The music sweeping through the air of the luxurious and singularly high-class Baur au Lac was as subtle to the ear as a whisper, complementing the atmosphere of dangling golden chandeliers, crisply folded handkerchiefs, and giant decorative centerpieces at the Michelin-starred Pavillon. The lake-side restaurant was a true reflection of exclusivity, the kind that turned away any man not well-bred enough to wear a silk tie and matching pocket square with it.
Once an accessory of Croatian war officers, the tie had become a classic element of upper-class attire reserved for modern-day foot-soldiers: bankers, lawyers, and businessmen… among whom existed as high-caliber personalities as the CEO of SWB, who was on that particular day being followed to his window-side table at the Pavillon by the general counsel of the bank. He had reluctantly and discreetly ordered his client advisors not to wear ties when traveling abroad after one of them had been arrested in the United States. Thus, seeing Swiss bankers in Hawaiian shirts when away was no longer out of the ordinary. But here, at the heart of Zürich, they were on home turf, safe and secure, and could be civilized.
“Herr Donati,” the maître d’ greeted the newly seated Roberto Donati, a rather charismatic Italian-Swiss CEO of fifty-six years with slightly graying dark hair and emotionless brown eyes. “Herr Hutter,” the maître d’ smiled again, acknowledging Donati’s companion as well, before asking: “What may I offer you, gentlemen? The usual, perhaps?”
“No usual, today we are to be adventurous,” Donati announced. “I’ll take a gin martini to start. Dirk?” He turned to his companion, a man with slightly German looks, balding blond hair, and a tinge of pride in his speech.
“A scotch and soda,” the lawyer ordered.
The maître d’ nodded:
“Certainly. And may I recommend the lobster today?”
Though Hutter parted his mouth, Donati wouldn’t allow him the satisfaction of feeling in charge.
“We’ll take lobster first and be ready to order our mains in a moment,” he announced.
The maître d’ bowed and left.
Donati needed but a glance at the menu set before him:
“It’s duck season,” he reminded his lawyer and himself.
Hutter, though looking at the menu, wasn’t really interested in food at that particular moment. This occasion was perhaps the second time his boss had ever asked him to dine with him. He was preoccupied with questioning the reason behind the invitation.
“May I take your order, Herr Donati?” a waiter appeared.
“Yes, canard de challans for me,” the CEO answered.
The drinks had been served by the bartender, the lawyer realized, while he had been lost in thought.
“And for you, Herr Hutter?” the waiter turned to him.
“The same for me. But tell the cook to go easy on the spices,” the lawyer said. He wasn’t quite sure what he would be getting, but he couldn’t go too wrong requesting a slightly bland version of Donati’s selection.
“And for your choice of wine?” the waiter asked.
Donati ordered a priceless Château Lafite Rothschild.
The aperitifs were sipped. Then, Hutter decided that it was time for business.
“We’ve once again gone through the fourth revision of the policy changes, as you requested,” he began. “Our conclusion has not changed, and I have to insist…”
Donati interrupted his lawyer within seconds:
“For the last time, Dirk, we’re bankers, not tax collectors for dirty politicians. You know damn well that our clients park their money here, not only because they want to evade taxes, which they can do in a million other ways, by the way, but because they want privacy… they don’t trust their corrupt governments, or their spouses for that matter… How can we do banking like this? It’s like you trying to practice law without client privilege.”
The lawyer took the remark quite literally, offended:
“Sir, I didn’t change the law. I’m merely interpreting it.”
“Well, interpret it differently then,” Donati said. “Do you know how many clients we’ve lost because of the profiling requirements your people have set up? Honestly, I would withdraw my money as well if I were treated like a criminal just because I’m rich… scrutinized from morning to night. We have whole teams sifting through clients’ social media, recording their every move all the time for God’s sake. They can’t do any business without asking us for permission first. You have money in Switzerland, you must be a crook… To make everyone believe exactly that was their strategy in the first place.”
Donati stopped talking abruptly when the waiter approached to place two rather enticing lobster medallions in front of them. But Hutter had lost his appetite. Donati could be a flamboyant character. And yet, nothing tested Hutter’s patience like emotion when it came to business. It was also clear to him that Donati’s sentimentality fed into the stress, the CEO might have otherwise navigated more easily. Nevertheless, as the lawyer he was, he pressed on:
“Whose strategy, Roberto?”
Having tasted the lobster, Donati had calmed himself in true hedonistic fashion.
“Never mind. It’ll be over soon,” he said, indulging in another greedy bite.
“How are we doing on the matter of the Arabs, QAB? You know you have less than seven weeks to finalize everything, right?”
“Yes, I do know that,” Hutter said. “But Roberto, are you absolutely sure you want to support this? I have asked you this before, but with the shares that the British control through BRB, if they were to collaborate with QAB, they could easily take over the board.”
Donati shot Hutter an intense look.
“The bank will not survive without the injection of this capital. We have lost too much blood… by our own doing, I might add. Besides, with the chairman retiring, this is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity.”
Hutter objected:
“Look, there was nothing anyone could have done after those accusations toward us, of all people, helping terrorists with money laundering.”
Donati leaned in and whispered:
“Yeah, right, terrorists… The usuals.”
And then, aside from the clatter of their forks and knives, both men sat in heavy silence, only interrupted by the waiter arriving to collect their plates, followed by the sommelier bringing them the wine alongside a large wine decanter in what looked like a complex mechanism. Exemplifying his unique training, the sommelier first showed the bottle to Donati and then, after his nod of permission, opened it expertly. Then, following the age-old ritual, he smelt the cork, tasted the wine in his tastevin, poured it ever so gently into the decanter through a tulle, and shook the decanter many times in a counterclockwise fashion. When the wine was ready, he put the decanter back into the mechanism and started turning a tiny wheel, which made the decanter tilt gently to fill the wine glass. Donati’s lips curved into a wide smile. He approved.
