The Zurich Conspiracy

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.”
    “Oh, really?” the man said sarcastically. He took his cap off with his left hand and his sunglasses as well but kept his leather gloves on.
    Claire stared at him, mystified. She knew the man from somewhere—and yet she wasn’t sure. Was it him ? But that was impossible! No, it must be a delusion. A nightmare.
    The man gave her a vaguely smug smile. “Good camouflage, huh? The miracle of plastic surgery. Nobody recognized me in Düsseldorf.”
    His face was contorted in a sardonic grimace. “A little cocaine can’t wipe out a terrific plan like Westek’s and mine. I can pull strings behind the scenes too. Things actually turn out better if you’re out of sight, as you know well, my pretty one. Nobody knows who I am. It’s a more comfortable life anyway, living in secrecy. Am I right, Dorita?”
    Claire instinctively bit her lip. Her muscles were aching from the tension.
    But Westek’s treachery hurt her even more—another betrayal. And it pained her that she couldn’t kill him a second time. He’d handed over her pseudonym to him. Why had she used the same password for Schulmann and for Westek? Dorita. A serious blunder.
    The man on the sofa ran his leather fingers through his blonde hair. His hair used to be dark. He must have dyed it, Claire thought to herself. And his eyebrows too. His tinted contacts were a bright blue, a good disguise for anybody trying to hide his true eye color. His nose wasn’t as fleshy as before, and his teeth were white, straight—perfect. Only his shoulders were as broad as ever, his figure bullish, like in the pictures in the papers.
    Why hadn’t she recognized Beat Thüring’s voice right off? But she’d only had one long conversation with him, in St. Moritz, when she could hardly shake him off.