The Zurich Conspiracy

and the splattering of the rain on the windowpanes were audible. She wasn’t afraid. The woods were her protection, her den of thieves. Nobody knew she was here.
    Nobody knew who she really was.
    How easily she could fool other people. Man or woman, didn’t matter, everybody saw in her what they wanted to see. And that was what she presented to them—a masquerade, a deliberate confusion, an illusion born of calculation.
    Nobody knew why she came here or what she did.
    Tomorrow, as soon as enough light came through the windows, she would set to work. She would line up all the pieces in a row, connect them, push them together, bind them into a large, mighty whole. Everything would go according to plan. Because she would not let anything stand in her way. She would make use of her enemies. Nobody should even try to deprive her of what she deserved.



Little white clouds were sailing like dabs of whipped cream in the deep blue sky over Lake Geneva, the Alps forming a dramatic backdrop. The sun seemed too warm for this time of year—the beginning of September—and Josefa yearned to cast aside her dove-blue linen suit, but that would have violated the company dress code.
    The two hundred and fifty guests at the golf tournament were in high spirits. The weather was perfect, and everyone was looking forward to the concert that evening. Loyn had imported a world-famous German violinist and a star conductor from the US for the festivities.
    The event was turning out to be another triumph for Josefa. Her good connections—aided and abetted by Walther’s financial clout—were the reason this much sought-after pair of artists had agreed to perform. Her coup helped foil Schulmann’s plans to revamp the program as well—that and the fact that the company’s patron did not brook last-minute changes. Walther’s personal intervention had stopped Schulmann when he was still in the starting blocks; when all was said and done, it was his money on the line, after all.
    That Schulmann had no choice but to accept defeat was balm on Josefa’s wounds. Still she was anxious about future confrontations with Schulmann. How long would she be able to control herself?
    She had other more pressing matters on her mind now, though: The media circus that had descended on this beatific lake being one of them. Almost a hundred and twenty people from the press had come to the tournament. They weren’t just after a story on Colin Hartwell and his impressive exploits on the links. They were also interested in Hartwell’s wife, Pamela, a young starlet hailed as the new Sharon Stone.
    Josefa didn’t find Hartwell all that exciting herself, but then again, she didn’t play golf. To her, he was just another multimillionaire with a trophy wife by his side. Josefa found his endless chatter tiresome ( Aren’t golfers supposed be tight-lipped? she asked herself), and his heavy Australian accent nearly impenetrable. It was a mystery to her why a man of such wealth and success had agreed to be an advertising tool for suitcases and handbags. Helene was the only one she dared admit this to, of course, but her friend saw nothing puzzling about it. “You can never make too much money,” was her terse response.
    Josefa watched as the security people checked in the photographers and TV cameramen who then quickly made their way out to the green. The VIPs had left their tables in the tent as well to watch Hartwell’s super swing, take part in the golf tournament afterward, or just tag along as spectators. Claire was in charge of those guests, and Josefa was confident that it would all go smoothly. Josefa could tell that her assistant was as stressed as she was. Claire had her lips pressed together, giving her pretty mouth a hard edge. Every now and then Claire’s impatience would show—something that had never happened before.
    But how about now? Josefa watched as Claire, wearily nodding, tried to shake off a man who was going on and on, relentlessly, while gesticulating vigorously. Josefa could not make out the identity of this importuning guest, his tall, slightly bent back was turned to her.
    Adjusting Hartwell’s blue golf cap with the strategically placed Loyn logo on it, Josefa looked around for the event’s unexpected media sensation. But Pamela Hartwell was surprisingly nowhere to be seen. Normally, if there were cameras on the scene, Pamela was right there. Geneva’s high-end boutiques had probably lured her away.
    Josefa noticed Claire