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  THE TEMPLAR AGENDA

  JOHN PAUL DAVIS

  The Templar Agenda

  First publication

  © John Paul Davis 2011

  The right of John Paul Davis to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  The following tale is a work of fiction. All names, people, locations and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or else used fictitiously. Any similarity to people, living or deceased, events, organisations or locales not otherwise acknowledged is coincidence.

  This book or eBook is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be resold, lent, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition, including this condition, being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  Reviews

  John Paul Davis clearly owns the genre of historical thrillers. The Templar Agenda is a fast paced and absorbing tale that takes the reader on an exhilarating adventure from the first page to the last. This tantalizing story is intricately woven and stretches from the ancient secrets of the world’s most powerful society to the modern behind-the-scenes brotherhood that still wields power on a global level

  Steven Sora, author of The Lost Treasure of the Knights Templar, The Lost Colony of the Templars, Secret Societies of America’s Elite, Treasures from Heaven, and The Triumph of the Sea Gods

  A well-researched, original and fascinating work – a real page-turner.

  Graham Phillips, bestselling author of The End of Eden, Merlin and the Discovery of Avalon in the New World, The Templars and the Ark of the Covenant, Alexander the Great: Murder in Babylon, The Moses Legacy, The Marian Conspiracy, Act of God, and The Chalice of Magdalene

  Told at a pace that leaves the reader breathless, Davis has constructed a plot that flies across the planet...We follow the novel’s protagonists, Swiss Guard Mikael (Mike) Frei and Gabrielle Leoni, daughter of a murdered banker, as they race against time to uncover the hidden secret that has already led to a series of assassinations, could wreak havoc in the world’s banking capitals, and threatens the stability and integrity of the Catholic Church itself.... Davis is adept at managing several storylines, moving swiftly from one group of characters to another, as the novel progresses. But he is equally skilled at ensuring that the reader remains gripped by the central plot to its dramatic and surprising conclusion...

  John Alcock, author, prize winning poet, and former Director of Open Studies Creative Writing, University of Warwick & sometime Exchange Professor in Dramatic Literature, Eastern Michigan University

  Books by John Paul Davis

  Fiction

  The Templar Agenda

  Non-Fiction

  Robin Hood: The Unknown Templar (Peter Owen Publishers, 2009)

  Pity For The Guy – A Biography Of Guy Fawkes (Peter Owen Publishers, 2010)

  For more information visit www.theunknowntemplar.com

  From the beginning, mankind has been divided into three parts, among men of prayer, men of toil, and men of war.

  Gerard, Bishop of Cambrai (1012-1051)

  Prologue

  The decision to initiate the murders of the high-profile Swiss banker and the Chairman of the Federal Reserve was made by the same seven men who had decreed the murders of over a thousand others. Under normal circumstances eight would have been involved in the process. On this occasion, had it not been for the actions of the eighth, their deaths might not have been necessary.

  All of the seven were men of considerable status, particularly in America and central Europe.

  All seven were men of influence and wealth – had they not have had the wealth their influence could not have been possible.

  All seven were men of God, each one Christian but only one a confirmed Catholic.

  They were the only members of the world’s most secretive society whose existence in the eyes of the common man remained nothing more than a myth. Every couple of decades or so an ambitious writer would connect them with the latest genocide, political conspiracy or economic meltdown but their theories were usually dismissed and forgotten after a few weeks. On the rare occasions when someone did stumble across the truth they could never locate the individuals.

  All seven were masters of discretion.

  At just after midnight Eastern Time in America the orders went out to the usual recipients. One was stationed in Rome carrying out his regular duties as a soldier guarding the Pope. The other was somewhere in America, successfully evading the attention of the CIA. Both took the calls immediately and proceeded to go about their business.

  Switzerland

  The first of the assassins arrived in Zürich at 22:53 after an eight-hour train journey from Rome. The journey was an unexpected one; out of his usual routine. Had the phone call come any later it would probably have been too late.

  He exited the train at the Hauptbahnhof, the largest station in Zürich, doing his best to avoid attention by mingling amongst the bustling crowd. The station was crowded, as always, the main hall in particular alive with activity. Countless passengers travelled up and down escalators to one of the station’s ground or underground platforms, while others frequented the cafés and shops or stood in line to purchase tickets. It was late January and the vibrant Christmas market was gone, its elegant stalls and oversized tree dismantled.

  Everything had returned to normal.

  At 22:58 he left the station at the Bahnhofplatz exit and walked in the company of the masses across the nearby bridge, deciding against getting a taxi. As the crowd began to thin he changed direction, heading south toward the Rathaus quarter. He walked quickly, keeping mainly to the side streets that were deserted at that time of night. Every aspect of the route was familiar to him.

