The Templar Agenda

by John Paul Davis

  Frei left the barracks immediately. Despite the sunlight it was bitterly cold outside and the slightest falling of snow settled picturesquely on the ground and melted on impact on his uniform. It was not the traditional uniform. Instead he was dressed in the regular uniform: a blue version of the famous Medici tri-colour gala, which still provided the image of a soldier. A dark blue cape took the edge off the wind and a traditional black beret covered his short dark hair.

  Even without the uniform he looked like a soldier. Standing just over five feet ten inches in height, bright blue eyes, clean-cut dark hair and a near clean-shaven face, Mike Frei was a soldier in every sense of the word. Although not good-looking in the sense of being a pretty boy, a deep strong voice and well toned muscles from regular gym work provided the look of authority while an approachable smile made him a regular target for tourists craving a photograph of a uniformed guard. At the height of the tourist season he was used to having flocks of pilgrims gather around him and his colleagues requesting a keepsake of themselves standing next to a guard dressed in Medici uniform. On the more relaxed days it was flattering. But today was not about ceremony. He walked rigidly, his mind focused on the imminent meeting.

  He checked his watch.

  Eight minutes after hanging up the phone he stopped before the door leading to his commander’s office. He walked the last corridor quickly before easing his pace. The various markings that surrounded the door seemed to provide a guarantee of privacy.

  He sought to knock but hesitated. Something had unnerved him. Even outside he could sense an atmosphere in the room. The muffled sound of a harsh, broken voice barking incessantly at a person or persons unknown was audible from outside and instantly recognisable as the voice of his commander. There was another person in the room, yet at present it was unclear who this was.

  A sudden knotting sensation was forming in the pit of his stomach. He was unaware what the meeting was about, but even standing outside the door it was obvious that this was no ordinary situation. He considered knocking but decided to wait; hoping the sound of the voice would stop. He checked his watch. The time was now 10:39. Still only nine minutes had passed. At least he wasn’t late.

  Taking a deep breath, he knocked three times on the door. They were not loud knocks but in the deserted corridor the sound of his knuckles on the door seemed to travel, adding to the apprehension. He waited for what seemed like several seconds for a response. The sound of heated discussion gave way to silence.

  ‘Come.’

  The Swiss Guard breathed out heavily as he opened the door. He entered the room slowly, respectfully, allowing himself to take in the new surroundings. The flag of the Swiss Guard, hanging like a glorified banner, decorated the nearest wall that was bathed in sunlight penetrating through a large window behind his commander’s desk.

  Thierry de Courten was standing behind his desk when Mike entered. As usual, he was dressed smartly in the uniform designated only to the commander of the Swiss Guard. Three gold stars signified the rank of colonel, or oberst, the highest rank in the Swiss Guard. He was nearing six feet two inches in height with short dark hair and green eyes. A well-trimmed beard covered a strong jaw line and continued down his neck. He was clearly a strong man with an imposing presence, something that the Swiss Guard had once found intimidating.

  The other man Mike also recognised. Dressed in a smart suit, Commissario Pessotto, Inspector General of the Vatican Police, smiled grimly. His dark hair was slightly unkempt, unusually for him, and his face unshaven, indicating to Mike that he had not slept that night. He presented a calm exterior that on this occasion seemed strangely forced.

  Mike closed the door to the office and exchanged salutes with both men. The oberst forced a grateful smile.

  ‘Thank you for meeting us here, wachtmeister,’ the oberst said, his smile fading. ‘I appreciate you are on leave today.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ Mike answered, feeling incapable of saying anything more. In reality he assumed he didn’t have much say in the matter. Since his promotion he had become quite familiar with the oberst but it was difficult to be friends with a man in that position. For over seven and a half years he had known only this man as head of the Swiss Guard yet today he noticed something different. Purple bags were gathering under his eyes.

  The oberst placed two paracetamol tablets to his lips and swallowed them down with mineral water. He exhaled deeply as he savoured the taste. The throbbing sensation that had lasted all morning continued to burn through his head. A near empty bottle of water was present on his desk, sitting next to a large grey folder concealing what Mike assumed to be military files or something just as important.

