He stood motionless on the balcony of his king suite, one hand tucked inside his pressed indigo suit, the other holding a crystal glass, the water in it trickling like grains counting down a sand clock. The late September air should have felt icy on this seemingly mundane Monday morning. Yet, he didn’t seem to care. He neither glanced down nor blinked, not once releasing from his sight the target he was all too eager to conquer. As if in an exhilarated state of anticipation, his eyes were fixed on one point: SWB, the most powerful Swiss bank known to both banker and client.
Visibly lost in thought, he tempered the risen hairs of his snow mustache and beard with his thumb several times and let his palm adjust his bright red tie, which looked almost ablaze on his white shirt. For years, he had been a wind-up toy, surely reaching its limit. Soon, it would be over.
When it was time to go, he didn’t have to check his Patek Philippe. He knew.
08:55. As he turned around, he lifted his deep blue eyes beneath clouded brows into his reflection on the balcony door as if reassuring himself of his calculations. Walking through the living room of his suite, he nodded ahead in the direction of a muscular man in a gray suit waiting by the door, who locked the room from the outside after seeing him out. A third man, also in a gray suit and standing expectantly across the hallway, summoned the elevator as soon as he saw the pair approach.
The arrow above the elevator, indicating that it was still on floor two when it was impatiently awaited on floor four, may as well have been ticking in accompaniment of the golden-rimmed eager clock by the sitting area. As the three men stood and waited, each of their movements appeared slow to sight, yet there was electricity radiating through the air which, to the slick eye, caused the shards of the chandeliers to shiver.
08:58. Once in the lobby, the three men headed straight down the triple marble stairs and out into the autumn breeze. A few seconds later, their steps synchronized as they marched in triangular formation across one of Zürich’s busiest squares, not once having to stop for a tram or pedestrian to pass. Every one of their actions looked orchestrated; each pendulum swing coordinated until they reached their target.
09:00. Customarily punctual and unwavering from Swiss protocol, the doors of the bank slid swiftly open and accommodated the three men, whose footsteps echoed past the guards in bank uniform, only to stop in front of the information desk. The blonde clerk, having just assumed her place, started voicing her mandatory pleasantries in an automated fashion:
“Grüezi mitenand. Welcome to SWB. How may I help you?”
The man leading the triangle smiled and, as if uttering the most casual request, said:
“Good day to you too. We would like to see the CEO of the bank.”
Outright confused, the woman answered:
“I beg your pardon, sir, our CEO is not available at the moment. What might this be concerning? Perhaps I can be of further assistance instead.”
But the man insisted:
“No, thank you, dear. I’m afraid it relates to something your CEO will want to hear from a firsthand source.”
The woman stared for a second, gritting her teeth, uncertain of how to proceed. Then, ignoring that she was supposed to rebuff such clientele, in a moment of utter perplexity caused by the unusual mannerisms of these obviously wealthy men standing in front of her, she took her desk phone into her hand and made a call in a heavy Swiss-German accent.
“May I inquire as to a name?” she covered the speaker with her fingers mid-call to ask.
“Tell him Grand Master Grimavi is here to see him. He should know what this means…”
The woman’s look of bewilderment continued to grow as she spoke again into the phone before placing it back down and painting a pleasant smile on her face:
“Herr Grimavi, first floor, if you will.”
The man, an agile, amiable-looking sixty-one-year-old, nodded, guiding his colleagues to the elevator doors. As they stepped onto the first floor, another blonde clerk, this time dressed in the customary suit of the bank, showed them to a meeting room for six and asked if they wished to be served tea, coffee, or water. Having been dismissed with a simple hand gesture, she left, and the three men waited in silence.
At quarter past the hour, a forty-something man with twenty-something looks loudly disrupted the quiet:
“Gentlemen, welcome to SWB. My name’s Uli Buchli. How may I help you today?” he said in an enthusiastic tone, adjusting his square glasses.
Annoyed yet glad to be accommodated, Grimavi smirked mischievously:
“Grüezi. But you are not the CEO of the bank,” he announced.
The younger man took this comment with a laugh:
“God, no. I wish. I am a customer advisor,” he said.
