The Zurich Conspiracy

She couldn’t think straight. She needed a new strategy; she had to play for time. For space.
    She had to play to win.
    “Dorita?” she heard herself say in a soft voice. “A pretty name, isn’t it? Westek didn’t tell me the big secret until Düsseldorf—that you didn’t drown at all. Just disappeared from view. And that you were rather dependent on Westek’s good graces. Poor Beat . That’s what he called you. Sure he confided in me, everything. He was proud of me. It made him proud to have a mole at Loyn. Dorita. I gave Westek all the key information. Well, he suddenly decided it would work better without you, Herr Thüring. Westek didn’t want to split anything with you; you were just a nuisance to him.”
    The man opened the top of his ski suit and peeled his sleeves off. The pistol lay beside him on the sofa.
    “Westek should have rubbed you out right away, you piece of shit,” he said. “But he was too cautious; he always wanted to make absolutely precise plans so he would be safe and above suspicion. Well, I don’t bother with those things.” He stood up and slipped off his boots, not letting Claire out of his sight. “But first let’s have a little fun.” His smile was unambiguously lewd. “Westek said at least Dorita’s useful in bed.”
    “Westek faked you out beautifully on that one,” Claire said with feigned ease. “He wanted to move ahead with the Walther business. He wanted to buy the company from him for a pile of cash. And throw you to the wolves.”
    Thüring’s laugh was rough and dry. He opened his zipper down to his belt, snaked out of his overalls, and stood in front of her in his long underwear.
    Claire kept on talking—talking to save her life. “I knew all about the locker in Düsseldorf. Karl told me everything: that you’d leave him a lot of money in a locker. And you’d leave the key at stand 412 at the convention, hiding it behind the coffee machine. He didn’t want to meet you face to face. That might’ve been too dangerous.” She took a deep breath. “He also gave me the combination for the lock on the briefcase with the money. He wrote it down for me, just in case. Everything he told you on the phone was a decoy. He wanted to con you, Thüring. That’s why you killed him, right?”
    “Aren’t you laying it on a bit thick, you lousy little bitch? Why should he pick you of all people to tell all of this?” Thüring was still standing in front of the sofa and looking down at her. It was clear that he didn’t believe her. Or not completely. But at least she’d unsettled him a little—and got him distracted. He had to wonder how she knew about the locker. How she knew the number of the stand. And maybe the combination too. His face was twitching a bit. She could read his uncertainty: Maybe she’d seen compromising bank documents at Westek’s? The secret accounts for illegal transactions? He had to find out how much she actually knew. She and any potential accomplices.
    “I’ve got proof right here, in this chalet,” Claire said.
    Thüring’s eyes narrowed into slits. “You’re lying, you dirty rotten whore.”
    “Westek gave me the number. The paper with the combination on it is in the bag under the sofa.”
    “You sneaky little slut. You think I’m going to fall for that?”
    “Just stick your hand under there. You’ll see I’m telling the truth.”
    He hesitated a moment. Then reached under the sofa without taking his eyes off her and pulled out a green leather handbag.
    “The note’s in the little side pocket.”
    He sat down on the sofa and rummaged around in the bag. A white piece of paper surfaced in his hand, folded over several times.
    Claire’s muscles tensed. This was her one chance. Thüring would need both hands to unfold the paper. The gun was lying on his thigh.
    Claire bounded over to the stove, grabbed the hot, half-full coffee pot, and threw it in Thüring’s direction. She heard him scream. She ducked down, grabbed her jacket, pulled out the pistol, and took aim. Her burned fingers brought tears to her eyes.
    She saw Thüring’s face as if through a veil; it was stained with the brown liquid. Her opponent stood up and waved his arms. Claire fired.
    His large body sagged and hit the floor. Claire prepared to shoot again. Thüring lay before her with his legs twisted. She came a little closer. He was holding his stomach; blood was gushing out. She couldn’t see his gun.
    “Don’t shoot,” he pleaded. “Don’t