The Templar Agenda Page 24

  ‘Wachtmeister.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Thierry turned toward Gabrielle who smiled warmly. ‘Gabrielle,’ he said taking her hand in his. His broad hands felt warm and prickly. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m good,’ she replied, quietly appreciating the moment when her hand became free again.

  ‘I hope Wachtmeister Frei has been of comfort to you.’

  Now on the spot, Mike brushed his eyebrow with his left hand. The last thing he wanted was an assessment, but already this felt more like an autopsy: slow, painful, and on the whole unenlightening.

  But in many ways the last eight weeks had been useful. Later that day he would report his findings to Thierry and the Vatican Police.

  ‘Mike was a true gentleman and an excellent soldier,’ Gabrielle said without making eye contact with Mike. ‘My mother, uncle and myself felt vastly more secure in his presence.’

  Vastly more secure. Jeez, she was worse than Riva. As he looked at her he noticed the hint of a grin had graced her lips. For a moment he thought she was going to look at him, but instead she maintained eye contact with the oberst. The perfect actress!

  ‘I’m very pleased to hear this,’ the oberst said. ‘How is your mother?’

  ‘She’s okay. She’s with my aunt in Ottawa now.’

  ‘And yourself?’

  ‘I’m okay. My uncle is back home in St. Gallen. He’s gonna stay for a while.’

  ‘I’m very pleased to know your safety will be assured.’

  Gabrielle smiled. ‘Thank you, Thierry.’

  Not for the first time no eye contact was made yet to Mike what sounded like one thing insinuated another. Standing in silence, he couldn’t help but think back to what Henry said. What began as a front ended as a front only somehow less convincing than before. Eight weeks had come and gone but it seemed like a lot longer. And as Mike flipped his suitcase onto one side, it was as though he had just finished a lengthy holiday.

  ‘Wachtmeister, why don’t you escort Ms. Leoni to the Sistine Chapel; the council of the Vatican Bank are meeting there.’

  ‘Wow, I love that place,’ Gabrielle said.

  ‘Wachtmeister. I’ll be in my office.’

  Together, they walked side by side through long and deserted passageways that make up the Vatican Museums. The wheels of Mike’s suitcase echoed loudly in all directions as they rolled across the floor, making Gabrielle smile. Although she had walked this floor before she found herself in awe of the incredible array of art that covered the ceilings and walls.

  They continued through several large arch shaped doorways and entered the Gallery of Maps. She arched her neck as they walked, her mind failing in every way to take in the inspiring scenes covering the curved ceiling above her. On the walls, the atlas paintings seemed almost three-dimensional: an artistic illusion that made the islands seem to protrude from their position surrounded by glorious blue seas harbouring navies of painted ships while ancient muses, floating above the water, decorated golden plates on which the name of the country was written.

  While Gabrielle was totally captivated, Mike had seen it many times before. On some days he would walk the corridors several times. Strangely he had never really appreciated them. Tourists came from all over the world to see the famous art, yet to him they were just a passing wall mark: almost like a cheap print in a 5 x 7 inch frame hanging on a bedroom wall. He smiled to himself as he watched Gabrielle study the room in detail. She really was an expert in everything she did.

  ‘So what happens to you now?’

  She delayed momentarily, continuing to focus on the walls. ‘You mean now that the Vatican have bought Leoni et Cie or now that you’ve left?’ she asked with a smile.

  ‘Both, I guess.’

  ‘Well, my family still owns shares in the bank but I won’t be involved in running it.’

  Mike nodded. ‘Right.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  They entered another corridor lined with art from the Middle Ages. One particular picture caught Gabrielle’s eye. Many of the characters were on horses ascending a mountain, evoking scenes from Exodus. Moving on, she looked at another, this one a scene of war: men, some on horseback, fighting on a green field before a castle on the coast. The Latin title meant nothing to her.

  ‘And how about today?’

  ‘Well seeing as I’m here I might as well check out the library.’

  Mike looked at her. ‘You know there are like a million books in there. And besides, you need special permission from the librarian. Only scholars are allowed in there. And that’s just the non-secret one.’

