The Zurich Conspiracy

at the head of the conference table, with Hans-Rudolf Walther, the chairman of the board of directors and the stinking rich owner of Loyn, next to him. Was there an important agenda item she knew nothing about? Walther was well known for taking a personal interest in Loyn’s day-to-day business. At fifty-seven he was too young to retire; still, it was very rare for him to come to a Friday meeting.
    Bourdin had already launched into his usual verbal torrent, his voice at times cracking: “…established a brand for the unbiased time traveler around the globe…modern nomads who look for the cornerstones of their circle of influence in lasting aesthetics…” Josefa was only half-listening when she realized she still had the telegram in her hand. She leaned back a little in order to open it discreetly on her lap.
    Dear Frau Rehmer,
    Permit me to extend to you my profound thanks for the cordial and competent way you look after your guests. You facilitated wonderful and stimulating days for me and my wife in most pleasant surroundings. Hearty congratulations!
    Yours, Curt Van Duisen
    Josefa’s heart leapt. Curt Van Duisen was one of Walther’s old friends—if that wasn’t a good sign she didn’t know what was! Bourdin was still droning on, his speech obviously drawing to a close: “…thanks to our colleagues, who give their all…” Josefa tucked the telegram into her pants pocket. “…our project manager…US sales manager…the head of PR…and last but not least…” Josefa straightened up imperceptibly. “…our leader, Hans-Rudolf Walther, who made everything possible. They all deserve our applause.”
    Josefa sat there for a moment, absolutely rigid. He wouldn’t dare ignore her so obviously! Everyone present knew that she’d done the impossible in St. Moritz. She felt some eyes turn toward her. Bourdin announced that he’d like to show the sales managers the newly opened showroom—“an architectural gem,” he boasted—on the ground floor, featuring products from all previous Loyn collections. So that’s it, she fumed.
    Josefa was glued to her seat, at a loss for what to do next— should she confront Bourdin? Suck it up and ignore the slight? —when Hans-Rudolf Walther came up to her.
    “Frau Rehmer, I’d like us to have a talk, in private,” he said with a smile, laying a paternal hand on her arm. “Please come to my office in ten minutes.” Without waiting for an answer he turned on his heel to rejoin the turmoil.
    Back in her office, Josefa pulled out the documentation for the next big PR event, a music festival showcasing some famous musicians, which she’d already prepared a draft for. Maybe Walther was interested in finding out more about it. She hurried to the bathroom, freshened up, and took the elevator to the top floor.
    Of course Walther hadn’t arrived yet. It was the privilege of the powerful to keep others waiting. His secretary offered her a seat, but Josefa stood at the window instead; the magnificent view of Lake Zurich and the Alps in the distance was captivating, like a Ferdinand Hodler painting. The city lay at her feet, and visions of warm summer evenings came to mind: she imagined waves licking against the stones, her brown, tanned legs in the warm water, a haughty swan, head held high, passing by, boats with billowing sails floating on the blue water.
    “Frau Rehmer,” Walther said, interrupting her daydream. Hans-Rudolf Walther was the proverbial é minence grise at Loyn: Everything about him was gray—his suit, his tie, his hair, even his skin looked gray. He extended a hand to invite her into his office, and Josefa followed, sitting down at a little round table and placing her dossier on it.
    “Well now, Frau Rehmer,” Walther began, in the somewhat contorted, jovial manner of an established man who is about to explain something to a clearly younger woman. “Your performance was once again magnificent. We all find it exceptional. Since you’ve been in charge of event marketing, everything has been running absolutely splendidly.”
    “I’m pleased to hear it, Herr Walther,” she replied, but couldn’t resist following it up with, “I’d have been even more pleased if that had been said during the meeting.”
    Walther turned a little to the left. His seal ring sparkled.
    “Now look, you mustn’t take that too seriously. Francis is the spontaneous type, a bit unstructured, the way geniuses often are. He quite simply forgot about it in his