The Templar Agenda Read online

‘Well, I don’t know about that,’ she said.

  He looked momentarily either side, scanning the room out of habit. Stan had returned, standing close to Cardinal Tepilo. The man who Mike had earlier spilled wine over was walking by, stopping as he approached the cardinal. He listened to Rachel ask about his past and smiled in response, disguising his embarrassment.

  ‘So what are you like a model or something?’

  She laughed. ‘Yeah, something like that. I used to work in banking, but I gave that up once I got married. I’m divorced now.’

  He wanted to know more about her former husband but decided the question was off limits.

  ‘I still live in America but I come out here a lot. Gabrielle’s my best friend. We spent lots of time together. I’m gonna be staying here for a while after the funeral.’

  Mike nodded, his eyes focused on hers. He was unaware he was staring. At least he wouldn’t just be guarding Gabrielle Leoni.

  ‘Sounds great.’

  ‘Well not as great as guarding the Pope. Who knows, maybe you could guard me when I’m around.’

  She walked slightly nearer, touching him cutely on his left arm. He watched her as she approached, all the while remaining still. In a way he felt guilty bearing in mind the reason for his presence. He broke eye contact again momentarily, taking the opportunity to examine the guests. On the other side of the room Thierry and Cardinal Utaka were standing next to a man with grey hair while Stan was in close proximity to the other cardinals. Mark was in conversation with two known Rite of Larmenius members, including a lawyer from Germany, and was surrounded by three smartly dressed socialites. He smiled to himself. He had never met a lady who didn’t like Mark.

  He turned once more towards Rachel and saw that she was distracted. Gabrielle Leoni was walking towards them.

  ‘Hey, how are you holding up?’ Rachel asked slightly nervously, hugging her and kissing her cheek.

  ‘Good,’ she replied, turning her face to Rachel’s lips. ‘Pedro just invited me to visit his new yacht in the Galápagos.’

  Mike turned around, looking to where she had gestured. He assumed she was referring to the ageing Spaniard standing by the fireplace. Despite the grey streaks in his flamboyant hair and the smart suit, he had all the sexual innuendo of a porn star and was surrounded by a hoard of wannabes aged anything from nineteen to sixty. It would not have surprised him to learn the man owned a selection of gentlemen’s clubs.

  ‘So,’ Gabrielle said, ‘I see you’ve met Wachtmeister Fritz.’

  ‘Frei,’ Mike interjected. He was not used to being insubordinate but she was hardly the Pope. She stared at him piercingly for a few seconds, each one seeming an eternity.

  ‘You’re so lucky having your own Swiss Guard,’ Rachel said. ‘I wish I had one! He was just telling me how he’d dive in front of the Pope and take a bullet for him.’

  Gabrielle turned to face Mike. Not for the first time she looked at him as though he was a dog that had pooed on the lawn.

  ‘I’m sure his absence will be a major loss to His Holiness.’

  Rachel giggled playfully. Meanwhile Mike looked at her seriously. In a strange way he felt guilty, knowing the true severity of the situation while she was in the dark. He thought back to earlier that night, the first time he saw her, unaware of the death warrant that existed. It was strange to think that very document was currently located in the inside pocket of a suit currently being worn by his best friend, standing in that very room. For the briefest of seconds he considered telling her.

  Immediately, he dismissed the idea.

  ‘By the way,’ Gabrielle said to Rachel, ‘Alexei was asking after you.’

  ‘Oh, okay, well, I’ll no doubt see you around, wachtmeister,’ Rachel said, failing to pronounce wachtmeister correctly. She winked at Mike and shook his hand before heading off in the direction of the main doors. Just as she did, a man dressed as a waiter passed by carrying glasses of champagne: a toast to Al Leoni’s life and greatness! Mike took one, his first of the evening.

  ‘I see you’ve met Rachel.’

  ‘I like your friends,’ Mike invented. He was secretly pleased with that comment. Not for the first time his eyes circled the room, taking in the flurry of activity. Strangely, the evening had no flow to it, no obvious occasion. Slowly, the size of the gathering was beginning to fall.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up. She’s like that with all the guys.’

