The Templar Agenda

by John Paul Davis

  ‘Even the Pope has guards, my dear,’ Utaka said, making brief eye contact with Mike. ‘Think of him as extra security. Whatever you need he’s there.’

  ‘Wherever you go, he will follow,’ del Rosi added.

  She looked at Cardinal del Rosi and then at Mike. ‘Wherever I go,’ she said with a unique expression, vaguely playful but also serious. Thierry smiled at that comment, whereas Cardinal Utaka shook his head. She looked directly into Mike’s eyes and then surveyed him from head to toe in a triangle shaped glance as if he were a work of art, or worse. He felt as if her eyes were looking right through him, almost as though she could read his thoughts or emotions. For the rarest of moments the bizarre thought unnerved him and time seemed to take an eternity.

  Finally she held out her hand without further comment.

  Mike paused momentarily before slowly accepting it. When he did, he held it softly. Unsurprisingly it was cold and slender, as if she were a delicate flower petal that should not survive any great force. With her right hand still holding his she approached him. She brushed her left hand down his suit and squeezed gently against his chest. Slowly she smiled.

  ‘That’s a nice suit,’ she said at last, stroking him in the area where he had earlier spilled water. ‘Did you go swimming in it?’

  Cardinal del Rosi laughed, whereas the other three looked on uncomfortably. The Swiss Guard broke eye contact momentarily, drawn to Cardinal Utaka shaking his head. As quickly as his eyes left her, he resumed eye contact with his new host.

  For now he remained focused, attempting to control his breathing. Nobody was speaking but the sound of chatter throughout did little to alleviate the tension. As he looked into her eyes he saw something had changed. That gaze that only a moment ago appeared warm and bright now displayed only the cold arrogance of a spoiled child. If there was any hint of a warm, loving smile it had now withered into a snobbish frown. The aristocracy may have long since died out in these parts but the transition had clearly bypassed her. Had the situation been normal he would probably have given a retort, but on this occasion discipline took over. Finally, he forced a smile and turned to the oberst.

  ‘Wachtmeister Frei is one of my most loyal soldiers. I would trust him with my life,’ Thierry said. ‘Only last year he provided a guard for the President of the USA. He regularly serves as guard for His Holiness.’

  ‘Really,’ Gabrielle said. She looked at Thierry, then once more at Mike. She looked him up and down and finally in the eye. ‘Well the Pope may need you, but I don’t. Farewell, Mr. Frei.’

  Gabrielle Leoni moved quickly to one side and walked in the direction of a man of ancient features accompanied by a lady young enough to be his granddaughter. Utaka and del Rosi also separated, moving in opposite directions. Thierry smiled at Mike and patted him on the shoulder before following Cardinal Utaka. Cardinal Tepilo also patted him on the shoulder caringly and smiled warmly before walking away in the other direction.

  Mike bit his lip, concealing his frustration well. He walked slowly in the opposite direction, heading back to where Mark was still standing. He failed to notice a man walking past. Red wine spilled over the stranger’s white shirt.

  ‘Oh man, I am so sorry,’ Mike said hesitantly, surveying the gentleman. The man was elegantly dressed – more so than most, and that was saying something. He was fairly tall with medium length hair and a neatly trimmed beard. He monitored Mike for what seemed like an eternity, his face a dull expression, a clear sign of disapproval. His dark eyes felt threatening to him.

  For several seconds they watched each other silently. Then, surprisingly, the man’s facial exterior softened.

  ‘Not to worry, fella,’ he said, his face breaking into a smile. ‘I have a spare shirt in my room. I’ll change into it; it’s no bother.’

  ‘You need to get that out soon,’ Mike said, wiping his shirt with his hand. ‘That’ll leave a stain.’

  ‘Right, thanks. I’ll bear that in mind. Thanks again.’

  The man departed in the direction of the corridor, heading towards the main stairwell. Mike’s eyes followed him until he left the room. Now alone, he paid attention to his surroundings before walking carefully through the crowd, returning to the buffet table. Stan was standing by Mark, piling up a plate of snacks.

  Both tried to conceal their laughter.

  ‘Do you like her?’ Stan asked.

