Zurich

June 16, 1996

It wasn’t the Grande Jatte. Not exactly. It wasn’t even the afternoon. Not quite. But it felt that way—just like the picture—as if nothing could ever go wrong. The placid park. The bright and dozy day. The neon-blue lake, shimmering in the breeze.

Lew McBride was on a long run through the narrow park that follows the shoreline of the Zurichsee from busy Bellevueplatz out to the suburbs. He’d already gone about three miles, and was on his way back, jogging through the dappled shade, thinking idly of Seurat.

The pointillist’s great canvas was peopled with respectable-looking men in top hats, docile children, and women in bustles carrying parasols. But the age it captured was two world wars ago, before Seinfeld, the Internet, and “ethnic cleansing.” People were different now, and so were Sunday afternoons (even, or especially, when they were the same).

To begin with, it seemed as if half the girls he saw were on cellphones, Rollerblades, or both. They had pierced navels and mischievous eyes, and cruised, giggling, past kids with soccer balls, dozing “guestworkers,” and lovers making out in the lush grass. The air was fresh from the Alps, sunny, cool and sweet, its soft edge tainted now and then with whiffs of marijuana.

He liked Zurich. Being there gave him a chance to practice his German. It was the first language he’d studied, chosen in high school because he’d had a crush on an exchange student. Later, he’d acquired Spanish, picked up a little French, and even some Creole, but German was first—thanks to Ingrid. He smiled at the thought of her—Ingrid of the amazing body—cruising past a marina where sailboats rocked at their moorings, halyards clanking.

He could barely hear them. He had the volume turned up on his Walkman, listening to Margo Timmons sing an old Lou Reed song about someone called

Music, books, and running were McBride’s secret nicotine and, without them, he became restless and unhappy. They were the reason he did not own (could not afford) a sailboat—which he wanted very much. His apartment in San Francisco was a testament to these obsessions. Near the windows, the stereo and the oversized sofa, stacks of books and CDs stood like dolmens: blues, mornas, DeLillo, and opera. Konpa, rock, and gospel. Chatwin on Patagonia, Ogburn on Shakespeare. And a dozen books on chess, which McBride would rather read about than play (except, perhaps, in Haiti, where he and Petit Pierre sometimes sat for hours in the Oloffson, hunched over a battered chessboard, sipping rum).

Thinking about it made him miss it—the place, the chess, his friends…

As he ran, he glanced at his wristwatch and, seeing the time, picked up the pace. He had about an hour and twenty minutes until his appointment at the Institute, and he didn’t like to be late. (In fact, being late drove him crazy.)

Headquartered in Küssnacht, about twenty minutes from McBride’s hotel, the Institute of Global Studies was a small, but venerable, think tank funded by old money flowing from tributaries on both sides of the Atlantic. Like so many foundations established in the aftermath of the Second World War, the Institute was dedicated to the idea—the vague and elusive idea—of world peace. Toward that end, it hosted conferences and awarded fellowships each year to a handful of brilliant youths whose research interests coincided with the Foundation’s own.

These included topics as diverse as “the rise of paramilitary formations in Central Africa,” “Islam and the Internet,” “Deforestation in Nepal,” and McBride’s own study—which concerned the therapeutic components of animist religions. With the Cold War a thing of the past, the Foundation’s directors had formed the opinion that future conflicts would be “low-intensity” struggles fueled, in most cases, by ethnic and religious differences.

With advanced degrees in clinical psychology and modern history, McBride had been traveling for nearly two years. During that time, he’d produced reports on, among other things, the mass-conversion techniques of faith healers in Brazil, the induction of trance states in Haitian voodoo ceremonies, and the role of “forest herbs” in the rites of Candomblé.

Two of these reports had been published in the New York Times Magazine, and this had led to a book contract. In three months, his fellowship would be up for renewal and, after thinking it over, he’d decided to take a pass. He was a little tired of living out of suitcases, and ready to focus on writing a book. And since the Foundation had summoned him to Zurich for their annual “chat,” it was the perfect opportunity to let them know of his decision in advance.

All of which was just another way of saying that life was good—and getting better. If McBride’s meeting went as planned, he could catch the six o’clock flight to London, arriving in time for dinner with Jane herself—the real Jane, whom he hadn’t seen in months.

It was this prospect that spurred his pace, so that he got back to his hotel—the Florida—nearly ten minutes earlier than he’d expected. This gave him plenty of time to shower, shave, and dress, as well as to pack his only bag—a canvas duffel that had seen better days.

His meeting was with the Foundation’s Director, Gunnar Opdahl, a wealthy and cosmopolitan Norwegian surgeon who had given up medicine for philanthropy. Having spoken with Opdahl by telephone from California, McBride knew that the director wanted him to re-up for a third year. He was glad that he had this opportunity to meet with Opdahl face-to-face. It would give him the chance to discuss the reasons behind his decision to leave, while at the same time expressing his gratitude to the Institute.

And, while he was at it, he could visit Jane on the way home.

The Institute was headquartered in a turn-of-the-century townhouse, a brooding pile of granite built by a Swiss industrialist who had later hanged himself from a chandelier in the foyer (damaging it in the process). The building was three stories tall, with mullioned windows and wavy antique glass. There were copper gutters with gargoyles at the downspouts, a trio of chimneys poking through the tiled roof, and half a dozen window boxes, dripping with flowers.

A small brass plaque beside the massive front door declared the Foundation’s identity in German, French, and English. Above the leaded glass transom, a closed-circuit television camera stared down as he rang the doorbell once, twice, and—

“Lew!” The door swung open, and Gunnar Opdahl surged into view, eclipsing the room behind him. Taller even than the six foot one McBride, the Institute’s director was impeccably dressed in an expensive business suit that had a hand-tailored look, and a Hermes tie that McBride recognized from the duty free shops at Heathrow.