The Templar Agenda

by John Paul Davis

  This was his last gamble. Perhaps the young policeman was right. If the world knew, then maybe he would survive. Time was precious.

  The battered Jeep continued through a clearing and descended at a sharp angle over the brow of a hill. The road was now bumpier than before yet conveniently flanked by trees on either side. Dust covered the tyres and much of the bodywork, ruining the overall appearance of the vehicle that had been painted a smart green colour when he hired it seven hours earlier. Stones flew up from the tyres as they made contact with the hard ground, made crumbly from several weeks without rain, causing further wear and tear to the tyres now lacking in grip and making it difficult to keep to the road.

  Up ahead a solitary villa stood overlooking the coast. A light from an upstairs window shone like a beacon through the darkness, illuminating large stretches of the beach. Another two kilometres and he would be there.

  He had found him.

  With his task completed, Devére slid open the patio door and eased outside. He walked a yard or so across the balcony and leaned despondently against the metal railing. From there he looked aimlessly across the darkness. The moon, now brighter than before as the cloud dispersed, illuminated the horizon in a ghostly haze that reflected its light magnificently across the calm waters of the Indian Ocean. To his left, the gentle tide swayed pleasantly against the shore in the still air.

  Devére lowered his head into his folded arms. He felt his eyes filling up with sorrow. In his mind’s eye he imagined the faces of his family as they celebrated his granddaughter’s birthday, still without knowing where he had gone. The thought of them sitting at home waiting for that phone call letting them know he was okay had played on his mind ever since his sudden departure. The situation tortured him, the grim realisation that he knew he could not contact them or risk putting them at risk.

  How had it come to this?

  He looked out across the countryside, his attention on the horizon. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed something strange. Something was moving across the horizon. Suddenly he felt a choking sensation in his throat. It was not the dense air that caused sudden panic. Lights, headlamps, cut the darkness focusing in the direction of his house.

  As his eyes focused on the road his mouth opened and vague elements of drool fell to the ground below. The lights were unmistakeable.

  They had found him.

  The Jeep came to a halt outside the house. After switching off the engine, the driver killed the lights. He closed the door without consideration for any need of silence and surveyed the house. The upstairs light that had illuminated the coastline like a lighthouse only moments earlier had been extinguished in a poor attempt to outfox him. It really was a poor attempt. There was nowhere to hide.

  After concealing his face with a balaclava he walked towards the door. Unsurprisingly it was locked. He took a step back and surveyed the building. He paid particular attention to the glass door of the once lighted room. The sliding door that led to the balcony was closed and devoid of any sign of disturbance.

  Slowly he exhaled. The prickly heat, burning like hot coal against his hands as he rubbed them together, felt somehow satisfying. His ears strained for any sound of life but he heard nothing. The soft swaying of the tide was the only disturbance to the silence.

  Slowly, he approached the entrance and removed a crowbar from his jacket.

  Not wasting a second, Devére unlocked the door to his safe using combination. It didn’t look like a regular safe. The true nature of the device was concealed by its casual appearance as a cabinet. Gathering together the printed sheets of the document, the ink barely dry from printing minutes earlier, he placed the document on the top shelf. In his hurried state, his skin prickly from panic and heat, he placed the laptop and a memory stick atop the pile of printed sheets and closed the door. He locked it hastily and closed the second door, hiding the safe from view.

  Suddenly he heard a bang coming from downstairs. Then silence.

  Devére stood motionless. Straining for any sound of life he heard footsteps, male footsteps, unmistakable, sand boots, possibly in keeping with a soldier, walking confidently across the tiled kitchen floor. Then they were muffled.

  He had reached the lounge.

  The intruder continued through the darkened room. He walked cautiously, careful not to alert the owner by knocking over any items of furniture. The room was well furnished, its many items lit only by the sparse rays of moonlight penetrating the open curtains to the large windows overlooking the sea. The intruder moved towards the stairs and slowly began to ascend them. He removed his SIG P75 from his pocket.

