The Templar Agenda Read online

  In the corner of the room the Chairman of the Fed stood with his back to the door, his concentration solely on the incoming document. Slowly the door inched open.

  With his anxiety at peak intensity, Llewellyn picked up the first sheet and scanned the information with intent. The news he had received from the banker in Switzerland only seconds earlier had not sunk in over the phone but now it struck him as clear as day. The content of the document was disturbing. This changed everything.

  The fifth sheet came, then the sixth. There would be seventy in total. Engrossed in his awkward wait, he did not detect the red laser pointing at the back of his head. Blood covered the bulb.

  With the intended recipient lying dead on the floor, the intruder removed his gloves and picked up the newest sheet of the incoming document. The final threat had been eliminated.

  What needed to be done was done.

  1

  Rome, five days later

  The young man paused, taking a moment to scan the ancient Ponte Sant’Angelo in front of him. The bridge, usually heaving with Romans, tourists, and lined with street vendors, was deserted, its ornate features hidden by early morning mist rising from the Tiber.

  Directly in front of him the Castel Sant’Angelo stood prevalently, its thick fortified walls looming up out of the grey air. Through the mist he could just make out the silhouette of the famous bronze angel atop the summit, its sword held aloft and its sightless eyes fixed on the bridge.

  This was hardly the ideal place to hold a meeting. It was no longer snowing, but the arctic wind that had tormented the city for the past few days showed no signs of relenting. Thick black clouds had given way to dull stratus interrupted by the vaguest hint of early morning sunshine distorted by the mist.

  The young man tightened the zipper on his coat as he walked, his eyes focusing on his feet. Thin layers of snow had developed into a dangerous black slush, a combination of melting snow and the sub-zero temperature, causing a soft crunching sound as he trod over breaking ice. For now that was the only sound. Several feet beneath him the River Tiber flowed slowly, almost silently, surprisingly silently, intensifying his apprehension.

  To most observers he was just like any other person in the city. He was tall, slightly over six feet, dark brown hair, a handsome clean-shaven face and piercing blue eyes. The black shoes and dark trousers gave the impression of formality, while the black jacket and woolly hat suggested an American look. Nothing about him suggested he was a policeman. Nor did anything suggest that he was one of one hundred and thirty members of the Corpo della Gendarmeria dello Stato della Città del Vaticano, the police force of the Vatican City, who as of ninety-six hours ago was investigating a murder on behalf of arguably the most important organisation in Christendom.

  The young man continued across the bridge, making a mental note of every angel that lined it. The statues were unnerving, their appearances almost ghostlike behind the mist. He stopped momentarily before the Angel with the Throne, and again briefly at the Angel clutching the Crown of Thorns, examining their inscriptions for confirmation of his location. He continued towards the middle of the bridge, stopping once more as he approached the Angel holding a Garment and Dice with its outstretched arms. For several seconds he waited. He could hear the sound of footsteps on slushy ice. Seconds later a man appeared in front of him.

  ‘Thank you for agreeing to see me, Agent Mäder,’ a polite well-spoken voice said. ‘I hope the location does not inconvenience you.’

  Mäder paused momentarily, taking a second to examine the noble features of the man standing before him. Despite the heavy clothing he recognised him immediately.

  ‘That’s quite alright, Monsieur Devére,’ he said. ‘Although if you prefer we can always go somewhere warmer.’

  Devére let out a sound, not quite a laugh but not unfriendly either. ‘I am sorry about the cold,’ he said quietly. ‘But I think it best we meet in a location that is unsuspecting. The city has many eyes and ears.’

  Devére looked over his shoulder, seemingly concentrating on the nearest angel, its lifeless head looking out towards the east. Mäder waited, seeing if the man was going to continue. This was not the first time the pair had met. Before his retirement, Mikael Devére had famously served for over twelve years as President of France, and before that six as prime minister. As a Catholic, the politician had enjoyed close friendships with the Popes.

  Markus Mäder, or Mark as he was better known, had been a Vatican Policeman for almost four years. His job was Vatican security, including visits from key national figureheads. For nearly three and a half years the two men had known and respected one another, a bi-product of Devére’s frequent visits to the Vatican.

  Nevertheless, it was with some surprise that the former President of France had called him less than eight hours earlier requesting a private meeting at 6:30am on the Ponte Sant’Angelo.

  ‘It must be a very busy time at the Vatican,’ Devére said; ‘I remember the last time the Church faced a crisis of this magnitude.’

  Mäder did not respond immediately. He shuffled his jacket uncomfortably, attempting to keep out the cold.

  ‘Presumably you did not invite me here for a history lesson?’

  Devére exhaled, his breath visible. ‘I have urgent information regarding your investigation into the death of Monsieur Leoni. It is vital it finds its way to the ears of your superior.’

  Mark’s heart missed a beat. This was hardly what he expected.

  ‘What kind of information?’

  ‘The circumstances behind the killing of Monsieur Leoni might still be a mystery to you, Monsieur Mäder, but when viewed in the cold light of day it is no coincidence that Messieurs Leoni et Llewellyn were killed so quickly. Should the truth become known the effect would be devastating. The media reaction alone would cause unprecedented panic.’

