The Zurich Conspiracy

probably a fashion show. Niki de Saint Phalle’s huge, colorful sculpture, Guardian Angel , seemed to look down with disapproval on the turmoil below. The magnificent, broad hall was so often brimming with market stands, rows of benches, and party tents.
    Josefa knocked on the Internet café window, though a “Closed” sign was hanging there. Peering in she spotted a young man cleaning the bar with a rag who motioned for her to go away.
    “I want to see Joe,” she shouted, pointing to the man standing at a computer inside. The bartender said something to Joe, who turned toward her. He took his time coming to the door—she’d never seen him in a hurry—and pulled a lever.
    “You look in real good shape,” he said by way of a welcome.
    “Don’t make fun of me; I’ve only had four hours of sleep,” she retorted.
    “Yeah, that wild Zurich will do it to you,” Joe purred. “You’re not trying to tell me that those e-mails have kept you awake all night?”
    “No, it was a man,” she said, smiling.
    Joe whistled through his teeth. Josefa had first met her male namesake years ago when he was a nurse, Josef Müller, who was working with blood donors. She’d kept this bit of information from Pius; she didn’t want him visualizing her on a gurney. Back then she’d jokingly called Joe her “medical brother,” whereupon he exalted her as his “sister in spirit.” He had introduced her to the Internet when it was still a foreign word in most offices. In the meantime he’d quit his hospital work for a part-time job in the Internet café and dyed the tips of his short hair white.
    Josefa turned on her laptop and showed Joe the anonymous e-mails. He shook his head in chagrin when he saw the sender’s address.
    “There’s really not much you can do about Hotmail. From our angle it’s an anonymous re-mailer, so that doesn’t give me much to go on. If it were a very specific provider, one based in Zurich, or if it was sent from a company or an Internet café, then it might be traceable. Sorry, but I can’t help you.”
    “Too bad,” Josefa said, wondering what a re-mailer was anyway. “But I wanted to try at least.”
    Joe shrugged an apology. “If this were a police investigation, then service providers like Hotmail would probably have to open their IP log files because it would be a criminal investigation. Log files record all visitors to a website by their IP address, and that’s how you can get the senders.”
    “Aha,” Josefa mumbled. She certainly didn’t want to start a criminal investigation on account of a few e-mails.
    Joe seemed to be reading her thoughts. “These aren’t murder threats,” he said soothingly.
    Josefa nodded. “I don’t even know if the guy’s—or the chick’s—native language is British or American English.”
    Joe reflected for a moment. “If you don’t mind, I’ll shoot these e-mails to my friend Jack to read, he’s an English colleague of mine. Maybe he’ll come up with something.”
    “OK, but he has to be discreet about it.”
    “Not to worry. I’ll filter out your address.”
    She pressed a leather armband with metal inserts into Joe’s hand, something she’d promised him earlier. It was one of Loyn’s gifts for customers, a limited edition.
    “Cool,” he said with a grin. “I used to work with these gadgets in my phlebotomist days with blood donors.”
    Josefa gave him a playful shove for an answer. She could take liberties like that with him.
    Josefa realized she’d have to be more circumspect with Paul Klingler than she’d been with Joe. She was already running twenty minutes late when she got off at the Rennweg stop. She walked up the street past the elegant shops with her heavy laptop case slung over her shoulder. The weather was sultry, and she felt the heat in spite of her summer dress. The sign in the Hotel Widder lobby indicated that the library was downstairs.
    Paul was waiting in a leather armchair in front of the empty fireplace. When he caught sight of her, he stood up, greeting her with outstretched arms. His suit was high quality and made-to-measure—it had to be, given that he was six-foot-six.
    “Welcome to the club,” he said ceremoniously.
    “Stop, stop,” Josefa parried. “Not so fast. Why this place? Why all the secrecy?”
    “I’d call it ‘discretion,’ the heart and soul of our business.”
    Josefa noticed that Paul had a different hairstyle, and little blonde strands sparkled prominently in his