The Templar Agenda Read online

  ‘Based on the evidence each of these murders were decreed by this society,’ Mark said quietly. He paused momentarily, making sure that nobody was going to walk in. ‘Take a look at this.’

  Mark directed Mike to the last page of seven. Each page was identical in style and similar in content. Yet the final sheet disturbed him. The name Gabrielle Leoni appeared in the centre.

  ‘Oh my!’

  Thierry edged closer to the desk and picked up two of the original prints. ‘Major von Sonnerberg was found dead in his hotel room in Prague on Christmas Eve,’ he said seriously. ‘Until now we have kept details of his death under wraps. In fact, we only knew for sure ourselves a few days ago.’

  Mike nodded despondently, his eyes focused on the death warrants. ‘What happened?’

  Thierry sought to answer but Mark got there first. ‘The Vatican Police have been investigating but at present no definitive leads have been uncovered as to why he was killed. Cardinal Faukes is even more unclear. An autopsy was never carried out. It was simply assumed that he had died of natural causes.’

  Cardinal Tepilo nodded. ‘His Holiness himself performed the funeral Mass.’

  ‘Three days ago the Vatican Police received a tipoff that not only were the deaths of these men connected, but also that they had in fact been murdered,’ Thierry said. ‘As I’m sure you will agree, judging by what’s in front of us, it seems probable that they were all murdered by the same people.’

  Mike nodded at his superior. If nothing else, at least it made sense of Mark’s recent absence. As he considered the web of intrigue that was unfolding before him it was clear that he was part of something big. This was never a babysitting job for a heartbroken daughter, not that she showed it.

  He was acting as bait.

  He looked at Mark. His manner was serious, more so than at any time Mike had known him.

  ‘The Rite of Larmenius is one of the most secretive societies on earth,’ Mark said. ‘They are the most exclusive appendant body of the Freemasons: the highest form of Freemasonry there is. No one knows exactly what they do, or officially who their members are. For all we know the men responsible for all these killings could even be in this château right now.’

  Cardinal Tepilo looked seriously at Mike. ‘Wachtmeister, please do not mention any of this to my niece. She is suffering so much.’

  Mike nodded slowly, his expression one of sympathy. Turning, he studied every face one by one. The worried expressions were unlike any he had ever witnessed.

  But at least now he knew what he was in for.

  Even if he didn’t know why.

  6

  Washington D.C.

  Senator Daniel D’Amato was not a regular attendee of social gatherings of the upper crust; in Montana he hardly had the opportunity. Rubbing shoulders with the social elite: lazy bastards who never did a day’s work in their life. No, what appealed to him was money – and power.

  With his background growing up with money should have been a given. As the eldest child of seven to a Spanish immigrant and a Texan son of an oil baron, the last thing he lacked was stability – and money. Yet that all changed following the early death of his mother, and escalated thanks to the business incompetence of his father. While an inheritance of millions would have awaited him should his father have inherited the genius of his grandfather, chronic gambling, alcoholism, and a bitch of a stepmother left the future senator fighting his own battles.

  In the early days he lost, often badly. While such setbacks might have finished a lesser man, in many ways it shaped his character. What he lacked in stability he gained in determination and as his personality developed so did his initiative. At twenty-three he graduated from Duke and by twenty-seven he had set up his own construction company. By thirty-five he sold it for millions and in time moved into banking and eventually oil and mining. As a result of his commitment came the money – and power.

  When elected to the Senate seven years ago at the age of fifty-eight, he was thought to be a strict Republican with strong Keynesian beliefs and a preference for Christian families working in primary and secondary sectors. With his background it would have figured. His election had been a landslide despite rumours of dodgy dealings in his days as a banker but as far as the voting population knew such rumours were without foundation. Even if there had been an element of truth to the stories, his reputation since being elected had been beyond credible. On the east coast he wouldn’t have had a leg to stand on, but Montana was a different story. On political issues he always appeared strong and whether right or wrong he always stuck to his guns.

  His re-election had been an even greater triumph and in both terms pre-election promises had largely been kept. What he gave the people was stability. And what they gave him was power – and money.

  He claimed to represent the people, and he did. His credibility had been proven and in certain circles whispers of approval were turning into loud voices of hope.

  Yes, this was the man who would lead the Republican Party at the next Presidential election.

  D’Amato arrived back in D.C. three days earlier and had spent most of his time since on Capitol Hill. At seven that evening he arrived at a prominent restaurant, in close proximity to the National Mall, accompanied by two other senators with connections to the Rite of Larmenius where they racked up a bill of over $500. At half past eleven he took a taxi to the Reflection Pool and continued on foot past the memorials for Roosevelt and Mason to the Thomas Jefferson Memorial. Although it was raining he decided against taking the taxi to his precise location. It was vital his meeting remained secret.

  He was a master of discretion.

  The monument was the perfect place to meet. Being so far removed from the mall and the metro, lying on the Tidal Basin of the Potomac, it was far quieter than the other monuments and despite the floodlights it was unlikely to attract attention at this hour. The rangers had gone home at least half an hour ago and the vague hum of cars in the distance and boats crossing the water were rare disturbances to the silence.