  Mark eyed him curiously. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’

  ‘When a policeman investigates murder there are always two sets of circumstances, monsieur: those on the surface, and those that are planted deeper. To the wider world what happened to Messieurs Leoni et Llewellyn may seem obvious on the surface: when a man is discovered dead with a bullet in his body it is only natural to accept that he was shot. But they are not the only men connected to the Vatican whose bodies have recently shown up in a mortuary. Only others display less visible symptoms.’

  Devére paused briefly.

  ‘I understand you were personally responsible for investigating the passing of your Major von Sonnerberg.’

  Mark’s facial features remained unflinching. ‘Yes that’s right.’ Secretly he wanted to ask how he knew, but he chose against it.

  ‘And what of Cardinal Faukes? His death was investigated thoroughly?’

  Mark cleared his throat, his jaw tightening as he breathed. He glanced momentarily to both sides; the normally visible St. Peter’s Basilica lay veiled behind the wintry mist.

  ‘Cardinal Faukes died in his sleep two months ago. He was seventy-eight years old, and had been in ill health.’

  Devére smiled humourlessly. ‘That may be so, Agent Mäder, after all such events are not uncommon. But I am afraid it might be more serious than you realise.’

  The Frenchman opened his coat and removed a large white envelope from an inside pocket. He offered the package to Mark who collected it with an outstretched hand. With raw fingers, he opened the seal and examined the contents with alert eyes. There were seven sheets of paper enclosed: each one included minimal writing and a bizarre logo at the top right corner. Every page included one name, and seven official stampings.

  Mäder looked at Devére after examining the first two. The names Cardinal Faukes and Major von Sonnerberg were the standout features.

  ‘The Rite of Larmenius?’ Mark said, recognising the society’s logo in the top right corner. ‘Why would the Rite of Larmenius have intelligence files on a Swiss Guard and a Vatican cardinal?’

  ‘Agent Mäder, you misundersta
nd. These are no ordinary intelligence files. Monsieur, these are death warrants.’

  Mark’s eyes widened, the seriousness of the comments registering immediately. He scanned the remaining sheets. The names Al Leoni and Jermaine Llewellyn were also present, as were two others he did not know and one other he did.

  ‘Sadly there are many influential figures who would prefer the circumstances of their deaths to remain secret.’

  Mark focused on the names he did not know. ‘Who are Martin Snow and Nathan Walls?’

  ‘Monsieur Walls was an American accountant found shot in his office, a gun by his chair and a suicide note on the desk.’ The Frenchman smiled wryly. ‘I am sure you will find it particularly odd that the note was computer typed.’

  ‘Takes care of the problem of handwriting.’

  ‘Monsieur Snow was found dead in his compartment on a train to Chicago. He had been dead for over eight hours – a heart attack according to the official accounts. As far as I am aware no suspicious circumstances were reported. Exhumation, of course, would be out of the question.’

  Mark nodded, his eyes continuing to examine the sheets of paper in his hands. He focused on the logo.

  ‘Why would the Rite of Larmenius order the deaths of these men?’ the policeman asked, aware of Devére’s connections with the society. ‘I assume you know who’s responsible?’

  ‘It would be unwise to jump to any rash conclusions, monsieur. The Rite of Larmenius is unlike any organisation in existence. No two members are alike. Most of its members probably do not even know one another, and would be appalled if they ever learned what you have learned. But sadly some of its senior masters seem to favour personal gain over honesty and integrity,’ he paused momentarily. ‘I am sure you are now aware, Agent Mäder, of my reasons for not wanting to draw attention to this meeting.’

  Mark nodded emotionlessly. After several seconds of silence he broke eye contact, examining both entrances to the bridge, ensuring that they were still alone.

  ‘I assure you, Monsieur Devére, I have told no one of this meeting.’

  Devére offered a vague smile. ‘But still, it is only a matter of time before certain people become aware of what I have done. Their influence spans far and wide.’

  ‘Monsieur, even if what you fear is true, I fail to believe that they would dare hurt the former President of France. For starters they’d have to get past your bodyguards.’

  Devére laughed, again without humour. ‘Believe me, monsieur, they are capable of much and have done far worse. And as you are now aware their methods are rarely obvious. The Rite of Larmenius has many fine qualities – and none more so than discretion. An ordinary policeman will never find individual culprits on surface evidence alone; its members are far too clever for that. Scapegoats are found, cover-ups are made, and important questions are dissuaded from being asked.’ Devére shook his head. ‘But I will not stand by while faceless men use its good name to carry out such villainy. I can help you identify the killers, but it is those who give the orders who are the real murderers. But proving their guilt, monsieur, cannot happen overnight.’

  ‘If you can help provide evidence of their guilt then the Vatican can protect you. There is no security in the world better than that which guards the Pope.’

  Devére smiled gratefully, shaking his head at the same time. ‘Maybe. But first we must be sure what we are dealing with. You must find out for sure, Agent Mäder, that Messieurs Faukes, von Sonnerberg and Snow were murdered. Only then will this be confirmed,’ he said, tapping the envelope in Mark’s hand. ‘Or at least satisfy my fears that they were not.’

