The Zurich Conspiracy by Bernadette Calonego Page A

company.” She waited, wondering how he’d react.
    But he was nonchalant. “Good idea, Josefa. I’ll outsource a few projects to your firm. Done deal. Have you already handed in your resignation?”
    She choked on her tomato juice. Paul held out a white linen napkin.
    “I’m still working on the Lake Geneva Golf Tournament in September because I feel some responsibility for it. I’ve known some of the guests a long time. Maybe I can firm up some good contacts there. Then I’ll decide if I leave and how soon. I have to give two months’ notice, and I’ve got some vacation days and overtime on top of that. All that work’s finally going to pay off, don’t you think?”
    Paul was giving her all his attention, leaning his tall frame toward her.
    “Surely you’ve got enough contacts already, Josefa. But if you think you still want to do the tournament—fine. Now you’ve got one guest less.”
    Josefa didn’t respond.
    “Henry Salzinger. Loyn used to invite him all the time.”
    Josefa quietly sipped at her tomato juice.
    “The so-called independent auditor for Swixan…You remember Färber Brothers? That’s what his company used to be called. He gave those scoundrels at Swixan a clean bill of health. He shut his eyes to all the executives’ shoddy tricks instead of rapping those crooks on the knuckles.” He threw her a challenging look. “He’s had a hunting accident.”
    Josefa gave a start. “Another one?”
    “Thought that would surprise you,” Paul said. “Salzinger was in the mountains in the Canton of Wallis, if I’m not mistaken. He apparently picked up the rifle the wrong way, and it went off. Shot himself right through the lung. I didn’t know he hunted game as well as undervalued companies.”
    Josefa recalled that Salzinger had been drinking quite a bit in St. Moritz and that poor Claire had to put up with his boozy monologues. She recalled Salzinger’s flabby, expressionless face, his giraffe-like shape.
    “Paul, you’re pulling my leg. There’s no hunting season in Wallis in the summer. It doesn’t add up.”
    “These guys with money don’t follow the rules,” he retorted. “A farmer looking for a lost cow in the mountains found the body when his dog started barking like mad.”
    “It might have been suicide,” Josefa ventured, still feeling that this was some crazy fairytale. Paul shrugged.
    “Maybe, maybe not. The family prefers to call it ‘an accident’ and says that this trip was just Salzinger’s way of assessing his progress after his knee operation last year.” He straightened his tie. “Feller-Stähli, the lawyer, Thüring, the CEO, and now Salzinger, the auditor. All of them got off scot-free after the Swixan bankruptcy, and now all three are dead as doornails,” he said with a sarcastic undertone.
    What about Karl Westek, the CFO, another Loyn guest? Josefa thought. “Nobody knows whether Thüring is dead or alive. No body’s been found,” she countered.
    The men appeared in her mind’s eye: the wiry Westek with the jaws of an attack dog, Salzinger leaning over the table like a weeping willow. Feller-Stähli had been in St. Moritz as well, as had Thüring, with whom she’d exchanged a few words; later she’d seen him sitting with the mysterious Curt Van Duisen.
    “So you think it’s not a coincidence?” she persisted.
    He fixed her with an unwavering stare. “Oh, of course it could all be a coincidence. But a lot of people will be asking themselves some questions. The media already are—it’s right up their alley. And when the media begin poking around, the police will soon be getting into it too.”
    “Paul, why are you telling me all this? I don’t have any interest in these people; they just happened to be on Loyn’s guest list, and anyway, I don’t make up the list.”
    “Happened to be on the list? Is it a coincidence that Thüring was able to even show his face at your event? Even though he’d driven Swixan into the ground? Thüring was