The Templar Agenda Page 15

  ‘The Knights Templar?’

  ‘You’ve heard of them?’

  Mike nodded. The Swiss Guard placed his hands to his mouth and rubbed his unshaven face.

  ‘Who were they exactly?’ Gabrielle asked.

  Henry laughed. ‘Now that is a good question,’ he said; ‘and I am afraid even after thirty years of research not easy to answer. In the beginning they were a group of nine French knights, all related by blood and all committed Christians. Following the recapture of Jerusalem in the early years of the Crusades, the nine knights set out to the Holy City in about 1118 on a mission to protect pilgrims en route to the Holy Land, or so the historian tends to claim. For over two hundred years they fought valiantly in the Crusades and also became bankers, exceptional bankers, leading to their becoming highly wealthy. Upon their arrival they were accepted by the King of Jerusalem and set up their headquarters in the stables of the former Temple of Solomon, leading to their famous name: The Poor Fellow Soldiers of Christ and of the Temple of Solomon, the Knights Templar for short.’

  He paused momentarily.

  ‘However, that is only one aspect. The real question is what happened next,’ he said raising an eyebrow.

  Mike sipped his port. He wasn’t particularly knowledgeable about the Templars, but he was well aware of their reputation in both history and conspiracy theory. He had read The Hiram Key in college and remembered thinking at the time how such ideas could send shockwaves through the Vatican. He knew from his time at the Vatican the subject was a sensitive one. He remembered seeing the Chinon Parchment with his own eyes after it was discovered in 2001.

  ‘Now history indeed tells us that the Templars fought actively in the Crusades from 1129 right up until the fall of the port of Acre in 1291. But then in the early 1300s, after two centuries of loyal service to Christianity, they found themselves excommunicated by Pope Clement V. The King of France had turned against them and many of the order were executed.’

  Mike laughed. ‘I’ve heard this one. Their final leader, Jacques de Molay, cursed the King of France and the Pope to join him in the afterlife within one year. Then, by two separate acts of God, both die.’

  Henry also laughed. ‘Indeed.’

  The academic sipped his port and placed it down on a coaster. The circular mat was cleverly decorated with an illustration of a Cavalier soldier from the English Civil War. He had many similar coasters, all history related, scattered around his study.

  ‘The dissolution of the Poor Knights of Solomon remains one of history’s greyer areas,’ the academic said. ‘While it is clear discrepancies in their practices did exist, what is also clear is that the King of France had an agenda.’

  ‘What kind of agenda?’ Gabrielle asked. Mike watched her from across the room. Not for the first time she seemed preoccupied.

  ‘He was severely indebted to them. The treasury was dry and the Templar’s wealth would have been most appealing.’

  Mike nodded whereas Gabrielle was far more subdued. Her earlier confident state had been replaced by an overwhelming sense of unease.

  ‘So what have the Knights Templar got to do with this?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Well, officially, the Templars were disbanded, their members excommunicated by the Church. Many of the order in France were executed. No one really knows what happened to the other individuals themselves.’

  The Swiss Guard eyed the academic curiously. ‘You think some of them survived?’

  A wry grin crossed the academic’s features. ‘History recalls that the order ended in 1312 after a Papal Bull, the Ad Providam, was sent out by Clement V,’ he said, his focus on Mike. ‘However, after the Templars were dissolved and the final Grand Master executed in 1314, there is unsubstantiated evidence that what remained of the order survived. According to a certain charter, the Larmenius Charter as it has been dubbed, de Molay, knowing he was going to die, passed on the reigns to another. A man named Jean-Marc Larmenius.’

  ‘Larmenius?’ Mike asked. ‘As in Rite of Larmenius?’

  Henry’s facial expression changed. ‘Funnily enough that is one thought that hadn’t occurred to me,’ he said laughing softly. ‘Freemasonry itself dates its formation to around 1717, but there is plenty of other worthwhile evidence in France, Scotland, Switzerland, and across the sea in America that suggest they might have survived. The charter itself is less enlightening. It is merely a manuscript, discovered in France in the 19th century. Most historians doubt its validity.’