  Mike sipped his champagne, his eyes momentarily on Gabrielle. The bubbles felt pleasant on his dry mouth. He swallowed half the glass before returning his attention to his host. Her piercing stare continued to focus on him.

  ‘Well I’m sure you’ll get to see a fair bit more of her. She’s my best friend. She’ll be staying here for a while.’

  Mike nodded. Although he showed no emotion, spending time getting to know Rachel would certainly not be a bad thing. Anything was better than just guarding her. She was certainly beautiful; no one could deny that. In fact, she was magnificent, even compared to Rachel, but she knew it. The more he focused on it the more it bothered him. Why did she have to be so uptight? Was it her father? Possibly. But something didn’t ring true. She was an actress, no doubts there. But what role was she playing?

  ‘So, Frei: is that short for something?’

  Mike loosened his tie slightly. ‘Frei is my second name.’

  ‘So what’s your Christian name?’

  Mike hesitated momentarily. Only his closest friends called him by his first name.

  ‘Come on. If you’re going to be my guard I need to know your name.’

  ‘Mikael,’ he replied. ‘My friends call me Mike.’

  ‘Am I your friend, Mikael?’

  Mike laughed but not on purpose. For the briefest of seconds he feared that he had given away his dislike of her. Maybe it was a test, although somehow he doubted it. He smiled philosophically.

  ‘By all means please call me by whatever name is best for you, Ms. Leoni.’

  ‘Very well, Mikael,’ she replied, placing extra emphasis on Mikael. ‘We’ll be staying here for several weeks. My mom is flying in right now for the funeral, but will be leaving soon after. I, on the other hand, will be staying to see to Leoni et Cie. After that we may return to Boston, however by then your time here will probably be at an end.’

  ‘Fine.’

  ‘There are fifty-three bedrooms in the château, so take your pick, as long as it’s not on the fourth floor: they’re strictly for guests and family.’

  ‘Thank you, Ms. Leoni.’

  ‘In a week or so I’ll need you to take me to St. Gallen?’

  ‘What for?’

  He grimaced, instantly regretting his comment. Her answer was surprisingly generous.

  ‘I need to make some arrangements at Leoni et Cie. Besides, my father left some stuff there. And I want it. Understand?’

  Mike nodded, his expression slightly awkward. ‘Sorry.’

  The briefest of nods was followed by the quietest muttering of good. She didn’t respond after that: instead she headed off in the direction of the Spaniard and his wannabes. He watched her for several seconds, examining her every characteristic. She walked slowly, but confidently. As she walked through the crowd he couldn’t help notice she dazzled all present. She had an aura about her that he found strangely transfixing.

  Yet he couldn’t help feel that Mark was right. She walked with a sense of arrogance, almost as though she was walking through a park on a warm summer’s day, totally oblivious to everything and everyone, without a care in the world. It was as if she was unaware that her father had just been murdered.

  But there was something about her. She was snobby, yes, but no worse than any of the other women present, including the wannabes – especially the wannabes – but who could expect any different bearing in mind her background. There was not another like her in the room. Sure, they all dressed the part and pretended to know the lifestyle but she made it all seem so natural. Without question the rest al
l loved her, and admired her and wanted to be just like her.

  But none of them could. She was different. She was unique.

  She was…

  ‘She’s just as I imagined,’ Mike said to Stan as he devoured a sandwich. Two men were standing next to Mike.

  ‘Mike, have you met Mr. Velis?’

  Mike looked at the man, allowing himself a moment to examine his features. It was the same person he had spilled wine over earlier that night. He was clearly wearing a different shirt.

  ‘Yeah. Hey, I’m sorry again about your shirt.’

  ‘Not to worry,’ the man said smiling. ‘I did what you said. The other shirt is being washed as we speak.’

  Mike grimaced, remembering the uncomfortable coming together less than three hours earlier. It seemed like a long time ago.

  Stan: ‘Mike, this is Mr. Louis Velis, chief executive of the Starvel Group. And this,’ he pointed to the other man, equally well dressed with flat dark hair, ‘is Mr. Gilbert de Bois, a media baron from Canada. Mr. de Bois is also the chairman of Leoni et Cie.’

