The Templar Agenda Read online

  Behind them, the sound of footsteps echoed once more. Cardinal Utaka looked over his shoulder. Oberst de Courten was walking towards them.

  Thierry continued to within five paces of the pew and waited for both men to stand. Mark stood to attention and saluted, his gesture returned by the oberst. Slowly the cardinal ascended to his feet.

  ‘I hope you have a plan, oberst,’ the cardinal said. ‘It is your job.’

  Thierry lowered his salute. ‘My job is to protect the Apostolic Palace, eminence.’

  ‘Do not be naïve, de Courten; you did not get those three gold stars by being naïve. When you protect the Pope you protect the entire Vatican. Do I really need to remind you?’

  The cardinal eyed both men closely.

  ‘We must fear the worst and hope for better.’

  ‘We still do not know all of the circumstances,’ Mark said. ‘Walls, I understand, was in a lot of debt. Leoni might have been mugged.’

  ‘A couple of days ago I would have probably agreed with you,’ the oberst said grimly. ‘But now things have changed. Commissario Pessotto gave me this. Received from Washington D.C. not one hour ago.’

  Thierry passed a faxed document to Mark and then to Cardinal Utaka. The cardinal’s facial expression became one of confusion.

  ‘It appears that Jermaine Llewellyn received a fax of some description around the time he was killed. The source of the document was the Leoni et Cie headquarters in St. Gallen.’

  ‘Of what nature?’ Utaka asked quickly.

  Thierry remained neutral. ‘I’m afraid its contents are still to be found.’

  Mark looked seriously at Thierry. ‘Leoni’s briefcase was empty when his body was found.’

  An awkward silence lasted several seconds.

  Utaka shook his head. ‘Why would Leoni and Llewellyn be killed at the same time?’ he asked rhetorically.

  Thierry shook his head.

  ‘We cannot ignore this any longer,’ the cardinal said. ‘The evidence is indisputable.’

  ‘But this makes no sense,’ Mark said. ‘The Rite of Larmenius have not carried out anything of this kind for three decades. Why would they start now? As far as we know none of the victims have links with them? Nor do any of the society’s present members survive from the last time.’

  Utaka looked seriously at Thierry. ‘What do we know? What have you been told?’

  ‘We have been told only what we have been shown,’ Thierry said. ‘Six dead – no connection.’

  Utaka shook his head. ‘If we are not careful this could destroy everything we have worked so hard to create.’ he pointed his finger at Thierry. ‘That girl’s a sitting duck.’

  ‘I have already taken precautions there,’ the oberst replied. ‘Come Friday, daughter, mother so long as she is there, and uncle, should he return, will be put under the care of Wachtmeister Frei.’

  ‘Oh Mike,’ Mark said without excitement.

  ‘Is he able?’ the cardinal asked.

  ‘Mike is an excellent soldier, eminence,’ Mark said. ‘We’ve been friends since we were four; I used to share a room in barracks with him when I was a halberdier. He’s loyal, strong, a great marksman...’

  ‘And most importantly he will be stationed in St. Gallen. It’s his home canton,’ Thierry said, echoing Commissario Pessotto’s earlier words. ‘The man has been trusted to guard His Holiness himself. He shall accompany us to St. Gallen. I have instructed him to watch over Ms. Leoni until we know the facts behind the killings. Who knows, perhaps when he returns he might be able to shed some light on things.’

  ‘On your head be it,’ the cardinal said pointing his trembling finger.

  The three men separated, making their way along the main aisle heading towards the stairs that lead down to the grotto. Kneeling near the high altar under Bernini’s Baldacchino, nobody paid any attention to the hooded man, listening to their every word.

  It was no longer snowing in Rome but the temperature was still bitter. The evening air appeared motionless; the blanket of steady cloud that had engulfed the sky above the city for the past three days was at last beginning to disperse. A stunning full moon shone brightly against oceans of black sky, its glow hindered intermittently by occasional passing cloud.

  On the streets below, hoards of people walked quickly, wrapped up in thick clothes, heading toward the metro or one of the city’s many bars or restaurants. In the heart of the city the Trevi Fountain, the site that would be swarming with tourists in summertime, soaking up the atmosphere drinking glasses of red wine or sitting relaxing on its famous steps whiling away the time watching water trickle among its famous statues, was practically deserted, its elegant façade coated in a thin layer of ice.

