The Zurich Conspiracy

dinner. Let the team know.”
    Josefa ran across the black carpet to the waiting company car. It took only about seven minutes to reach the hotel, where she came across Bourdin in the lobby with the PR woman for the horse show and the mayor of St. Moritz, also a woman. Josefa also spotted a few reporters in the lobby. Bourdin always played the slightly bored loner for the media (complete with far-off gaze and long, black hair, which Josefa guessed was dyed, tied in a Mozart braid). He almost always appeared in the garb of a Pakistani aristocrat, dressed in the finest Italian silk.
    Bourdin turned around angrily.
    “What are you doing here?” he shouted. “You ought to be at the tent.”
    “I’m here because everybody in the tent is waiting for the guests of honor,” Josefa said as calmly as possible. She was annoyed at herself. Why did she feel the need to justify something that was plain as day? But Josefa had long stopped expecting rational behavior from Bourdin.
    All of a sudden his voice was filled with understanding—that’s how he always delivered his biggest affronts.
    “Then you’ll just have to make their wait as enjoyable as possible. We’ve had a change of plans. Alphonse Yvon has invited us to his chalet. For beef fondue.”
    Alphonse Yvon—the oil magnate and owner of the exclusive Prima Donna shops. “You understand that Joan has to be there. This will bring in a fabulous amount of business,” Bourdin said, his voice sounding lost in fog.
    Josefa stared at him for few seconds, speechless. But then she couldn’t hold back.
    “Two hundred guests are waiting for you, and especially for Joan. It was featured on the invitation. And you simply want to leave the guests high and dry? Ignore them? It was our invitation and these are our guests. You can’t do this. It’s an absolute insult!”
    Bourdin was already turning away.
    “Tell them whatever you want. Say that Joan has a cold or something. I can’t change it. Yvon is more important after all.” And with that he turned his back on her.
    Josefa knew that any further arguing was pointless. She took the elevator to the hotel’s top floor. Gorgeous bouquets adorned the presidential suite. Joan Caroll was sitting at the dressing table in heated curlers, her hair stylist fiddling with them.
    “Chousefeen!” Joan exclaimed, giving her a hearty welcome. The two women had become friendly during the three years they’d been working together—as friendly as anybody could ever get with Joan Caroll.
    Joan looked dazzling, as always. She was wearing a black blazer with a deep décolletage and tight-fitting pants of sparkling silver.
    “You’re worried about the fondue, aren’t you?” she asked graciously.
    “Do you really want to go, or is it what Bourdin wants?” Josefa replied.
    “His wish is my command,” Joan said with a friendly smile. “He is the company, and the company decides.”
    Josefa knew Joan would never get involved in internal squabbles.
    “If you want to go, then it’s OK by me,” Josefa said.
    “Wonderful.” Joan stuck a white, glittery jewel in her ear that looked like a large diamond.
    “I’ll be taking you to the airport tomorrow,” Josefa said, and she left.
    She took the company car back to the party tent, and as she climbed out, she noticed Beat Thüring still standing outside. This time he was with two men; they turned their backs on Josefa. Why weren’t they at their table? she wondered in some alarm. The gala dinner must have begun long ago! As she approached, the three hurried into the tent.

The phone rattled, wrenching Josefa out of her sleep. It was the hotel’s wake-up service no doubt. Reaching for the receiver, she squinted at the clock: quarter after six.
    She’d hardly slept at all. A few guests had kicked up a row in the hallway in the middle of the night. Imagine a thing like that in a grand hotel in St. Moritz, she thought crossly. But now, when she had to get up, it was quiet. The noisemakers were no doubt having sweet dreams right about now. She ordered breakfast from room service, opened her laptop, and checked her schedule to see when the VIPs were to be taken to the airport. Then she quickly browsed through her new e-mails, a lot of junk mail in spite of the filter the company had installed.
    One e-mail in particular jumped out at her, though. It didn’t seem like normal spam—but why was it in English? She reread the text several times, translating it as best she could: The