The Adjuster

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Chapter 1


Paul Winter sat in his favourite chair, a coffee brown leather swivel chair, doing what he liked most: watching out of the window.

He looked out and enjoyed the panoramic view from the large bifold windows. They faced northeast, towards the tall buildings and trees, which were now almost leafless. It was early September, around nine o’clock, and the temperature was already at 30°C. It was a desert climate, and he hated that sort of heat. It made breathing and sleeping difficult. As a matter of fact, almost everything was made difficult.

Next year, in February, it would be 20 years since his arrival in Brazil. It felt like an eternity. He would also be turning 60 in February, although most people said he looked closer to 50. He was tall, standing at 1.80 m without any boots, and weighed 79 kilos, with little fat but a rather muscular body – not like a security guard, more like a runner. His face was well defined: a good nose; thin lips; dark blond hair, with streaks of grey beginning to show; blue-greenish eyes, that started to fade a bit. Things had gone reasonably well in those 20 years; raising a family, doing lucrative business…

He had arrived at the airport with two large suitcases and $5,000 in cash. In one of the suitcases, he had brought a drill, a German model. He liked that one and would not leave it behind. The customs officer had mistaken it for a gun . drew his pistol, told him to back off, while he examined it. That was his first impression of the new land: nervous people with a big imagination, something that could come in handy later when dealing with the locals.

Helen, his second wife, had picked him up at the airport.

They stayed a night in Sao Paulo, and on the next day, took a bus to Curitiba, the Capital of the State of Paraná, to the south. He had read that the climate there was more European-like, with clearly defined seasons and acceptable, not too high temperatures.

However, upon arriving it was raining hard, with the temperature at around 14°C, staying that way for a whole ten days. “Too cold, too wet,” he thought, “for that kind of climate, I could just as well have stayed in my home country.” So, he asked his wife to pack the bags, and they made it to Goiania, Capital of Goiás, which was to the north, much closer to the equator, with a hot climate throughout the year.

Thinking back now, sitting in his chair, he made the correct decision. Goiania, in the early 2000s, was a so-called developing state, with a strongly growing economy, mainly based on agriculture. The prices for food, land, apartments, and services were still low and very attractive. When he had left Switzerland, in the early 2000s, he was exactly 40, with a solid 24-year banking career to show for it. He had started out at 16 as an apprentice, and they had taught him most of the tasks a bank would perform in the mid-70s. He completed his training and education with the second best score of his year. For this achievement, his employer gave him an extra Fr. 50 per month, bringing his initial salary to Fr. 1,950 – not bad for a young fellow of just 19, with ambitions and good looks, and a very keen interest in girls.

He started to work right away, in the letters of credit department – an activity that would later open the doors to international finance, travel, substantially more money, and women, he hoped. He worked hard and fucked any female that crossed paths with him in the department. He even had an affair with the personal secretary of Director Brunner Elisabeth, Beth, as he called her. She would phone him from her internal phone, just across a few other desks, in the very department, in plain sight of everybody else, telling him to visit her tonight, after work. She would cook dinner, and do everything he and, most importantly, she had in mind.

This charade went on for a few months until he got tired of her. It also became more complicated and dangerous to hide their affair from their other colleagues in the department, let alone Brunner, who started to look ever more suspiciously at his personal secretary, who arrived in the morning with black circles under her eyes, making ever more mistakes in the letters he dictated to her.

Then, on the verge of his 20th birthday, Paul was drafted into the Army.



Chapter 2


Paul never took any women too seriously, at least in the beginning, and he also did not take his drafting into the army too seriously. Besides, he knew it was coming; it was scheduled long ago; so he went to the medical military examiner’s test, passed with flying colours, and was assigned to the 37th Regiment of Infantry Mountaineers, based in Chur, capital of the state of Graubünden.

He packed a bag, said goodbye to Beth and all the others, and took the train to Chur. The bank, though, was obliged to pay him his full salary during army service. In addition, the military service would render SFr. 3.50 a day to begin with.

Arriving in Chur shortly after 1 p.m. the shouting began. On that day, some 20,000 young men arrived at more or less the same hour. It was chaotic to run to that barrack, wait, then go to yet another barrack, and so on and so on. He learned on that first day that shouting was more important than thinking, and that it was better to follow instructions than have an opinion, at least officially. By midnight, all the new soldiers had been given three different sets of uniforms, two pairs of walking boots, a backpack, tools, gasmask, and helmet, etc. The weapons would only be handed out the next day. So his first day in the army ended. Exhausted, he dropped into his bunk and fell asleep immediately.

