by Neil Howarth
The young monk stood up immediately, without looking at either of them and left the room.
“I am sorry about that. As the Abbot said, Lucien is a fragile soul. I will send a message to the Foundation immediately requesting the clearance for the Holy Father.” Cedric gave a nervous laugh. “They are hardly going to refuse him. Hopefully, by tomorrow morning we will be all clear.”
Fagan knew that protesting was useless, but it meant having to stay another day. He was intrigued by what Brother Lucien had to say, though the look in his eyes gave Fagan some cause to doubt Lucien’s grasp on reality. But whatever, he just wanted to hear it and get out of here. All he wanted was to give Luca his report and be on the plane back to Africa.
But somehow he had the sense that things were not unfolding the way he had planned.
But was it the way that Luca had planned?
7
Isle de Sainte Bernadette.
Brother Cedric led the way back out through the Abbey, keeping up his potted history as they went. Fagan caught a movement in the shadows as they approached the entrance and almost collided with Brother Lucien as he stepped out in front of him.
“Brother Lucien.”
Lucien moved in close, nudging into Fagan’s body.
Cedric had already moved ahead and now turned to face them. “Lucien, I asked you to go back to the dormitory and rest.”
Surprisingly the young monk spoke. “I wanted to say goodbye to Father Joseph.” He took Fagan’s hand in both of his. The grip was soft and gentle.
“Brother Lucien.” An authoritative voice called out. Fagan turned his head to see the Abbot approaching.
“Do as Brother Cedric asked. Go to your dormitory, immediately.”
Fagan looked back at Lucien. “It was very nice to meet you. But you really should get some rest now.”
The young monk looked him directly in the eyes as if he wanted to say something, but he said nothing. He glanced nervously at the Abbot then was gone as quickly as he had appeared.
“I’m afraid this has all been a little too much for him,” the Abbot said. “Still, I trust you have had a worthwhile visit.”
“Well,” Fagan gave a reluctant shrug. “Unfortunately not.”
The Abbot’s expression changed. His eyes flicked towards Brother Cedric, who suddenly looked uncomfortable. Cedric quickly explained their problem.
“I see,” the Abbot said when Cedric finished. “I am afraid we are bound by these rules. One of the problems of sponsorship. But unfortunately this is an expensive business, and the De Vaux Foundation is an essential part of keeping this institution going.” He gave an apologetic smile. “But surely the Holy Father wants to hear about Brother Thomas’s life here. Does he really require these details?”
A part of Fagan wanted to agree, to put all this behind him and leave. But his interest was tweaked, and maybe the Abbot was trying a little too hard to get rid of him?
“Brother Abbot, I’m only trying to do my job. The Holy Father gave me a task. I can only carry it out as I see fit. I would really appreciate it if you could get me this permission.”
The Abbot seemed to hesitate, as if he intended to argue the point, then he shrugged. “Very well, I’m sure we can have this cleared up by tomorrow. We will contact you at your hotel as soon as we have clearance.” The Abbot held out his hand. “Until tomorrow.”
“Thank you. I’m sure the Holy Father will appreciate it.” He took the Abbot’s hand. “Until tomorrow.”
Brother Cedric gave Fagan a sympathetic smile and led the way to the main entrance. Fagan followed. He thanked Cedric and quickly descended the steps to the carpark.
Something prodded at his consciousness. He replayed the events of Brother Lucien appearing in front of him and the way he had nudged into him, which was not really what he expected of the young monk. Maybe he had imagined it, but something told him he had not.
He reached the bottom and crossed to his rental car, trying not to hurry. He climbed in and sat there without starting the engine. His left hand reached deep into his jacket side-pocket. This was the side he had felt Lucien’s touch. His fingers found it immediately. He took out Lucien’s parting gift and unfolded a sheet of printed paper. It appeared to be some sort of lab report. The note was written on the back, in a neat, concise hand.
Western Lookout, tonight, 8pm.
8
Le Bouquet, Brittany.
Fagan sat in his hotel room examining the note. It was a single sheet with a heading from a lab in Paris. There were rows of numbers and a couple of squiggly line graphs. At the bottom was a single line - ‘cal 1120-1180 AD 95%’. At the top of the sheet, a few lines were printed in French and a name, Dr. Thomas Petersen.
It took a moment to click - The academic persona of Brother Thomas.
Below that were the words, ‘Radiocarbon C14’. Fagan was pretty sure he was looking at a Carbon14 dating report on a sample that Brother Thomas had sent to this lab. Hopefully, Lucien would tell him more.
He tried calling Luca, but all he got was his voice mail. He left a short message telling him to call back. Outside the window, the sky was clear and bright blue, just as the lovely lady had promised. He had his running gear in his bag, so he kitted up and set out.
He headed down to the harbor. Seagulls drifted high above him, screeching and cawing as he followed the sea wall. He always found that running cleared his head, helped him clarify his thinking. Interestingly, his first coherent thought was about the woman he had met at the bar last night. He had looked for her at breakfast, but there had been no sign of her. He had found himself oddly disappointed.