  Mike looked at Stan, a look of irritation crossing his face.

  ‘Oh, sure,’ Mike said wiping his hand vigorously with a serviette. ‘I like her more than food poisoning.’

  ‘I told you she’s a treat,’ Mark said.

  ‘Oh she’s special,’ Mike said throwing away the serviette and picking up a piece of shrimp from a nearby plate. ‘I tell ya...if someone were to attack her with one of these right now I’d jump right in front of it.’

  Stan laughed and turned away.

  Just as he made the comment, Mike heard his name being called, the voice unmistakeably Thierry’s. He chewed the shrimp quickly and about-turned. He walked briskly, passing a crowd of eight or nine, carefully navigating the ocean of black suits. He followed Thierry through an open doorway. In front of him was a long winding corridor.

  5

  It was clear to Mike that the great hall was not the only impressive feature of the château. Countless valuable artefacts and works of art, mostly dating back to the 17th century, lined the left wall of the long corridor, spaced evenly and coordinated by size and colour.

  The right side was no less of interest. Priceless art hung from the walls, accompanied by gothic carvings, etched into the stone, faded after years of ageing. A random carving of a cupid, bow at the ready, stood out from a cluster of other carvings that lined the next section of corridor, mostly depicting scenes from the classical era. Continuing around the next corner, several large portraits lined the walls, unbeknown to Mike, all depicting male members of the Leoni family dating back to the first owner.

  Mike ducked his head as he passed under an open archway and stopped next to Thierry in front of a heavy door, dating back at least a century. It was constructed from oak and was one of many lining the main corridor that led through the heart of the château. Thierry opened it with a struggle and held it open politely for Mike. The door creaked loudly as it moved on un-oiled hinges.

  He entered slowly and closed it as quietly as possible, failing to prevent further prolonged creaking.

  Once inside, he surveyed the room. The main light was already switched on, the only light entering the room. In comparison to the other rooms he had seen this was by far the barest. An antique desk was placed near the windows, overlapping the closed curtains, and surrounded by four wooden chairs and an empty bookcase, the only furniture in the room. A peculiar smell permeated throughout, suggesting to Mike the room had not been used recently. He assumed it was not the only room in the château to appear this way.

  The oberst took a seat in close proximity to the desk and offered Mike one of three vacant seats. He exhaled heavily and slowly rubbed his eyes. Mike watched him. It was clear the oberst was not enjoying himself.

  He wasn’t the grandest of men. As leader of the Swiss Guard some might have forgiven him for flaunting his rank, but that never happened. In the past it was customary for the oberst of the Swiss Guard to be of Swiss nobility, and while that may have been true of Thierry’s lineage once removed on his father’s side, he never displayed such links.

  He wasn’t a privileged man, as Mike understood, although in comparison to many his progress through the ranks had been an easy ride. As a law graduate from Oxford, he was all set to follow in his father’s footsteps, a Swiss banker. It was surprising in many ways that he didn’t. He certainly had the capability, and guys with his background were hard to come by.

  But he hated banks and, furthermore, he hated bankers. Perhaps it was because his father spent more time reading contracts than reading him bedtime stories when he was younger. Like Mike, he wasn’t particularly close to
his father.

  No, it was his uncle to whom the oberst was closest. He, too, had been a soldier: in fact, he, too, had been a Swiss Guard. After making the rank of major it was most unfortunate that he was killed in a car crash in the early 1990s. Rumour had it the event changed the oberst. For as long as Mike had served, he had never seen him show much emotion. And tonight was no exception.

  Mike’s eyes began to wander, examining the room through boredom. For the first time he noticed a man of hard features captured in a portrait behind Thierry. The portrait was the only artwork in the room. This man was far less elegant than those he had seen in other paintings that night. He was dressed in the attire of the 19th century, and was portrayed as having a crooked nose. Nevertheless, the man’s facial appearance was vaguely in keeping with some of the others that lined the walls. Yet, this one was less dazzling. In Mike’s opinion, his face was repulsive.

  ‘Is that one of her relatives?’

  Thierry turned around, examining the painting without interest.

  ‘Who cares,’ he said.