  At just after eight-fifteen Mikael Frei walked past the Trevi Fountain and entered a restaurant, located just off the square. The warmth of the central heating hit him instantly as he entered from the cold. The interior was finely furnished, comprising several two, four and six seat tables lined with white tablecloths, most of which were in use. A long bar was located immediately to the right offering lagers on tap while various bottles of wine, spirits and other drinks occupied the fridges or hung from the wall behind the counter.

  The Swiss Guard paused momentarily before continuing toward a four seat table some twenty feet from the entrance. Two seats were already taken. Both were men, both he recognised. The more relaxed of the two smiled at him.

  ‘Hey, Mikey, what’s happening, baby?’ He removed his left foot from the nearest seat.

  ‘Sandro,’ Mike said shaking hands with his friend.

  Alessandro Vogel was one of the youngest members of the Vatican Police. Aged twenty-seven, he joined the corps two years earlier after serving in the Italian Police and before that the NYPD. As an American born of an Italian father and an American-Swiss mother, he was technically acceptable for membership in the Swiss Guard or the Vatican Police and he had the looks, the wit and accent to prove it. To an outsider he was a typical native of Manhattan. Everyone loved him from the start.

  The second man sat opposite Alessandro. He had a shaven head, unlike his face that showed slight stubble, and large biceps reminiscent of an Olympic discus thrower. Stan, or Johann Studer, as he was christened, was over nine years older than Mike and had served both the Swiss Army and the Swiss Guard off and on for over twenty years. The man held the rank of hauptmann, the equivalent of a captain, making him the fifth most senior member of the Swiss Guard. Following the sudden death of Major Pius von Sonnerberg in Prague, he was looking likely to be promoted.

  ‘How’s it going, buddy?’ Alessandro asked.

  ‘I’m okay,’ Mike said taking a seat next to him and removing his black woolly hat. A waiter passed almost immediately, offering the Swiss Guard a menu. A large bottle of Chianti was already present in the middle of the table, surrounded by four glasses, two of which were half full.

  Stan picked up the bottle. ‘What’s this I hear about you meeting with the oberst?’ He poured wine into an empty glass and pushed it across the table to Mike.

  ‘I thought that guy only went on dates with cardinals.’

  Mike grinned at Alessandro. ‘He wants me to go on vacation.’

  ‘Vacation? I’m going on one myself next Wednesday,’ Stan said.

  ‘It’s not one of them,’ Mike said, putting his hands through his short hair. He looked briefly over his shoulder. The sound of IL DIVO was playing through the speakers, loud enough to drown out the general level of conversation from the various tables and eliminating the chances of being overheard. ‘They want me to protect a banker’s daughter in St. Gallen.’

  ‘Oh,’ Stan said, looking slightly surprised. ‘It’s one of them.’

  ‘Stan’s going on one of them this Thursday.’

  Mike looked at Stan. ‘You’re going too?’

  ‘The Leoni funeral? Yes. Several foreign diplomats will be present, paying their respects. Cardinal Tepilo will be there, of course. Half the Vatican seem to be going.’


  Mike nodded, digesting the information seriously. ‘Who are these guys?’

  ‘Leoni et Cie?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Stan shrugged. ‘Guys in suits, guys with money.’

  ‘Guys married to red hot mamas who spend all their hard earned cash while dreaming of running off with a gorgeous Swiss Guard,’ Alessandro said.

  Mike smiled.

  Stan laughed. ‘I never had you down as a babysitter, Frei.’

  ‘It didn’t feel as though I had a choice in the matter.’

  Stan sought to reply but stopped. The waiter returned, placing a selection of breadsticks, bruschetta and cold meats on the table.

  ‘Grazie.’

  The waiter smiled and turned immediately. Stan picked up a breadstick and started eating. ‘You’ll like his daughter,’ he said, checking that the waiter had definitely left. ‘I hear it on good authority she’s a right little party animal.’

  Mike looked up, his mouth displaying a vague hint of a grin.

