack of sleep had left its traces on Claire’s usually fresh face.

“Claire, here already?” Josefa said, a rather rhetorical question.

“And so are you,” Claire replied in her high, clear voice, trying to sound lighthearted in spite of her obvious exhaustion. “I’ve put the press clippings on your desk—they’re fantastic. And in the Age of the Internet, Curt Van Duisen actually sent a telegram congratulating you! That man’s got real style.”

“Thanks, Claire. I couldn’t have done it without you, you know that.”

“Bourdin’s got a different take on that.” It didn’t escape Josefa’s notice that Claire was tense, and now her stomach began to clench as well. Here she was, entrusted with such terrific colleagues like Claire, and Bourdin had nothing better to do than rough up her assistant.