  Commissario Pessotto eyed the Swiss Guard with purpose. ‘Now, Frei,’ Pessotto said slowly, gesturing for Mike to sit down. ‘Does the name Al Leoni mean anything to you?’

  Mike sat down opposite the oberst and removed his beret, passing it through his fingers as if it were a tea towel. In all honesty it didn’t.

  ‘Very well: how about Leoni et Cie?’

  The Swiss Guard looked back blankly. ‘Only that it’s a Swiss bank.’

  Thierry nodded. ‘Let me explain, wachtmeister…’

  ‘Leoni et Cie is one of the most profitable banks in Switzerland,’ Pessotto said interrupting. ‘Not only that but it is one of many in which the Vatican Bank owns a considerable stake. Al Leoni is…or was, I should say, the bank’s chief executive.’

  Mike nodded, his eyes focused on the chief of Vatican Police. He was vaguely aware of the bank’s connections with the Vatican but he was not privy to specific details. He waited until he was sure that Pessotto had finished before replying.

  ‘But not anymore?’ Mike asked

  Pessotto eyed Mike curiously. ‘No. Mr. Leoni was found dead in St. Gallen in the early hours of Friday morning. His body was found in a car park, fifteen yards from his car and within three hundred yards of Leoni et Cie’s main office. He had been shot in the forehead, estimates range from forty to forty-five yards. His car was unlocked, the key still in his hand. His briefcase was also found at the scene – empty.’

  Mike nodded, his expression serious. He did not need telling that a bullet to the forehead from that distance indicated a professional job. His first instinct was to ask what this had to do with him. For now he decided against it.

  ‘The exact circumstances behind his death are presently unknown,’ Pessotto continued, walking closer to him as he spoke. ‘The matter is already under investigation but unfortunately there are complications.’

  Mike raised an eyebrow. What did he mean: complications?

  ‘I don’t understand.’

  The oberst shook his head. On his desk a walkie-talkie buzzed into life, providing him with his usual updates. A pause followed before the oberst returned a message.

  Mike eyed him curiously. It seemed strange that the Swiss Guard would be interested in this man’s death. Officially the military of the Vatican only existed to guard the Pope, including security of the Apostolic Palace and the gates of the Vatican City.

  Pessotto: ‘Leoni et Cie is particularly important to the Vatican Bank, and also to the Vatican. The Roman Curia also has funds invested in Leoni et Cie. For over two hundred years the family have donated significantly to the Church and to the Holy See. Eventually the bank will need to appoint a new chief executive but the process is not a straightforward one. In the past the role would fall to his eldest son. Until a replacement is found the bank will legally be in the hands of Mr. Leoni’s next of kin who remain the largest shareholders, followed by the Vatican Bank. His wife divorced him over five years ago. His holdings in Leoni et Cie will fall to his daughter.’

  Pessotto paused briefly.

  ‘As I’m sure you will appreciate, she is currently in a state of shock. After all, it is not everyday your father gets shot.’

  Mike nodded. In reality he knew that he could not possibly imagine. He wasn’t very close to his father, particularly since his parents had
divorced. Silently he wondered how anyone could understand.

  ‘What’s more, we have another matter to consider,’ Pessotto said. ‘Al Leoni was also the nephew of Cardinal Tepilo.’

  The revelation surprised him. He knew the man well, everyone did. The cardinal had served for over five years as Cardinal Secretary of State, effectively Prime Minister of the Vatican. In the eyes of many, he was almost certainly the man who was to be the next Pope.

  ‘Well, Frei, as I’m sure you are aware, this puts us in a tricky situation,’ Pessotto continued. ‘Until further arrangements are made it is vital that the safety of the rightful owner of Leoni et Cie is assured. Now, highly irregular I know…’

  ‘It transcends the purpose of our entire organisation,’ de Courten interjected.