  ‘Oh yeah,’ Stan continued. The breadstick crunched loudly as he chewed. ‘Spoilt little bitch I heard. Her daddy was worth zillions. And it’s all hers.’

  ‘God bless Switzerland,’ Sandro said.

  ‘So who is she?’ Mike asked picking up some bruschetta. ‘Commissario Pessotto said she’s more a socialite than a banker.’

  Stan nodded. ‘Like I said she’s a party animal. She thinks she knows it all. She’s very posh. Loves her art…’

  ‘Oh nice.’

  ‘Very, very posh,’ Stan said putting on a humorous accent that made Mike and Sandro laugh. ‘Apartments in Manhattan, Paris, Madrid, London, a mansion in Boston, and a château in St. Gallen; dinners with the English Queen, that kinda thing.’

  ‘Ask her if I can use the one in Manhattan,’ Sandro said, moving his hand through his blond hair.

  Mike grinned, taking the first taste of his food. He loved the way the tomatoes blended with the crunchy bread. He could just picture her now: dressed in designer clothing that would cost him a decade to put down even a deposit, a study full of credentials that weren’t even hers, a house big enough for a five-star hotel and enough cars to fill a showroom. He knew the sort. St. Gallen had a few of them when he was young.

  ‘Who told you this?’ Mike asked Stan.

  ‘Markus Mäder told me.’

  ‘Does he know her?’

  ‘He’s been there already,’ Stan said finishing the breadstick and reaching for his wine glass. ‘He met Al Leoni a couple of months back.’

  ‘Pity he wasn’t there the other night,’ Mike said pausing. ‘Hey, where is Mark anyway? I haven’t seen him for weeks.’

  ‘Word on the street says he’s been meeting Cardinal Utaka in secret.’

  Mike smiled at Alessandro.

  ‘I think he was in Turin or Venice or something,’ Stan said. ‘He was in Prague after the major was killed. I just texted him; he’ll be here soon.’

  Mike looked across the table, wondering exactly what he meant. He studied Stan’s reaction. His hard face gave little away. As far as he was aware the major had died of natural causes.

  The door to the restaurant opened and Mark entered. He removed a woolly hat from his head and tidied his hair with his hand. He paused momentarily, searching the restaurant with quick eyes.

  Mike raised his hand and Mark noticed. He walked quickly in their direction, shaking hands with Mike and Alessandro as he passed.

  Of everyone at the Vatican, Mark was his favourite. Both had been sworn into the Swiss Guard on the same day but their friendship had begun over twenty years before that. Their mothers had been bridesmaids at each other’s weddings in St. Gallen and both had moved to the States before either boy was old enough to remember.

  Mike monitored Mark as he circled the table, moving in the direction of the one vacant chair. Three weeks had passed since he last saw him but in a way it felt more like hours. Even though he was dressed casually, a black fleece covering what now appeared to be dark jeans and a full-sleeved jumper, somehow Mark always presented the appearance of someone of military pedigree, at least in the eyes of those also of military pedigree.

  Both men were descended of Swiss Army and Swiss Guards going back four generations and both experienced their first aircraft carrier before leaving the womb. Nineteen years later both enrolled at the Annapolis Naval Academy, sharing dorms throughout. While Mike continued in the Swiss Guard, Mark had left after his service as a halberdier was up. Less than two years after leaving for Florence fate led him back to the eternal city.

  The Vatican policeman took a seat by Stan and pulled it up to the table, the wood scraping slightly against the floor.

  ‘Frei was asking about Leoni’s daughter,’ Stan said, shaking Mark’s hand.

  ‘Yeah, oberst told me you’re gonna be her babysitter for a while.’

  Mike forced a smile. ‘Gee, good news sure travels fast doesn’t it. I hear she’s just my type.’

  ‘Sure. Brunette, blue eyes, nice selection of cars, debatable sense of humour. Height: approximately one hundred and sixty-five centimetres. Weight: one hundred and fifteen pounds give or take…’

  ‘And value: one and a half billion euro,’ Alessandro interrupted.

  All present smiled.

  ‘She’ll be okay,’ Mark replied, smiling. ‘Just don’t argue with her; or question her; or disobey her; or look at her…’

  ‘I’ll bear it in mind,’ Mike said. He shook his head, but failed to hide a smile. He looked at Mark. ‘But seriously, what’s it like holding the baby?’

