Come late afternoon, Winzeler decided it was a good day to go by Zeughaus Keller for the seasonal meat as an early supper. His last appointment had left, and Nina would finish his administrative tasks. Putting on his leather jacket, he was optimistic that they would accommodate him at his usual corner table, even without a reservation.
Prancing down the stairs of his building and into the open, desperate for the fresh air, he found another surprise waiting for him.
“Herr Winzeler!” Grimavi exclaimed, getting out of a black Mercedes-Maybach. “I had a feeling you’d want to go out after work. Would you join me for a short walk?”
Winzeler attempted to conceal his frown. While Grimavi’s intrusion was a blow to his plans for a quiet dinner, he had to admit, it was not entirely unwelcome. It was inevitable that thoughts of their earlier appointment, one of the few client meetings leaving him with a sense of curiosity, would be plaguing him as he ate. Perhaps this was the opportunity to get more clarification – not that he could make Grimavi weary of this. Good lawyers were keen, but better ones knew to play hard to get after all…
“I thought I told you my secretary would call you back, Herr Grimavi,” Winzeler simply said. “I’m afraid I’ve stepped away from my desk for the day, and I’m fairly certain I’ve yet to charge you for this morning.”
Grimavi seemed to stifle a chuckle.
“Give me fifteen minutes more, and I pledge I shall leave you alone,” he replied.
And there it was again, in the old man’s eyes, the flicker of confidence he had been impressed by earlier. He looked at the sky to check the weather – just a few clouds and maybe around ten or twelve degrees. Walking down Bahnhofstrasse to the lake and back could be pleasant.
“Fifteen minutes,” Winzeler nodded, and they began their promenade, walking silently for a while.
“Tell me, Herr Winzeler, do you love your country?” Grimavi then asked, without taking his eyes off the lake now appearing in the distance.
“Of course, I do. What kind of question is that Herr Grimavi?” the lawyer replied.
“The kind that would offend a patriot,” Grimavi interjected. “Which you clearly are. And as a patriot, Herr Winzeler, you deserve to know, if you do not already, that our country is in grave danger.”
Taken aback by this sudden sentimental outburst, Winzeler eyed Grimavi curiously:
“Pray tell, Herr Grimavi, what kind of danger?”
Grimavi expertly ignored any hint of sarcasm in Winzeler’s tone.
“Our heritage, the work of centuries, is under attack from all sides,” Grimavi began, his gentle voice almost sad that Winzeler had to ask the question. “The basic principles of privacy and trust, together with our reliable currency, are the main pillars on which our banking system stands, and they are trying to pull them from under our feet. The kids at the bank… They got greedy… Almost lost control during the 2008 crisis. There are more foreigners on the SWB Board by now than Swiss. We will not be able to absorb another sortie. And this next one will be the most dangerous in 700 years. Those Lombard bastards… We have to get back to the rudder, do you understand? We can’t let these kids gamble with our most valuable asset ever again,” he explained.
Only partially sure what to make of this, Winzeler asked the question:
“Are you talking about the bank secrecy law?”
“Yes, that… and more, much more,” Grimavi replied. “Does this surprise you, Herr Winzeler?”
Though he did not care to admit it, it did.
“You mean there is more to your quest than getting your hands somehow on one of the world’s largest financial organizations and billions with it?” the lawyer challenged.
Grimavi turned, shot a sharp stare at Winzeler, and hissed:
“Don’t make my Merovingian blood boil, Herr Winzeler. I own 1% of SWB. I am rich enough as it is.”
They had reached the lake. Hands in pockets, they appeared calm as they wandered through the twilight across the gravel to the shore. The benches were bare. It was just the two of them.
Winzeler calculated in his head that SWB had to be worth more than 100 billion Swiss francs, which would make Grimavi at least a billionaire. Bankers…
“Congratulations,” he said cynically. “But this makes neither you nor your quest reasonable.”
Grimavi retorted:
“The reasonable man adapts himself to the world; the unreasonable one persists in trying to adapt the world to himself. Therefore, all progress depends on the unreasonable man. Do you know who said that, Herr Winzeler?”
“I may have heard that quote somewhere,” the lawyer shrugged.
The Grand Master calmed down again. Both men gazed out onto the lake. A tranquility was emanating thickly from it, evaporating into the soft air.
“The time has come, Herr Winzeler, to defend our birthright,” Grimavi said, his voice solemn with finality. “It is time we pay back our country for the extraordinary gifts it has bestowed upon us. Despite the Judas amongst us.”
He produced a card from the outer breast pocket of his coat and placed it on the railing of the stone balcony overlooking the lake.
“Call that number,” he said. “Everything that we hold dear depends on it.”
Winzeler evaluated the card and then the old man one last time.
“Herr Grimavi,” he said, a warning tone in his voice, “perhaps I should have been more upfront with you earlier. You should know that I don’t enjoy working for bankers. It’s not my forte.”
Grimavi looked baffled as he raised his brow:
“Why on earth would you assume that my brethren and I are bankers, Herr Winzeler?”
“Who else, if you don’t mind the question, Herr Grimavi,” Winzeler dared ask, “would seek to claim ownership of a bank, other than a banker?”
The glimmer returned to Grimavi’s blue eyes when he took the lawyer by surprise, firmly placing the palm of his hand on Winzeler’s shoulder and smiling as he answered:
“A fellow patriot.”
He nodded his head in a farewell gesture and started walking in the direction of the black Maybach that had in the meantime stopped nearby. Winzeler observed as the younger of the two men in gray suits stepped out of the car’s passenger seat to open the Grand Master’s door for him.
As the Maybach drove off, Winzeler turned back to the lake and leaned over the railing, squinting his eyes into the distance as if to try to clear his mind of the obnoxious character, Grimavi.
It was one of those days when the clouds were thinly spread across the sky and the snow peaks atop the mountains vivid in the far distance. Lake Zürich was lonesome that evening, as it often was. In the cold autumn weather, most trees along the esplanade had started to shed their leaves. The swans had flown off. Even the ducks were scarce. While the tram bells were audible in the distance, the only company the lawyer had was the vision of pristine postcard blue, spread exquisitely across the vista before him.
Was their way of life really being threatened? And, if so, by whom? And, perhaps more importantly, why? Wasn’t everything happening in the banking industry a natural development toward more transparency, security, and fairness? Grimavi had raised more questions than he had answered. And Peter Winzeler was curious.
* * *
The Maybach had made the round back and come to a stop in front of the SWB building. One of the two companion brothers exited the car and walked up to the locked door. There, he conjured an envelope from the inside pocket of his blazer decorated with the ornate seal of the Knights Templar. He delicately dropped it into the bank postal box through a thin slit by the door. The Grand Master watched from his seat, nodding his head to his brother in approval. He knew it would travel up the building and be read eagerly the next morning.
