The Zurich Conspiracy

all.”
    “Who’s ultimately responsible for seeing that everything’s in order? Who’s in charge?”
    “Me. At least that’s how it was before Werner Schulmann came to Loyn. But I’ve already told you there was some uncertainty about whose job was what. For instance, I remember him being critical that evening about the red and gold chairs, saying they didn’t go with the white tables. But they were the colors of the golf club where the event was taking place.”
    Suddenly she remembered something. “There was one modification, about a day before the event.”
    Both men watched her, motionless.
    “Schulmann wanted to do the seating arrangements himself. That had always been my job—I’d worked it out with company management beforehand of course. We had always had fixed seating, with name cards on every table. We have places of honor, tables for VIPs, and then normal tables, you see—tables for guests not so closely connected with Loyn. But Schulmann insisted on settling the seating arrangements himself.”
    “What do you mean by that, Frau Rehmer?”
    “I’m just wondering why Herr Van Duisen was with Herr Westek at a table again. They were already together in St. Moritz, with Beat Thüring and Henry Salzinger.”
    “I see,” Kündig said. “Where exactly was the table with Van Duisen and Westek at Lake Geneva?”
    Josefa tried to concentrate. Van Duisen came to mind; she’d rechecked everything before lunch, and when she left the tent he called out a friendly greeting. He was sitting in the area near the tent entrance, which is what she told her interrogators.
    “When was the last time you were in the tent on Friday evening?”
    “Let me think…I walked around with the head of the catering firm shortly before seven. Then I met with Colin Hartwell—the Australian golfer—and his assistant. We had to discuss the rest of the program…So, shortly before seven.”
    “Did you see Schulmann that evening?”
    “Yes, at nine o’clock, to discuss the next day. The whole team was present.”
    “One final question, Frau Rehmer: Do you know a woman by the name of Dorita?”
    “Dorita? No, doesn’t ring a bell.”
    Kündig stood up, and Josefa was dismissed.

Josefa stumbled into the damp winter air in a daze. A few gentle snowflakes were falling, and it was only the end of November! She wrapped her scarf over her head and crossed the bridge over the Limmat. She had to talk to somebody. But who? She was a little leery about seeing Helene; there were so many unanswered questions that Josefa didn’t look forward to asking. Not yet, at least. Her brother was too far away, and the phone was a poor medium in a dicey situation like this. Pius? Ah yes, Pius.
    People laden with shopping bags were coming toward her: Christmas shopping was already in high gear. She drifted toward Bellevueplatz. The snow was getting heavier. Why the devil hadn’t Paul called? He had to be back from Vienna by now. It wasn’t like him not to touch base with her, certainly not with all that was happening. Josefa stopped for a moment to wait on the island at the Bellevue stop then set firmly off on her own. She would get to the bottom of this.
    A young woman she’d never seen before opened the door of Paul’s office. Josefa introduced herself and asked to see the head of the firm. The young lady hesitated before letting her into the hall without a word. Josefa was slightly put out and not terribly assuaged by Paul’s appearance on the stairway. He escorted her into his office and closed the door. As always, he was wearing a well-tailored suit.
    “Why haven’t you phoned? What’s the matter with you?” Josefa flung the words at him before she could even take off her coat.
    “A catastrophe,” Paul said, dropping into one of the two leather armchairs in front of the bay window, a look of anguish on his face. “Stomach and intestinal flu, absolutely horrible. I thought I’d die.” He did indeed look rather pale.
    “So what’s the story with Vienna?”
    “Vienna? Oh, yeah. That was the official story. After all, I can’t tell my clients that I’m puking and shitting like mad. Please excuse me.”
    “Frankly I’d prefer flu to the brouhaha over Schulmann,” Josefa said, rotating the rings on her fingers.
    “Yes, I’ve heard about it,” Paul said, noticeably more animated. “I did try to get you today, but you weren’t home, and your cell phone was off.”
    “I was being interrogated at the police