  ‘I know,’ Gabrielle replied. ‘But I’m sure the cardinals won’t mind. I mean I’m about to have a meeting with the Vatican bankers. And my great-uncle is the Cardinal Secretary of State. The Camerlengo, after all.’

  Mike had to admit she had a point. It was one thing some atheist scholar from Massachusetts trying to obtain a copy of some manuscript while researching a class on the Second World War. Gabrielle Leoni was no ordinary person. Billions of dollars of the Vatican’s money was tied up in her bank, her family’s bank.

  Gabrielle Leoni: socialite, banker, and scholar.

  ‘And then what?’

  Gabrielle shrugged. ‘Who knows? You won’t be around to find out.’

  They came to a standstill outside the Sistine Chapel and looked one another in the eye. Behind exquisite doors people were talking loudly, confirming that the meeting was still to start.

  ‘Well,’ Mike said.

  ‘Yeah,’ she replied, breaking eye contact and fiddling with her hair. She cleared her throat and looked away.

  Mike sighed and an awkward smile reached his lips. Secretly he almost felt choked up but retained the soldier’s calm.

  ‘It was a pleasure.’

  Gabrielle laughed. ‘Shut up, you hated it.’

  For once Mike’s façade let him down and Gabrielle smiled widely. He searched for words that never came. Finally she broke the silence.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘What for?’

  ‘You know. Rosslyn. Driving me to St. Gallen and places. Taking care of my mom. Trying to protect me even though I was always yelling at you, arguing with you, telling you what to do…’

  ‘Telling me what not to do.’

  Gabrielle smiled. ‘Precisely.’

  Mike laughed. ‘Yeah…well…that was nothing.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Further seconds of silence passed awkwardly. The sound of Gilbert de Bois laughing was audible from the chapel. It sounded like he was speaking to Cardinal del Rosi.

  Mike laughed and so did Gabrielle.

  ‘Sounds like quite a party in there.’

  ‘Who knew cardinals and bankers had a sense of humour.’

  Mike let out another brief laugh, leading to further silence. Then inexplicably a sense of decorum took over.

  He looked her in the eye.

  ‘You take care.’

  ‘Yeah. You too.’

  Mike reached out his hand, not knowing what else to do. She smiled as she reached for it and leaned forward to kiss him. He leaned in himself. Both sets of lips felt contact with one another’s cheeks and without intention their lips partially met. For what was only the briefest of seconds if not less the soft touch of Gabrielle’s hand behind his head accompanied by the faintest brush of her beautiful lips on the side of his felt like a moment of perfect bliss. As she released her hand, her eyes opened and they looked at one another, all this time without speaking a word.

  She forced a smile and raised her right hand before turning away. She entered the chapel and like a true actress did not look back. As the door closed behind her Mike stood alone. He placed his hand to his clean-shaven face, and for several seconds continued to watch the door.

  Finally, he picked up the handle to his suitcase and walked back the way he came, accompanied only by the echoing of the wheels as he dragged the case behind him.

  22

  Oberst de Cour
ten had been sitting in his office for over ten minutes. What began as a brief escape from the hustle and bustle of being commander of the Swiss Guard had become a rare period of quiet reflection. The Vatican was never quiet but today had been a chore. Under normal circumstances the Vatican Bank was relatively unimportant, yet recently, other than the Pope himself, it had become his key responsibility.

  Nine Vatican bankers, usually ten, in the Sistine Chapel, two outsiders, was rare but not altogether out of the ordinary. To him it was just another get-together of the people in suits congregating in God’s holiest of chapels to participate in the worshipping of a different god: this one with an earthly presence consisting of millions of churches throughout the world whose logos differed from £ to $ to other stupid signs that looked more in place at the bottom of an ancient Egyptian sarcophagus. Everyone seemed to worship this god and even the Vatican was acting as an altar to him.

