The Zurich Conspiracy

noose”—keine Schlinge . What’s that supposed to mean? No hangman’s noose? Who for? For her? Why do I suspect Paul so quickly? Why should he of all people… She paused. Her pulse began to race. Schlingenstrasse! Didn’t René tell her that her friend grew up on Schlingenstrasse? So it was Paul after all! But why would he do a thing like that? It was absurd!
    The door creaked open. Josefa spun around. Paul was standing in the doorway with a full plate and a glass of red wine. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you,” he said. “I thought I’d better get some meat on your bones so you’re well armed for the evil world of financial sharks.” He put the plate and the glass down on the massive oak table. Josefa didn’t move a muscle. She glanced at the glass on the table. The murderer first anesthetized his victim .
    Paul looked at her expectantly. Then he discovered the reference work in front of her. “What—you’re at work again? You’re not serious.” She just looked at him in silence, frozen stiff. “Josefa, what’s the matter?” Paul asked, a note of concern in his voice.
    By way of an answer she pushed the printouts at him. She saw from the expression on his face that he got the picture immediately. Her body felt like lead.
    Paul sat down at the table, near the opened door. He buried his face in his hands for a while, then folded them as if in prayer and looked at her. He suddenly seemed old and gray. “I’m glad it’s out in the open,” he said. “I’m glad you know.” He paused. His voice was flat and soft. “I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time but didn’t have the guts. I was too cowardly. Simply a coward.”
    Josefa saw fine beads of sweat glinting on his forehead. He pressed his hands together.
    “I wanted to poach you from Loyn, get you out of there. That’s all I wanted, nothing more. I knew Bourdin was talking with Schulmann long before anybody else. Schulmann saw to it that it made the rounds fast in our circles. That show-off.” He stopped. Paul Klingler—the continual speech-maker, the linguistic acrobat, the well-oiled talking machine—was struggling for words. “That’s why I was trying to warn you when you were still in St. Moritz. When you didn’t yet know what was coming down the pike.”
    She looked him square in the eye, and he returned her gaze.
    “I think Schulmann’s a very, very dangerous guy,” he began slowly, forgetting he was talking about a dead man. “There are psychopaths in this world who are easy to spot and others who are never unmasked.” He wiped his mouth several times before continuing.
    “I’ve read a scholarly article on the subject, Josefa. The writer—a psychiatrist recognized the world over—estimates that about one percent of the population in the West can be considered psychopaths. These sick obsessives can cause people unimaginable pain—even destroy them—without a single pang of conscience. Because they have no conscience at all. They’ve no fear of punishment. They can’t understand other people’s feelings or empathize with them. They’re simply…evil. Evil , do you understand?” He looked at her imploringly. His shoulders sagged; his long torso looked compressed.
    “I’ve read that only a minority of psychopaths are violent. The great majority are…normal. At least on the outside. They function well, even seem sociable, but they really aren’t.” Paul’s voice got livelier, like a TV moderator trying to get the audience on his side. “Psychopaths can work at swimming pools, libraries…er…hospitals, in high office, or be streetcar conductors or bus drivers, what do I know—anywhere. They can even be business consultants; I wouldn’t want to make any exceptions. It can be your own mother, an uncle or…your own brother. Believe me, they’re just like us. Or seem to be.”
    Josefa gazed steadily at his face. She wanted to record every movement, every twitch. Paul looked away into the distance. He seemed to be in another sphere altogether.
    “They don’t have a conscience; they’re human predators,” he said, balling his hands into fists. When he noticed it, he relaxed his hands and looked quickly at Josefa, who hadn’t missed a trick.
    “Something the psychiatrist said made a deep impression on me. ‘Psychopaths love chaos, and that is the reason they feel comfortable in the rapidly changing world of modern businesses.’ Another psychiatrist divides them into three categories—”
    Paul