The Zurich Conspiracy

hiding.”
    “Who says so?”
    “On the radio today. He’s said to be in an unknown location to escape the media.”
    “The media? Hasn’t the man got other things to worry about?” Josefa couldn’t believe her ears. “Now there are six people dead. What’s going on anyway?” Her voice cracked a little. Why am I so worked up? Why should all these dead bodies be any concern of mine?
    “That’s what I’d like to know too. There’s never been anything like it. It’s as if the bad guys in the economy are being picked off one after another.”
    “Stop it, Paul. I don’t want to thank, er, think that far down the road. That’s—”
    “A Freudian slip,” he broke in.
    Josefa said nothing.
    “You still there? Josefa, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you. I apologize, most sincerely. The whole thing just seems so absurd to me.”
    “It’s OK,” she said in a husky voice. “Will you still be holding your Open Doors Day anyway?”
    “But of course. It’s the end of the world twelve times a day. I’m not about to turn away clients every time that happens…I really hope I can count on you.”
    “I’ll be there,” Josefa promised, automatically. She didn’t know how she was going to get through it under these circumstances—making superficial conversation and buttering people up while munching tapas. What she wanted most was to pull the bedcovers over her head right now and forget everything.
    When she hung up with Paul, she pulled the phone wire out of the wall. And hesitated only a moment before fetching her old teddy bear out of the closet—no one was looking anyway. She needed something squishy to cuddle up to. Something that didn’t pose any riddles.

Flashes of light bombarded Josefa’s head as she set foot on the waxed floor in the hallway of Klingler & Partners.
    “Are you nuts? Letting the press in!” a stunned Josefa croaked.
    Paul was standing before her, beaming. He raised a hand to calm her down. “We’re taking every guest’s picture to stick on the thank-you notes.”
    “Why the hell didn’t you tell me?” she exclaimed.
    “It was supposed to be a surprise,” Paul said, taking her gently by the sleeve. “Come on, a nice smile for Franziska, our star photographer.”
    Josefa forced a smile, the flash blinding her. Klingler smiled too, showing his teeth—he was very good at posing—and took her into the large meeting room where a stand-up buffet was lavishly set. Maybe this wouldn’t be all bad, Josefa thought, taking in the array of goodies.
    “Come and meet René Hinkel, for starters,” Paul said, relieved. “René,” he called, and a short man turned quickly around. “René, this is Josefa Rehmer, my esteemed colleague. She’ll turn the company’s anniversary into an event that will be the envy of all Zurich.” The man eyed her with curiosity; he had a glass of wine in one hand and a napkin in the other, which he quickly wiped his lips with.
    “Now we can go ahead and open up a youth club,” Hinkel said by way of an introduction, yelping out a laugh. Josefa didn’t get it. “The three of us here grew up on Schlingenstrasse: Paul, my humble self, and Michi Gantz back there, the artist among us,” he explained. “Does great oils. Have you seen any? Hanging in banks. I’ve never made it that far.” He laughed again.
    Josefa twisted the corners of her mouth into a smile. She didn’t want to appear standoffish.
    “Don’t I know you from somewhere?” Hinkel was saying.
    “Probably from the TV ads for herbal cough drops,” Josefa answered, in a pointedly friendly voice. “I’m the Alpen-Heidi.”
    Hinkel laughed loudly. “Very good, very good. So you work for Paul?”
    “Yes, but I have my own company,” she said while inconspicuously eyeing the buffet. Her mouth watered at the sight of the Japanese gyoza. Stop thinking about the food! You have to sell yourself, nail down contracts, land jobs . Hinkel kept moving his face closer and closer to hers, and she kept moving subtly away from him. Did he learn that technique at a management seminar?
    “Where did you work before?” Hinkel asked, nibbling on a toothpick that surely had speared one of those tempting delicacies.
    “At Loyn,” she responded curtly. Did she have to be ashamed of that name after all that had happened? Or even worse—would she have to endure endless questions about who might have killed Werner Schulmann?
    “Loyn!” he exclaimed. “I’ve just been talking to