  At 23:09 he walked through the rear entrance of a sparsely populated nightclub and on entry headed straight for the office of the manager, his visit seen only by the man he came to see. Even if one of the locals or employees noticed his arrival, nothing of their conversation was overheard.

  At 23:12 he departed unseen through the same door and left the city in a three-year-old BMW.

  The orders he had received were specific. His target was stationed in the City of St. Gallen and if all went well he would catch him before he left the office. He had never met the man personally but all the details checked out, at least based on his background research. He had heard rumours of the man’s importance, but he knew hearsay was susceptible to inaccuracy – particularly coming from the mouths of strangers. The important stuff he never left to chance. His position at the Vatican gave him a position of rare insight.

  At just after midnight he pulled up on the corner of a well lit street, an unfamiliar location directed by the GPS. The street, buzzing with the activity of entrepreneurs, bankers and other corporate figures less than seven hours earlier, was deserted, the buildings eerily silent – disturbed only by the sound of distant cars. There was a chill in the air but at least it was no longer raining. The torrential downpour that had fallen ceaselessly all afternoon had been replaced by the gentle falling of snowflakes melting on impact as they hit the pavement. He didn’t mind the snow; nor did he mind the waiting.

  Along the street, all of the streetlamps were glowing brightly but the buildings were mainly deserted. A lone office light was shining through a third storey window on the opposite side of the road some thirty feet from the car. Like most buildings on that street it was four storeys of grey stone, 18th century in origin and in need of redecorating. Like most it was a bank but unlike most at least one person was still working.


  Through the darkened windscreen of his luxury motor the Swiss Guard focused on the lighted window. A solitary figure occupied the room – his features veiled by a lightly coloured blind, making him appear as a dark silhouette. Although he could not make out the man’s facial features, his demeanour was clearly restless.

  Al Leoni’s office was the largest in the building. In keeping with the offices of all senior staff it was ornately furnished with a fine collection of art covering four large walls that had been painted white less than two years earlier. Despite being located on the street side of the building it was surprisingly quiet, even at rush hour. The stone construction and double-glazed windows provided efficient insulation from the noise of the traffic, and being on the third floor provided stunning views across the city on a clear day. No one begrudged him the location. As the chief executive of Leoni et Cie International Bank he was entitled to it.

  Forty-two years in the business had established his reputation as one of greatness. When he entered the fray he had been unprepared. He was twenty-two, still suffering the hangover of graduation and still in the shadow of his father. The bank was his father’s and prior to that his father’s and his father’s before that, going back eight generations. Ascending to chief executive at the bank known then as Banque Leoni was like a prince ascending to the throne. For as long as his father lived he would remain in his shadow.

  A decade in that shadow had taught him everything he needed to know. He had survived the eighties without meltdown and prospered in the nineties and noughties without aggravation. Across the business world he had become renowned as one of the industry’s most careful and astute businessmen, earning him special respect in the eyes of industry officials and the media. His was one of a dying breed. He was the last stalwart on the St. Gallen circuit.

  Three decades of running the oldest bank in St. Gallen had taught him to deal with the pressure.

  But today was different.

  The bank was in crisis.

  Gripping the telephone tightly in his right hand, Leoni shouted down the line at the unseen listener and exhaled as he listened to the response. He had been on the phone for over an hour, his tone permanently urgent. His stomach burned, a rough sickening feeling, accompanied by a tightening sensation across his chest. His second heart attack seven years ago had nearly proven fatal and the symptoms were not dissimilar. At sixty-five he was beginning to feel the pace, but retirement, not for the first time, would have to wait.

  At 2:05am he replaced the receiver forcefully. Wiping his forehead with his sleeve, he picked up the seventy-page document on the desk, nudging the desk lamp with his elbow, causing shadows to appear momentarily across the blind. With shaking hands he shuffled the document between his fingers as he carried it hastily towards the fax machine located in the corner of the room. He placed the document down on a nearby table and inserted the first sheet into the feeder tray, dialling the number from memory. The red light that had flickered continuously on the power bar changed to solid green, accompanied by the hum of the operating machine. Within seconds he inserted the second sheet.

  He glanced at the clock above the window and grimaced. The document needed to be sent.

  It needed to be sent tonight.

  Behind the wheel of the stationary vehicle the man from Rome waited. For over two and a half hours he watched silently, his attention focused on the one lighted window. At 2:47am he looked with interest as the light in the office extinguished. A surge of adrenaline tightened his skin, a familiar feeling that always occurred as he anticipated the task at hand. Under the watchful eyes of no one he loaded his SIG P75 and placed it inside his jacket.

  Al Leoni nodded briefly at the security guard as he exited the bank through one of two revolving doors and came to a halt on reaching the street. The warmth inside gave way to a brisk wintry wind that penetrated unpleasantly down his spine. In his preoccupied state he had been unaware that it had been snowing. Beneath him the concrete was slippery, the pavement appearing darker than usual as snow melted on impact, adding to the abundant puddles formed from the earlier rain.

