The Cologny Dinner
The convoy of three black Mercedes-Maybach S680s climbed the Route de la Capite in Cologny, skirting the blonde stone boundary walls behind which the most discreet fortunes on the continent lay sleeping. Lake Geneva, below, reflected the lights of the left bank like a sheet of luminous oil. It was nine fifteen in the evening, January 15th. In the second Maybach, Ernst Weidenfeld watched the properties slide past without seeing them. He wore a Brioni suit in Super 180 wool and a Charvet tie in midnight blue. On his left wrist, a Patek Philippe Nautilus 5711 in steel—the model officially discontinued, yet still appearing on the wrists of those who had no need for a catalogue to obtain what they desired. Ernst was seventy-three. Tonight, he had not come as a banker. The Maybach stopped before wrought iron gates at the end of an avenue of linden trees. The property officially belonged to a cultural foundation registered in Zug. In reality, it served three times a year as a meeting pl...
