The Zurich Conspiracy (4 page)

“Oh, just ignore that sort of thing,” she said coolly, well aware that it was bad advice that she herself didn’t follow. “You’re simply indispensable to our team.”

Josefa meant what she said. A year after starting at Loyn, she had asked Bourdin if she could hire a personal assistant, already having an eye on Claire for the job. Josefa needed a loyal, reliable colleague who’d throw herself into the work as wholeheartedly as she did. Claire, in her late twenties, was her first choice. And right from the start this petite, strawberry blonde never lost any time, let alone her nerve. It was Claire who organized all of Loyn’s business and promotional trips; who came up with cheap, last-minute flights; who always knew the best routes to take; readily accommodated special requests; and who made sure that the airlines handled Loyn’s ambassadors with kid gloves. There was no doubt that Claire had genuine organizational talent.

Josefa quickly realized that Claire had potential. She knew she’d have to act fast before somebody else took this gifted person under their wing. She wanted an assistant she could groom and promote—and yet still feel secure in the knowledge that she wouldn’t offer any competition later. Josefa quickly saw that Claire, despite her capabilities, would not be a danger. Her manner was too girlish, her voice too high and gentle to project authority, though it suited her fine-boned, diminutive figure, her round, childlike, freckled face, and her delicate little hands. But Josefa never let on to Claire what she was planning and was often a little ashamed of herself for it.

So be it,
she thought dismissively. She had to focus on the work at hand. Josefa slipped on her reading glasses and turned her attention to the file of newspaper clippings lying on the table. They’d all been there in St. Moritz: the magazines, the tabloids, and the financial press.

Loyn had become a factor in the economy and received recognition for it, and their CEO knew how to enlist the media for his own purposes, even if it was just a social event like the horse show in St. Moritz.

Josefa recognized the various celebrities featured, but one stood out: Joan Caroll. Josefa was always amazed at how radiant Joan looked in pictures, even better than in person. She had “star quality” as Pius Tschuor, Loyn’s official photographer, frequently remarked. “Everybody’s singing your praises, Frau Rehmer,” murmured Richard Auer, upon meeting Josefa in the corridor a few minutes later, sounding like he’d greased his vocal chords with the same copious amounts of gel he used on his hair. Auer was a German, from Hamburg, a fact he constantly emphasized, and “the sales boss of us all,” as Josefa liked to call him privately. Dick was his official company nickname, which suited his dynamic, man-of-the-world demeanor. He had blonde hair, a few coquettish fringes gracing his forehead.
What’s he doing at head office?
Josefa wondered, pushing her misgivings in front of her like a bulldozer. But Auer seemed in the best of spirits.

“Thank you,” Josefa replied, squeezing by him. Everybody was assembled in the meeting room. Josefa felt her heart beating:
My team
,
the team; built it
myself
, she thought proudly. She had ten people under her, of different ages because she prized both dynamism and experience. This team was her greatest achievement!

Albert Tenning, the youngest member, was placing a bowl of fragrant butter croissants on the oval table when Josefa called the meeting to order. Surveying the ten eager faces, and about to begin her paean of praise for their good work, she suddenly noticed Claire. Something about her expression was disconcerting. She didn’t only seem tired but somehow just not there. What was going on? Well, she’d have to clear that up later. Josefa gave a brief, routine summary of the last few days’ events, handing out recognition and thanks, making some suggestions for improvements, and listening to her colleagues’ comments.

Nobody mentioned Joan’s absence at the gala dinner, though that was to have been the main event. But Josefa had already passed the word around that she would straighten that out with management later. If Bourdin ever got wind of the fact that her colleagues had openly bitched about the debacle, he could charge Josefa with disloyalty, a fact that was evident to the whole team.

“There’s to be a nine o’clock meeting with the CEO in the large board room,” Bianca Schwegler, Josefa’s reliable secretary, reported as soon as Josefa declared the meeting adjourned.

That’s just in twenty minutes!
Josefa looked quickly around for Claire who was standing right behind her.

“Read this before you go to the meeting,” Claire muttered, pressing a telegram into her hand.

Josefa caught her by the arm. “We’ve got to talk afterward.”

Claire gave her boss what seemed to Josefa a beleaguered look and then nodded briskly.

The weekly meeting with Bourdin was always on Friday morning, unless he was en route somewhere—that was the drill. But this Friday the room was exceptionally full when Josefa arrived. Bourdin had summoned the regional sales managers from various countries to Zurich—and had not informed Josefa about it. He was already enthroned at the head of the conference table, with Hans-Rudolf Walther, the chairman of the board of directors and the stinking rich owner of Loyn, next to him. Was there an important agenda item she knew nothing about? Walther was well known for taking a personal interest in Loyn’s day-to-day business. At fifty-seven he was too young to retire; still, it was very rare for him to come to a Friday meeting.

Bourdin had already launched into his usual verbal torrent, his voice at times cracking: “…established a brand for the unbiased time traveler around the globe…modern nomads who look for the cornerstones of their circle of influence in lasting aesthetics…” Josefa was only half-listening when she realized she still had the telegram in her hand. She leaned back a little in order to open it discreetly on her lap.

Dear Frau Rehmer,

Permit me to extend to you my profound thanks for the cordial and competent way you look after your guests. You facilitated wonderful and stimulating days for me and my wife in most pleasant surroundings. Hearty congratulations!

Yours, Curt Van Duisen

Josefa’s heart leapt. Curt Van Duisen was one of Walther’s old friends—if that wasn’t a good sign she didn’t know what was! Bourdin was still droning on, his speech obviously drawing to a close: “…thanks to our colleagues, who give their all…” Josefa tucked the telegram into her pants pocket. “…our project manager…US sales manager…the head of PR…and last but not least…” Josefa straightened up imperceptibly. “…our leader, Hans-Rudolf Walther, who made everything possible. They all deserve our applause.”