  Mike smiled briefly.

  Thierry shook his head and brushed his finger and thumb over his tired eyes. The purple bags were less evident on this occasion, possibly hidden beneath thin layers of makeup.

  ‘You know, Frei, everybody here is an expert,’ he made eye contact with Mike and exhaled. ‘But there are two types of expert here: those who have studied art their whole lives, and those who once visited a museum.’

  Mike smiled, his eyes glancing once more at the painting. He had seen the oberst talking to several mourners that night, putting up with their stories. He was doing a very good job fitting in.

  ‘And neither are really experts. Just have varying degrees of ignorance.’

  A quiet knock on the heavy door stole their attention. Thierry answered come in and the door opened slowly, creaking on its hinges.

  The newcomer was Mark. He nodded at Mike as he entered, heading in the direction of the desk. He removed a set of photographic prints from his inside pocket as he walked.

  Thierry ascended to his feet and helped him organise the contents across the unused desk. Meanwhile, Mike waited patiently. Less than a minute later Thierry signalled for him to join them.

  Initially what he saw made no sense. There were six photographs laid out evenly, each one printed in black and white. Every photograph was of a different man, their ages, physiques and ethnicities varied. On face value they were all seemingly without connection.

  Mike recognised the first man immediately. The man was white, mid to late seventies in age, and slightly overweight. His facial expression suggested he was a kindly individual.

  ‘I’m sure you will recognise our lately departed Cardinal Patricio Faukes,’ Thierry said.

  Mike nodded, his attention on the photograph. As far as the Swiss Guard was aware the Spaniard had died in the Apostolic Palace some two months earlier: a combination of poor health and old age.

  ‘This man also,’ Thierry said pointing to the next photograph.

  Mike nodded, his eyes now focused on the handsome face of Major Pius von Sonnerberg. For as long as Mike had been a Swiss Guard the man had been his superior.

  ‘These men, I’m sure, will be less familiar.’

  Mike made brief eye contact with Thierry before looking with interest at the next man. He was also white, perhaps late fifties and clearly overweight. As far as he could tell he had never met the man.

  He scanned the others. ‘Who are they?’

  ‘That man was Martin Snow,’ Mark said of the third individual. ‘A former employee at Starvel AG, and a respected business analyst – found dead on a train nearly five weeks ago.’

  Mike nodded. He immediately made the connection that these men were all deceased. Silently the thought unnerved him. As the seconds passed, the atmosphere within the cramped room, devoid of fresh air and light, seemed to grow heavier. It was clear to Mike why Thierry had chosen this room. It was a room where they were guaranteed not to be disturbed.

  ‘Next to him is Nathan Walls, an accountant for GPLA, based in North Carolina,’ Mark said.

  ‘Their names are not important,’ Thierry interrupted, ‘what matters is that each man was found dead between November and six days ago. Indications suggest that each man was murdered yet none of their deaths were witnessed. As far as we know, none of these men knew one another.’

  He exhaled deeply.

  ‘What’s more, until recently there was no reason to suggest that three of them had even been murdered.’

  Mike rubbed his clean-shaven face and looked inquisitively at his commander. Although it was obvious certain circumstances were still to be revealed to him it was evident from their tone that the matter was of importance. He looked at Mark, for now remaining silent. Until that point Mike had assumed Major von Sonnerberg and Cardinal Faukes had died of natural causes.

  Mark bit his lip. He could tell from Mike’s expression that he was confused.

  ‘Take a look at the guy on the far right, Mike.’

  Mike looked at the print closely. Until now he had paid it little attention. The image was similar to the others: a white male aged somewhere in his sixties. Although he had never met the man he recognised him immediately.

  ‘That’s her dad.’

  Thierry nodded. ‘Yes, Frei: that is Al Leoni.’

  Mike nodded, continuing to examine the photograph. A smart grey beard lined his face, common for a man of that age. His eyebrows were bushy, at least compared to the men in the other photos, and the jaw line was strong, his features unmistakably Swiss. Yet his expression was strange: it seemed blank, strangely blank, as if it was the expression of a dead man, despite the photo being taken several years earlier. It was strange the way the black and white played havoc with his thoughts.

