The Zurich Conspiracy

The streetcar stops so abruptly that it knocks Josefa Rehmer against the bar on the seat in front of her and then sideways, her briefcase dropping to the floor. The rapid-fire ringing of the streetcar’s shrill bell sounds in her ears as she tries to grab something to hold on to. Her left temple hits a hard object covered in rough cloth. Leaning against the person next to her, who is hanging on to the straps and swinging back and forth like a gymnast on rings, she feels a piercing pain in her temple. The gymnast pulls himself up to his full height and smoothes out his black suit under his unbuttoned sheepskin coat. Josefa senses his eyes on her. But when she smiles an apology at him, he quickly looks away. The young man is apparently as embarrassed by their unintentional body contact as she is.
    The streetcar had been gaining speed after leaving its last stop when something on the tracks forced it to brake sharply. The lead car is now stopped on Zurich’s tony Bahnhofstrasse, having sustained some sort of damage. The automatic doors open and dazed passengers push their way out. Josefa grabs the briefcase she’s dropped and steps onto the sidewalk. The icy January air stings her face.
    A group of curious spectators on the other side of the street is surrounding a Mercedes coupe, its fender crushed like an Easter egg. A stylishly dressed man, hands on hips, stands helplessly beside it.
    But Josefa doesn’t have a moment to spare. She rushes ahead, impatiently forcing her way through the crowd, her breastbone suddenly throbbing. It must have hit the bar harder than she thought. She quickly touches her forehead, which feels wet, and notices a red stain on her fingers. Still on the run, she takes a little mirror out of her purse, flips it open, and stops for a second to hold it up at an angle. Nothing. She must have dabbed the blood off with her finger. But she can see something behind her. The man in the sheepskin coat is standing before a shop window, only a few steps away. Once again she feels that throbbing pain in her head. That guy must have had something damn hard in his pocket, she thinks to herself. Josefa stuffs the mirror away and hurries on. Time’s running out. Even before the collision, the streetcar was late, abnormal in a city legendary for its punctuality. If Josefa’s fast enough, she can still make it to Paradeplatz in time. But after this unpleasant incident she’ll get there distraught and sweaty in spite of the cold.
    Bahnhofstrasse suddenly seems to go on forever, with far too many people in front of the palatial banks and upscale stores. An alpenhorn blower has set himself up on Paradeplatz, an earthy character with a full beard and an Edelweiss wreath on his green felt hat. Rushing past, she can decipher just two words painted on his cardboard sign: “Silence” and “Reflect.” The alpenhorn drowns out the squeals of the streetcars and other traffic noise from nearby streets. A cyclist attempts to cross the tracks, skids, and falls. What a crazy day! Josefa thinks, glancing back to see if he’s hurt, before catching a glimpse of the man in the sheepskin coat disappearing behind a pillar in the doorway to a private bank.
    Josefa finally spots the hotel but before entering takes the precaution of wiping her temple with a tissue; it’s streaked pink. Just across the street she notices a poster on a department store wall summoning all Swiss soldiers to the annual obligatory weapons drill.
    Josefa pushes through the revolving door to the elegant hotel lobby with its blue-and-gold carpet. The concierge gives her a casual once-over before turning his attention back to his phone call. Josefa glances quickly at her watch: already five minutes late. Never good for a first meeting . A young woman finally appears behind the counter and turns toward her with the tight-assed charm of a German newscaster.
    “The Dessag Corporation must have left a message for me,” Josefa says. The receptionist raises a quizzical eyebrow.
    “What company, please?”
    “Dessag. D-E-S-S-A-G,” Josefa repeats. This will be the first meeting in this hotel as the Hotel Baur au Lac is closed for renovations.
    “Dessag? And a message for whom, please?”
    Josefa’s getting edgy. Hasn’t the staff been informed? Or maybe the people I’m supposed to meet are at the wrong hotel?
    “Dessag,” repeats the concierge who has hung up the phone. “Yes, we do indeed have a message from them. You are requested to go to