The 37th regiment was a Zürich based regiment, so the bulk of his fellow soldiers were from that region. There was, though, one battalion from the canton of Tessin in the south of the country. They spoke Italian, rather than German, and some of these recruits were allocated to his company, which was Company C. One of those recruits was even an Italian native, who somehow made it into the Swiss Army. He must have been given citizenship, so he was drafted.

The next day, everybody was handed his weapon over the flag of the Swiss Confederation, at the time a 59 SIG semi-automatic assault rifle. This was a very heavy weapon, weighing over 8 kilos, with a large 7.8 mm calibre, perfect for battle and long range, precise shooting, but heavy to carry and difficult to service.

So the days went by, shooting, running, fighting, marching, theoretical enemy reconnaissance – it was unclear who the enemy in the eyes of the Swiss army was, so the high command created some fictitious army name from the east to concentrate on.

Paul was not too bothered with all of that army business; he was strong, healthy, fast, and a good observer. The endurance marches of 40 km plus did not give him any trouble. He liked the shooting exercises, and always scored high, a quality that would later in life become useful to him.

The weeks and months went on, and his superiors became ever more aware of him, until, during the 3. last week of his basic army training, came the proposal. The proposal was a letter signed by the regiment’s colonel and his captain, proposing that Paul become a Swiss Army officer, a lieutenant. None of his friends in the company had received the proposal; in fact, nobody knew he had received it. The proposal suggested that he underwent the two-and-a-half-year officer’s course, beginning next year, here in Chur. They gave him 24 hours to accept or, very unlikely in his superiors’ minds, decline.

Now, for Paul, the fun was gone. He considered it carefully, had a sleepless night, and early the next morning walked into the captains and higher officers’ card room and politely declined the offer, alleging that he was being sent abroad to London by his employer to study international trade – a brave lie. What Paul wanted was to get back to normal civilian life as quickly as possible, making money and a career and, most of all, being with the ladies. He could not see himself wasting two and a half of his best years in that dreadful old casern of Chur, learning how to soldier professionally. His captain looked at him and the written, signed denial of the proposal, very awkwardly and angrily, if not disappointedly, and dismissed him. From that moment on, for the last three weeks of his service, his superiors looked at him with disgust and ignored him. He had become the odd bird.

Two weeks later, he got his discharge papers – 20,000 hip hip hurrahs, and off he went, together with his pal Morelli, to Grauboden. It was a 15-minute walk away from the barracks, towards the car park, with a full backpack, his rifle, and his army bag containing his personal belongings. Paul walked fast, almost running, trying to avoid the massive traffic jam that would no doubt build up with all these men and their cars more than keen to leave the place as fast as possible.

Opening the boot of his dark blue ’73 Alfa Romeo 1750 GTV, Morelli put all their belongs in there, while Paul started the powerful engine. It came to life immediately with a loud roar. Morelli got into the passenger seat with a jump. His main task was to provide the ice cold Hürlimann beers and Marlboro reds, which he did. Paul headed north through the suburbs and took the A1 east and then north. The Alfa Romeo would easily go over 200 km/hour, so it would take Paul about 70 minutes to get to Zürich and civilian life. On this cold Saturday morning, traffic was light. They made it to Zürich just before 11 o’clock and said goodbye.

Paul and Morelli would stay friends over the next 12 years; the yearly one-month army repetition course and their common interest in girls and hanging out would tie them together.



Chapter 3


Half an hour later, Paul arrived at his good-sized, one-bedroom apartment. It had a balcony, a dining area, a living room with two good windows, and one bathroom. He had rented it just before being drafted, so Paul had looked forward to enjoying his home. It was situated in a good neighbourhood, a bit up from the city centre, on the slopes of the local mountain. He took a shower, stored his army items, and phoned Susi, his current girlfriend, to advise her that he would be arriving to pick her up. It was a sheer delight; dinner, a few bars, and then they went to Paul’s flat to do what they liked best – fucking. Susi was an easy-going girl, with brown hair, big tits, a round arse, and not too bright or ambitious. She was very happy that they were finally together again. The eight months of separation due to Paul’s army service had driven her crazy. More than once, when Paul was on guard duty during the weekend, she had driven down to Chur to see him while he was making his guard rounds outside the casern. They would sneak into some abandoned barn and do it right there. In this regard, Susi was a no-nonsense girl, with no time to waste.

Lying in bed with him now, she was hoping that he would stay now, for a good time, if not forever. She loved him and had plans for the two of them.

Paul, though, had quite different plans. These did not include Susi.

On Monday morning, he shaved, put on one of his better suits, a white shirt and dark blue tie, and went off to work in his old department at the bank after more than eight months. Throughout these months, his employer had deposited his full salary, and by law they were obliged to guarantee his job on his return.