  Mike: ‘Oh right. Well it’s a pleasure, Mr. Velis, Mr. de Bois.’

  ‘Please, please, call me Louis,’ Velis said shaking hands with Mike and patting him on the shoulder. The man held a cigar in his other hand and was smoking intermittently. ‘Mr. Velis is so formal.’

  Mike forced a smile, continuing to take in their features. Although he had never heard of either man the name Starvel struck a chord. He found himself thinking back to earlier that night: the cramped room, the ugly man in the portrait, the six photographs. He remembered Mark mention that one of the six had been a Starvel AG employee: Martin Snow, white, mid-fifties, slightly overweight. Silently the thought intrigued him. He was familiar with the Starvel Group as a brand: they were famed as the world’s oldest and largest Swiss bank. He assumed the man was in someway responsible for their incredible success. In the last ten years they had become one of the largest multinational conglomerates in existence. It seemed no matter where he went in the world Starvel had a branch, or office, or even a hotel.

  ‘Mike is one of the best guards we have,’ Stan said. ‘He’s going to be providing a guard for Ms. Leoni…you know what with everything that’s happened.’

  ‘Oh I quite agree,’ Velis said nodding. ‘I’d expect nothing less of the Gardes Suisses. Terrible business,’ he said, tutting and shaking his head. ‘It’s very reassuring, Wachtmeister Mike. You must protect her with your life.’

  ‘I will, sir. Thank you.’

  ‘I’m sure we can,’ de Bois said, putting his hand on Mike’s shoulder. A glistening white smile shone across his teeth, appearing all the brighter against the backdrop of his dark goatee. ‘An unnecessary precaution though I’m sure. As soon as the situation with Leoni et Cie is done and dusted she’ll have nothing to worry about. She’ll be free to live the life of luxury.’

  ‘Yes, she’ll be able to have parties everyday,’ Velis said laughing.

  Mike smiled.

  Stan punched him softly in the arm. ‘Won’t that be great, Mike. Whilst we’ll be off guarding His Holiness, you’ll be getting down with socialites.’

  Mike forced a laugh.

  ‘I suppose this is a bit like work for a professional socialite,’ Velis said, puffing on his cigar. He smoked slowly, the red glow lighting up his face momentarily.

  De Bois looked at Mike then Velis. ‘Now be fair, Louis. You know that girl. She loves her board meetings.’

  Velis laughed softly. ‘Yes, but still, nasty business. Let us hope your presence is indeed an unnecessary precaution, wachtmeister. And let us hope that nothing happens to His Holiness while you are away.’

  Stan laughed, while an awkward grin crossed Mike’s face. Inside he felt distracted. Without conscious thought his eyes wandered across the room. Not for the first time his gaze settled on Gabrielle. A rigid expression crossed her face as she spoke with a white-haired banker. A glass of champagne was present in her right hand and she was surrounded by four wannabes. For the briefest of seconds she looked at Mike: emotion once more absent from her eyes. She looked at him for less than a second and then looked away once more.

  ‘Tell me, old boy,’ de Bois said, his hand once more on Mike’s shoulder, ‘am I correct in my understanding that Ms. Leoni is looking to offload her shares in Leoni et Cie?’

  The question caught him off guard.

  ‘Gee, you’d have to ask Ms. Leoni. That has nothing to do with me really, sir.’

  ‘Of course, of course,’ he said, patting Mike on the shoulder. ‘Just what with everything that has happened...’

  ‘Mike hasn’t really spoken to her yet,’ Stan said to de Bois.

  An awkward silence fell. He looked at Velis and the man smiled.

  ‘No, of course, well, jolly good,’ Velis said placing his cigar between his lips and pulling at his expensive cufflinks. ‘Now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, the hour is late. A pleasure, Wachtmeister Mike.’

  ‘A pleasure meeting you too, sir,’ Mike said shaking hands with Velis then with de Bois. Velis turned away and walked with de Bois through the crowd in the direction of the corridor. It was the same corridor that Mike had earlier walked with Thierry. It was approaching 12:30am and people were starting to head off to bed in preparation for the funeral in the morning.