  As the footsteps became louder, Devére realised he had to act fast. He looked at the balcony. No chance. There was no other way down. He gazed at the safe and considered the files he had just hidden. At least he would never find them.

  Faced with no other option he eyed the walk-in wardrobe at the far corner of the room. On the stairs, the footsteps were getting louder. He gently opened the door and closed it noiselessly. Holding his breath…

  Suddenly the door to the room opened widely and the Jeep driver entered. At first he was surprised to see that the room was deserted. Switching on the wall light, he scanned the room for signs of life and saw there was none. The door to the balcony was closed. Looking through the glass there was nowhere there to hide.

  Pondering his options, the intruder stood in silence.

  Inside the wardrobe Devére’s view was good. Through narrow slit holes he could see the intruder standing motionlessly, surveying the room. Hidden only by the door and some of his wife’s coats, he stood as quietly as possible.

  The intruder paused. He thought he sensed something. It was a peculiar feeling, but one he often felt on a mission. Had his senses deceived him? Something was drawing him toward the wardrobe.

  Inside, Devére’s breathing quickened, the sound almost audible. The intruder moved forward, pausing in front of the door. The door opened in a flash and Devére felt a kick to the stomach. The Frenchman fell from the wardrobe and hit the floor, a metre or so from the intruder. Pain shuddered through his kidneys.

  The intruder eyed Devére curiously. This was not the man he knew. The first thing he noticed was his hair, usually so smartly combed, now appearing frizzy and sweaty in the unpleasant air.

  Next, the intruder examined his face, that famous face. His appearance was now more reminiscent of a drunken tramp than a former president.

  Then he looked at his clothes. Gone were the expensive suits. Instead the tatty polo shirt looked like he had been wearing it constantly for days on end.

  Devére looked at the intruder. The first thing he noticed was his face, covered with that stupid balaclava.

  The intruder spoke first. ‘So this is where you’ve been hiding.’

  Devére felt vomit slowly float up to the top of his throat. In the heat it hurt to swallow. ‘Take the mask off, Ludo. You embarrass us both.’

  The man smirked. He was right, of course. He placed his right hand to his head and removed the balaclava. A grim smile crossed Ludovic Gullet’s face as he walked in a circular motion, resembling a shark monitoring its prey.

  ‘Remain on your knees, Mikael. I am not going to tell you again. There is no point in trying to escape. We are quite alone here. Any silly games and I shall have to hurt you very badly.’

  Inhaling at irregular intervals, Devére remained silent. He adjusted his sweat-soaked shirt, sticking uncomfortably to his body. Silently he considered his options, all the while gazing with malice at his unwelcome guest. The intruder did the same. Both said nothing for a time and this seemed to suit Gullet. He was right and Devére knew it. They were quite alone.

  ‘Well, Ludo? What do you want? I have no money.’

  The intruder spat on the floor, phlegm sticking to the lush carpet. ‘Do not be absurd, Mikael. I have not come halfway around the world to pinch your wallet.’

  Devére shrugged. ‘Then why are you here?’

  G
ullet removed a pack of cigarettes from his dark combat trousers and opened it. He placed the first available cigarette to his lips and lit it. The foul smell filled the stuffy room. The still night air remained unpleasant, reflected by the noiseless sea, the tide now almost motionless.

  ‘We don’t have much time, Mikael,’ Gullet said, removing the cigarette from his mouth and blowing smoke in his face. ‘I have some questions to ask. I think you know what they are.’

  Devére looked at him blankly. Then he gazed at the clock on the wall. It was now 12:12am. It seemed an age ago that he last looked. Time was no longer on his side.

  ‘I have not the faintest idea.’

  The intruder smirked. He knew Devére was lying.

  ‘This is a nice place,’ he said, exhaling smoke once again in Devére’s direction. ‘The only question on my mind is why come here now?’