  Silence was golden.

  The rain had eased but it was still to stop altogether. The steps leading to the monument were soaked from the earlier downpour but the floor remained fairly dry under the shelter of the roof. The outline of wet footprints from earlier in the day had dried under the floodlights, leaving little more than vague messy imprints on the floor.

  It was the first rain for three days in the city. The fresh aroma of water on nearby greenery felt pleasant on his nostrils but there was a chill in the air, causing his breath to appear visible when he exhaled. He hated the cold, but given the choice it was always solitude before comfort. As usual he dressed in a heavy overcoat, protecting his suit from the rain. A black umbrella was resting against the base alongside an empty brown briefcase.

  It was now just before midnight and he was alone, his presence hidden by the frame of the former president. The eyes of the former president, looming above him, were the only threat to his privacy. The expression on his face somehow suggested concentration.

  He turned away from the statue, concentrating on the various inscriptions on the walls. He had read them many times before but they never failed to captivate him.

  He focused on one section in particular:

  No man shall be compelled to frequent or support any religious worship or ministry or shall otherwise suffer on account of his religious opinions or belief, but all men shall be free to profess and by argument to maintain, their opinions in matters of religion.

  He smiled to himself as he continued to panel three.

  God who gave us life gave us liberty. Can the liberties of a nation be thought secure when we have removed a conviction that these liberties are the gift of God? Indeed I tremble for my country when I reflect that God is just: that his justice cannot sleep for ever.

  The senator nodded, his attention on the final line.

  This it is the business of the state to effect and on a general plan.

&nb
sp; He liked this one. Mr. Jefferson was reading his mind.

  The sound of coughing from nearby stole his attention. The senator turned away from the wall, his attention now on the steps at the entrance. A man had emerged from nearby. He carried a black briefcase and an open umbrella in one hand and a lighted cigarette in the other. He came to a standstill at the bottom of the steps and carefully examined his surroundings. After several seconds he noticed the senator standing behind the statue. The newcomer approached him slowly.

  Smiling, the senator held out his hand. ‘Howdy, partner, put it there.’

  The newcomer exhaled smoke from his mouth and nose and hesitantly shook D’Amato’s hand. He was dressed in a grey jacket, accompanied by black trousers and matching shoes. A bushy moustache, predominantly black with vague strands of grey, matched the colour of his hair that was sprawled untidily as a result of walking in the rain. Without further eye contact he walked across to the other side of the statue and placed his briefcase by D’Amato’s. This was the most concealed part of the monument.

  ‘Nice of you to show up, Ged,’ the senator said.

  The man named Ged Fairbanks threw his cigarette to the ground and stamped on it with his foot. ‘GPLA is inundated with work, Danny. Do I really need to remind you?’

  The politician from Montana smiled at him, an arrogant and smug smile. It was almost as if to say I’m in control and there’s nothing you can do about it.

  Fairbanks shook his umbrella violently, causing drops of water to fall to the floor, accompanied by a sharp rattling sound as the frame vibrated against the fabric. He placed it down against the statue and looked around at the memorial. He had seen it many times before without paying particular attention to its features.

  ‘There’s a rumour going around Charlotte that Nathan Walls was killed by the same guys who killed Leoni and Llewellyn,’ the accountant said seriously. ‘But you wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?’

  ‘Where do they come up with these wild accusations?’

  ‘The media has papers to sell, Danny.’

  The senator removed a cigar from his jacket pocket and put a light to it. He smiled as he smoked, blowing the smoke in the direction of the accountant. He paused momentarily. Across the Tidal Basin, the sound of sirens roared loudly before fading to a distant hum. The sound unnerved Fairbanks. In a nervous state his eyes darted across the nearby surroundings, concentrating on the Japanese cherry trees that moved frantically as the wind picked up. The image was like something out of a horror film.

  ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  D’Amato nodded, his eyes focused on the accountant. Fairbanks picked up his briefcase and placed it against Thomas Jefferson’s foot. A grim expression dominated his features. He entered the combination from memory and opened it. He passed D’Amato a large document.

  D’Amato searched the document with quick fingers, satisfied by what he saw. To Fairbanks it was clear that D’Amato was enjoying himself. The senator took a seat on the base of the statue and inserted the document into his own briefcase.

  ‘I thought you’d be on vacation in Switzerland with your pals.’

  ‘I can vacation when this shit is over,’ the senator replied. ‘It’s cold in the winter.’

  The accountant remained silent, forcing an awkward smile. He focused his gaze on the nearby pathway as an act of caution. Despite the poor weather, he knew it was possible that a passerby could stumble on their meeting. The rain was starting to ease and moonlight penetrated through the dense nimbostratus, casting ethereal shadows among the cherry trees. Although the location was deserted, the foliage offered no shortage of hiding places. He failed to shake the feeling they were being watched.

  D’Amato removed a sealed envelope from his jacket pocket and passed it to Fairbanks. ‘Everything you need is there.’

  Without looking at the content, Fairbanks placed the envelope in an inside pocket, never breaking eye contact with D’Amato.

  ‘Don’t spend it all in one go.’

