The Templar Agenda Read online

  ‘What happened?’

  Thierry chose his words carefully. He spoke of Devére being found shot in Mauritius where he owned a holiday villa on the eastern shore. He spoke of him being found in his study: the condition of the house, and the room, largely unaltered. Nothing seemed to be missing; no obvious signs of struggle except for forced entry via the back door. The blood found on the floor was confirmed as Devére’s, not that there was any other likely possibility.

  Only one strange feature was present. Graffiti marked the wall, the logo of the party in opposition.

  The cardinal nodded despondently, confirming that he had understood. His lip trembled slightly.

  ‘You really think they were responsible?’

  Thierry paused momentarily. It was obvious to the oberst the graffiti was a smokescreen.

  ‘We cannot ignore this any further, de Courten. It is indisputable.’

  Thierry nodded. A grim realisation began to sink in. All of the deaths so far had a disturbing pattern, yet this one had one obvious motive. In order to clarify its significance it would be necessary to uncover who was behind it. The new circumstances complicated things. The press reaction in France was already referring to Devére’s assassination as the end of the world.

  Ironically, in time, it might save it.

  10

  The drive back to the château occurred mostly in silence. She didn’t value his company – that much was clear from her decision, once again, to ride in the back rather than up front with Mike. He had already become used to her ignoring him. But he was used to working in silence. As a Swiss Guard he was forbidden from talking in the ranks and, despite not being on parade, the atmosphere felt quite similar.

  He was able to choose his own bedroom and that was an advantage. The sixteen on the fourth floor were off limits but the remaining thirty-seven were not. The bedroom he chose was on the third floor at the rear of the building and talk about spacious: the room was larger than some one-bed apartments. A relatively modern queen-sized bed dominated the centre of the room, casting an eerie shadow across the floor and pale walls as the afternoon sun seeped in through large gothic windows.

  A fine array of furniture, much of which dated back to the 18th century, lined the room including a sturdy oak desk tucked up in the corner. A large antique mirror overlooked an out of date fireplace that was now just for show, ornately decorated with etchings of characters from Greek mythology onto a wooden panel that had been painted white in the 1990s. The room had no bathroom, but that was no bother. A fine bathroom had recently been fitted a few metres down the corridor.

  The room was lavish but that was not the reason he chose it. He was here to provide protection and the room was ideal for that reason.

  Rule number one: always cover the rear. As a large gate and an effective CCTV system monitored every corner of the building, Mike decided to concentrate on the garden. The room’s large windows, including double doors leading to a balcony, provided a perfect view of the well-maintained garden: without question the most beautiful he had ever seen.

  A large fountain was situated in the centre of a hedged courtyard, distributing its water along four separate channels flowing to the north, east, south and west, and lined with small statues and topiary of characters from the classical period. The garden extended over ten acres in total and was walled from every corner of the first two thousand square metres, helping to protect the plants from the wind. Various plants and trees, bare due to the time of year, surrounded countless other minor water features which were placed seemingly at random. In the summer the garden would host a wide variety of plants not usually found in St. Gallen but able to grow due to the garden’s microclimate made possible by the thick wall.

  The design was unlike any he had seen before, although as he understood from Gabrielle’s gardener much of it was typical of a walled garden dating back to the gardens of ancient Persia: the four channels that distributed the water from the fountain separated the area into four quarters, supposedly representing the four rivers of Eden.

  Beyond the far wall, nine acres of greenery created an attractive setting, interrupted by three streams that flowed throughout. Toward the northwest a small sun house was located on the shore of a lake, roughly half a mile from the château. Dogs and birds roamed the garden at leisure and at the western end of the garden stood a grim looking early 18th century mausoleum, now containing the remains of Gabrielle’s late father. Supposedly seven generations of the family were now entombed there. Eventually Gabrielle would join him – whenever that might be.

  Despite the pleasant surroundings, the garden disturbed him. Abundant vegetation and water features may have been a photographer’s dream, but it also provided plenty of places to hide. Although there had been no sign of infiltration, a lingering feeling of doubt continuously scratched away at him as it had done every day since his arrival. Soldiers called it intuition. In many ways it was the reason he chose to serve in the army of Jesus, but it was also the reason why for the first time in his career even the flutter of birds flying among the ancient trees caused a genuine sense of alertness. The vision of her father and the other deceased men still haunted him but what troubled him most was that he knew an attack on her was coming. The seven death warrants were an arrogant admission of responsibility for a string of murders, yet the identities of the individuals responsible remained concealed behind a faceless organisation. Thierry spoke of the importance of Leoni et Cie yet to Mike the story was incomplete.

  Researching the matter, he learned that the Rite of Larmenius dated back to around 1717, if not earlier, and had a reputed 400 members worldwide, all of whom were Master Masons. Although many of their members may have been Catholic, under Vatican law Catholic Freemasons were forbidden from taking communion at Mass. Their statutes stood for good, notably pursuit of knowledge, yet their logo unsettled him. The inclusion of a skull and crossbones, in keeping with that of the Jolly Roger, supposedly represented man’s mortality. The cross suggested a religious pedigree but Mike presumed the financiers in America would not have been murdered for such a reason. It was not a cross in the conventional sense. He assumed Pessotto and Thierry knew, they must have known what Mark knew, but they weren’t going to tell him. He hated being in the dark and now, for all intents and purposes, the lights were out.