  He paid particular attention to the man’s eyes. He felt drawn to him. He had seen those eyes before, recently.

  His daughter also had his eyes.

  He examined his other features. On face value he saw less evidence of a family resemblance. His nose was stronger than hers and his lips thin and thoughtful. In a way it reminded him of Cardinal Tepilo but the resemblance was by no means clear-cut. The photograph made him feel uncomfortable. All of a sudden he felt particularly aware that he was a guest in the man’s lifelong home.

  The door to the room opened with a familiar creaking sound. Mike turned out of habit and relaxed immediately. Cardinals Utaka and Tepilo entered together, followed by Cardinal del Rosi. Once inside, the last cardinal closed the door behind him with excessive force, causing the sound to ricochet around the room. The ground shook for a couple of seconds, though having no effect on the long unused desk.

  Cardinal del Rosi looked inquisitively at Thierry. ‘You have informed our man of the task at hand, oberst?’

  ‘I was explaining to Frei that these men had been murdered…’

  ‘It is not clear, wachtmeister, why these men were murdered,’ Cardinal del Rosi interjected, facing Mike for the first time; ‘unfortunately it is equally unclear who murdered them.’

  ‘We have some idea, eminence,’ Mark interrupted.

  Cardinal Utaka looked at Mark, then del Rosi. ‘Even if we knew who was responsible it would not make the situation any less important.’

  Cardinal del Rosi gazed at his colleague. He folded his arms slowly, exploring the room with his eyes. A look of frustration dominated his face.

  ‘Both Guiliano and George are quite correct, wachtmeister,’ Cardinal Tepilo said of del Rosi and Utaka, now facing Mike. ‘It is not known why they were murdered, nor is it clear who was responsible. This leaves us with a great, great problem.’

  Mike watched the cardinal closely, his attention on the man’s beard. He had a thoughtful expression, he always did. It suited the man’s reputation as a great thinker and theologian.

  Cardinal del Rosi’s expression changed. ‘You are aware of what happened to Jermaine Llewellyn?’

  ‘Not really,�
� Mike answered. ‘Only what I read in the papers.’

  ‘Llewellyn…’

  ‘Jermaine Llewellyn,’ Cardinal del Rosi said interrupting Cardinal Utaka, ‘was the Chairman of the Federal Reserve. Being raised in America you are no doubt aware he was chiefly responsible for supervising banking policy in America…’

  ‘Frei doesn’t need an economics lesson, eminence,’ Thierry said, raising his voice for the first time. ‘Frei is already well aware that Leoni et Cie is of vital importance to the Vatican Bank, holding more than a 20% stake. He is willing to ensure that the bank’s most important shareholder – that Cardinal Tepilo’s niece…’

  ‘Thank you, Thierry,’ Tepilo said.

  Mike nodded, returning his attention to the desk. What did the other three have to do with it?

  ‘Do all of these murders concern the Vatican?’

  No one answered straightaway. Cardinal del Rosi looked curiously at Mike. ‘That remains unclear.’

  Mark walked slowly across the room, stopping a few metres from Mike. He removed a selection of papers from his inside pocket.

  ‘So far we have only one lead,’ Mark said. ‘Three days ago I was asked by Mikael Devére to meet him privately in Rome.’

  Mike’s eyes displayed nothing but surprise. ‘The former President of France?’

  Mark nodded. ‘It was Devére who told me of his suspicions that Cardinal Faukes and Major von Sonnerberg had been murdered. He also suggested that their killer or killers were under orders from someone, or some people, involved with the Rite of Larmenius.’

  Mike looked at him, all the while remaining silent. The cardinals all looked on with neutral expressions.

  Mark unfolded the documents and passed them to Mike. ‘Take a look at this.’

  Mike accepted the documents from Mark and slowly began to search them. Unbeknown to Mike they were photocopies of the documents that Mark had received from the Frenchman on the bridge. Mike scanned the content quickly, his eyes alert as he examined the top corner of each page. There was a logo present. The logo was unique: consisting of a red cross, almost identical to the cross of St. George, intercepted by a bizarre skull and crossbones at its centre.