He’d been trying to stifle yawns all morning when he finally gave in to the overwhelming urge and allowed one to weigh his eyelids down. He was not a morning person. Still, he was having as peaceful a Monday as he could, with a half-drunk mug of filter coffee and fresh Gipfeli, courtesy of his secretary. His office was only a short trip from his kitchen, merely ten steps away. As such, he never had to wake up too early or hurry when dressing in his usual attire of a plain coral shirt, gray cashmere sweater, and jeans.
He was one of the few renowned Swiss lawyers who used his house as an office or who owned a house, for that matter, on a street adjacent to Paradeplatz, one of Zürich’s central squares. If he forgot to shut his bedroom door, he’d provide a client with the view of a messy bed through a narrow door slit or even a half-naked girlfriend on some lucky days. Truth was, he couldn’t care less. He had won so many cases that his ego had been stroked to the point of it not mattering whether his clients judged him at first sight, although not many did. And those who did did so favorably.
Perhaps his unusual exterior for a lawyer, with his disheveled blond hair and rugged build, courtesy of years spent skiing down the most arduous Alpine slopes and mountain climbing on the weekends also played a part in that. But he already knew that from his secretary’s habit of arriving early every morning to admire his shower-damp figure.
Was he slightly arrogant? Yes, obviously so. But a man of his accomplishments had no rational reason not to be.
And so, his secretary had come early again to the glass cavern of oceanic shades he called an office. When the doorbell rang, he had been at leisure for forty minutes, indulging in his breakfast. He dusted the crumbs off of his jumper and shouted:
“If that’s Herr Fischer, tell him he’s too late. Both for our appointment and to win his case.”
No sympathy could be elicited from him, even though he’d been grateful that his client had not shown up at 9 o’clock.
“Sir,” his secretary replied, coming to meet him in his office. “Herr Fischer got held up. You have new clients. Apparently, they’re very keen on meeting you and couldn’t call ahead to make an appointment. A Herr Grimavi.”
Winzeler’s brow creased:
“Who?”
“Gr…”
“Grimavi,” they entered, interrupting his secretary and pushing past her. The three men walked unwaveringly into the forty-year-old lawyer’s office and straight to the opposite side of his desk. The leader of the trio extended his hand:
“Herr Winzeler,” he said, “I don’t think we’ve had the pleasure yet. I am Claude Henri Duc d’Grimavi. And these are my brethren,” he indicated his companions who each took a seat on the sand armchairs without waiting for them to be offered. “We are here on invaluable business. Business, I strongly believe, you will be quite interested in.”
Though he’d been stunned at first, Winzeler recovered quickly on hearing those words:
“Please, call me Peter. Feel free to make yourselves at home. Nina,” he looked at his intrigued secretary, “I suppose until my 10 o’clock arrives, we can offer the gentlemen here tea or coffee?”
“No, thank you, Fräulein,” Grimavi said, waving away the secretary, “I’d like to get straight down to business.”
The secretary retreated and Winzeler waited for his office door to shut before seating himself at his desk to address his guests:
“Well, gentlemen, what trouble might you happen to be in?”
Grimavi chuckled:
“Herr Winzeler, do we look like the type of people who would need that sort of help?”
Winzeler frowned. He disliked being referred to by his family name as though he were his father.
“The most unexpected things can happen to the most unsuspecting people,” he simply retorted, keeping his wits.
“Yes,” the Grand Master seemed pleased with this statement as he nodded, “in fact, how a person reacts to the unexpected often reveals his true character. Shall we discover yours?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Herr Winzeler, let me address the elephant in the room by introducing myself and my brethren as the knights of the Knights Templar. We are here to present to you a rather unique case.”
Winzeler, uncertain initially of what to make of the old man’s remarks, felt his mood shift immediately:
“Unique as it may be, you’ll first have to explain to me why your association with a medieval cult should be of any interest to me. I had assumed you were businessmen in need of legal advice for your company.”
Grimavi smiled, rather pleased that he had at least heard the name ‘Knights Templar.’ He ignored the lawyer’s reply:
“The Knights Templar are the founders of this nation. We are the creators of Switzerland and also its most prominent bank, SWB, which we now want to have back.”
