The Zurich Conspiracy

the lamp with the antique china base that had fortunately survived all Josefa’s moves, an heirloom from her mother who’d died of cancer at thirty-six. On a little cabinet of sea-green glass stood her favorite photo of her mother, taken in her native Piedmont before her illness. She was leaning over a wall; an old church and a square dotted with people could be seen in the background. A polka-dot band kept her dark hair, streaked with silver, out of her very pretty face. Josefa was struck by the fact that if she were her mother, she would only have one more year to live. Suddenly her head began to ache just a little.
    She quickly put on a CD, floating away for a while to the sound of Jeff Buckley’s mesmerizing voice. Then she unpacked her small suitcase and took a pile of clothes down to the laundry room she shared with the other tenants. Both washers were full; Josefa sighed and headed back upstairs. The city administration had been housing asylum seekers on the second and third floors; some of the long-time tenants had protested, but without results. Josefa couldn’t care less; she was traveling most of the time anyway.
    When she woke up it was five o’clock in the morning. Slightly numb, she dragged her tired body out of bed, splashed cold water on her face, and gazed at herself in the mirror. Her skin seemed pale in spite of a slight redness, and there were shadows under her eyes. She clung to the edge of the sink, feeling a little dizzy, and then trudged into her small kitchen. The freezer was filled with TV dinners, but she managed to find enough oatmeal for breakfast. As she stirred some hot water into the bowl, she powered up her computer.
    Stefan—her married lover who was on a business trip in New York at the moment—had sent her an e-mail. “Back on Tuesday,” it read. What was that about? Would he be with his family, or would she be able to see him then?
    “Call as soon as you’re back,” she replied. But it was the next e-mail that sent a cold shiver down her spine: Once again it was from [email protected] . Her fingers trembled as she opened the message. It was written in English again: I’m really glad to hear you lost control. It’s a good sign when sick people get angry .
    She stared at the words as if seeing a ghost. How could that be? Was somebody watching her at the airport? Did somebody see how she’d drifted off into a dark world? Maybe Francis Bourdin? Impossible—she saw him leave.
    Frightened, she switched off the computer, grabbed her jacket and her briefcase, and five minutes later was in the little Italian shop on the corner that thankfully opened at six. She bought two apples, a sandwich, and a bottle of water before taking the streetcar to company headquarters.
    Claire Fendi approached her in the fifth-floor hallway, wearing her lime-green Loyn uniform. A lack of sleep had left its traces on Claire’s usually fresh face.
    “Claire, here already?” Josefa said, a rather rhetorical question.
    “And so are you,” Claire replied in her high, clear voice, trying to sound lighthearted in spite of her obvious exhaustion. “I’ve put the press clippings on your desk—they’re fantastic. And in the Age of the Internet, Curt Van Duisen actually sent a telegram congratulating you! That man’s got real style.”
    “Thanks, Claire. I couldn’t have done it without you, you know that.”
    “Bourdin’s got a different take on that.” It didn’t escape Josefa’s notice that Claire was tense, and now her stomach began to clench as well. Here she was, entrusted with such terrific colleagues like Claire, and Bourdin had nothing better to do than rough up her assistant.
    “Oh, just ignore that sort of thing,” she said coolly, well aware that it was bad advice that she herself didn’t follow. “You’re simply indispensable to our team.”
    Josefa meant what she said. A year after starting at Loyn, she had asked Bourdin if she could hire a personal assistant, already having an eye on Claire for the job. Josefa needed a loyal, reliable colleague who’d throw herself into the work as wholeheartedly as she did. Claire, in her late twenties, was her first choice. And right from the start this petite, strawberry blonde never lost any time, let alone her nerve. It was Claire who organized all of Loyn’s business and promotional trips; who came up with cheap, last-minute flights; who always knew the best routes to take; readily accommodated special requests; and who made