  ‘Just like the letters?’

  Henry chuckled. ‘But legend has continued to persist that the order may have continued. It seems unlikely they should disappear completely. There were as many as 20,000 members at the time of its demise. Less than a thousand faced trial. But as far as history is concerned.’

  ‘If they can’t see it then it doesn’t exist.’ Mike said.

  ‘A little extreme, but I suppose.’

  Gabrielle looked at her uncle with interest, slightly more agitated than before. It was clear to Mike that the subject was upsetting her.

  ‘What was the Templar logo? I thought it was two men to a horse,’ Mike said.

  Henry left his seat and removed a book from the nearby bookcase. ‘Yes that’s right, but they also had a unique cross. A cross that is also present here,’ he said, pointing at an example of the symbol. ‘What’s more, it was they who first used the Jolly Roger on their ships. A reminder of man’s mortality, apparently.’

  Mike nodded, immediately seeing the resemblance. Henry replaced the book on the shelf and walked slowly towards the corner of the room. A black shoulder bag was lying on the floor with its flap closed. Mike had noticed him carrying it at the airport.

  Henry opened the bag. In between the wealth of booklets and random books was a particularly large and heavy textbook.

  ‘My father had a copy of that. I was looking for it in the library,’ Gabrielle said. It was clearly worse for wear. The author was a man named Florent Domme and entitled: Volume III: The First Great History of Europe. The text was almost two centuries old and printed in French.

  ‘A most interesting text; and you are a very perceptive young lady,’ he said, forcing a smile from his niece. He turned the pages. ‘Your father lent it to me to loan to a friend of mine at Harvard. Here we are.’

  For the first time in what seemed like hours Mike left his seat. The printed text was murky and difficult to understand despite a sound knowledge of French.

  ‘What does it say?’ Gabrielle asked.

  ‘It refers to the French Revolution,’ Henry said, ‘nothing new as such. Yet strangely it includes the briefest mention of this Larmenius Charter – particularly remarkable because the charter was not officially discovered for another ten years or more. The text here speaks of an unnamed band of conspirators existing among the revolutionaries, possible connections to the Freemasons. According to Monsieur Domme, many of its members were descendents of the enemies of Philip le Bel who had just completed a long overdue revenge. It talks little about their role in the proceedings, mainly financial. But here is the symbol.’

  The symbol was exactly the same: not in golden lettering, but a printed illustration by the man who had written the original book. Mike eyed it for several seconds, his focus hardening. The more he focused the more he found his sight became blurred, as though he was attempting the art of scrying.

  ‘The symbol itself was found on a chain hanging around the neck of an unnamed revolutionary, apparently,’ Henry said, closing the book. He placed it down firmly on the desk, the sound reverberating momentarily.

  ‘Strangely there is another legend that supports this claim. After the execution of King Louis XVI, a man supposedly jumped up onto the scaffold, put his hand into the royal head, flicked the blood and shouted at the top of his voice “Jacques de Molay thou art avenged”.’

  Mike looked at the academic. ‘Meaning what?’

  ‘Well, the Templars were dissolved by the King of France and the Pope,’ Henry said, a
djusting his glasses. ‘With the present King of France dead, a Capetian no less, the revolutionaries had murdered Philip IV’s last living descendent.’

  Mike watched the historian. He kept a straight face, yet inside he felt troubled. It was as if he had just heard a ghost story.

  ‘So you think these Templars survived and brought about the French Revolution?’

  Henry laughed. ‘Many historians have sought evidence of a genuine Templar survival. But the trouble is that no one has ever found any definitive evidence. The signs are potentially there but always lacking that final link. However, the legend of the Zeno brothers always suggested that Zichmni was none other than the historical Prince Henry Sinclair, Earl of Orkney. Supposedly this man’s ancestors were in league with and even assisted a number of Templars who had fled to Scotland to escape the Inquisition and eventually made their way to America.’

  Henry looked at Gabrielle then at Mike.

