RIVETING NOVEL

Chapter 1

He stood motionless on the balcony of his king suite, one hand tucked inside the jacket of his pressed indigo suit, the other holding a crystal glass, where bubbles rose and vanished every fleeting second. The late September air should have felt icy on this 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-white mustache and beard with his thumb several times and adjusted his bright red tie, which looked almost ablaze against his white shirt. For years, he had been like 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. He put the empty glass on the ornate metal table.

08:55. Turning around, he lifted his deep blue eyes to his reflection in 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, might as well have been ticking in accompaniment to the golden-rimmed clock by the sitting area. As the three men stood and waited, each of their movements appeared slow to sight, yet there was electricity flowing through the air, which seemingly 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 perfectly 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; 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 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 sixty-six-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 enthusiastically, adjusting his square glasses.

Annoyed yet glad to be accommodated, Grimavi smirked.

“Grüezi. But you are not the CEO of the bank.”

The younger man took this comment with a laugh.

“God, no. I wish. I’m a customer advisor.”

“Ah… Well, you just won’t do then,” Grimavi declared. “We’re awaiting your boss.”

Buchli quickly shook his head.

“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.

“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.

Although he had dealt with unsolicited visitors before, Buchli noted that these men didn’t look delusional. And yet, Grimavi’s predatory gaze made him too scared even to breathe.

“Okay. 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 de Grimavi. And these are my brethren. We’re 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 sincere. 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?”

Grimavi’s face did not once change its expression.

“Do I look like I have any reason not to be?”

He addressed his companions then:

“I must say, they’ve done a splendid job with the bank. Truly wonderful upkeep. Very impressive. Even though human resources ought to be more careful when hiring staff… Regardless, we should thank them for watching over our bank.”

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’re 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 inquired.

Grimavi watched the young man continue to squirm.

“Well, I suppose coffee would be excellent while waiting.”

Buchli was bored with this charade. He stepped out to tell the blonde clerk to call security and returned to the room as if nothing had happened.

“Now, gentlemen,” he declared, “as I can neither call our CEO nor hand over the bank…”

Just then, one of Grimavi’s entourage leaned forward to ask:

“Most Worshipful, may I be allowed to reason with the man?”

When Grimavi gave a nod, 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 are currently our employee. Now, your CEO is merely watching over our company, which our ancestors founded with their money, and we’re here to relieve him of 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 brothers 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.”

Without a further word, the three men left.

09:32. As the clueless security officer 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.

Chapter 2

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 home as an office – or, for that matter, owned an apartment – 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. The truth was, he couldn’t care less. He had won so many cases that his ego had been stroked to the point where it no longer mattered whether clients judged him at first sight… though not many did. And those who did generally judged him favorably.

Perhaps his unusual exterior for a lawyer, with his disheveled blond hair and rugged build, a result of years spent skiing down arduous Alpine slopes and mountain climbing on weekends, also played a part in that, which he was reminded of every time his secretary arrived early in the 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 enjoying an extra ten minutes of leisure. Moving over to his desk, he shouted:

“If that’s Herr Fischer, tell him he’s too late for both our appointment and winning his case.”

No sympathy could be elicited from him, even though he was grateful that his client had not shown up at nine-thirty sharp.

“Boss,” his secretary replied, coming to meet him in his office. “It seems 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.”

“Who?”

“Gr…”

“Grimavi,” a man interrupted his secretary, pushing past her to enter. Two others followed him 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 de 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’re here on invaluable business. Business, I strongly believe, you’ll be quite interested in.”

Though he’d been stunned at first, Winzeler recovered quickly upon 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 ten o’clock arrives, we can offer the gentlemen here tea or coffee?”

“No, thank you, Fräulein,” Grimavi replied, waving away the secretary. “I’d like to get straight down to business.”

Nina 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?”

The lawyer 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 older man 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’re here to present to you a rather unique case.”

Winzeler, uncertain initially of what to make of the 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 requesting 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. Yet, the man before him didn't fit this mold. He’d give this travesty just a few more minutes to play out.

“I see. And what proof do you have of the statement you just made?”

Grimavi countered with a question of his own:

“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 blurted out. “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 questioned.

“In a vault at SWB,” Grimavi remarked.

“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, his patience wearing thin.