  A sharp sound from the nearest road caught him unaware. It was the sound of tyres cutting through puddles accompanied by a gear change from an unseen motor. Fairbanks looked in all directions nervously. D’Amato smiled, continuing to smoke. He exhaled, using the pause to flick ash to the floor near the accountant’s feet.

  ‘And that concludes our business, Ged…’

  Another car passed unseen. Without waiting for further invitation, Fairbanks descended the steps and accelerated into a jog. He headed in the direction of the George Mason Memorial, neglecting to put up his umbrella. Water splashed off the pavement as his shoes landed on the hard ground.

  The senator laughed to himself. He threw his cigar to the floor and extinguished it with his size nines.

  Justice cannot sleep for ever.

  ‘Sir, I shall bid you adieu.’

  7

  They exited the room shortly after midnight. Not for the first time that evening Mike passed a man slightly worse for wear leaning the majority of his weight on the fed-up woman on his arm who acted as the only barrier between him and the floor. Along the corridor, a group of the women were talking quietly, while some of the men discussed business as they sipped brandy or port, some smoking cigarettes or cigars. A peculiar stench of smoke and perfume had combined to create an unappealing odour, overwhelming the pleasant lavender fragrance that had scented the building only a few hours earlier.

  In his mind Mike continued to replay the recent episode in the small room. The men in the photographs still flashed vividly, accompanied by the various Masonic-approved death warrants. Silently that had shocked him, even more than he expected. Although he was experienced as a Papal Guard this was the first time he had ever been included from the start on any potential terrorist attack or conspiracy against the Vatican or its affiliates. Secretly the idea that the people behind the recent killings might be present in the same building unnerved him.

  But in other ways it made him more vigilant.

  Mike followed Mark along the corridor, walking in the direction of the great hall. Mike nodded briefly at one of the Vatican bankers before entering the great hall. Mark, meanwhile, continued along the corridor to another part of the building.

  Despite the revelations, Mike’s appetite had returned. He navigated his way past a small group of well dressed women and continued in the direction of the buffet table. Without realising, he made contact with the arm of a stranger going for the same plate.

  ‘Excuse me,’ Mike said, addressing the person who he now noticed to be a woman. Like most women present she was blonde, perhaps five foot seven inches in height, and wearing a stunning black dress. The woman smiled politely as she took a small bite of her sandwich. It was a tiny bite, in keeping with her miniscule figure: she was no more than an eight USA size: not that Mike knew what an eight was.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ Mike said, forgetting about food. ‘I didn’t see you there.’

  The woman remained silent, her eyes focused on Mike. She held her smile. Although she was not the only woman who he would describe as beautiful, she was one of the few who appealed to him. She struck of elegance, but not opulence; confidence, but seemingly without the surface arrogance that many of the attendees seemed to possess. She was not without mystery and her eyes were simply dazzling. In a weird way it reminded him of the first time he saw Gabrielle Leoni, that stuck up bitch, but they were somehow more playful: more friendly. To Mike they depicted a somewhat wilder side also illustrated by the curls in her hair that partially covered her pretty face. Her face was whiter than most and seemed to be freckled around her cheek, concealed by makeup.

  The stranger slowly held out her hand, her smile widening. ‘I’m Rachel,’ she said, her voice quiet, her tone friendly. She was clearly American, possibly from Connecticut, Mike guessed from living in Georgia and Maryland.

  ‘Mike,’ the Swiss Guard replied shaking her hand gently. She had a ring on the middle finger of her left hand but her marriage finger
was naked.

  ‘So,’ she said, flicking her hair away from her face, ‘are you a friend of Gabrielle’s?’

  ‘As a matter of fact I only met her tonight.’

  The woman’s eyes lit up. ‘Oh, my God, are you her Swiss Guard?’

  The accuracy of her assumption was surprising. Less than two hours had passed since meeting his hostess for the first time. He knew he had made a bad impression: perhaps an awful one.

  ‘Gabrielle told me all about you.’

  Mike looked at her awkwardly, for now remaining silent. Her smile widened, slowly turning into a laugh. It was a playful laugh, almost as if she knew a secret that she was unable to tell him.

  ‘So what’s it like being a Swiss Guard?’

  ‘It’s…it’s…pretty hard to describe,’ Mike stuttered slightly. ‘I mean it’s mostly for show.’

  That was a lie but it made him feel good.

  ‘So if someone was to aim a gun at the Pope would you have to, like, throw yourself in front of him?’ she gestured with her hands as she spoke.

  Mike smiled. ‘Yeah, maybe; I never thought of it like that.’

  ‘Wow. That would be so brave.’

  Mike held his smile, failing to disguise his reaction. Although she was slightly older than him, maybe early thirties he assumed, she could have passed for late twenties. More importantly she was unlike the others, the ones Mark called the wannabes. Without question, this one was different.

  ‘So I take it you know Ms. Leoni?’

  ‘Sure. We went to Dartmouth together. Her uncle was a professor there. He’s at Harvard now. He’s here somewhere,’ she said, looking briefly around the room. ‘I expect you’ll see him sometime soon.’

  ‘You must be pretty smart to go to Dartmouth.’