  ‘How my brother came to find this I cannot imagine. Very interesting.’

  Gabrielle bit her lip. ‘The safe deposit box belonged to Mikael Devére. I checked. I found the key and the details in one of dad’s safe deposit boxes.’

  The eyes of both men landed on her. Mike’s facial expression changed.

  ‘What?’ Mike exclaimed!

  Gabrielle looked at Henry, remaining quiet.

  ‘Your never told me that!’ The Swiss Guard’s voice was quite loud, his tone serious.

  ‘It’s private: it’s against the law to divulge a client’s secrets.’

  ‘Then what are you doing right now?’

  Gabrielle looked at him, anger crossing her features.

  Mike’s expression hardened. ‘You have no right to withhold this kinda stuff. Every clue is important.’

  ‘Don’t tell me what to do.’

  ‘The Vatican think it’s important for me to be here, the least you can do is tell them anything you know. The smallest of clues might be significant. Someone leaves this in a Swiss bank account at Leoni et Cie. Your father is found dead. Then Mikael Devére confesses a link to the Vatican Police. Next thing Devére flees and is also found dead.’

  Gabrielle’s eyes opened widely. ‘Mikael Devére gave the Vatican a tipoff? You said it was anonymous.’

  Mike inhaled deeply. Gabrielle meanwhile remained silent. Both retained eye contact for several seconds.

  Henry spoke to break the tension.

  ‘I’ll be able to translate the text, of course,’ Henry said, an expression of calm crossing his bearded face. ‘However, it may take some weeks to uncover all of its secrets.’

  Gabrielle nodded, forcing a smile. ‘That’s okay. I mean it’s not like we’re going anywhere,’ she said calmly. She turned her attention to Mike, her expression like thunder. ‘You don’t mind if he stays, right?’

  Mike grimaced, the sarcasm not lost. Potentially his knowledge was invaluable.

  ‘As long as Henry doesn’t mind me drinking all his port.’

  Henry laughed. ‘Come. I’ll get us some food.’

  The evening passed uneventfully. Talk of the mysterious book faded as Henry Leoni recounted the last two years of his life and activity in the space of two hours to which Gabrielle listened sparingly. As the hours passed she spoke less and less and as the sun began to set she departed for the garden where she had remained for almost an hour.

  Gabrielle sat alone on a wooden bench located in a beautiful setting amongst the greenery on the eastern shore of the lake, approximately half a mile from the château. The bench was protected by an elegant 19th century sun house that revolved on a wooden stage, allowing the occupant the opportunity to catch the rays of both the morning and evening sun. In the comfort of her secluded location she sat quietly, squinting across the utopian setting. In the brightness view was difficult, despite sporting an expensive pair of Chanel sunglasses. To her left, twenty metres of greenery led to a small stone bridge that crossed the stream flowing away towards the south. Statues of the archangels lined the bridge, inspired in part by the Ponte Sant’Angelo, standing like lookout guards, their stone faces concentrating on separate areas of the garden.

  By her feet a Great Dane was sniffing playfully. She stroked the adoring animal. For her eighth birthday, her father had bought her a bizarre collection of animals – the culmination of several months of constant nagging. She smiled as she reminisced. There had been five dogs in total, a pony and many other animals including a cobra that gave her nightmares after it escaped. Even sitting alone in the tranquillity of the early springtime evening her naked heels felt insecure.

  She always loved the sun house. Coffee in the morning in the gardens with a selection of newspapers was the way her father used to start his day and he would always finish with a brandy in the study while planning the activities of the next day. Gabrielle was the opposite. A swim in the morning and relaxing in the garden with a magazine in the company of her faithful companions was a necessity to help unwind. In past years her mother would join her and they would talk about clothes, shoes, and celebrities as they planned their next social engagement.

  Suddenly the dog began to bark. Less than fifty yards away, a figure was breezing along the winding path that circled the shore of the lake, his features concealed by the sunlight. She pulled on the dog’s collar, struggling to keep it still. The force of the tame animal became too strong, allowing the dog to escape her grip. Seconds later she heard a voice speaking playfully at the dog. She smiled as the features of her uncle came slowly into focus.

