The Zurich Conspiracy

end of June, in spite of Josefa’s fears that the weather might not cooperate. But now she was pleased to see that the warm, early summer air that had descended over the Engadine had soaked up the last drops of moisture from the meadow. The sun’s fiery trail was only just disappearing behind the defiant chain of the Alps.
    This sponsored event had reached its climax an hour ago with the glamorous parade of horses, and now the VIPs were waiting in the tent for hors d’oeuvres, champagne and exclusive wines already flowing. The ladies were flashing quite a bit of bare skin, expensive jewelry, and perfect teeth. Josefa, in a lime-green outfit at the tent entrance, was inspecting the space inside. A name tag identified her as the “Manager Event Marketing.”
    Suddenly she had the feeling she was being watched. She turned around as inconspicuously as possible. A thickset, broad-shouldered man was standing about fifty feet away, smoking a cigar. Their eyes met. Josefa did a quick mental rundown of the guest list. Of course: Thüring, Beat Thüring, the once much-celebrated CEO of Swixan, before the company went broke and Thüring had a great fall—a well-cushioned one, as Josefa clearly remembered. Thüring had siphoned off lots of money—many, many millions, in fact—beforehand. She’d read it in the papers. This made him persona non grata in the Zurich economic establishment, at least for a while. Why Thüring was back on Loyn’s VIP list puzzled Josefa. But that was none of her business; as the organizer, she had no choice but to be friendly, cigar smoke and all.
    “You’ve already found your seat in the tent, am I right, Herr Thüring?” she asked helpfully.
    Beat Thüring moved his cigar away from her. There was something Mediterranean about him; he looked more like a bon vivant than a financial shark. Josefa could easily imagine how his charm had seduced all those people he later victimized.
    Thüring turned the corners of his mouth into an ironic smile.
    “Today I can enjoy all these beautiful things at the same time—the Engadine Alps, a good cigar, and a wonderful hostess.”
    “And a superb meal as well,” Josefa replied without batting an eyelash. “We want our guests to have fond memories of this day.”
    “I thought I’d stretch my legs a bit until the guests of honor get here.” He gave her a conspiratorial wink.
    Josefa never stopped smiling. She knew what she owed her company.
    “For me you are one of the guests of honor, Herr Thüring,” she replied, before making her escape from the smoky cigar.
    Thüring had found a sore spot.
    The table for the honored guests in the middle of the tent was not yet filled.
    Josefa scanned the room and spotted Claire Fendi, her assistant, giving final instructions to the restaurant manager. Josefa hurried over.
    “Where’s Joan Caroll? Where’s Bourdin and the rest of them?”
    Claire looked surprised.
    “Aren’t they here yet? They were just leaving the hotel twenty minutes ago. They should be here by now.”
    Bourdin was habitually late. Though he was the head of Loyn, he acted like an eccentric artist, a bohemian in the world of economics—an image he cultivated most effectively for the media. Other people were supposed to worry about the orderly course of events. Especially Josefa.
    What made her more nervous was the fact that Joan Caroll had not shown up yet, the star of Loyn’s VIP gala event. All the guests were dying to meet the woman who’d won the US Chess Championship as a sixteen-year-old girl wonder, who was a sensation as an international model, and who’d become a film actress (Josefa didn’t find her films particularly convincing, but she kept that to herself). Loyn had bought Joan Caroll for image purposes. She made a lot of money being photographed with Loyn’s luxury handbags and suitcases, and she took part in Loyn’s promotional events. Josefa thought it was a real coup for the eighty-five-year-old Swiss family business. And it was her job to get Joan Caroll from point A to point B on time. She got out her cell phone. Bourdin didn’t answer. She feared the worst.
    “Take over here,” she said to Claire. “I’m going to the hotel. Bourdin’s behaving like an idiot again.”
    Claire rolled her eyes. She knew what was up. The two women were so much in sync that words were often superfluous.
    “When should we start?” Claire asked.
    “In fifteen minutes. I should be back by then. If not, just start serving the