  He felt discomfort but not just because of the cold. He was worried: a rare sense of anxiety that turned more and more to anger with every passing second.

  He cursed himself for being so stupid.

  The banker removed a cigar from his pocket and lit it, exhaling a mixture of smoke and his breath. The familiar sensation felt momentarily comforting. Today that was his only comfort. Tomorrow would be another busy day.

  The Swiss Guard watched his target closely. Even in the darkness he could see the man clearly – the glow of Al Leoni’s cigar illuminated him like a lighthouse to a ship. The banker’s appearance was familiar to him: a bearded man, dressed in expensive attire befitting a corporate executive. The man walked briskly, feeling cold and noticeably agitated.

  Timing was everything.

  He opened the door quietly, careful to avoid making any sound as he vacated the car. As the banker disappeared momentarily from sight he darted toward the nearby alley. With his back to the wall he exhaled slowly. He had not been seen.

  From a secluded position he watched the banker turn the corner, heading in the direction of the employee car park. The area was well lit at this time but deserted. Behind the wall, a ramp led to the second storey of the car park, the second of four including the ground level. Seconds later the banker disappeared from sight.

  Slowly, the Swiss Guard approached the road. He looked both ways momentarily, wary of being observed. He didn’t look out of place. To a casual observer he was like a thousand others from the St. Gallen capital: just another citizen on his way home from a bar or nightclub in early morning Switzerland at the end of a long week. Nothing about him was conspicuous. Nothing revealed his purpose.

  He checked once more for signs of life before crossing the street undetected. He moved quickly, stopping before reaching the entrance. Shaded behind the wall, he gazed carefully at the banker walking up the ramp with his back to the entrance. Slowly he removed the weapon from his jacket.

  Al Leoni continued through the car park, gripping his briefcase tightly. The air felt warmer now that he was sheltered from the wind, accompanied by the heat of his lighted cigar burning gently against his face. On reaching the top of the ramp he veered to his left slightly. Up ahead, the orange glow of the nearest wall light revealed a new Jaguar occupying the only in use parking bay. He was the last to leave but that was not unexpected. It was a routine that had shaped his entire career. If lucky he would get back in time to sleep for three hours.

  He shuffled his trouser pocket for his car keys, still distracted by his thoughts. He pointed the remote at the car and pressed the unlock button; a quick, bright flash radiated through the darkness accompanied by the sound of his car unlocking.

  A second sound followed, this time coming from behind him.

  He stopped. Footsteps that were not his own were moving in close proximity. He turned around instinctively and scanned the surroundings for signs of life. As far as he could tell the car park was deserted and silent except for the echo of dripping water down a nearby gutter. The orange glow of a barely working wall light lit up the ramped entrance, creating distorted shadows against the walls. He squinted. In his confused state he thought he saw movement. A red light flickered before him, lasting less than a second.

  Washington D.C.

  The Chairman of the Federal Reserve was still in his office after eight. Unsurprisingly as chairman he was the last of the seven governors to leave and usually the first to arrive, often before seven-thirty.

  Jermaine Llewellyn was the most important of the seven. As a registered Democrat, he was one of four from that party currently in office, and at sixty-nine years of age he was also the oldest.

  When nominated to replace the former chairman, a Republican, many slated him for his pro-Friedman views on monetary policy, the opposite of his predecessor, and being the first black chairman his appointment was somethi
ng of a landmark. Despite his credible reputation as a former tenured Professor of Microeconomics at Yale and having over five years experience among the governors, his appointment was met with opposition on both sides, including the other governors, and even after three years in office he still had enemies. In the past many had slammed his decision to cut interest rates but thanks to the support of the President he was now looking odds-on for re-election in the autumn.

  Inside his office Llewellyn was still at work. Standing near his desk, he wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his right arm and shuffled various papers in his hands. The telephone receiver clutched precariously between his left shoulder and head slipped slightly as he juggled the papers.

  Seconds later Llewellyn hung up the phone and turned away from his desk. The light on the fax machine started to flash and the sound of printing dominated the otherwise quiet office. Within seconds the first sheet came through.

  The sound of the incoming fax could be heard outside the office, despite the door being closed, eliminating any chance that the intruder would be heard. In an otherwise deserted hallway, the intruder tiptoed silently towards the office and paused momentarily before the door.

  Slowly, he opened it. Through the slightest of openings, the intruder surveyed his surroundings. The soft glow of a 40-watt light bulb created shadows throughout the office that was relatively modern and not without ornamentation. In his limited vision he saw a flat screen computer monitor dominating a large oak desk, the main feature of the room. The blinds on the main window were down confirming no light could get in or out – even the sparse rays of moonlight from the cloudless night did not penetrate. He knew he could not be seen.