Winzeler’s enthusiasm was fading fast. The only thing that kept him listening was the confidence the man sitting across from him was displaying. Anyone asking him to claim ownership of a bank had to be a banker, not a knight. And in Winzeler’s view, bankers were so deeply immersed in corporate culture that they lacked independent convictions, relying heavily on external guidance. Yet, the man before him didn’t fit this mold. He’d give this travesty just a few more minutes to play out. So, he said:
“I see. And what proof do you have of the statement you’ve just made?”
The Grand Master asked:
“Are you familiar with the history of SWB, Herr Winzeler?”
“Only vaguely. I once knew someone interested in it,” the lawyer answered matter-of-factly.
“SWB was set up some 150 years ago by one of our greatest ancestors to finance the expansion of the railroad network as well as the further industrialization of our nation.”
“If I understand correctly who you’re talking about, he also founded our technical university. What I don’t get is what this has got to do with your organization.”
“Just that our brethren at the time put down 80% of the seed money for the bank.”
It was hard not to be intrigued by this.
“Really?” Winzeler asked. “And there are share certificates to prove this?”
“Indeed, there are!” the older man replied. “In the form of bearer shares.”
The lawyer was visibly astonished:
“You’re saying you’re in possession of bearer shares that date back to the founding of SWB?”
“No, I’m saying that they exist. You should listen more carefully, Herr Winzeler; I never said they were in our possession,” Grimavi stated indifferently.
“Where are they?” Winzeler asked.
“In a vault at SWB,” Grimavi said plainly.
“Have you ever seen them?” the lawyer pressed on.
“Herr Winzeler, we’re talking about documents that are over 150 years old. I may look ancient to you, but being the Grand Master of the Knights Templar doesn’t make me immortal.”
“Do you at least know where they are exactly?”
“Yes, of course, in one of the vaults at the bank headquarters.”
“Yes, but which vault, Herr Grimavi?”
“Ah, that is for you to help us find out, Herr Winzeler.”
“And how do you suggest I do that, Herr Grimavi?” the lawyer challenged.
“You can start by filing this injunction,” the Grand Master said and handed over a one-page letter.
The lawyer leaned forward in his chair and, taking a glance at what was written on it, said:
“Aside from the fact that both of these items will be dismissed immediately, Herr Grimavi, you don’t need an expensive lawyer like me for this. Any lawyer at a cheap high-street firm can do this for you. My hourly rate is steep, and I don’t offer discounts.”
He pushed the letter back toward Grimavi.
The Grand Master sat silently with an expressionless face as if waiting for the lawyer to change his mind and say something different when Winzeler did indeed change the topic:
“Just out of morbid curiosity, do you actually believe what you said before that your Knights Templar organization helped the founding of Switzerland? I’ve never heard this mentioned anywhere in the history books.”
“Tell me, Herr Winzeler, what do you make of the seal on the letterhead here?” Grimavi asked, placing one leg over the other while pointing to the letter he had handed out to the lawyer earlier. He was visibly enthusiastic that the conversation was turning the way he wanted.
“What do you expect me to make of it?” Winzeler retorted, nevertheless looking at the letterhead again, more careful this time, to notice the rather peculiar shape.
“Herr Grimavi, what is it you are waiting for me to discern?” he asked. “It looks like a cross, like that of the Red Cross, only with strange edges…” he continued. “Thinking about it, the Red Cross was founded in Switzerland some 150 years ago… Maybe you should claim that instead of SWB,” he chuckled, thinking he had made a good joke to illustrate how ridiculous the idea of getting involved with a powerful bank was.
But seeing that the old man remained cold, he concluded:
“Then again, there are many symbols with crosses, just not square ones.”
“Those crosses represent Christ and Christianity. However, the square cross represents the Church. We are the protectors of the Church. What history do you know of the Swiss flag?”
The lawyer shrugged:
“Only the school tale; that in the wars fought in the 13th century, the villagers’ clothes were soaked red in blood except for a single piece of white clothing left unstained where there was a cross.”
“Well, firstly, the peasants never wore white, Herr Winzeler. However, our brethren, the Knights Templar did. Secondly, what you’re indeed thinking of are the so-called white knights fighting together with the peasants you find in Swiss mythical stories, legendary folklore, and songs.”
