The Zurich Conspiracy (41 page)

Happy to be sprung from his uncomfortable white prison, he took the elevator to the cafeteria.

He was knocking back his third espresso when his cell phone rang.

“I’ve got to find the note first,” he said, thumbing through his notebook. “Shoot. What? Spell that, please.” Kündig wrote down three names and put a slash after the first before adding one more word.

She looked out the window. Blue-gray snow clouds covered the sky. She lit a second oil lamp. She’d finally have time to read the newspapers she’d brought along, including the
Wall Street Journal
and
Financial Times
—she knew what she had to do for Walther in her new position. Josefa would be amazed at how far busy little Claire had gone. And would still go.

There was a time when she looked up to Josefa, admired her, would have done anything for her. But she was wrong about Josefa—how quickly an idol can fall from its pedestal! Josefa gave up without a struggle, simply pitched everything overboard that the two women had built up over four years. She betrayed her team, hung her assistant out to dry. What a pathetic defeat!

How spineless women are! Women like Josefa. Women like her mother, who would always lay down her arms in front of her husband. Who would never give it right back to him. Who would never defend her daughter, never offer to protect her. A mother who betrayed her daughter. But you don’t know me, my dear sweet mother. Your daughter has learned to take what’s rightfully hers. By hook or by crook, at any cost, because you don’t get anything without paying a price. That’s exactly what Josefa had never realized.

Claire angrily wiped some crumbs from the anise-seed stick off the table. She had gotten it so wrong.

They both were obsessed and angry and plotted revenge. But only she had enough determination. The little assistant.

Josefa had let herself be pushed out so easily. She wasn’t made for a no-holds-barred fight. She wasn’t the right caliber for the climb to the top. No elbows and skin that was far too thin. And she couldn’t use men for her own purposes, didn’t know how a woman could deploy the art of seduction properly, could bring sex into play. Josefa had nothing to fight Schulmann with. Simply hoisted the white flag. She was too naïve and far too easily intimidated. They both had a spiteful Fury hidden within, but Josefa just turned into a sensitive plant. And so her little assistant had to implement what the boss couldn’t achieve.

I know how to use my enemies
. The thought filled Claire with great satisfaction. She put the papers on the plain wooden table and pulled up a chair. Then she thought she heard something. An odd sound. She listened intently. Nothing, only the crackling of the fire.

She sat down and opened up the first paper. One day her name would be in these pages. Her picture. The woman who made it. Who didn’t let herself get pushed around. Who couldn’t be shoved into a corner like some old umbrella. Who was craftier than all the rest, stronger, tougher. A warm, intoxicating feeling filled her. But before she could read the first paragraph, she heard it again. That noise. Only closer this time. Menacingly close.

When Kündig came back to the ward, Josefa greeted him with a worried look. Her face was abnormally flushed. “Have you found her yet?” she asked.

Kündig shook his head and pulled out a piece of paper. “But we’re moving ahead.”

“Is she in danger? What could happen to her?”

Kündig shuffled his feet, embarrassed. He hadn’t told the patient the whole truth. She’d been led to believe that the police were looking for Claire Fendi as an important witness. Apparently that meant to Josefa that her former assistant could be a threat to somebody and for that reason could be in danger herself.

“There’s no reason to worry,” Kündig assured her. “We’re doing all we can. As far as that valley is concerned, I have here three names, and maybe you can recall something about them.” He read the names: Mattental, Glaubiger Berg, Velten-Höhe.

Josefa shrugged. “This will be disappointing for you. Claire never told me the name, and I never asked what it was, as incredible as it may sound.”

Kündig stuck with it. “The locals also call the Mattental ‘Güldeli.’”

“Güldeni? No, doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Güldeli, not Güldeni.”

Josefa sank back into the pillows in despair. She’d been rescued by courageous people, but there was nothing she could do to help find Claire. “Güldeli for
gülden
or golden,” she murmured, exhausted.

Kündig scowled. “I’ll phone my colleagues again; maybe they’ve dug up some more information in the meantime.” He went to the door.

“Dorita!”

“Beg your pardon?” Kündig turned on his heel.

“Dorita. Don’t you remember? You asked me at the police station if I knew who Dorita was. Translate ‘Dorita’ into German and it comes out ‘the little golden one.’ Or ‘Güldeli’ in the dialect. Maybe it’s not coincidental.” Josefa’s cheeks glowed.

Kündig was puzzled. He looked at her without saying a word, then asked, “In what language?”

“What did you say?”

“What language is ‘Dorita’ in?”

“I don’t know. Maybe Spanish. But I’m not sure.”

“Spanish.” Kündig frowned. “Spanish,” he repeated slowly. “Yes, that makes sense. That makes sense.”

“Who is Dorita?” Josefa asked.

But Kündig was already out the door.

That sound again—a crunching, like footsteps in the snow. She peeked out the window but could only make out the shadowy silhouettes of fir trees. Maybe it was an animal; she’d seen deer around the chalet.

