The Zurich Conspiracy

What we know from the woman who rescued you, Valérie Mabillard—a researcher on caves—was that he left you in the safest place in the cave, an area that’s never flooded. Maybe he got lost and a surge of water caught him unawares so that he couldn’t turn back. Until we find him, dead or alive, we won’t know for sure. But one way or the other he put your life in peril.”
    There was no way that Josefa wanted to hear that Pius did not plan to kill her or that he—or his dead body—was trapped somewhere in the icy water of the cave. “And Westek? Did Pius kill Westek too?” She was persistent although shivering. She wanted an explanation. She needed to hear something that would make sense of the fear she’d felt down there.
    “No, as far as we know he had nothing to do with it.” Kündig cleared his throat. “We hope to make an arrest in the Westek case soon. Maybe you can help us there, Frau Rehmer.”

She felt all along the cool metal, caressing its curves and edges. Her hands were on the small side, fingers slender, elegant, nails polished in a pale pink. They were hands that disclosed nothing— that she knew.
    Before returning to her workplace she’d get a manicure at the friendly Vietnamese lady’s around the corner who never asked tedious questions.
    She huddled in front of the stove and put on more wood. The fir branches outside were bending low, heavy with snow, and gentle flakes danced before the windows. She made coffee in an old-fashioned metal pot and sat down on an old sofa covered in a colorful patchwork quilt. She tucked her legs under and began to unwind.
    At last she had time to dwell on her thoughts. Sweet thoughts of revenge.
    Nobody would make the mistake of underestimating her and not be punished. Not even a man like Werner Schulmann. How could all the tearful scenes she made have sucked him in so? He thought she was a helpless, passive, silly creature. How dumb was that?
    Schulmann was a brilliant hacker. Had been.
    And she was a brilliant parasite. She’d made use of him for her own ambitious plans. He wanted to make a play for Loyn. But she wanted to be Loyn’s figurehead.
    A woman who makes it to the top. Who shows them all up.
    Werner used her apartment computer so that nobody could find any trace of his secret shenanigans. And he unwittingly presented her with the very trail she needed. What that data pirate raided from the company’s network—that was what she was after too. He compiled files with documents he’d stolen from Loyn’s secret electronic databases. And she…she had surreptitiously fastened a little mirror over the desk. ( Women are known for putting mirrors everywhere, aren’t they, Werner? ) She cracked his password in a few days; after that it was child’s play.
    She got up to pour herself another cup of coffee. Then she went to the window and looked at the drifting snow.
    Schulmann. She never was afraid of him. She knew him, all right; he was just like her—unscrupulous. But he wasn’t good enough. He didn’t have the right stuff to reach the top rungs on the ladder. Made too many enemies. She despised him with every bone in her slender body.
    How good it was that she’d put her money on another guy in the nick of time. Karl Westek. He had his own schemes. And Westek was once a powerful man in a huge corporation. She courted Westek. He needed her.
    Then Schulmann was murdered, and that confused her. No, not confused—bewildered was more like it. Pleasantly bewildered. She’d never have believed Francis Bourdin, that slob, could carry out a murder so carefully. And Bourdin had to be the murderer, no question. But then he got scared. Wasn’t up to it. Though the cops couldn’t pin anything on him. Can’t even today.
    In spite of the bugs. Schulmann used them to blackmail Bourdin for sure. Werner would never have dreamed Bourdin could pull off a thing like that without telling him. Probably hadn’t been paying enough attention. Must have rankled a hell of a lot. One hell of a lot. And Bourdin—you’ve got to hand it to the guy—simply put Schulmann away.

“Josefa?”
    “Sebastian!”
    “Am I interrupting you—bothering you?” he said, switching to the more intimate form of address.
    “Sebastian, I’m so happy to hear your voice. I thought maybe…maybe we’d never ever—”
    “Josefa, everything’s OK now; it’s all over. You’re safe, do you hear? That will never happen again. Never.”
    “It was terrible down there. So