  Mark hesitated deliberately. ‘Well, it pretty much sucks yeah.’

  ‘At least you won’t starve,’ Sandro said.

  ‘Sure,’ Mark replied, covering his mouth. ‘Well, probably not to death.’

  3

  Washington D.C.

  The rain was falling relentlessly in the American capital. Pedestrians walked with uncomfortable determination through Union Station, jackets buttoned or zipped up, scarves wrapped tightly around their necks, and briefcases and bags hanging like dead-weights from their arms as they waited impatiently for their trains. Although the station was crowded the peak of passengers was over and the carriages were sparsely populated in comparison to a couple of hours earlier.

  A loud bell-like jingle from the PA system preceded the announcement of the 20:45 service departing to New York. Among the gathering passengers waiting to board the train was Ludovic Gullet. He was dressed in black jeans, matching his jacket, and he carried a small suitcase in the manner of a tourist. His lengthy dark brown hair was done up in the usual ponytail and a serious expression crossed his face. He had been waiting for over an hour and boredom had set in. Given the choice of sitting at one of the bars or sitting on a bench the competition was nonexistent, but on this occasion he chose the takeaway cappuccino. The seriousness of his forthcoming meeting could not be underestimated.

  The doors to the train opened automatically and several people alighted onto the platform. After waiting for the outgoing crowd to depart, he entered the train in the company of several and took an aisle seat in an unoccupied area. He placed his suitcase beneath the seat and waited patiently for the train to start moving.

  Five seats down on the opposite side of the aisle, the bearded man sat quietly. A copy of the Washington Post was spread out across the table and an empty takeaway coffee cup was present on the side. He had read the paper umpteen times already and pretended to read it once more. Not for the first time in recent days, the topic of Jermaine Llewellyn’s possible replacement was dominating the early pages. He glanced at the newcomer as he boarded the train but continued to focus on the paper. He was quite specific about not drawing attention to their appointment: to the outside world they were just two nobodies heading to New York. But in reality the instruction was an unnecessary precaution. The concept of anonymity was not lost on either. And that, itself, was good.

  At 20:46 the train began to move. As the train gathere
d pace, the bearded man left his seat. He deposited the coffee cup in the rubbish bin and walked slowly towards the newcomer. Neither made eye contact. Gullet gazed momentarily at the man as he took a seat opposite him but displayed little interest, giving the impression they were strangers: just another commuter working 25 hours a day, time was money et cetera et cetera. He certainly looked like a workaholic. But looks can be deceiving!

  The bearded man dropped his copy of the Post on the table and sat down with a rigid awkwardness. To Gullet the man’s facial expression was one of perpetual seriousness. It was the beard that did it: that enigmatic symmetry of black hairs that seemed to shrivel uncontrollably, as though always giving the impression he was annoyed, even when he was content.

  Several moments passed in silence. About ten seats down, a ticket inspector was doing the rounds, walking slowly in their direction. He glanced briefly at their tickets lying neatly on the table as he passed before moving on. Although efficient in nature the inspector clearly lacked interest, particularly at this time of night. Even if he recognised the bearded man from his publicity photos or occasional interviews on Fox or CNN he didn’t show it. He was hardly a celeb! Even if he was the President he was unlikely to attract much attention.

  He was a master of discretion.

  Gullet looked up but remained silent. The bearded man didn’t make eye contact straightaway. He removed his scarf and folded it four equal times before placing it on the table in front of him, a trademark of the man’s reputation for efficiency. Gullet knew his real name but he never called him by it. He was aware that he had other names in certain quarters – the most notable being the ‘Grand Master’.

  The bearded man surveyed the carriage, examining the features of every passenger in turn. Eight seats down, a black man in his early twenties was listening to an iPod, his earphones partially hidden by a woolly hat with a Redskins’ logo. Next seat on, a black woman was sitting opposite two balding white men who were dressed badly, although they didn’t know it. Two seats down from them, a white woman in her early forties was reading an Agatha Christie novel, sitting opposite a suited man in his fifties who was texting on his mobile. None of them looked to have a dynamic interest in politics. It was essential their conversation not be heard by interested ears.