“No, I’m afraid you’re mistaken. Myths and legends apart, there’s no mention of the Knights Templar in 13th century Switzerland.”
“You are quite right,” Grimavi conceded, “but that is the point. That there isn’t. And yet, does it seem plausible to you that a group of Swiss peasants from the cantons, ignorant to the ways of war, defeated the greatest army of their time with pitchforks?”
“The history books’ words,” Winzeler said, “not mine.”
“The words of history books indeed, because that is how we decided they should be written. The world is full of believers that history is objective. They are imbeciles. History is but a tool, to let the ignorant think the way we want them to. Those foolish herds will believe any tall tale that flatters their heritage if fed to them by the correct authority. You’re not a fool though, are you, Herr Winzeler?”
The Grand Master challenged the lawyer for a moment, holding his stare before adding to his speech a whisper of final words:
“And ever since the fools were conditioned to ridicule anyone who questions authority, it’s almost no fun anymore.”
“Is your point simply that there is a resemblance between your letterhead and the Swiss flag, Herr Grimavi? Is that it? This is the argument of a five-year-old.”
“My dear lawyer friend, a five-year-old is not sophisticated but often the most objective observer. Didn’t it ever seem strange to you, as an educated man having studied Swiss history, how the Swiss, who were simple farmers in the 12th and 13th centuries, within only 20 years became the best soldiers on the face of the earth? Most feared mercenaries, well-organized, technically and strategically powerful enough to defeat the largest and strongest armies in Europe? Those mercenary forces were the reason why our nation became and remains one of the richest on the planet.”
“Again, history is history and actually not my strong suit, Herr Grimavi. I’m a lawyer… whose time is expensive, I must add.”
Ignoring Winzeler’s remark, the Grand Master pressed on:
“But you have to admit that the Swiss of the 14th and 15th centuries must have additionally been quite the intellectuals to then be able to become the best bankers in the world…”
“They were geniuses,” he retorted.
“And then, how on earth did farmers from the Swiss Alps, who first woke up one day and chose to become the best warriors on the face of the planet, then later the best bankers, then acquire enough fortune to lend to kings?”
As the proud Swiss he was, what the old man was saying was caressing his pride. He wasn’t a blind nationalist but had always been fond of what his ancestors had achieved. He thought of himself as patriotic. So, whether during business hours or not, it was inspiring to hear positive things about his nation for a change, when everyone in the international arena seemed to be putting the Swiss down. And yet, he’d reached the end of his tolerance.
“Herr Grimavi,” Winzeler straightened up to conclude the conversation when he was interrupted once again:
“Fantastic watch, by the way,” the Grand Master said. “Vacheron?”
Winzeler instinctively glanced down at his wrist.
“Yes, it is…” the young lawyer trailed off. He scrutinized his watch. A gift from his father upon completion of law school. There, for the first time, he noticed another strange square cross similar to that on the letterhead, embossed on the dial.
“The art of Swiss watchmaking, another enterprise, according to current Swiss history, developed by farmers and peasants who, conveniently, also amassed enough know-how from one day to the next to build the most complicated mechanisms for precision watches.”
The lawyer shook his head incredulously:
“Linking that as well now, are we?”
“Of course, Herr Winzeler, only linking everything, all of which are relevant.”
“You’re not going to ask me to seize Vacheron Constantin as well for you, or maybe Rolex?” Winzeler joked.
The Grand Master just grinned.
“Herr Grimavi, every second-grade student in this country knows its history. And each knows it rather differently than how you are pitching it to me. I am an attorney; my job is to think in terms of not my convictions but those of the opposition in court, the judge, the jury, and honestly, the rest of the country in this case.”
The doorbell rang, echoing its tune across the office. It was time to end this entertaining morning escapade. Winzeler, gathering his wits, stood up and, in his most business-like demeanor, spoke:
“Gentlemen, my next client is here. Thank you for coming in and the… well… unusual stories. My secretary will get back to you.”
The men knew that they had been dismissed. Bidding silent ‘good days,’ they exited the lawyer’s office, to his surprise, without protest. Meeting adjourned.