  Devére looked back sternly. ‘What do you want?’

  There was a thoughtful yet arrogant smugness about him. ‘I have been sent here by a man with no name who is very upset. He says that you are out to destroy his business.’

  Devére remained unflinching.

  ‘He seems to think that it was you who leaked the findings of Nathan Walls to Al Leoni and Jermaine Llewellyn.’

  Devére shook his head. As a politician he was used to defending his cause but this was hopeless. Agonising.

  ‘I have never spoken to Jermaine Llewellyn in my life.’

  That was true. The intruder probably knew it. Still no answer.

  ‘Ludo, believe me.’

  For several seconds he remained silent. For Devére this was worse than any possible torture Gullet could have offered.

  ‘The man also instructs me to tell you that Mr. Broadie wants his manuscript back.’

  A jolt of understanding informed Gullet that what was said was understood. The intruder smoked with a sick pleasure as he saw the man’s shoulders slump. Sound in the knowledge that he was not in a position to put up a fight.

  Devére shrugged at Gullet. He considered stalling for time, but what good would it do? He wondered how he would die. It could be anyway. There was no chance of the intruder being witnessed. Suddenly courage came to him.

  ‘Well you can tell Mr. Broadie he can kiss my mutha-fucking ass. I do not have it.’

  Gullet stepped forward and pistol-whipped the politician across the cheek – the scar that was beginning to heal suddenly slit open. Blood seeped down his face, sticking to his skin.

  ‘Why?’ Gullet barked. ‘After all we’ve been through together why does it have to end this way?’

  The intruder wiped his mouth with the sleeve of his right hand and took another drag on his cigarette. Smoke escaped from his mouth and nose. He blew with fury and kicked Devére with his right foot.

  ‘Now listen carefully, you filthy piece of shit. I want to know: where is it?’

  Devére rolled over, coughing in the dryness. The feeling of being winded felt excruciating on his dry throat and stomach. He looked up at Gullet and felt a strange satisfaction knowing that he would never find what he sought. He started laughing and the intruder punched him once again. He began to lose feeling as the cheek began to numb.

  ‘Where is it?’

  Devére gazed once more at the photo of his family and nodded philosophically. Finally he smiled.

  ‘You know, Ludo, I always thought that you were an ass. You can tell Monsieur Broadie, you’re also a failure.’

  The intruder looked at Devére, his expression resembling thunder. Finally he forced a laugh. He threw his cigarette to the ground, scarring the carpet. He extinguished it with his boots and raised his gun.

  9

  St. Gallen

  Mike had visited the City of St. Gallen on many occasions during his youth. Although it had been over ten years since his previous visit, he remembered it as though he had never left.

  During his school years he often spent the months of summer with his Swiss mother and grandmother in the small town of Altstätten near the foot of the Alpstein Mountains close to the Austrian border and would visit the city quite frequently. He never disliked Altstätten, a fairly unspoilt and charming town in the Rhine Valley unchanged despite the passing of time, but the lack of entertainment often left him bored.

  Even when he was a kid he dreamed of seeing the world. He remembered vividly being required to speak about his ambitions during his interview to join the Swiss Guard. He recalled one Sunday when he was nine: he was leaving church with his grandmother and the locals were saying goodbye to a young soldier who had completed his army training and was set to become a Swiss Guard. Even now he never forgot the looks on the people’s faces as they said farewell to the brave young man. Although Mike never found out what happened to the young man, perhaps he served with him now, something happened to him that day that would go on to shape his life. For what seemed like hours the wannabe Swiss Guard spoke of his lifelong desire to serve, only to learn that of the required two-hour interview, only seven minutes had passed.

  It was ironic that fate had led him back to the city as a Swiss Guard so many years after he dreamed of being one. It was also rather bizarre that Gabrielle Leoni’s château was in such close proximity to his grandmother’s old home. But that, according to Commissario Pessotto, was precisely why he was chosen.