  He looked suddenly to his left in a reflex action. The bedroom door was opening, making a quiet creaking sound. Gabrielle had entered the room. Unlike earlier, she was dressed casually in a blue top and her hair was scattered slightly untidily. She walked across the room slowly and stopped on reaching the bed.

  ‘My mom thought you might be hungry.’

  Now on his feet, he eyed her closely. The mascara under her eyes was smudged slightly. It was clear that she had been crying.

  ‘Thank you, I am.’

  ‘Dinner will be ready in an hour.’

  Mike nodded, forcing a smile. He watched her, expecting her to leave, but for now she remained still. She stood silently, her eyes focused on a selection of photographs covering the eastern wall. He looked at them briefly, his attention on a man in Swiss Army uniform, aged somewhere between 25 and 30.

  He looked again at her and she looked at him, her thoughts once more returned to reality. She offered the briefest of smiles before leaving the room. It was not a warm smile but strangely affectionate nonetheless: as though she was satisfied with his performance.

  ‘I nearly forgot,’ she said, stopping momentarily in the doorway. ‘Thierry called when we were out.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll call him.’

  She did not say anything else. It was clear to Mike that her eyes were filling up once more, and she did not want to cry in front of him. It was probably at least partly for that reason she had pretty much avoided Mike since his arrival. After closing the door he heard the vague sounds of sighing as she made her way down the corridor. For the briefest of moments he almost wanted to comfort her, not that she would allow it.

  T
houghts turned to Thierry. He hadn’t spoken to him since his arrival and that had been irritating. He reached for his mobile phone and dialled Thierry’s office number. It was probably a routine enquiry but he wanted to speak to him, if only for reassurance.

  He dialled the phone, his attention once more on the wall. He looked closely at the photo again: the man in question was probably about six foot, handsome and based on the clothing of NCO rank. The man looked vaguely familiar to him, but not in an obvious way. He wondered briefly whether he was a relation, or else a former lover. As far as he knew she had never married. Everything else was a mystery.

  He waited for the ringing to go to voicemail and decided to hang up. After getting no reply the first time, he tried again ten minutes later. On this occasion the oberst answered and was clearly pleased to hear from him.

  ‘Ah, Frei, how are things?’

  It was clearly a question of courtesy. He was not interested in Stephanie Leoni’s ceaseless mourning, or her daughter’s autocratic treating of Mike. No, his only concern was Leoni et Cie.

  ‘All quiet, sir.’

  ‘Any problems?’

  Any problems? What he really meant was has anyone tried to murder the owner of Leoni et Cie?

  ‘No problems, sir.’

  The conversation changed. Thierry spoke about Mikael Devére. He spoke for over thirty minutes.

  Gabrielle walked slowly down the long corridor of the fourth floor and stopped in front of her father’s study. A sense of anticipation overcame her on entering the room, causing her to pause momentarily. It was a strange anticipation, not common but also not unfamiliar: it was almost reminiscent of checking a supposedly deserted room after hearing the sound of footsteps from within.

  Inside, the room was largely unchanged since her father’s death and many of his possessions still occupied the desk. Although momentarily distressed by the many reminders it was not that what troubled her. The object wrapped in paper was lying in a cleared space in the centre of the desk, still to be opened.

  Using a penknife, recently retrieved from downstairs, she fought with determination against the surprisingly tough outer shell. There were at least three layers of packaging in total, each an efficient barrier, protecting the item from the outside world.

  Finally it opened.

  She removed the casing carefully, scattering it across the desk. The package itself, excellently preserved from perhaps several decades without use, would have been an enigma in itself had it not been for what was inside. The item in question was indeed a manuscript, possibly a chronicle, beautifully preserved and on initial inspection appeared to date back to the Middle Ages. The protective casing had clearly done its job, perhaps not only protecting a heavy item from wear and tear but also concealing one of the strangest things she had ever seen.

  When it came to history, she considered herself an expert. In addition to her history degree from Dartmouth, the many years she had spent investigating various items and areas of historical and archaeological interest in the company of her uncle had taught her the basics of understanding items of historical pedigree. But her uncle was the real expert.

  Her immediate thought was that it was genuine. All the key signs were there. The manuscript was handwritten in Italian on vellum parchment, once smooth and untainted, dented in several areas, possibly in part by use of a knife. The manuscript was limp vellum bound, the front cover formerly illustrated, though the title had faded over the years. The cover was an extensive piece of vellum, wrapping over twelve hundred pages in length, sewn together with a single stitch at the spine. The binding was damaged in part but still attached the content together effectively. Water stains were present and some of the edges were shrivelled due to evidence of fire sometime in the past.

  The manuscript was heavy, weighing perhaps 16 kilograms, and contained a barely legible title or author details on the cover. Marks on the cover suggested the past inclusion of gold-plated letters, but what little remained offered limited indication of its meaning.

  But this meant something.

