The Zurich Conspiracy (11 page)

“If you do not think ahead”—now Schulmann was enunciating a touch too precisely—“if you are not constantly developing new ideas, you will be left empty-handed when the old model plays itself out. That can happen faster than you think. You have to always be one step ahead of the customers’ expectations. No, not one step—three steps.” Schulmann’s voice was now imploring. “To be innovative means to always question what you have achieved, to think the unthinkable, to create through dynamic destruction.”

Josefa quickly glanced at Bourdin, who hadn’t stopped rolling his pen back and forth. He didn’t look at Josefa or Schulmann.

“For this reason” Schulmann continued, “I will make some important changes to Frau Rehmer’s plan.”

Josefa was thunderstruck. An electric silence filled the room. But Schulmann said nothing more, just leaned back in his chair. Since Bourdin did not respond, all eyes turned expectantly to Josefa.

“First of all,” she began, trying to compose herself, “I must emphasize that these plans were created and fine-tuned by my whole team. Second, the plan is reviewed every year after we receive feedback from important guests. We have a sophisticated feel for our guests’ wishes; they are our top priority. And we have found again and again that they have no appetite for changes to our program.” She was on the verge of adding that Bourdin knew all this very well, but she refused to seek shelter in the firm’s management.

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.”