Free The Chef by Martin Suter Page A

Dalmann Eric, Dalmann
called Schaeffer Schaeffer.
    Lourdes showed him in. He was a tall, gangly man in his early forties, with a narrow head, thinning blond hair and bright blue eyes. A few years back he had swapped his rimless glasses for
contact lenses, which did nothing for his sensitive eyes; he was forever throwing his head back and squeezing drops under his eyelids.
    Like Dalmann, Schaeffer was in casual clothes. A light-blue shirt with a button-down collar, dark-blue linen trousers and a red cashmere pullover slung carefully over his shoulders. In one hand
he carried a heavy briefcase.
    ‘I wanted to eat outside, but . . .’ Dalmann pointed vaguely upwards.
    ‘The outlook for the weather is not promising,’ Schaeffer answered.
    Dalmann took a mouthful and pointed to a chair where a second place had been set. Schaeffer sat and put the briefcase on the floor beside him. ‘I hope it’s not going to piss it down
for the opening game.’
    Euro 2008 was scheduled to start in a week’s time. The ideal PR opportunity for Dalmann. Thanks to his UEFA contacts he had stockpiled tickets for the most important games and had
organized events, either himself or through others – dinners in exclusive restaurants, visits to nightclubs, etc. – around the tournament. This was one of Schaeffer’s most
important jobs at present, and also the real reason for his Sunday visit.
    But for the moment Palucron was top priority.
    Schaeffer had already had breakfast. He drank a cup of tea and peeled an apple so carefully that it got on Dalmann’s nerves. He pushed one of the Sunday newspapers across the table.
‘Have you seen this?’
    Schaeffer nodded and bit into a slice of apple. The care he took in chewing it got on Dalmann’s nerves, too. Everything about Schaeffer got on his nerves. But he was good, he had to give
him that – which is why Dalmann had put up with him for so long. ‘Do you know this Huber fellow?’ Huber was the journalist who had written the article.
    Schaeffer shook his head until he had swallowed his mouthful. ‘But I do know his boss.’
    ‘I know him too. We can always use our clout with him later. All we need to know right now is whether Palucron is mentioned in this report.’
    ‘We have to make that assumption.’
    I wish he wouldn’t talk so pompously all the time, Dalmann thought. ‘The paper’s got an “extract” from the report. If Palucron were mentioned in this extract then
surely it would be in the newspaper.’
    In his hand Schaeffer held the slice of apple that was destined for his mouth. ‘Or they’re saving this detail for next Sunday.’
    ‘Look, Schaeffer, that’s why I want you to find out how much they’ve got.’
    Schaeffer placed the slice of apple in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Finally he swallowed, nodded and said, ‘I think that’s within the realm of the doable.’
    ‘Good,’ Dalmann muttered. ‘Then do it.’
    They started talking about Euro 2008.
    The following Sunday the same newspaper revealed further details about the nuclear affair. There was no mention of Palucron.

10
    The European Championships had given Maravan a breathing space. The catering industry needed so many staff that even Huwyler’s excommunication was no obstacle to finding
a job. At least not for the owner of a food stall along the tourist strip.
    Maravan was hired to do the washing up. He worked in the stiflingly hot corner of a tent, separated from the kitchen and serving counter. He had to scrub the pans and chafing dishes by hand; a
dishwasher was at his disposal for cutlery and crockery. But it was so defective it kept on breaking down, and meant that Maravan was forced to clean these by hand as well.
    It was monotonous work. Sometimes he had nothing to do for hours, and then, when an onslaught of hungry fans arrived, he could not keep up with the work. The boss held both of these things
– doing nothing and not keeping up – against him. But only in the way that he