The Zurich Conspiracy

the tournament was only delayed by an hour. The show must go on .
    Werner Schulmann spoke to the press, of course, draping himself in the mantle of a veteran crisis manager and scoring points with the VIPs. His shining hour. But it was Josefa who was responsible for overseeing the whole evening program—cocktail reception, concert, gala dinner, evening entertainment—so she smiled, she performed, she put on a good face.
    Claire never strayed from her side, and Josefa was touched by her assistant’s loyalty. Later that night, though, as Josefa hurried to the “office”—a hotel room that had been transformed at short notice into Loyn’s staff headquarters—she heard a high, muffled voice coming from inside the hotel room. The door was ajar so she opted to listen for a moment from the corridor.
    “You traitor. Your place is on our team, and you just went over to the other side. You’re a dirty rotten turncoat.” It was Claire.
    “But Schulmann gave me instructions to take charge of the presents for the guests. How was I to know it was Bourdin of all people…” Josefa recognized the voice of Albert Tenning, the youngest member of their team.
    “Am I hearing right? Did you say Schulmann? Your place is with Josefa ! How could you stab her in the back, you loser!” Claire scolded.
    “But nobody knows exactly who’s in charge anymore of—” Albert sounded flustered and anxious.
    Claire interrupted him sharply. “You’re a slimy toad, and I feel like crushing you under my heel until your guts spill out.”
    Josefa hesitated. Did she hear right? Time to intervene before the situation escalated out of control. They were all exhausted, and the continual stress was taking its toll. That damn Schulmann had managed to pit members of her team against one another.
    She cleared her throat and entered the room. The first thing she saw was Claire’s face, frozen into a mask, her mouth a little pinched, hands on hips. Albert was sitting in front of her, hanging his head and squirming in his chair like a punished schoolboy. Josefa felt sorry for him, but she couldn’t protect him with Claire around.
    “Claire? Albert? You’re still up? It’s half past two and really time for you to catch some sleep. Grab a couple of hours. You’ve done a terrific job and you’ve earned a little peace and quiet,” Josefa suggested in her calmest voice.
    Albert quickly took her up on it. Exiting the room with a curt “Good night,” as Claire butted her cigarette in the ashtray.
    “The last one for today,” she said in her normal, chirpy voice. She gave Josefa a sympathetic look. “Who’s the lucky one this time?”
    “Van Duisen.” Josefa sighed.
    “Wangle at least a few million out of him,” she remarked sarcastically.
    “Has he got more than one?”
    “You can bet the store on it,” her assistant replied, forcing a weary smile.
    “Maybe that’s why Walther made it his business to take him in tow. I’d rather leave him to you, Claire. You’ve more luck with men than I do. They’re docile as lambs in your hands.”
    “Stupid as sheep, you mean?”
    “I noticed how Karl Westek saved you from that blabbermouth today. Maybe he wanted to make an impression on you.”
    “Eeeeeuuw!” Claire squealed, shutting her eyes.
    Josefa spread her fingers to block a nervous tremor. “I can’t fathom why Walther invites those guys from Swixan. That’s not good for business.”
    Claire laughed dryly. “They’re conversation pieces, Josefa. They give everybody so much to talk about. Every gathering needs a black sheep—that’s good for social hygiene.”
    “God knows people can’t complain that there was nothing to talk about today.”
    “Oh well, things can only get better. That’s something.” Claire handed her a nice paper bag lying on the table. “For your trip,” she said. Butter croissants, fresh from the oven.
    And now here she was at three in the morning, ferrying a man to the Geneva airport who could well afford a private jet. At least Van Duisen was empathetic—or, at the very least, polite.
    “You shouldn’t have to drive me after such a hectic day,” he said apologetically.
    Josefa was too worn out to make the usual small talk. “Yes, it was a really awful day, and I don’t know what will come of it.”
    “This might be small comfort, but occasions like these are soon forgotten.”
    Josefa was about to say something in reply when it dawned on her that Van Duisen had lost his thirty-year-old