The Zurich Conspiracy (19 page)

Maybe it really won’t be as difficult as I was afraid it would be
, Josefa thought, riding the rapid transit to Küsnacht, a wealthy village on lower Lake Zurich, on the shore popularly referred to as the “Gold Coast.”
How will Frau Meyer-de Rechenstein react to my indiscreet questions, questions that will necessarily evoke unpleasant memories?
Her head was spinning from all the reports she’d just gone through in Paul’s database.

Seven years ago, when Swixan collapsed like a house of cards, those matters didn’t particularly interest her. It wasn’t in her job description to engage Loyn’s guests in conversation about things that happened in the past. Quite the opposite—it was better to ignore these topics. There were many details about the Swixan affair she didn’t understand; everything was so intricate, convoluted, intertwined. Swixan AG was, as she now knew, a bewildering conglomerate that manufactured machines and vehicles, made specialized chemical products, and was even involved in real estate. She also knew that many employees had not only lost their jobs when Swixan folded but their pensions—and more. Just before the bankruptcy one company executive had encouraged the eight thousand workers to invest in Swixan stock. Many others were already receiving the maximum number of stock options month after month, unknowingly digging a grave for their retirement savings. The corporation’s executives, however, put their own pension money into private partner companies to shield themselves from creditors should Swixan go under.

That was shortly before the top executives began selling off huge blocks of stock because they saw the catastrophe coming. They left employees, shareholders, and business partners in the dark until the very end, assuring them that there were no grounds for concern—even when the stock price dropped and then kept dropping.

The people in charge of the corporation had been artificially inflating profits for years and kept the growing debt load concealed by a series of complicated transactions. Nobody rang any alarm bells—not the journalists, not the stock analysts, not the market experts, not the regulators—even though the balance sheets and profit and loss statements of the convoluted empire had become mystifying (the annual report concealed more than it revealed) and even though no one could really say how Swixan actually made its money. Nobody pulled the emergency brake—including the auditors, whose job it was to ask the crucial questions.

The head of the auditing firm at the time was Henry Salzinger, now deceased. He was absent from the table in St. Moritz where Beat Thüring, Karl Westek, and Curt Van Duisen were dining. And Feller-Stähli was mixed up in the whole affair too. (Feller-Stähli, the guy Helene claimed she didn’t know, though her father, as Josefa had now read in detail, was one of the most prominent victims of the whole tragedy.) Ultimately the bubble burst, and Swixan’s top management had to put its cards on the table; whereupon the share price plummeted, and the company declared bankruptcy.

And Peter Meyer’s life’s work collapsed along with Swixan AG. Helene’s father had a lucrative company that made precision instruments; he’d sold it to Swixan a few years earlier because no one in the family wanted to take it over. Meyer hoped his firm would have a bright future in the bosom of a financially powerful corporation like Swixan. And they sweetened the deal by offering Meyer a seat on the administrative board, where everybody who was anybody in Zurich’s world of finance already sat.

In spite of many “irregularities” in the run-up to the bankruptcy, the company’s managers—CEO Thüring and CFO Westek among them—got away with token fines—thanks to their crackerjack lawyer Feller-Stähli and their highly selective memories on the stand (“I don’t remember”). The auditors, including Salzinger, just washed their hands in innocence.

How different for Peter Meyer! According to the archive Josefa looked at in Paul’s office, he spent much of his personal fortune trying to help long-time employees from his former company get through the emergency. At least
he
had some sense of responsibility. One of the consequences: Eleven months after the disaster Meyer—without leaving a suicide note—shot himself in the mouth. With his own hunting rifle.

Josefa arrived at the Meyers’ by five o’clock. There was little light left by this hour so she didn’t fully appreciate how stately the Bürgerhaus she stood before really was until she was inside the premises. The front room where Frau Meyer-de Rechenstein took her was paneled to the ceiling. A huge, ancient stove with blue and white tiles stood in the corner—a magnificent antique. The whole room exuded history.

Frau Meyer-de Rechenstein had given her an effusive welcome at the door.

“Josefa, I have been hoping you would come visit for such a long time! I am delighted you are here. Helene has told me so much about you.” The words tumbled out of her as if she hadn’t talked to anybody for days.

“Shall we sit?” she said and escorted Josefa to two armchairs upholstered in white chintz.

The Black Forest cake and expensive porcelain were already set out on a black, polished, inlaid wooden table.

“You have to do something nice for yourself in this weather,” her hostess remarked as she poured her guest a cup of coffee without asking Josefa whether she preferred tea or a decaffeinated drink.

This tall, elegant lady with silvery gray hair looked nothing like her friend. Josefa calculated that she must have had Helene, her only child, rather late in life. And her language! Josefa automatically switched to High German, but Athena Meyer corrected her at once.

“I understand Swiss German of course,” she said. “But as a German one should under no circumstances attempt it. It sounds frightful, and the Swiss cannot stand it. But let’s talk about you! What is it you are doing at Loyn just now?”

It took Josefa a moment to collect her thoughts. Oh, yes, the company. “I have recently left Loyn and am working for a consulting firm,” she explained.

“Oh, really,” Athena Meyer-de Rechenstein replied, a little disappointedly, it seemed. She toyed with the neckband of her mustard-yellow silk blouse. Josefa knew that Helene’s mother loved Loyn handbags. When the company produced a limited edition of Napa leather handbags for special friends of the house on their jubilee, Josefa had wangled one for her. No doubt part of the reason Frau Meyer-de Rechenstein invited her for coffee and cake: to thank her for the gift.

“I wanted to go independent,” Josefa added. “I can work at home now.”

“How wonderful!” her hostess exclaimed, as if she had just been given another beautiful handbag.