“Ah… Well, you just won’t do then,” Grimavi declared. “We are awaiting your boss.”
Buchli quickly shook his head:
“I’m afraid, sir, our CEO is preoccupied at the moment. He won’t be coming.”
“I’m certain if you tell him about the predicament, he will choose to make an appearance,” Grimavi insisted.
“Sir, I’m afraid not,” Buchli agitatedly replied. “If I cannot help you with whatever your request might be, then I suggest you go.”
“And I suggest, if you want to keep your job here, you call your CEO!” Grimavi suddenly roared.
Even though he had dealt with unsolicited visitors before, Buchli noted that these men did not look delusional. And yet Grimavi’s predatory gaze made him too scared even to breathe.
“Okay, sir. Let’s try this once more,” he gulped. “Do allow me to assist you. To what do we owe your visit?”
For a moment, no one spoke. And then:
“Well, alright,” Grimavi began, changing tack. “I would have said no introductions are necessary but having understood that you’re neither the CEO of the bank nor an insider in matters of politics, I will not assume much. I am the current Grand Master of the Knights Templar, Claude Henri Duc d’Grimavi. And these are my brethren. We are here to take back the ownership of this bank.”
The room was again coated with a heavy silence. Buchli’s smile was a mix of discomfort and disgust, betraying his confusion. Was the old man serious? Of course, he wasn’t. Buchli was looking at a man who had made a joke and was now grinning at him, as though he were a toy wrapped in gold paper at Christmas. He had decided. This was not the prank he wanted to deal with on a Monday morning. It was, in fact, a very ill-conceived joke that didn’t amuse him as he stared at the three men, successfully seeming serious. He could just call security…
Buchli released a dry chuckle, bereft of any humor, and hearing the echo of his own laugh through the quiet, awkwardly transfigured it to a cough:
“Are you serious, sir?”
Grimavi’s face did not once change its expression:
“Do I look as though I have any reason not to be?”
Grimavi addressed his companions then:
“I must say, they’ve done a splendid job with the bank. Truly wonderful upkeeping. Very impressive. Though human resources should be more careful when hiring the staff… Regardless, we should thank them for watching over our bank.”
Then, turning back to the customer advisor, he said:
“Kindest regards. Best wishes. But we’ll take it from here. If you would now inform your CEO that we are here to retrieve the keys of the bank, we shall be on our way.”
Buchli refrained from laughing again.
“I see… Will there be anything else?” he asked.
Grimavi watched the young man continue to squirm.
“Well, I suppose coffee would be excellent while waiting.”
But Buchli was bored of this charade and had had enough humiliation. He stepped out of the room to tell the blonde clerk to call security and then returned to the room as if nothing had happened.
“Now, gentlemen,” he said, “as I can neither call our CEO nor hand over the bank…”
Just then, one of Grimavi’s entourages leaned forward to ask:
“Most Worshipful Grand Master, may I be allowed to reason with the man?”
Grimavi gave a nod over his shoulder. The older of the two men in gray suits turned to the customer advisor and spoke with a sudden sense of authority:
“Herr Buchli, we represent the Knights Templar, who are the legitimate owners of this bank, and you, currently, are our employee. Now, your CEO is but watching over our company, which our ancestors founded with their money, and we are here to relieve him from his duties.”
Buchli had had enough:
“Is this some sort of a TV joke? I thought it would be over by now… Knights don’t live here anymore. This is the 21st century. Which mental hospital did you gentlemen escape from?”
A security officer entered the meeting room. The Grand Master raised his voice again:
“Do not try my patience. Your role here is but to call your CEO.”
“I can’t call the goddamn CEO for a joke. I’ll lose my job!” Buchli fired back.
Grimavi and his brethren stood up and walked steadily to the defeated figure of the man.
“Oh, but you already have,” Grimavi said. “We shall see soon who is joking.”
Grimavi indicated to the guard that they would be leaving by themselves, and without a further word, the three men assembled behind one another and left.
09:32. As the clueless security guard eyed the room, Buchli sank into his chair, exhausted. He had every intention to forget about the incident, but when he arrived at his office upstairs on the second floor, something compelled him to report what had occurred to his supervisor.
09:44. The phone rang on the top floor.