His old desk was almost the way he had left it. The colleagues were all there to greet him, the men more reservedly, and the women more warmly. Beth had, in the meantime been sacked by her boss Brunner. Rumour had it that the old bastard had made advances, which she refused; so she was sacked and had to go.

He settled in to work, read all the new information and instructions, and had lunch in the intern canteen with his colleagues.

After work, he went for a beer or two, in one of his favourite bars downtown. After a few rounds, Daniel, one of his old pals from the bank, walked into the bar. They hugged each other and sat down at a small round table in the far corner from the bar, starting to talk.

They had not seen each other in almost a year, so there was lots of ground to cover. Daniel told him all the latest gossip, rumours, internal intrigues, undeserved promotions, and so on. He was a good seven years older than Paul and knew the internal machinations of the bank better than anybody else. Although it was interesting news, somehow it left Paul strangely detached, unimpressed and not really interested.

Somehow, after Daniel had left, Paul felt that maybe it was time for him to move on to more exciting jobs. A smaller outfit, foreign perhaps; more challenging, faster promotion, more cash. He paid for the beers and walked out of the bar. By now it was almost midnight, raining hard, and utterly cold. He had brought no overcoat, so he hurried to the tram station nearby, took one of the last connections, and arrived home, going straight to bed. Tomorrow was another day, but still he was thinking; leaving his present employer now was out of the question. He had to stay at least a year, but nothing could prevent him from starting to look around.



Chapter 4


The High Life was a night club, ducked under a 20-metre-high express motorway built right above the river, with its immense concrete pillars standing right in the water of the river. Every time Paul looked at this marvellous piece of Swiss engineering he was stunned. Why pay for and buy expensive land, or dis-appropriate landowners if you could build the expressway right above the river, following its natural course?

The club was in an old residential building, built some 80 years ago. There were no neighbouring buildings, and nobody would ever go near the club if it was not for dog walkers during the day. One reached the building by a service road, no cars allowed, so Paul had parked his car some 300 metres away and walked at a leisurely pace, up to the bouncer at the entrance. A tall, bald Serbian with shoulders as broad as a garage door, and arms as thick as a car tyre. When he spotted Paul, he waved. Paul approached him, ignoring the queue that had already built, gave Tito a tenner when they shook hands, and in he was. He went straight to the cashier’s booth, where a woman in her forties with short bleach blonde hair and glasses accepted his SFr. 20 note and gave him a rubber stamp on his right wrist. Tonight’s stamp was a blue dragon in a green circle.

The club consisted of three different set-ups. The ground floor housed the dance floor, with the DJ and his equipment in the right corner. It was huge, with a state-of-the-art sound system and strobe lights shining from the ceiling. The windows were blacked out with thick black paint and could not be opened. There were four doors leading to the toilets. Walking up the narrow staircase, fitted with dark red carpet and golden hand railings, there was the first floor, with the main bar. A huge counter, with at least 30 chairs in front of it.

There were three barmen working nonstop. Scattered around the bar were round, black wooden tables with either two or four chairs. He ordered a gin and tonic, sat down at the bar, and relaxed. Saturday night was the best night of the week, with money in his pocket, and him keen to have a good time.

Shortly after 12:30 am, Martin Affolter walked in. They had agreed earlier to meet in the club. Paul waved to Martin, who sat next to him at the bar.

“You look like a man with pussy on his mind. See anything interesting?” Paul greeted him. Martin said nothing, just grinned. In any case, he was not much of a talker. He was slightly taller than Paul, maybe 1.82 metres tall, with dark, full hair, sad brown eyes, and a thin moustache. Paul liked his quiet ways. They had met downtown shortly before he went off to the Army, and had stayed in touch ever since. Martin ordered his usual vodka on ice. He said vodka would smell less on his breath if the police stopped him to look at his registration papers, and his old, worn down Toyota Corolla.

They sat down on the smaller round chairs, starting to look around. By now, the high life night club was already packed, the action in full swing.

The music pumped loud from downstairs. Lots of girls were at the bar by now, working hard to have fun. Tall, short, fat, slim, beautiful, acceptable, and straight out ugly, with the assorted guys around them, like flies on dog shit. A mixed bag of young people from all walks of life; employees, waitresses, bus drivers, clerks, salesmen, public service assholes, hookers and whores, and the local dealer, a short, skinny man by the name of Mouse. He was accepted by the club owner, as long as he was discreet. His role was an additional feature to the club. Paul looked at the girls, and saw one that interested him: a medium-sized dark brunette in a short red skirt, a yellow blouse with no bra and very open in the front, and high heels.