The Zurich Conspiracy by Bernadette Calonego Page B

standing at the corner of her apartment building when she’d driven out of the back courtyard earlier that afternoon.

Josefa almost survived her first week back at work unscathed. Werner Schulmann had been in New York all week on business, not due back until today. Arriving at work on Friday morning she found Claire mysteriously absent and a note on her desk: Henry Salzinger in fatal accident. Please send condolences to family and delete deceased from guest list.
    Salzinger. She looked him up in her database: “Henry Salzinger, Caligula Investments.” What a curious moniker , Josefa mused. Caligula was one of the cruelest of the Roman emperors, and he finally succumbed to insanity. At least that was all she could remember from the play she’d seen at the Schauspielhaus. Suddenly the phone rang, interrupting her train of thought.
    “A gentleman by the name of Paul Klingler,” Bianca announced. “Do you wish to speak to him?”
    “Put him through.”
    “Did you hear about Salzinger?” Paul asked, getting straight to the point.
    “Yes, but only two minutes ago,” she replied. How did he find these things out so fast!
    “Things are getting pretty suspicious, don’t you think?”
    “What’s so suspicious do you mean?”
    “Josefa!” Paul cried, hardly able to conceal his impatience. “Three people who had something—what am I saying— a lot to do with Swixan going broke are now dead. Three dead men in the space of a few weeks. Doesn’t that seem a trifle odd to you?”
    “Paul, I don’t have time for this.”
    “We must get together as soon as possible. I’ll e-mail you. Ciao.” And he was gone. Why does he scare me with these calls? an irritated Josefa thought to herself. As if I don’t have enough worries already .
    Making her way to the conference room shortly before nine, Josefa still didn’t know Claire Fendi’s whereabouts. Her assistant was normally in the office by seven, like clockwork.
    Werner Schulmann was standing with Richard Auer, the head of sales, at one end of the room. They seemed to be having a wonderful conversation, both flashing their toothy grins.
    Josefa joined the half-dozen others already sitting at the table, mainly people from marketing and media relations, without greeting Schulmann.
    “Sorry I’m late,” Claire whispered, taking a seat beside Josefa. “I had to change a tire.”
    Josefa poured her a mineral water. “We’ll talk later,” she whispered back.
    She felt the others watching her; all eager to see how she’d react to the new man, no doubt. Pius entered and collapsed into a chair in the corner, a safe distance from the conference table. Then Bourdin stormed into the room and marched directly over to her.
    “Terrific to have you back! How was your vacation?” he asked, a little too exuberantly.
    Josefa was so taken aback by the greeting that she only managed an awkward, “Great, thanks for asking.” Out of the corner of her eye she saw Auer and Schulmann taking their seats.
    “Frau Rehmer, you already know Werner Schulmann, don’t you?” Bourdin said in a wheezy voice. He clearly had a cold.
    “Yes, we’ve already met,” she said coolly.
    “Good,” Bourdin replied, and, to her surprise, left it at that. “Start the meeting, I can’t talk much today.”
    Josefa was on safe ground here, and it was easy for her to work Schulmann into her formal words of welcome, glancing at him with a politely disinterested look. She then ran through the next client event: a golf tournament on Lake Geneva in five weeks, at the beginning of September. Almost two hundred and fifty guests were invited, and some of them would have the opportunity to compete on the fairway against Colin Hartwell, one of the world’s best golfers. She went over the program, the selection of VIPs, the extent of the targeted advertising, Hartwell’s public appearances, the cultural events that were to take place in the evenings, and the dinner at the Grand Hotel. Closing with the