  Today he did not look like a Swiss Guard. Replacing the historic attire, his Reebok trainers, dark tracksuit bottoms and black fleece hardly stood out from the crowd. He was armed but no one could tell. A SIG P75 was hidden by zip-up leggings and another was concealed in the glove compartment. He had never fired either, except in training, and hopefully he would never have to. St. Gallen was hardly a violent area during the day.

  Gabrielle did not approve of his dress sense. It was bad enough that she had to be babysat, let alone by someone who dressed like he did. She promised to take him shopping in the coming days and she had already made a long list of things for him to buy: or to put it a better way – for her to buy for him. Her attitude since his arrival had been consistent. She was the princess, he was an intruder. But he wasn’t only a guard: he was also her driver. Of course, he assumed that her lavishing attention on his appearance might not have been so straightforward.

  The funeral was an occasion unlike any he had ever witnessed. He had attended the funeral of the late Pope John Paul II, but the funeral of Al Leoni was, in many ways, even more elaborate. Over twelve hundred people attended the service in the Abbey of St. Gall. His uncle, Cardinal Tepilo, led a moving ceremony, joined in various parts by Cardinal Utaka, del Rosi and four others of prominent status. A famous folk singer that Mike had never heard of performed a moving rendition of Ave Maria, followed later in the proceedings by an overweight tenor in his fifties singing Amazing Grace in Italian.

  Other people of interest appeared. Louis Velis was present with Gilbert de Bois, along with their partners, accompanied closely by others who Mike did not know.

  All the key officials of the Vatican Bank were present, as was Thierry and several other key personnel from both the Swiss Guard and the Vatican Police. He didn’t have much chance to speak to Thierry, but the oberst nodded at him from time to time to acknowledge his presence.

  Many other wealthy figures that had not appeared at the château also attended the Mass. Throughout the ceremony the Swiss Guard couldn’t help wonder who they were, how they came to be there. Not for the first time the expressions on the faces of some of the mourners looked doleful – yet another smartly dressed individual offering condolences to a departed brother whose only mutual characteristic was their bank balance.

  Rachel was there, in the company of no one in particular. She sat in the pew behind Gabrielle, looking very beautiful in an elegant black dress. Gabrielle’s mother was there, sitting alongside her daughter, but for the most part remained anonymous, tears flowing from time to time.

  And, of course, there was Gabrielle. She certainly looked like a weeping daughter. A black veil covered her
attractive face, and she made a continued attempt to conceal the tears. She walked slowly that day, although he could not tell how much of it was real. Not for the first time there was a distance to her, but, despite this, there was something about her that made him feel a strange genuine ache for her loss. She may have been from the upper crust, yet there are some things even the wealthiest can’t buy and in no way was that more perfectly portrayed than in the moment when she read her specially written tribute to her father. Diamonds hung around her neck, three fingers were ringed and pearls dangled from her ears – even the veil was worth more than his monthly pay packet. But as he stood at the back watching her every move a void that wasn’t visible before now existed: it was a strange void, a hollow emptiness that can only be explained by losing something or someone irreplaceable. Behind the façade of a lady in her early thirties, entrepreneur and socialite swimming in elegance unrivalled even by some Hollywood actresses stood a frightened child, all alone in the big wide world. For the only time since his arrival he felt closer to her, despite the gap of over a hundred yards, than he had done to anyone for a long time.

  But that was then. Al Leoni was buried in the family mausoleum, located in the grounds of the château. Everyone stayed for the lavish banquet, somewhat more sombre than the night before. Then everyone left and they were alone.

  All that needed to be done was done.

  Mike turned right on reaching the city centre, heading in the direction of the Abbey of St. Gall. Sleet was falling against the tinted windows of the silver Lexus, dripping down the glass and melting on the pavement. He remembered times when he had walked the pavement before – a very long time ago. The thought made him smile.