  Devére turned away, walking slowly in the direction of the castel.

  ‘But also give thought to this, Agent Mäder,’ he said pausing. ‘What is your greater duty as a policeman? Solving crimes that have already been committed? Or preventing ones that are still to occur?’

  Mark nodded, immediately aware what he meant. Of the seven death warrants present in his hand only six he knew to be dead.

  The Vatican City is a landlocked sovereign city-state located within the Italian capital of Rome and has a population of fewer than 900 citizens. Since 1377 the Vicars of Christ have resided almost continually within this walled enclave whose origins date back to the life of St. Peter.

  According to the Gospel of Matthew it was Peter who was chosen as the first Vicar of Christ after being handed the keys to the Kingdom of Heaven in recognition for his faith. Catholic doctrine holds that the passing of the keys marks the first moment of Apostolic succession, which continues uninterrupted to this day and provides one of four undeniable Marks that define the Catholic Church as the one true church of the Son of God. Tradition states that the original church was built around the tomb of the first Pope that in time led to the formation of the current basilica: a physical representation of Christ’s promise that “upon this rock I shall build my Church”.

  Of the millions of tourists who visit the Vatican every year, few are aware that the modern Vatican City is all that remains of the longstanding Papal States which once covered the Italian regions of Lazio, Umbria, Marche and parts of eastern Emilia-Romagna that lasted from the 8th century until the invasion of Napoleon I. Despite its revival in the following years, the rise of Italian nationalism and the culmination of the Franco-Prussian War saw the Papal States fall to a unified Italy, leaving the Vatican City as the only remaining territorial power of the Church, officially recorded as the world’s smallest nation both in population and size.

  In a bedroom inside the Vatican City, Swiss Guard Mikael Frei awoke from a dreamless sleep. From the east side of the room the morning sun caused an unpleasant burning sensation on his face as it pierced through the gap in his curtains. In a dazed state, he untangled the sweat-soaked covers from around his feet and pulled them over his unguarded face, blocking out the sunlight. With his vision once more in darkness, thoughts returned to sleep.

  Yet something was still disturbing him. Somewhere in the room he could hear a strange ringing. It was a familiar sound: it was distant yet somehow quite near. Now awake, the Swiss Guard pulled away the covers and squinted at his surroundings. The telephone on the bedside table was ringing.

  Slowly, the Swiss Guard rolled over. He rubbed his eyes and blinked incessantly. The bedside clock confirmed it was after ten but to Frei the hour was still early after a night on duty. He did not expect contact today.

  After the fourth ring he picked up the receiver.

  ‘Allo.’

  ‘Wachtmeister Frei,’ a man replied with a voice of authority.

  Dazed only seconds earlier, the soldier’s mindset suddenly changed to one of alertness. He recognised the voice of his commander on the other end of the line.

  The Swiss Guard sat up in his bed. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘I apologise for calling you off duty. I need to speak with you most urgently.’

  The soldier paused. His mouth felt dry and his skin sticky from the sweaty sheets.

  The voice spoke crisply. ‘My office. Ten minutes.’

  The voice gave way to the dialling tone, accompanied by vague ringing noise as his ears adjusted to the silence. Replacing the phone, he adjusted the sheets and sat up on the side of the bed.

  In the last year this hadn’t been a complete rarity. For the first six years in service Mikael Frei had never been asked to open a door let alone be approached for matters of importance. General audiences and official visits had come and gone with the twenty-nine-year-old providing little more than a ceremonial role in the proceedings. But that all changed when he was promoted to wachtmeister, the Swiss equivalent of sergeant. His excellent abilities as a sharpshooter, and his dedication to the martial art of Kung fu eventually led to frequent duties alongside the other sergeants guarding key officials, including the Pope.

  Yawning, he looked around the room, taking in the sights. It was a familiar room, its furnishings offering a reminder of both his present vocation and his American upbringing. A large c
ertificate was mounted on the wall, signifying his Bachelor of Science from the Annapolis Naval Academy. Several photographs from his time at Annapolis also lined the wall, mostly of his friends, graduation or dressed in full battle gear playing cornerback for the Goats.

  Lining the next wall were pictures of family, accompanied by some of him in service, alongside the other guards. He gazed with interest at the most recent, an official photograph, taken by the Pope’s official photographer. Located in a large frame, he was walking across St. Peter’s Square with four other sergeants, talking with the President and Vice President of the USA as they arrived on their recent visit.

  He yawned again, this time deeper than before. He looked once more at the clock on his bedside table and saw two minutes had already passed. His skin felt sticky, but the shower would have to wait. He knew he could not be late.

  The barracks of the Swiss Guard lie in close proximity to the Tower of Nicholas V and the Finestra del Santo Padre at the north of St. Peter’s Square. It was Pope Sixtus IV who approved barracks for the guards in the 15th century prior to the decision by Pope Julius II in 1506 to recruit mercenaries from Switzerland to aid the Vatican as a token of appreciation for the valour shown by Swiss mercenaries who had once saved his life in battle. The building that survives from that time offers residence for all 110 guards, the entire military force for the Vatican and celebrated as the oldest military unit in the world.