7From Zurich to disaster
scrunched a jeweller’s magnifying optic into his right eye to look
at Uli’s receipt. Short and stocky like most men of Zurich, he
reminded me a little of Uli.
‘The Mountain Express Train.’ Christof handed me the latest
addition to Alex’s ever-growing model rail collection. ‘It’s already
gift-wrapped.’ The train felt reassuringly heavy in my hands.
Zurich was a model village of order and calm. I took in the town
hall clock, the steeples of the churches, the trams gliding over the
glistening rails. But in the train queue I had that weird feeling
when someone you don’t remember recognises you. Who was
the young man who looked me in the eye as two porters fussed
over his luggage and ushered him into First Class?
I’ve taught a lot of people over the years. Investment bankers
in Malaysia, bond traders in Mexico City, people I now suspect
are money-launderers in Marbella. Thousands of students, from
interns to managing directors, have had the unalloyed joy of
watching me in action. Being a trainer is a bit like being a prefect
at school: all the younger kids know your name and remember
what you look like but there are loads of people you can’t recall.
But as we pulled out of Zurich station I was puzzled. I was sure
I’d seen the man before and, what’s more, I’m sure he knew
me. Where was it? It was irritating, like having a favourite song
playing in your mind and not being able to recall the title or the
singer.
The hefty chap who had mumbled to me at the airport was now
slumped next to my seat. I sank into a roll of his esh hanging
over my side of the armrest. He huffed himself towards the
window, clearing me three extra centimetres of body room for
the remaining seven hours of the journey.
The guard checked the man’s passport against his ticket. ‘I hope
you enjoy the journey, Mr Conrad.’
‘How can I? We are sure to be late.’
I did my best to avoid eye-contact. In my briefcase was a small
pile of reports I’d taken from Uli’s swamped ofces. They were