He quickly chased away the thought and focused on his run. After a couple of hundred yards, he was able to wind his way down on to the beach. The tide was ebbing out to the bay, and he followed the sea line, enjoying the comforting slap of his running shoes on the wet sand.
The Isle de Saint Bernadette appeared like a misty, fairy castle out in the distance. He stopped to catch his breath and stood with his hands on his hips. The causeway was a thin line, tracing the horizon, running out to meet the island. What was going on in that place? He saw the face of the frightened rabbit, Brother Lucien, and wondered what was so important he couldn’t speak about it when they met.
He needed to talk to Luca. He had a small jogger’s bum-bag strapped around his waist. He took out his cell phone, checked he had a signal and called. This time Luca answered.
Fagan gave him a quick update on his progress so far.
“Did you know about the confidentiality agreement with the De Vaux Foundation?”
He could hear Luca chuckle on the other end of the phone. “I was hoping you could bulldoze your way through it.”
“Well at the moment no one is talking. But I think Brother Lucien might have something to say.” He told him quickly about the young priest and the message he had found in his pocket. He also described the Carbon14 lab report.
“That sounds interesting.”
“I’ll fax it to you?”
“No, I don’t trust faxes. Just keep it safe and bring it back with you.”
“It might be nothing, just a convenient piece of paper to write the note on. And besides, I’m not sure if Brother Lucien is the most reliable of witnesses. I’ve seen that look in his eyes before, on combat soldiers — Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. Lucien was already a fragile soul, and Brother Thomas was his last grasp on reality. Now he has gone, I’m worried that Lucien has too.”
“On the other hand, what Lucien many have to say, could be just what we’re looking for.”
“Just what are we looking for, Luca? Don’t you think it’s time you started telling me?”
“Joseph, I need you to do what the Holy Father has asked. When you get back, we’ll talk about it. For now, keep that lab report safe and meet up with Brother Lucien, find out what he has to say.”
“Luca. I want you to tell me why I’m really here.” He listened patiently for Luca’s reply, but the l
ine was silent. He looked down at his phone. Typical - Luca had hung up.
9
Schloss Reichner, outside Zurich.
Dominic de Vaux sat in the back of the limousine. He was not a happy man. They had waited on the ground in Paris for an hour and a half while the technicians fixed an electrical fault on his private jet. He had called the Grand Master and had been assured they would wait. But Dominic de Vaux was not a man who liked to keep the Grand Council waiting. He caught a glimpse of the flat, blue, Zurichsee stretching out below as the limousine emerged from the forest and turned into a wide, graveled driveway.
The Schloss Reichner sat partly hidden among the pine trees, a magnificent medieval castle owned by the Reichner family, who also owned the Reichnerbank of Zurich. They were old money, old blood. Baron Von Reichner had made his home available for the meeting to take place, but he wasn’t invited to participate. He was a member of the inner circle but not the inner sanctum.
Two armed guards stood at the front door as the limousine crunched to a halt under a vaulted archway. A third man stepped forward and opened the car door.
“Herr De Vaux, welcome to the Schloss Reichner. I will show you in. They have only just started.”
De Vaux followed his escort through the front door into a grand main hall with wide marble pillars and an elegantly carved, oak ceiling. They climbed a sweeping staircase and followed a marbled passageway to the end, to a large wooden door. His escort knocked then entered. De Vaux followed him in.
Floor to ceiling windows gave a magnificent view of the lake below, but the most impressive aspect of the room was the people, seated around a long, oak table. This was the Grand Council - thirteen men, rich and powerful, the movers and the shakers, the players and the kingmakers. Beyond these walls, many more queued up for a chance to sit at this table, for a chance to play a game with the whole world as its chessboard. These were the men who carefully moved the pieces, the men who shaped destiny. This was the Imperium.
De Vaux let his eyes flick around the faces - Three of the world’s most powerful bankers, three oilmen, two defense contractors, the head of the cartel of the largest weapons manufacturers in the world, and the Chief Policy Advisor to the US Secretary of Defense. And next to him the Chairman of the Federal Reserve, who along with himself, made up the twelve council members.
Which left the man sitting directly at the far end of the table.
Behind him, spread out across the wall, was a white flag with a black double-headed phoenix clasping a sword in its talons. Above its heads in gold letters were the words Ordo ab Chao - Order out of Chaos.
Dominic de Vaux regarded the wizened figure sat in a wheelchair. He was shocked at the amount the old man had deteriorated in the short time since he had last seen him. His name was Charles Liebeman. His family was old Europe, though they had been in the new world since the founding fathers. Along with his older brother Arthur, they had inherited their father’s oil company when the old man had died. But while Arthur continued to run that to become one of largest in the world, Charles bought a bank, shrewdly guiding it through the minefield of mergers and acquisitions, divesting and acquiring here and there, finally emerging from the banking crisis of 2008 as the largest investment bank on the planet. He sat on the board of a dozen major corporations, and still pulled the strings, the important ones, just like his family had been doing for more than six hundred years. The ravages of cancer may have reduced his body to the shriveled wreck that sat contemplating him now, but his mind was still sharp as a tack.
