The Zurich Conspiracy

obviously taking a deep breath—somebody had taken Herr Blabbermouth by the arm and was angling him away. Claire’s rescuer appeared to be none other than Karl Westek, the former CFO of the ill-fated Swixan Corporation.
    The thin, wiry Westek was not much taller than dainty Claire and had a jaw cocked like a rifle bolt. Did Westek give two hoots about what might have happened to Beat Thüring, who was still missing? Or to Henry Salzinger, the “independent” auditor who went over Swixan’s books every year, signing off and certifying to the bitter end that everything was in order—really, really in order—at the moribund company? Josefa couldn’t help but wonder . Salzinger—dead, just like Feller-Stähli, the lawyer.
    But Josefa couldn’t be bothered with these questions just now.
    “Fire away, boys,” she shouted to the photographers, realizing her sexist faux pas. After all there were some female photographers in the group. But before she could rectify her lapse, an utterly unforeseen event occurred.
    Colin Hartwell was just taking his backswing when Josefa noticed something out of the corner of her eye: a shadow hurtling right at Hartwell. There was a scream from the crowd, and the next thing she saw was blood spattered on the Australian’s white polo shirt. He was staring at the ground, aghast, holding his club in both hands.
    Francis Bourdin was lying on the ground, twisted, groaning softly, and bleeding from his head. For a few seconds everyone was silent. Then Josefa heard the rattle of shutter releases and knew what she had to do.
    “Call an ambulance!” she shouted at the security guard standing immobilized next to her. Her eyes hunted around for Marlene Dombrinski, one of her project managers, who was standing a few yards away, petrified. “Marlene, get Colin away from here,” she commanded. “And you go with them,” she called to two security people.
    The photographers and cameramen were having a field day. Where the hell were the others? Josefa thought, frantically looking all around her. Fortunately the paramedics arrived almost immediately. She always made sure they were nearby at these events. A doctor was attending to Bourdin.
    Hans-Rudolf Walther suddenly appeared in front of her, his face red with rage, clad in a business suit and tie despite the hot sun.
    “Why are these photographers still here?” he shouted at her. “Tell them to go away! Get them out of here!” His voice grew louder. “Do something! Don’t just stand there!”
    Josefa stared at him, momentarily dumbfounded. Then she spun around without a word and looked for the yellow jackets of the security personnel. Soon—she fervently hoped—this nightmare would come to an end.
    At three in the morning Josefa found herself in a Mercedes limousine speeding through the darkness. It was a car she’d driven frequently, since part of her job was to take special company guests to the airport. Carl Van Duisen was in the car with her, probably because he was an old friend of Walther’s. The events of the day were looping endlessly through Josefa’s mind.
    Her ears still rang with Richard Auer’s verbal assault on her in the hotel corridor earlier that night.
    “You know, Frau Rehmer, I don’t think it’s…er…dignified to stir up sentiment against Schulmann. The corporation is more important than personal animosities. He did superbly well today after this…unfortunate incident.”
    She was speechless.
    “Perhaps you’ve let yourself be influenced too much by Paul Klingler,” Auer continued.
    “That’s going too far, Herr Auer. Paul Klingler has nothing to do with it.”
    “Depends on how you look at it, Frau Rehmer. It’s a known fact that Klingler’s been Schulmann’s enemy ever since he got him kicked out of Harckmüller, Sinclair and Partners.”
    “What?” Josefa couldn’t believe her ears.
    “Klingler’s a poor loser, Frau Rehmer. You shouldn’t take him as a role model.”
    Josefa gave Auer a stony glare and turned on her heel. Keep calm. Calm and controlled .
    She’d love to have relayed all this to Van Duisen, who seemed half as tired as she was in spite of the late hour. No wonder: He’d been pumped up by chatting with other guests during the champagne and caviar canapés. But she’d had to pass an acid test.
    As it turned out, Hartwell’s swing had broken Bourdin’s nose and given him head lacerations. But the golf champ insisted on continuing to play with the important invitees, so