“You can start by filing this injunction,” the Grand Master affirmed and handed over a one-page letter.

Winzeler 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 older man 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 seen this mentioned in 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 in the direction 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 are you waiting for me to discern?” he continued. “It looks like a cross, like that of the Red Cross, only with strange edges… 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 older 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’re 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 of 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, 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 older man 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!”

“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 Winzeler was, what the old man was saying was caressing his pride. He wasn’t a blind nationalist but had always been fond of his ancestors' achievements. 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,” he 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’re pitching it to me. I’m an attorney; my job is to think in terms of not my convictions but accepted norms.”

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 they had been dismissed. Bidding silent ‘good days,’ they exited the lawyer’s office, to his surprise, without protest. Meeting adjourned.

Chapter 3

Peter Winzeler was bored. As much as he disliked admitting it, he knew he hadn’t beaten himself up year after year in law school to deal with letters before action, insurance policies, and tax exemption clauses. Several billable hours had passed while responding to a client query about a MAC clause, reviewing the final draft of a letter of demand, and educating a client’s in-house legal counsel on how not to file an annual report – a full fifteen-minute period he intended to charge for. He had been instinctively waiting for an opportunity. An opportunity that would give his professional life some meaning.

And now he found himself wondering whether the meeting he’d had that morning, crazy as it had sounded, could feed his ambitions. He needed new clients, after all – clients with new business, deep pockets, and no inhibitions. What bothered him was that they were likely bankers. Yet, at the same time, he knew he wouldn’t get far in his career in Switzerland if he were to swear off all financial service professionals. Perhaps the ‘benefit of the doubt,’ as it were, was in order… But before entertaining the thought beyond his lunch break, he’d have to have reliable information that would hopefully make what he had heard at least plausible.

He needed a source he could trust. He couldn’t get back to Grimavi just yet. And for a minute, he was unsure whether Nina had taken his phone number. But then he remembered the letter. He still had the letter. He picked up his phone and dialed a number. The phone rang about six times before he heard the sound of his old friend, now a history professor at the University of Lucerne.

“Ciao! You’ve reached the voicemail of Danilo Albero,” the recording answered in a heavy Swiss-Italian accent. “Leave your message after the tone, and I will get back to you as soon as I can.”

Winzeler had met Albero while they were both studying at Zürich University. Even though Albero was four years older than him, they had clicked at once, both being fond of idealistic worldviews and long-legged women. They had had fiery philosophical discussions of all sorts while eating together at the Mensa or having coffee breaks at the glass-domed Lichthof of the university.

The tone sounded.

“Dani, it’s that old friend of yours, Peter. How are you?” Winzeler spoke into the phone. “Listen, I have a bit of a case on my hands straight up your alley…”

“Peter Winzeler?” Albero cut him off. “Is that really you? I thought you’d finally suffocated under a pile of angry women.”

Winzeler grinned, burying his back into his chair to relax.

“Point taken. I haven’t been in touch over the past couple of months. How’ve you been, Dani? How’s that gorgeous teaching assistant of yours?”

“Eh, well, you know… Nothing changes much here. And as for Renée, Winzeler, come to think of it, it’s actually you that I have to blame for my scheduling problems…”

“Ah, she quit, didn’t she? Can’t say I blame her with the company you choose to keep, Dani,” Winzeler said. He’d missed his old friend.

“Ha, very funny… I’ll be better off when you finally get married and stop dating my secretaries… and students, for that matter.” His tone of voice changed. “But seriously, Peter, listen, I have a lecture in about twenty minutes. Can I call you back in two hours when I’m done?”

“I wish, Dani, but I’m afraid I’ll have to leave before that.” This was a lie forged by simple impatience. Like his friend, the professor, Winzeler also had twenty minutes until his next engagement, and by that time, he wanted to have a clear mind.

“This’ll only take a few minutes. You think you can spare that much time before another controversial lecture?”

“Well, it’s about globalization this time, so nothing too exciting. I guess I could give you five minutes to entertain me.”

Winzeler smiled with satisfaction.

“I have this rather peculiar case that I got this morning, Dani. What do you know of the Knights Templar?”

