The Zurich Conspiracy

with the school psychologist or whoever. But in the end the little boy she called “Sali,” because that’s how he greeted everybody, brought her around. Those dark, wide-open eyes got to her, and she just couldn’t muster up the firmness of voice that his obstinate father would ultimately have understood to say that she would turn down his request to meet with his son’s teacher.
    “You obviously have the family’s trust,” Elif Yilmaz said. “That’s important, and it can help Sali.”
    Josefa was taken aback. “His name’s Sali? That’s his real name?”
    “Yes, Sali Emini.”
    The teacher stood up, took a stack of drawings out of a drawer, and picked one out.
    “This is one of his drawings.”
    In the upper corner were some hills, leaves whirled through the air, and bizarre tree trunks grew out of huge pots.
    “Nice autumn scene, isn’t it?”
    Something strange in her voice made Josefa take a second look. Suddenly she realized that the tree trunks were tank guns pointing to the sky. What she had thought were branches were actually lines depicting explosions. The leaves flying around were human body parts—hands and feet. And what she had assumed was a large chestnut on the ground, turned out to be a disembodied head.
    “Oh my God!” Josefa whispered.
    “God’s not in that picture, he’s on holiday somewhere,” Frau Yilmaz muttered. “But the school psychologist, she might be able to help. With some therapy. Since the boy can hardly speak German, maybe music or art therapy. But I need the parents’ permission.”
    “Have you spoken to them?”
    The teacher put the sketches away. She had a small tattoo on her finger that looked like an ornate ring. “His father refuses to talk to me because I’m Turkish. Maybe he had a fight with a Turk once, what do I know. Isn’t it crazy?” The young woman traced a finger along her perfectly plucked eyebrows. “People run away from war and take their conflicts with them, bring them here.”
    Josefa reflected for a minute or two. “What can I do?”
    “Fill out the form, tell the family it’s from the school doctor, and have his father sign it.”
    She didn’t wait for an answer but offered Josefa her hand with a friendly smile. “Great that you’re looking after this. These kids need all the help they can get. Sali’s a dear boy, you know, not as aggressive as many of the kids from Kosovo, but that’s what worries me. He doesn’t get his fear out.”
    As Josefa left the school building, the roar of the nearby highway was overwhelming. The air must be very dirty here, she thought. Summer smog. Josefa had only one day of vacation left and still didn’t know what to do about Schulmann.
    Some boys and girls were playing soccer in the schoolyard, and a man by the fence was watching them. He looked familiar. Passing him on her way to the car, she got a closer look. He was about forty and well dressed. When she looked again in the rearview mirror he’d disappeared. It struck her that she knew where she’d seen him before: he’d been standing at the corner of her apartment building when she’d driven out of the back courtyard earlier that afternoon.

Josefa almost survived her first week back at work unscathed. Werner Schulmann had been in New York all week on business, not due back until today. Arriving at work on Friday morning she found Claire mysteriously absent and a note on her desk: Henry Salzinger in fatal accident. Please send condolences to family and delete deceased from guest list.
    Salzinger. She looked him up in her database: “Henry Salzinger, Caligula Investments.” What a curious moniker , Josefa mused. Caligula was one of the cruelest of the Roman emperors, and he finally succumbed to insanity. At least that was all she could remember from the play she’d seen at the Schauspielhaus. Suddenly the phone rang, interrupting her train of thought.
    “A gentleman by the name of Paul Klingler,” Bianca announced. “Do you wish to speak to him?”
    “Put him through.”
    “Did you hear about Salzinger?” Paul asked, getting straight to the point.
    “Yes, but only two minutes ago,” she replied. How did he find these things out so fast!
    “Things are getting pretty suspicious, don’t you think?”
    “What’s so suspicious do you mean?”
    “Josefa!” Paul cried, hardly able to conceal his impatience. “Three people who had something—what am I saying— a lot to do with Swixan going broke are now dead. Three dead