  ‘Hey,’ Henry said, approaching with a warm smile.

  She did not respond with words. She merely smiled and lowered her head, her sunglasses veiling the emotion in her eyes.

  ‘You okay?’

  ‘Uh huh,’ she said, nodding.

  Henry took a seat beside her and adjusted himself for comfort. Almost immediately the dog started jumping playfully around him. A mixture of white and black hairs affixed themselves to his smart trousers. He stroked the dog as it sniffed around the bench, howling softly before curling up around Gabrielle’s feet.

  ‘I always liked this place,’ he said, relaxing and admiring the view. Ripples on the lake reflected the setting sun, appearing orange and red as it danced on the water. Close by, a large oak tree cast a long shadow across a winding gravel path that Gabrielle used as a riding trail in her youth when her father kept horses in the stables at the most eastern point of the garden overlooking mile after mile of pastoral beauty.

  ‘It reminds me of our youth,’ he continued. ‘In our early days your father and I often played hide and seek amongst the shrubbery. I always won,’ he smiled as he reminisced. A warm expression of tranquillity overcame the man when he smiled. His beard seemed to give his face an extra calm and thoughtfulness, almost constituting the appearance of being wise. His eyes seemed to twinkle as his thoughts wandered back to a distant and faraway time when he and his brother had passed the time carelessly amongst the greenery as if it were Robin Hood and his Merry Men.

  Gabrielle remained quiet. Stray tears gathered in her eyes, which were still shaded by her Chanels. The shades provided the appearance of calm and confidence, yet silently angry thoughts dominated her head. Until now she had thought little of her father’s murder, but now she considered the plausibility that her father had been lost as a result of a planned assassination. The thought was eating away at her, tormenting her. Feelings of anger mixed with feelings of dread had resulted in a dry bitterness as she realised for the first time that the grief was still too much to bear.

  It was a strange feeling, one she had never experienced. The presence of the Swiss Guard may have offered security but it was not in the non-uniformed guard and his SIG P75 where she found peace of mind, but the presence of the man who had cared for her like a second father since her youth.

  They had always been close. Her mother always said that Gabrielle took after him. She was never like her father. While Al swapped his free time for the boardrooms, a strenuous and unendi
ng mission at adding to the foundations of his ancestors, Gabrielle was content. While Al wanted status, Henry drifted. Even when Henry was at college their parents had accused him of slacking off.

  But it was not until his early twenties that life started to make sense. Heading off on various expeditions to South America, Africa, Asia, Europe, wherever, made life seem so real. Even when he was a child he loved adventure. For Henry, growing up in a house of formality had increased his desire to escape. And having a paradise of Edenic proportions in the garden only whetted his desire further. His life only had meaning when he was exploring. The thrill was in the expedition, not the reading and the libraries that the other historians seemed to flock to. The past was to be lived.

  Life was not always perfect. He had lost his wife to cancer after thirty-three years. She was also a teacher of history and often worked alongside him.

  But he rarely worked alone, and many of his later trips included Gabrielle. She was not a banker and she knew it. He knew it and what’s more her father knew it. Money was one thing but the search for buried treasure was not the search for accumulation of capital.

  It made her feel alive.

  She turned to face her uncle and smiled. Henry returned her smile and placed his arm around her. His face illustrated complete harmony.

  In the background he recognised the sound of a male Little Bustard making its calling sound, almost as if his childhood self was blowing a raspberry at his brother. He opened his eyes and smiled with delight as it made its way along the path.

  A rustling in the trees caused the creature to hesitate.

  He laughed softly. ‘Incredible thing nature: whenever it’s disturbed it runs.’

  Gabrielle didn’t respond immediately. Instead she gazed at the bird. It was brown and white in complexion with a white streak for a collar, below a black neck and a grey head. Suddenly it began to run, unnerved by the possibility of a nearby predator.

  ‘If you ask me it’s stupid. It’s got wings but it still chooses to run.’