“My apologies, Grand Master.”
The Master allowed a smile to wrinkle across his ravaged face. “Take a seat, Dominic. Konrad here was telling us about his visit to Kabul.”
De Vaux glanced across at a tall blonde man, standing half way along the table. He was an invited guest. Konrad Krueger was the CEO of the largest private security company in the world, Excalibur Security, and of which De Vaux was co-founder and Chairman.
The man nodded at De Vaux then turned to look back down the table. “Thank you, Grand Master. As I was saying, there has been a lot of opposition, but we have successfully signed a deal to provide an initial thousand security professionals growing to three thousand over the next twelve months.”
De Vaux smiled at the description of the battle hardened, combat troops their company was providing into Afghanistan and Iraq.
“We have also agreed that once the pipeline construction begins, we will increase that number to ten thousand men. You can rest assured the construction will be well protected. If things escalate as we would expect, then we can easily see that over the next two years we could have a hundred thousand personnel deployed in Afghanistan and Iraq.” Konrad paused. “We just need the go ahead on the construction. But I believe that contract negotiations have stalled, once again.”
“We will come to that, Konrad,” the Grand Master waved a hand for Konrad to sit down. He moved his head to regard De Vaux. “Dominic, firstly, let me congratulate you on the European elections. Your strategy has been excellent.”
“Thank you, Grand Master, as of this election our affiliates now have the majority of members in the European Parliament, and our influence in national assemblies is growing. I also have news on the task you assigned to me at the last meeting.”
“Excellent,” the Grand Master raised a withered hand. “But before we come on to your part of the agenda, perhaps Lawrence would like to explain why Konrad’s task has been made so much harder by current US foreign policy.” The old man’s ice blue eyes seemed to shine out in defiance of the ravages to his body.
The man to the right of the Grand Master appeared uncomfortable. He was a big man, with a receding hairline and a rapidly expanding waistline. His name was Lawrence Percival, the newly elected president of the Federal Reserve. He was also De Vaux’s main obstacle to sitting in the Grand Master’s seat one day. A day that, by the look of the old man, would not be too far away.
“Of course Grand Master,” Percival said. “Perhaps I could ask Dick to brief us.” He looked across to a slight, balding man, in his mid-fifties seated halfway down the table. Dick Mitchell was the Chief Policy Advisor to the US Secretary of Defense. He blanched at Percival’s reference but began to stand up. The Grand Master lifted a scrawny hand.
“Please, Lawrence. I believe the main task was assigned to you.”
Percival glowered at Mitchell, then got to his feet. “Grand Master, this has been a particularly troublesome task. As this council is well aware the biggest opponent to the pipeline is Iran, they have huge influence in the region and are constantly sowing suspicion and doubt, painting the West, and the United States in particular, as the devil incarnate.”
There were a few knowing looks around the table. Percival hurried on. “Every time we get close to an agreement we find another obstacle in our path. The President has been unwilling to follow our suggestions on how best to isolate them, which causes us a problem when painting them as a threat. We have lobbied, presented studies, put pressure on certain key individuals, but despite all our efforts,” he gave Mitchell a particularly hard stare, “we have been unable to change the President’s stance on this.”
“Lawrence,” The Grand Master’s voice seemed to strengthen momentarily. “I wasn’t looking for excuses, or explanations. The Grand Council is interested in what you are doing to complete your task. If the US President is proving an obstacle, what do you intend to do about it?”
Percival appeared increasingly uncomfortable. “Grand Master, I can assure you we are doing everything we can to rectify this. But we must be particularly careful around the President, in case we have the opposite effect.”
“Lawrence, you are the architect of one of our greatest triumphs. Your strategy brought us great success and even greater profit. You know how to be bold. I and the Council, trust that you will find that same courage and vision to deal with this problem.” The Grand Master turned his head towards De Vaux, effectively dismissing Percival.
“Now Dominic, I hope you bring us better news.”
De Vaux stood up and studied the faces around the table. They were a mixed bag. Some supported him, others, well . . . Lawrence Percival regarded him as if he had just scraped him from the sole of his boot.
De Vaux focused his attention on the Grand Master. “If you remember at our last meeting I pointed out that merely removing the obstacle we have identified, would still leave us with the root problem, and would result only in a new obstacle springing up in its place. The tide is already flowing too high for it to merely ebb away. We need something, a catalyst to blast it out of our path.”
“And do you have such a catalyst?” The Grand Master asked, though De Vaux knew the Master was already fully aware of what he was about to propose.
“Indeed I do, and I also believe that we could also address Lawrence’s problem at the same time.” De Vaux beamed a broad smile at his audience. “Gentlemen, do you believe in synchronicity? Two independent events that would appear to have no bearing on the other, but somehow, occurring together, they appear to have some interconnected relationship. And in our particular case, present an opportunity that otherwise would not have existed.” De Vaux had their complete attention now. “It is often said, success is where preparation and opportunity meet. So when fate smiles upon us, we have to be prepared. Gentlemen, what I have to tell you is about just such an opportunity.”
Twenty minutes later De Vaux had finished describing the opportunity and laying out his plan.