  Pessotto looked briefly at Thierry. ‘The oversight commission of the Vatican Bank are most concerned,’ Pessotto said resuming eye contact with Mike. ‘Mr. Leoni’s death has caused quite a stir among certain elements of the Roman Curia. The Camerlengo is understandably heartbroken. Until the identity of Leoni’s killer becomes known, they have requested that a guard be assigned to ensure that nothing of this kind happens to his daughter. I’m sure you will agree: a short-term solution is necessary.’ Pessotto turned to the oberst as he spoke.

  Mike’s expression was rigid. He didn’t need telling that he meant him. ‘Wouldn’t an ordinary bodyguard be more appropriate?’

  ‘Ordinarily, yes,’ Pessotto agreed. ‘However, this is, shall we say, complicated.’

  Mike remained silent, his facial features unflinching. It was clear to him that there was more to this than met the eye. Whatever it was he assumed they were not going to tell him.

  Pessotto: ‘The family are currently residing in their château in the Canton of St. Gallen. You are from St. Gallen, yes?’

  ‘I was born there, sir.’

  ‘You know the area well?’

  ‘I visited my gran most summers when I was a kid.’

  ‘And you also hold American citizenship, allowing you to perform duties in America if the situation requires.’

  Mike hid his frustration with a calm façade. ‘May I ask what exactly these duties would involve, sir? Are you asking me to work as an employee of the bank or are you asking me to be a babysitter?’

  The comment made Thierry smile.

  Pessotto allowed himself a vague grin. ‘What you must understand, Frei, is that Leoni’s ex-wife is a fifty-four-year-old woman who knows nothing of running a bank. His brother, an academic I understand, lives primarily in America. His daughter is now the official owner of the bank. In the past Leoni et Cie was simply family owned: it has been that way for over two centuries.’

  Mike nodded. He knew the way Swiss banks were modelled. ‘Is she experienced?’

  ‘Unfortunately no. These days she’s more of a socialite than anything else.’

  Mike hid his surprise. ‘And she’s running a major Swiss bank?’

  ‘As I say, wachtmeister, she is the majority shareholder. The activities of the bank itself are taken care of by professionals, experienced professionals. In theory, she is little more than a figurehead. Both the supervisory councils of the Vatican Bank will meet with the senior directors of Leoni et Cie and in due course permanent changes will be made. Until that time, we have a problem.’

  Mike nodded, his teeth pressing gently against his lower lip. Silently he struggled to digest the information. He looked at the oberst, watching his expression. The commander stood quietly, a rare sight, clearly nursing a throbbing headache. He paid particular attention to the dark patches under his eyes, also a rarity. The situation had clearly made him lose sleep.

  ‘Sir, if this is what the Swiss Guard asks of me…’

  ‘Yes we do,’ Pessotto replied, beating Thierry to a response.

  Thierry exhaled, his expression philosophical. ‘You will be given a short period of leave from your regular duties. During that time you will no longer be officially a Swiss Guard, although you will still be paid on the same terms, of course. Plus expenses,’ Thierry said dryly. ‘The funeral is scheduled for Friday. You will meet her on Thursday evening at her château. I shall be going, along with members of the Vatican Police. At least half a dozen cardinals will be present, including the Camerlengo. From then on you shall take over responsibility of guarding her.’

  Mike nodded. For the briefest of seconds he looked through the window at the pale sky. Despite the sunlight the snow was falling more heavily than before. It was hardly the best news he could have hoped for. If he wanted to babysit an only rich child he could have made far more money as a bodyguard. He looked at his commander. Under the circumstances he felt strangely sorry for him.

  ‘I’ll guard her as if she was the Pope.’

  2

  St. Peter’s Basilica was closed by 6pm. The site that had earlier welcomed countless pilgrims and sightseers captivated by its famous artefacts and architecture was practically deserted. A small gathering of nuns walked slowly in the direction of the stairwell near the centre of the church leading down to the grotto, their footfalls and quiet chatter echoing softly throughout the immense surroundings. Outside the main doors two security guards stood rigidly at attention, watching as the last flurry of visitors ambled leisurely across the square discussing their surroundings and taking photographs of the illuminated basilica against the darkening sky.