  ‘Nice guys.’

  ‘Yeah they’re alright,’ Stan said taking a large gulp of champagne. ‘Unlike the others here.’

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Look around. The joint’s full of wannabes.’

  Mike nodded, turning around to see a young woman practically asleep on Mark’s shoulder. Rachel was near him, no surprises there. Gabrielle he noticed was not: instead, she was now talking with Cardinal Utaka.

  ‘Wannabes and piss heads.’

  ‘And cardinals.’

  ‘And bankers.’

  ‘And Swiss Guards.’

  ‘Vive la Gardes Suisses.’

  ‘Vive les wannabes.’

  8

  Mauritius

  The hired Jeep thundered along the deserted road at speed. Thick tyres kicked up dust as they bounced over the rocky tarmac like a jet ski against the waves. The road had become increasingly uncomfortable over the last few miles and bruises were beginning to materialise beneath the driver’s dusty combats.

  He had been driving along the isolated stretch for almost six hours and boredom had set in. The dull landscape, merely a passing blur on the horizon lit only by sparse rays of moonlight passing through moderate cumulus cloud partially covering the black sky, was becoming more and more open as he approached the coast. Up ahead he could just make out the glorious sandy beach. It was nearing midnight and time was precious.

  Mikael Devére yawned vigorously. With the final paragraph of his memoir completed he selected the spellchecker and saved the document without a filename. He yawned for a second time in quick succession. Several hours of staring at the computer screen had left him fatigued. He clicked the print command and the laser printer sitting dormant on the far side of the room sprung into life.

  Devére exhaled deeply before downing the remainder of his coffee. The coffee, now stagnant and cold after standing for well over an hour, tasted bitter and sickly on his dry throat made all the worse by the mugginess that enveloped the room. Ever since the air conditioner had broken three days earlier the heat had become almost unbearable. And living in seclusion on the far side of the island away from the large towns he was in no position to fix it.

  He peered at the clock on the wall. In his dreary state he had been unaware how late it was. Yet despite the late hour sleep was the last thing on his mind. The last few days had been the most turbulent of his life and he knew that things were possibly about to get worse.

  He was one of the most influential men in the world yet he was in hiding. During his days as President of France he had gotten used to security threats, but not like this. Five days earlier he had nearly been killed and he knew that they could
try again at anytime. He wondered how long it might be until they found him.

  An hour? A week? A year?

  In some ways he wanted to be found. It is better to die than live in hiding.

  Yet part of him wanted to hide forever – tucked away on one of the most secluded beaches in the world. The views of infinite sand and blue sea under crystal clear skies were inspiring. It was truly paradise.

  But now was not the time to appreciate it.

  He ascended to his feet and looked around the room. It was a basic room compared to most in the house. Three large filing cabinets dominated the far wall that was painted white, matching the carpet. A large walk-in wardrobe was located in one corner, used primarily as an overspill for the master bedroom down the hall, next to a glass door leading to a small balcony that offered breathtaking views of the coastline.

  As he looked toward the far wall he caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror. The vision looked strange to him: it was as if he was seeing a total stranger. The normally handsome and noble face of the seventy-two-year-old from Bordeaux looked more like a phantom than a politician. Beads of sweat covered his forehead while his hair, bald in the centre and framed by messy unkempt strands of grey, seemed to be turning white before his eyes. His eyes, surrounded by shades of purple, seemed less vibrant than usual. A thin beard covered his face, the result of a week without shaving. The rough hair went some way toward covering the cut on his right cheek, a tangible reminder of the surprise encounter that forced him to flee.

  As he looked away from the mirror he noticed a framed photograph on top of a nearby cabinet. It was a family photograph. He was standing against the wall alongside his wife, and surrounded by his four children and three grandkids. He walked towards it and picked it up longingly. He paid close attention to his youngest granddaughter. She would be three next week.

  His sigh was interrupted by the sound of the printer informing him the job was done. After replacing the frame on the wall-side cabinet he walked towards the printer and picked up the newly printed sheets. He scanned the contents quickly for clarity.