  To Thierry, the room was his sanctuary. Like many of the rooms in this part of the Vatican City it was elegantly decorated with Renaissance art, artefacts, and a flag of the Swiss Guard, incorporating the crest of his tenure. His walkie-talkie sat on his desk next to the phone that echoed from time to time with yet another message.

  By the desk lamp was a three by seven inch frame enclosing a beautiful photograph. He was in it, standing, not formally, but casual. It seemed strange, distant and vague, despite being taken less than two years ago. He seemed much younger then. In his arms was a five-year-old girl: medium length locks of golden blonde hair and smiling blue eyes, a characteristic shared by the other three in the photograph. Next to her was a slightly older version of the child, perhaps three years her senior, with an equally cheeky smile befitting an eight-year-old. Next on was a ten-year-old, also a girl, also a blonde, also smiling. Their cuteness displayed trickery of youth while their clothing, despite lacking in prestige, suited their appearances. To an outsider the photograph was a vision of warmth: a happy family kept together by the final member of the family, Eliza de Courten: forty-two years of age, mother of three, devoted child of God, wife of the oberst and image of perfect loveliness. Her prettiness, clearly sharing the family attributes inherited by her children, was still visible despite signs of forehead wrinkles and isolated streaks of grey in her otherwise natural blonde hair, partially covering her ears, lined with department store earrings, potential cost £80 the pair. Her bright blue eyes demonstrated a wild side illustrating reminders of lost youth and adventure never to be tamed despite twelve years by the side of a soldier.

  He smiled to himself. Seconds later he heard a knock at the door.

  ‘Come.’

  The door opened and Mike entered, now dressed in the traditional blue uniform of the Swiss Guard and minus his suitcase.

  ‘Wachtmeister,’ he said, rising to his feet. He saluted Mike and offered him a chair.

  Mike sat down, taking a second to examine the room. As usual it was a tidy office, an important office in keeping with the character of the Swiss Guard: eternally lacking in wealth but abundant in humility and natural prestige. Bankers in suits may earn all the dough but, as Alessandro once said, all women dream of a Swiss Guard.

  Seconds later there came a second knock at the door. Commissario Pessotto entered quickly, dressed sharply. He smiled briefly at Mike before taking a seat next to Thierry.

  ‘Now, Frei,’ Pessotto said, his hands clasped together, and his expression thoughtful. ‘How did it go?’

  For over quarter of an hour Mike recalled the activities of the past two months. He referred to the funeral, which was nothing new. He referred to the bank and the circumstances surrounding it, then the return of Henry Leoni and his observations regarding the recently discovered manuscript. Rosslyn came last.

  Thierry’s reaction was difficult to determine. As the commander of the Swiss Guard nothing shocked him. Mike emphasised the importance of the manuscript being found in a safe deposit account at Leoni et Cie which may, or may not, have belonged to Mikael Devére and the alleged content of the diary. In general he centred the topic on the logo and its inclusion in the vaults at Rosslyn, including the grave of one of the Zenos.

  Commissario Pessotto sat quietly. His dynamic blue eyes moved quickly as he digested the information. Although he did not show it he was a man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Every few minutes he was interrupted by the sound of Thierry on his walkie-talkie, dialogue both brief and intense. As usual he received a string of constant updates.

  ‘I made no secret of the fact that I was unhappy about going to Rosslyn,’ Mike said. ‘But as Ms. Leoni never ceased to point out, I was to guard her, not imprison her.’

  Thierry forced a considerate smile. ‘She is party to a difficult situation. Sometimes people do not know what’s best for them.’

  ‘Without divulging information about the exact threat on her it was difficult to persuade her,’ Mike said. ‘She made it quite clear that she did not want me there. After all, she is a grown woman.’

  ‘Sadly even grownups don’t always know what’s best for them,’ Commissario Pessotto replied. He looked back thoughtfully at Mike.

  Mike nodded and grimaced simultaneously. He expected to be reprimanded. He referred briefly to the Mercedes that continuously reappeared outside the château and the biker at Rosslyn but the conversation didn’t last. Pessotto concluded that it was probably a coincidence.

  Their conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. It was Stan.