The ducks had been served, and Donati was now in a good mood.
“Look, Dirk, we won’t survive the upcoming digital currency wars on our own. It’s been decided. You just make sure the paperwork is ready.”
But, somewhat less impressed by the extravagance around him, Hutter remained unconvinced.
“What you’re saying is, with SWB changing hands, Switzerland as a premiere banking center is over. Is that it?”
Donati flatly dismissed the question:
“As I said, it won’t be our problem soon.”
Hutter cut through his duck with skepticism. There were other solutions. Obvious ones at that. It was clear to him that the CEO’s decisions were fueled by one motivation only: To collect his golden parachute and jump, whatever the consequences for SWB. There was nothing too shocking in this. Donati was the epitome of a classic banker if ever there was one. Hutter couldn’t fault him for his inclinations. He could only be wary that if Donati had his golden parachute secured, he also needed one – and fast. After the recent referendum, it had become clear to executives in Switzerland that the days of exorbitant bonuses would end sooner than desired. And so:
“Don’t worry,” Hutter simply said. “We’ll be ready.”
The duck wasn’t half bad.
Donati didn’t seem concerned, delighting in the taste of his wine. After another big sip:
“Anyway, there is something else we must discuss,” he said.
He reached into his inner jacket pocket, retrieved a letter, and placed it on the table.
“This landed on my desk this morning. I look forward to hearing your expert opinion on it.”
Hutter observed the CEO, somewhat nervous. He didn’t have to counsel Donati that it was imprudent to carry official documents outside the premises of the bank and put them on display during lunch. And yet, he didn’t immediately take issue with Donati’s actions as he glimpsed down at the square cross on the letterhead with suspicion. Placing his cutlery on his plate, he gingerly lifted the paper and started reading the letter, raising his eyes after a few minutes to ask:
“Is this a joke?”
“That was what I was intending to ask you,” Donati said, all but licking the sauce off his plate. “When I first looked at it, I thought it must be. But then I saw the name of your good old friend there who is supposed to be their lawyer.”
“Peter Winzeler is not my friend,” Hutter protested. “I am his senior by twenty-two years. And if he’s going along with an absurdity of this sort, then the little professional respect I had for him is now lost. But I’ve heard nothing confirming that he is involved in this. Only his name on this sheet of paper.”
Having said that, Hutter knew all too well about the cases that Winzeler had won, some of them against him. He had been nicknamed the ‘deal-breaker’ due to his clear anti-establishment sentiment and refusal to settle matters the way large corporations would have wanted him to.
“These clowns visited the bank yesterday,” Donati then said. “They even had the audacity to ask to speak to me…”
“What do you want me to do about this?” Hutter asked, keen to sort the matter. “It’s a meaningless letter from some lunatics. It has no legal bearing whatsoever. You should have thrown it into the garbage if you ask me.”
At that, Donati raised his brow, placing both elbows on the table as he regarded Hutter.
“I want you to take this very seriously,” he warned. “I don’t know enough about the past dealings of the bank to judge this properly. But I know this: Nothing should endanger the QAB deal. I’ll try to get more information in the coming days. In the meantime, I want you to handle this personally. Winzeler will try to do something… stir up some trouble. Be prepared… And no word of it to anyone else. Anyone, you understand? Keep the letter at a private place, at home or something.”
And at just that moment…
“Roberto!”
His name was called by a man his elder by twenty-seven years with rectangular spectacles and an infectious smile.
“Sebastian!”
Donati, somewhat perplexed by lousy timing, tried to stand up to shake the old man’s hand in greeting.
“Your porte-monnaie is too heavy to get up again, I see,” the old man joked. And after a round of laughter, “I was wondering when I was going to run into you here next,” he said to his protégé.
Having taken the remark literally:
“Frantic days. I can’t get out as much as I’d like to,” Donati said to none other than Sebastian Heller, an ex-chairman of the bank, who possessed the most in-depth knowledge of the history of Switzerland and who had become one of the most sought-after consultants in the country after his retirement. It had been he who had recommended Donati to his current post. After all, even the most coveted education and experience weren’t enough to bag the top job in the country. In addition to an obligatory high military rank, you needed friends in higher places. And it definitely helped if those friends had certain memberships.
Heller acknowledged the bank lawyer with a slight head gesture before turning back to Donati:
“Yes, well Roberto, you should be busy. I have to say, I’d hate to be in your shoes right now…”
The old man suddenly trailed off. Heller’s eyes widened past the frame of his spectacles. His face lost all color. Almost inaudible, he whispered:
“They ignored me…”
An expression of concern flashed across both the CEO’s and the lawyer’s faces as they desperately tried to help the seemingly paralyzed ex-chairman recover.
“Sebastian?” Donati batted the old man’s wrinkled cheeks with his hand for a reaction. “We need some water here!” he announced.
The maître d’ was by their side immediately. Another waiter pulled a chair to seat the old man down. It was then that Donati for the first time realized fear register, as he looked down to spot the object the older man’s eyes had been fixated on. There it had been casually left on the table with an almost visually pulsing seal. The letter…
The deed had been done. As Heller was assisted by both the CEO and the lawyer to see a doctor, a curious onlooker from an opposite table peered across to catch the object that had been the cause of such a fiasco. The lawyer had grabbed the letter as they had left, but it had been too late. The onlooker, one of many foreign bank agents populating the lake-side haven, had already seen the letterhead.
The unfortunate incident at the Baur au Lac would be reported from bank to bank in a matter of days, echoing through the ancient stone masonry of the City of London, reaching its most discreet corners.