  She opened the tome slowly, examining the early pages with naked fingers. The corners of most of the pages were shrivelled from centuries of use and damage. She instantly regretted not using protective gloves. Nevertheless she continued, taking care to touch only the very corners of the pages.

  She turned them slowly. Although she was fluent in Italian she was unable to understand the words in the current light. The early pages contained what seemed like large essay type entries in keeping with a chronicle, yet many were broken up by dating, suggesting perhaps it was a diary.

  She closed the manuscript and looked once more at the cover page. Taking a clean tissue from an open box, she attempted to clean the cover, successfully removing elements of debris and unveiling letters slightly more visible than before. Squinting, she moved the tome towards a desk lamp and plugged it in at the socket. She turned on the lamp, her pupils contracting as they adjusted to the light of the 40-watt bulb. The letters: Vat. Ross. 342 were stamped across the lower section of the cover.

  But even that was not the biggest surprise. Written across the cover, formerly covered with gold lettering, was a cross, opening widely in the style of a pattée, yet not joined in the centre. The void accommodated a symbol that was hard to distinguish due to its age.

  Yet surprisingly it was recognisable.

  She had seen it many times before.

  11

  Vatican City

  Cardinal Utaka was a regular attendee of meetings of the Vatican Bank. Although officially the assets of the bank are not considered property of the Holy See, he was one of five cardinals on the Vatican oversight commission responsible for running the bank, alongside a supervisory committee of five professional bankers.

  He walked with Cardinal del Rosi along a wide corridor and stopped momentarily before closed double doors. Two Swiss Guards were standing to attention, specially posted for the meeting on the orders of the oberst. The guards opened the doors and saluted, unveiling a well lit room, instantly recognisable as the usual meeting room of the Vatican Bank, located in a tower near the Porta Sant’Anna. Inside, five people were seated unequally around a long table. There was an atmosphere in the room: not oppressive or even unpleasant, but one befitting a meeting of importance.

  Cardinal Tepilo was sitting at the nearest end, dressed in his usual black cassock and red zucchetto.

  Next to him was Randy Lewis, the most recent addition to the supervisory committee and at the age of fifty-four also the youngest. Prior to his appointment over two years earlier, Lewis had served two four-year terms as Chairman of the Federal Reserve in the United States and before that six as a governor. Born in Massachusetts to Italian immigrants, he had the facial appearance of an Italian-American with bright blue eyes and an elegant head of silver grey hair. He merely nodded at the cardinals as they passed but otherwise remained quiet.

  Two empty seats on from Lewis, the American from Louisiana, Irving Swanson, smiled and held up a welcoming hand. His chubby face and belly, the result of sixty-nine years of fast food, sugary desserts and lie-ins drew comparisons with Fred Flintstone, with glasses, except for a smart suit replacing the orange vest and turquoise tie from the prehistoric era.

  In many ways Irving Henry Swanson was the most experienced figure in the room, including the president. An economics degree from Yale followed by a masters in law from Keble, Oxford had proven the springboard to a distinguished career in the banking sector which included over ten years working as a manager for investment bank Starvel until the Wall Street crash in 1987. He left on redundancy with money to spare and used most of it to form his own hedge fund company. Nine years later a company of rising profits and infinite potential sold for £30 million on the UK AIM, an act that caught the eye of incoming Starvel CEO, Louis Velis. In 1997 he returned to Starvel, now as a director, and was praised four years later for helping steer the company through its troubled period in the late 1990s.

  Op
posite Swanson, Giancarlo Riva was the only non-cardinal Italian and was facially a man of sharp features who could pass for ten years younger than his age. Like most present, Riva had a proven track record in banking, including twenty-five years working in management roles for some of the biggest banks in Europe, including Banco Ambrosiano in the late 1970s. Over the next decade his experience had caught the eye of seemingly every major bank in Europe, including Leoni et Cie and Starvel. Despite some accusations from various journalists of insider dealing, his close friendship with Cardinal Tepilo led to his surprise appointment as a Gentiluomo di Sua Santità, a Gentleman of His Holiness, effectively an attendant to the Pope, and also as a councillor on the state council of the Vatican City in 2008. He smiled politely at the cardinals as they sat down next to him.

  Seated at the head of the table, the President of the Vatican Bank, Angelo Rogero, leaned forward on his elbows and nodded without emotion. Prior to his involvement with the Church, the Colombian banker had served for over twenty years as CEO of the highly successful LABCC, the Latin American Bank of Credit and Commerce, through to his early retirement in 2005. Under his direction LABCC not only survived the Latin American currency crises but also capitalised on the financial uncertainty. TIME Magazine dubbed him man of the year in the early 1980s: a financial genius, particularly for someone in his early thirties. He was deep voiced, ambitious and pragmatic and had a reputation for efficiency, even by Thierry’s standards. A full head of wet gelled black hair sat atop his clean-shaven Latino head, perfectly complemented by his white suit and yellow tie. A large golden ring encircled his marriage finger and two identical rings covered both middle fingers.

  Two seats on, the President of the Pontifical Council for Interreligious Dialogue, Cardinal del Rosi took his seat. Cardinal Utaka sat down next to him.