She put on her down jacket and slipped on her trekking boots. Then she grabbed the key, clutching it like a talisman. She climbed carefully up onto the table and opened the little window at the rear of the chalet. She slid over the sill and glided down into the soft snow, then closed the shutters, leaving a small crack. Now she listened. There was a faraway buzzing noise like the sound of a helicopter. She quickly ran behind the nearest fir. She circled the chalet under cover of the trees. The snow was trampled down right beside the walls all around the building. Were those her tracks? She had to make sure. Her hand felt for the reassuring cold metal in her pocket. She couldn’t hear anything suspicious. Trudging ahead as quietly as possible, she checked the tracks in the snow by the dimming light. No doubt about it, they were hers. Relieved, she stood up straight and stalked toward the door. She pulled out the key—and stopped short. Her eyes fell on something that made her blood run cold. A large, unfamiliar footprint.

The window
. Opening the door would take too long. She ran around the corner, pushed the window open, and pulled herself up on the sill, holding the key in her teeth. She pulled one leg up after her but couldn’t get any purchase on the sill.

She tried it again.

“May I help you?” A loud, mocking voice. A man’s voice. Claire’s knee was stuck between her arm and the sill, so she couldn’t turn her head to see him. Now she heard him coming closer. She figured out at once from which direction: from the shadows behind the fir tree where she’d hidden.

Her arms slackened, and she let herself drop. The key plopped into the snow. The man was already right behind her.

“Criminal Investigation. Do exactly what I tell you,” he commanded. “Pick up the key.”

She bent down, turning slightly, and when she straightened up, she was staring down a gun barrel. The man had a dark ski suit on, a hood that revealed just a bit of his face, and opaque sunglasses.

“Now go to the door.”

Cops out of uniform. How did they find her? Or were they not looking for
her
at all?

Maybe it was all a mix-up. Best to play the innocent.

“Please put that gun away, it scares me,” she requested in a soft voice.

“Just a precautionary measure,” the man said. His voice was calm, superior. “Unlock it.”

How did he know the door was locked? How long had she been watched?

She turned the key, and the lock stuck, as always. She turned around. “Could you push the door open, it’s so heavy.”

Maybe he’d fall for it.

“You can easily do it yourself,” the man replied. “And don’t try to make a run for it; our men have the place covered.”

She pushed the door open with great effort. She’d found her role, the helpless victim.

“Shut the window,” the man said as he sat down on the sofa. She saw he was wearing thin leather gloves. When she got to the window, he changed his mind.

“No, leave it open.”

She turned around and faced him. He was still pointing the gun at her.

“Take your jacket off.”

She did what he asked and laid the jacket gently on the floor.

“Sit over there.” He pointed to the corner near the stove and looked around. “You have a nice little workshop here,” he said. “A workshop for bomb-throwers or what?”

If only he’d take his hood off, he must be sweating in that outfit.

“And now tell me how you killed Westek.”

His sunglasses reflected the fire in the stove. She couldn’t see his eyes.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Claire had quickly realized there was something fundamentally wrong. But she instinctively felt it was smarter not to let on about anything.

“Don’t play dumb, that won’t help.” The man’s voice was razor sharp.

She tried offense as the best defense. “Can I see your police ID?”

“How did you kill Westek?” the man repeated. One hand held the gun in his lap, the other lay carelessly on the back of the sofa.

He didn’t frisk me
, Claire thought.
Maybe he’s not a cop after all
, a thought that invigorated and terrified her at the same time. Her jacket was too far away. A cold draft was coming from the window. She tried soft-soaping him once again. “I’d very much like to help you, but you must appreciate that first I’d like to know who I’m dealing with.”

“How did you kill Westek?”

“I’d like to talk to my lawyer,” Claire said, shifting around in her chair.

“Stay where you are!” the man barked. Now Claire was certain that she was in real danger—and not from the police.

“How did you kill Westek?”

Claire said nothing.

The man leaned forward. “Then
I’ll
tell you how you murdered Westek. You went to Düsseldorf with him. You went to the Investors Convention with him, and he gave you his car for the rest of the day. That’s what he told me on the phone. Just in passing; he didn’t know how important that was.”

Claire winced inwardly. What else did Westek blab to this man?

“You jiggered the brakes into a death trap, madam. A trap that would snap shut at high speed on the autobahn. That’s how it was, right?”

His tone grew scarier and scarier. Claire listened with bated breath.

“You planned everything down to the last detail. Here, in this chalet, right? Here, in this neat little workshop in the mountains where nobody ever comes. You had a fight with Westek, and then he threw you out the door—he told me that too. Then you disappeared and let him drive to his death. Was that not so, madam?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Claire said, as composed as possible. “You must be confusing me with somebody else. I barely knew Herr Westek. I’ve nothing to do with his tragic death.”