Albero exhaled loudly into the speaker. And then:

“Well, of all questions… Originally, the Knights Templar were a small group of so-called warrior monks, nine, I think, who, at the beginning of the crusades, decided to build a force to help protect the pilgrims on their way from Europe to the Holy Lands. When they arrived in Jerusalem, they were given lodging by the King in a wing of the royal palace on the Temple Mount in the captured Al-Aqsa Mosque. The Temple Mount had a mystique because it was above what was believed to be the ruins of the Temple of Solomon, so they came to be known as the Knights Templar. At first, they had few financial resources and relied on donations to survive. As far as I can recall, they stayed in Jerusalem for a time, apparently digging under the Temple and not really protecting anyone. I don’t know how many pilgrims nine men could have protected anyway. Then, suddenly, one day, as they up and came, they up and left for Europe. In France, an important Church figure, Saint Bernard of Clairvaux, who was…”

“Any relation to the St. Bernard dog?” Winzeler suddenly interjected.

The professor fell silent for a second and then answered:

“Not that I know of… Where are you going with this?”

“Never mind then,” Winzeler wanted them back on track. “You were saying?”

Recalling his chain of thought quickly, Albero continued:

“Well, with the help of Bernard of Clairvaux, who was a relative of two of the knights, the Knights Templar were officially approved and endorsed by the Church at the Council of Troyes. Suddenly, they became a favored charity throughout Christendom, receiving money, land, businesses, and noble-born sons from families eager to help with the fight in the Holy Lands. A few years later, the Pope even exempted them from obedience to local laws, which meant they could pass freely through all borders, were not required to pay any taxes, and were exempt from all authority except that of the Pope.” Then, Albero had to check his watch. “Long story short, Peter, in a few years, the Knights Templar became rich enough to lend money to the kings of Europe. So much so that their fate was sealed when the King of France, Philippe IV, whom the French called Philippe Le Bel, had them arrested. He finally annihilated them by burning them at the stake in Paris in order not to pay his debts. Is that enough for you for now?”

“Almost,” Winzeler said, distracted. “How do you think they got that rich so fast?”

Albero, a true lecturer and lover of history, could not help himself from continuing:

“Well, there have been many rumors. Some say they found a treasure under Temple Mount; others say they found the Treasure of Solomon itself. Even items such as the Holy Grail or the bowl of John the Baptist…”

“What do you think?” Winzeler insisted.

Albero pondered for a second.

“I think all those rumors are unsubstantiated rubbish. Material for second-class novelists. Apart from the donations and exemptions I mentioned earlier, the Knights Templar established an early version of what we might call ‘international global banking,’” he then explained.

And there it was. Banking.

“After the capture of Jerusalem, European pilgrims wanted to travel to the Holy Lands, leaving their estates for safekeeping. So, the Knights Templar invented trust funds. And the route to Jerusalem was full of dangers. Pilgrims were mugged in curved corners, stolen from, raped… They needed some means to keep their money safe until they reached their destination. So, the Knights Templar established a system much like the travelers’ checks. Pilgrims would deposit their money at one of the Knights Templar castles or strongholds, which could be found all over Europe, and, in return, receive an encrypted deed. This document could only be read by the Templars, using a decryption device, after which the deposited amount would be paid out to the identified owner.”

“In the 12th century?” Winzeler raised his brow.

“They were able to build such perfect mechanisms that it was impossible to decipher a letter encoded with one of their encryption devices,” Albero reassured him.

“What kind of mechanism are we talking about?”

“Like that of precision watches,” Albero said. And then he rechecked the time.

On the other end of the line, Winzeler was silent, heavy in thought. But his friend was getting desperate to leave.

“They seemingly amassed such a fortune with their banking operations that they built up a Europe-wide, cross-border empire that even included a huge fleet of ships to carry pilgrims to the Holy Lands straight from Italy,” Albero impulsively added. “I’ve really got to go, Peter. Shall I call you back later?”

Winzeler thought for a second.

“No need,” he announced then. “Just one last question, I’ll be fast.”

Albero hesitated. But he was tempted.

“Fast,” he forced.

“Do you know of any connection between the Knights Templar and the formation of Switzerland?”

“Well…” Albero evaluated. “No, not that history speaks of. It is mentioned that the Knights Templar later continued in Portugal as the Knights of Christ. They also seem to have appeared in Scotland, where they are supposed to have started modern-day Scottish Freemasonry. There are even rumors that the Knights Templar traveled to America before Columbus and spread further to many regions. However, for all I know, I’ve never heard of a supposed connection between the Knights Templar and Switzerland… Even though, Peter,” Albero paused for a second. “I must admit, that is a rather fascinating proposition.”