“This room is most appealing,” Josefa said, changing the subject and thereby giving Helene’s mother occasion to describe in detail the history of the building and the tile stove.

“At least we have managed to keep the house,” she said with a sigh, out of the blue. “My poor husband lost almost our entire fortune because of Swixan. The others at the head of the corporation looked out for themselves beforehand, but not my husband; my Peter had principles. He was a good man, much too good for the likes of them.”

Josefa was surprised that Frau Meyer-de Rechenstein broached the subject so frankly. But she was a distinguished lady who clearly made no bones about her belief that she was somehow betrayed by fate.

“He was, after all, on Swixan’s administrative board,” Josefa cautiously interjected. “Didn’t he have to know what was going on with the company?”

“No, my husband knew nothing,
absolutely nothing
,” she replied at once and a little defensively. “Those people kept everything secret and hushed up. The man responsible for finance…”

“Karl Westek?”

“Yes, precisely, Karl Westek. The entire business world considered him a genius. How was my husband supposed to be suspicious of him? But Peter had his pride, you know. He did not wriggle his way out of anything, unlike the others. Honor still counts for something in our family.”

She folded her hands in her lap. Josefa put her coffee cup down.

“And how did Helene take it?”

“Terribly,” her mother said. “Terribly,” she repeated, dabbing her lips with an embroidered napkin. “Actually, she was supposed to become the head of the company. That was my husband’s fondest wish. The two got along so well. He even took her hunting as soon as she was old enough. Every October, in the Valsertal. That was where our daughter had Papa all to herself, and it meant so very much to her. That is why she still goes hunting in Vals… Would you like another piece of cake?”

Josefa nodded, but her mind was elsewhere.

“She went to the school in St. Gall and took business,” Josefa heard her say, though she was suddenly having difficulty concentrating.

“For almost three years. But then her engagement to Richard Auer fell through, and she did something completely different. But you know that of course. That is why my Peter sold the company to Swixan; he thought his life’s work would be secure. What a fatal error! And when my husband…left us…it was dreadful for Helene, simply dreadful.”

Josefa listened, her heart racing. Helene engaged! To Richard Auer? Had she heard right?

“But here I am, just chatting away. I imagine you do not want to get to the transit too late; I have not forgotten.” She stood up and Josefa followed.

“How nice to have finally made your acquaintance! And I am delighted every day with the handbag you gave me,” she said as they left the room. “You know, I could have gotten in touch with you sooner, through Richard perhaps, but Helene would never have forgiven me. And we have indeed found a better solution—thanks to you. I shall go get your coat right away.”

Josefa was still stunned as she left Athena Meyer-de Rechenstein’s house. She just couldn’t get her head around it. Helene and Richard Auer.

Pius draws her toward him. She offers no resistance. His back muscles ripple beneath her fingertips. His cheek brushes against hers. His hand lies firmly on the small of her back. She’s all aflame. She desires him. She wants his body. His mouth is so close.

Then a shrill sound. The phone. Josefa suddenly woke up, her heart beating wildly. She could feel it in her breast, her throat, her head. It took some time before she realized where she was. That dream about Pius. So beautiful. So discombobulating. She dove under the covers. Dammit, she’d forgotten to set the answering machine.

Her hand groped for the phone. “Hello?”

At first she heard a soft rustling sound.

“Josefa?” A voice from far away that she didn’t recognize.

“Josefa, is that you?”

“My dear, sweet brother, do you know how late it is? It’s the middle of the night, goddammit!”

“It’s eight in the morning and it’s Monday. You’re always awake at this hour. Besides, it’s important.”

“What’s happened?”

“Werner Schulmann is dead.”

“Who?” She was certain that she hadn’t heard properly. All of a sudden she was wide awake.

“Werner Schulmann. The guy at Loyn. Verena called me yesterday. She tried to get you, but you were away and your answering machine wasn’t picking up. So she phoned me, and because I wanted to talk to you anyway, I told her I’d give you a call.”

Verena? How did her stepmother know?

“I don’t get it.”

“Verena’s a friend of Schulmann’s mother and she told Verena, and Verena thought it best for you to know before you went to work,” he explained.

Of course, Verena thinks I’m still working for Loyn.

“How did he die? What happened?”

“No idea. Looks like the official cause of death hasn’t been determined yet. But apparently he was found at home. You can call Verena later, but she’s at the clinic all day. Best try her tomorrow.”

Josefa felt as if the room was whirling around her. Markus’s voice was fading away.

“Hey, gotta go. Sorry I woke you up. We’ll talk later, OK?” And he promptly hung up.

Josefa fell back into bed, pulling the covers tightly around her. Schulmann. Dead.

Did the people at Loyn know already? Did Claire know? She was about to pick up the receiver, but something held her back. She didn’t relish the idea of telling Claire. Would she be relieved? Maybe even feel some schadenfreude? Or melancholy? Or mourning?

Despite the tragic occurrence, Josefa couldn’t quell her anger at him. The guy walks into Loyn, provokes her into leaving, and now he’s gone. It all needn’t have happened. What a laugh.

Josefa couldn’t even imagine going back to sleep at this point. Instead she pulled herself out of bed and wobbled toward the bathroom.
A bracing cup of tea would do me good
, she thought. Her ski gear was still scattered over a couple of chairs. She boiled some water and poured it over the dried peppermint leaves. She could hear voices out on the stairs.

An hour later she’d calmed down enough to think about one of her assignments for a client: a presentation with a buffet to follow. She went to the guest room she’d turned into an office, sat down at her desk, and stared at the screen.

“I would suggest that a brief outline of your company’s history be included with the invitations for the guests, along with some informative photographs…”