  ‘Oberst. Cardinal Pedrosa seeks a moment of your time.’

  Thierry nodded without interest. ‘Very well,’ he said. He rose to his feet slowly. Every second it seemed someone, usually a cardinal, wanted a moment of his time. He informed Mike that he would return shortly before exiting through the open door. His footsteps echoed loudly as he departed with purpose and impatience.

  Pessotto looked at Mike and smiled. ‘Excuse me, wachtmeister.’

  Mike nodded as the head of the Vatican Police also left the room, leaving Mike and Stan alone. For the first time Mike noticed one gold star on each of Stan’s shoulders.

  ‘So they made you a major, huh,’ Mike said, sounding impressed.

  ‘Yeah,’ Stan said modestly, leaning against the door. ‘So, how’s it feel to be back?’

  Mike stuttered a laugh. How did it feel? He could hardly describe it. Familiar surroundings helped create the illusion that he had never even left: as if the last eight weeks, the château, St. Gallen, Zürich, Scotland was all a dream.

  But the walls seemed somehow strange to him. He had always felt quite at home at the Vatican. He never imagined himself being at home in a grand house.

  ‘Weird.’

  ‘I can imagine.’

  Mike raised his eyebrows. Imagine what? Mike thought to himself. They say as soldiers you should never get attached but for him it was unavoidable. Not just to her, but the situation. The symbol, the diary, it was still there in his mind, as it was on the walls of the crypts of Rosslyn.

  He was missing something.

  ‘So how’s it all been going?’

  Mike laughed and shook his head simultaneously. As a major in the Swiss Guard he knew that Stan’s clearance was far above the norm.

  ‘You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.’

  Mike sat back in the chair, clasping his hands together thoughtfully. To an outsider the conversation was out of character with usual Swiss Guard procedure: instead it was more in keeping with casual tongue wagging between friends idling away time over a cappuccino. Mike always knew Stan was one of the least formal officers in the army. It was partly for that reason he liked him so much.

  Stan scratched his head, struggling to respond to what he had heard. His response was not immediate. When it came Mike expected it to be calculated, the way in which someone of greater intellect digested the information before composing an elegant solution. In this case it was not.

  ‘That’s some shit,’ Stan said.

  ‘Tell me about it.’

>   Stan spoke to Mike in fluent German, the official language of the Papal Guard. His harsh voice was reminiscent of a Luftwaffe officer barking out instructions to his fighter pilot before launching another lightning strike over war-torn Europe. His Swiss descent was complete on both French and German sides and he was fluent in every language of the confederation.

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘About what?’ Mike asked.

  ‘About the rich bitch.’

  Mike looked up, almost in disgust. He was quite surprised at his own reaction. For the briefest of seconds his mind wandered back to his conversation with Stan that night in the restaurant near the Trevi Fountain, before he met Gabrielle. He suddenly felt strangely defensive.

  Mike shook his head. ‘It’s no longer my concern.’

  Heavy footsteps echoed loudly along the corridor.

  ‘I best be heading off,’ Stan said, preparing to leave. ‘Oh, Mike, got an extra ticket to Lazio-Roma tomorrow night. Wanna come?’

  Mike smiled and nodded. Thierry re-entered the room and walked slowly around his desk. He exhaled with frustration before taking a seat.

  Stan saluted Thierry as he approached, leaving the office through the open door.

  Thoughts returned to the matter at hand. He wondered whether the meeting in the Sistine Chapel was over and whether Gabrielle was in the library. Was it really possible she could be onto something?

  Thierry turned to face Mike. A stranger facing the oberst for the first time may have confused his state with stress. To Mike his demeanour was like that of a prison warden who had just inspected a consignment of new scumbags sent down after being convicted of knife attacks on women or pensioners. His concentration was waning, unusually for him. In a strange way Mike respected him more because of it. Mike knew that both Thierry and Commissario Pessotto valued their jobs above their lives. To him there were no men alive more appropriate for the responsibility of guarding Christ’s representative on this earth.

  ‘I find your story a little hard to believe, wachtmeister.’