There was a smile in Albero’s secretive last words Winzeler could hear.

“I’ll let you go now, Dani. Take care of yourself,” he told his friend.

“And you as well, Peter,” he quickly answered.

The line went silent.

Chapter 4

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, desperate for some 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. Thoughts of their earlier appointment – one of the few client meetings that had left him feeling genuinely curious – were bound to plague him as he ate. Perhaps this was an 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 said plainly. “I’m afraid I’ve stepped away from my desk for the day, and I'm fairly certain I have 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 said, and they began their promenade, strolling silently for a while.

“Tell me, Herr Winzeler, do you love your country?” Grimavi then asked, without taking his eyes off the lake, which was now appearing in the distance.

“Of course I do. What kind of question is that, Herr Grimavi?” the lawyer responded.

“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 sort 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’re 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.

“Are you talking about the bank secrecy law?” Winzeler queried.

“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’m 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 sneered. “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 declared, his voice solemn with finality. “It is time we paid 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.

“Herr Grimavi,” he cautioned, “perhaps I should have been more upfront with you earlier. I must tell you 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 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.

As the Maybach drove off, Winzeler turned back to the lake and leaned over the railing, squinting into the distance, as if trying to clear his mind of the bizarre character, Grimavi.

It was one of those days when the clouds were thinly spread across the sky and the snow peaks atop the shady 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 faintly audible, the only company the lawyer had was the vision of pristine postcard navy blue, spread exquisitely across the vista before him.

Was their way of life really being threatened? 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 stopped 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 in approval. He knew it would travel up the building and be read eagerly the next morning, setting in motion a cascade of events that he was sure would lead to his victory.

Chapter 5

The music sweeping through the luxurious and singularly high-class Baur au Lac was as subtle to the ear as a whisper, complementing the atmosphere of golden chandeliers, giant decorative centerpieces, and crisply folded handkerchiefs at the Michelin-starred Pavillon. The lakeside 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.

Once an accessory of Croatian war officers, the tie had become a classic element of upper-class attire for modern-day foot soldiers: bankers, lawyers, and businessmen… among whom existed such 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 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 general counsel, 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.

“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,” he replied.

“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 hasn’t 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 to evade taxes, which they can do in a million other ways too, 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.”

Hutter took the remark quite literally, offended.

“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 calmed himself in true hedonistic fashion.

“Never mind. It’ll be over soon,” he declared, 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, he first showed the bottle to Donati and, after his nod of permission, opened it expertly. Then, following the age-old ritual, he smelled the cork, tasted the wine in his tastevin, poured it ever so gently into the decanter through a fine mesh filter, and swirled the decanter many times counterclockwise. When the wine was ready, he put it back into the mechanism and started turning a tiny wheel, making the decanter tilt gently to fill the glass. Donati’s lips curved into a wide smile. He approved.

The ducks had been served, and the CEO 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 premier 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 about this. Donati was the epitome of a classic banker if ever there was one. Hutter couldn’t fault him for his inclinations. He should 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 confirmed. “We’ll be ready.”

The duck wasn’t half bad.

Donati didn’t seem concerned, delighting in the taste of his wine.

“Anyway, there is something else we must discuss,” he stated.

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 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 remarked, 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 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.”

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 mused. “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 out 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 older man’s hand in greeting.

“Your porte-monnaie is too heavy to get up again, I see,” the 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.

The CEO took the remark literally.

“Frantic days. I can’t get out as much as I’d like to,” Donati admitted to none other than Sebastian Heller, an ex-chairman of the bank, who possessed the most in-depth knowledge of the history of SWB. 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 also needed friends in higher places.

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…”

Heller suddenly trailed off. His 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 Heller’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. It was then that Donati realized fear register as he spotted the object Heller’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 the CEO and the lawyer assisted Heller to see a doctor, a curious onlooker from an opposite table peered across to realize what had caused such a fiasco. The lawyer grabbed the letter as they left, but it was too late. The onlooker, one of many foreign bank agents populating the lakeside haven, had already seen the letterhead.

The unfortunate incident at 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 and reaching its most discreet corners.