  Five pews from the main altar an ageing cardinal knelt quietly at prayer, the only occupant. Purple bags were present under his eyes and a worried expression crossed his face. He looked momentarily at the watch on his left wrist and then once quickly over his shoulder. Light footsteps belonging to the nuns descending the stairs gave way to quietness disturbed only by the vague echo of singing from one of the distant chapels. There was a beautiful sense of harmony about the building that despite the troubling recent events that dominated his mind he found of great comfort. Of all the Vatican buildings it was the one place where he could find tranquillity, if only momentarily.

  Cardinal George Utaka of Niger was one of the most important cardinals at the Vatican. Formerly Bishop of Toulouse in France, the man currently held the title of President of the Administration of the Patrimony of the Apostolic See: an organisation located within the Roman Curia, formed in 1967, responsible for dealing with properties of the Holy See and providing funds for the Curia to operate. Officially, the office is made up of two sections, one formed to manage the properties of the Holy See following the loss of the Papal States, the other for the funds awarded by the Italian government under the terms of the Lateran Treaty of 1929. Although separate from the Vatican Bank, Utaka was one of five cardinals currently sitting on the oversight commission of the Vatican Bank.

  Prior to a week ago he had never seen such chaos. Over seven years on the oversight commission had taught him the extremes of being involved with the Vatican’s most controversial asset, but until now the role had been plain sailing. The bank had changed since the P2 scandal, and thanks to the commitment of his predecessors, so had its image. Two decades of worldwide stability had provided the springboard for controlled long-term growth and the capability of the board had ensured control remained firmly in the hands of insiders. The cleanup operation was in many ways still a work in progress, but at least being part of the current administration he was never likely to face the same difficulties.

  Or at least he would have thought so two days ago.

  His thoughts were disturbed by the sound of footsteps. Dressed in a black suit, rather than the uniform of the Vatican police, Markus Mäder walked confidently. He continued along the centre aisle and stopped on reaching the cardinal’s pew. He genuflected before the main altar and took a seat next to the cardinal.

  At first the cardinal did not acknowledge his presence. Instead he maintained the illusion of being at prayer. Several seconds of awkward silence passed. In the immense surroundings the silence seemed strangely loud in nature to the American-raised policeman as he waited for
any sign of acknowledgement. He could feel his pulse beating quickly, a rare sign of nerves, and his throat dry from a combination of fatigue and several hours without refreshment. The day had been anything but straightforward.

  The cardinal made the sign of the cross and ascended slowly to the seat. He moved slightly closer to Mark but remained silent. For several seconds the Vatican policeman watched.

  After what seemed like an eternity, Mark broke the silence. ‘Eminence, I have received word from my contacts in Prague and New York,’ he paused before completing the sentence, ‘I’m afraid it is as we feared.’

  For several seconds he remained still.

  ‘Ah,’ the cardinal said softly. He bowed his head into his hands and closed his eyes momentarily.

  Mark had seen the noble face of Cardinal Utaka many times before, but never had he seen him look so stressed. The grey streaks in his beard seemed almost to have whitened in recent days.

  The cardinal removed his gold-framed lenses and rubbed his tired eyes with his right hand. His hand trembled slightly.

  ‘We must assume the worst case scenario.’

  ‘Eminence, Mr. Devére was clearly not of sound mind. There may be other possibilities.’

  The cardinal shook his head despondently, replacing his glasses. ‘No. It is certain. This is serious: a warning to the Vatican.’

  Mark’s expression was equally serious. ‘Eminence, I have spoken with my colleagues in the Vatican Police, the St. Gallen Feds and even the FBI in America and as yet have been unable to find any leads or connection to the other three. The deaths of Walls and Snow have both been written off as suicide and heart attack. An autopsy for Martin Snow at this stage is out of the question.’

  Cardinal Utaka nodded philosophically.

  Mark watched the cardinal closely. Eight years of experience told him no man gave more to the Christian cause than the cardinal. He remembered hearing a rumour that a beggar once asked him for alms in Southern India. The cardinal, remembering the story of Francis of Assisi, emptied his pockets and gave the beggar everything, including his handkerchief. It was no surprise this was the man silently dubbed second favourite to succeed the pontiff, whenever that should be.