Josefa sat there for a moment, absolutely rigid. He wouldn’t dare ignore her so obviously! Everyone present knew that she’d done the impossible in St. Moritz. She felt some eyes turn toward her. Bourdin announced that he’d like to show the sales managers the newly opened showroom—“an architectural gem,” he boasted—on the ground floor, featuring products from all previous Loyn collections. So
that’s
it, she fumed.

Josefa was glued to her seat, at a loss for what to do next—
should she confront Bourdin? Suck it up and ignore the slight?
—when Hans-Rudolf Walther came up to her.

“Frau Rehmer, I’d like us to have a talk, in private,” he said with a smile, laying a paternal hand on her arm. “Please come to my office in ten minutes.” Without waiting for an answer he turned on his heel to rejoin the turmoil.

Back in her office, Josefa pulled out the documentation for the next big PR event, a music festival showcasing some famous musicians, which she’d already prepared a draft for. Maybe Walther was interested in finding out more about it. She hurried to the bathroom, freshened up, and took the elevator to the top floor.

Of course Walther hadn’t arrived yet. It was the privilege of the powerful to keep others waiting. His secretary offered her a seat, but Josefa stood at the window instead; the magnificent view of Lake Zurich and the Alps in the distance was captivating, like a Ferdinand Hodler painting. The city lay at her feet, and visions of warm summer evenings came to mind: she imagined waves licking against the stones, her brown, tanned legs in the warm water, a haughty swan, head held high, passing by, boats with billowing sails floating on the blue water.

“Frau Rehmer,” Walther said, interrupting her daydream. Hans-Rudolf Walther was the proverbial é
minence grise
at Loyn: Everything about him was gray—his suit, his tie, his hair, even his skin looked gray. He extended a hand to invite her into his office, and Josefa followed, sitting down at a little round table and placing her dossier on it.

“Well now, Frau Rehmer,” Walther began, in the somewhat contorted, jovial manner of an established man who is about to explain something to a clearly younger woman. “Your performance was once again magnificent. We all find it exceptional. Since you’ve been in charge of event marketing, everything has been running absolutely splendidly.”

“I’m pleased to hear it, Herr Walther,” she replied, but couldn’t resist following it up with, “I’d have been even more pleased if that had been said during the meeting.”

Walther turned a little to the left. His seal ring sparkled.

“Now look, you mustn’t take that too seriously. Francis is the spontaneous type, a bit unstructured, the way geniuses often are. He quite simply forgot about it in his enthusiasm. That is why I am making up for it now; you are very near and dear to us,” he offered, with a look meant to melt her away at once.

Whatever Bourdin did, Walther would cover for him. Bourdin was vital to the company; Walther had put his money on him, and Loyn’s success proved him right.

He started talking again without asking for a response.

“You’ve carried out almost superhuman tasks in the last several days, Frau Rehmer; you’ve hardly had time to catch your breath. That’s about to change. We should like to relieve you of some tasks that have nothing to do with your core activity.”

Now it’s coming
, Josefa thought.
I knew it was coming
.

Walther laced his fingers together, forming a dome with his hands.

“We have decided to fill the position of marketing head externally, again.”

“Herr Walther, I’m very astonished by your decision. Particularly after the bad experience we had,” Josefa replied, trying to stay as calm as possible.

Walther knew what she was talking about. The head marketing spot was vacant because the man who last held it had been a fiasco, driving everyone in the firm crazy. And since then, Josefa had taken over most of his duties, with Bourdin carrying out the rest.

“You know,” Walther explained, “we need a competent head for such an important area. We need a middleman, a hinge, a contact person for our colleagues, our guests, and company management.”

“Our colleagues? Our guests? But that part of it is working extremely well,” Josefa blurted out, feeling nauseated with anger. She even considered showing him Van Duisen’s telegram—but no, she wasn’t some kid looking for recognition.

“Frau Rehmer,” Walther continued, in his paternal tone, “no one has the slightest doubt about your competence. Perhaps you didn’t understand me properly. We want to relieve you of some of your duties. So that you can concentrate on your core work. And I am convinced that this time we’ve hired an exceptionally capable, outstanding candidate. His name is Werner Schulmann.”

Josefa was dumbstruck. She felt as if the rug had been pulled out from under her feet.

Pius Tschuor was standing in the doorway of Josefa’s office. With his full, dark hair that a carefully groomed haircut couldn’t even tame, together with his blue eyes and perfectly chiseled, masculine mouth—not too full, not too soft—Pius was a striking individual. Josefa sometimes wondered how Loyn was ever able to catch the guy. She’d discovered him herself—
or more precisely, his pictures,
she thought coyly. She’d seen his photographs in a gallery and contacted him immediately, then passed his portfolio on to Bourdin, who instantly signed him up to do the next catalog. And in no time at all this young man had become a kind of court photographer at Loyn. This was the bread-and-butter job he would use to finance his passion, which was admittedly not very lucrative: He photographed underground cave systems, dark lakes, hidden gorges, and small, mysterious creatures that saw light for the first time thanks to his flash units. It puzzled Josefa why Pius would choose to hide his athletic physique from the light of day, and from so many admiring eyes, just to flee into the bowels of the earth.

“Is it longing for the female uterus,” she once teased him, with a wink. That was how she communicated with him: wisecracking, kidding him, poking the fire but never playing with it. If they were working on a project together, there was an immediate, concentrated rapport between them; she was seldom at odds with Pius, and he always seemed to know instantly what she wanted.