The Templar Agenda

by John Paul Davis

  After turning another corner he drove past the Abbey of St. Gall. The location was deserted and lying silent, a far cry from the last time he was there. He looked briefly into the rear-view mirror: partly to make the turn and partly to see if the site of her father’s recent funeral had left a mark on her. It hadn’t. She seemed oblivious to its appearance, and to his. As usual since his arrival, he drove and she rode in the back. It was as if he was an actual chauffeur and she his employer. For Mikael Frei, becoming a wachtmeister was the worst thing that had ever happened to him.

  It was approaching noon when he parked the Lexus in central St. Gallen. By the time he had switched off the engine and exited the car she was already descending the ramp of the Leoni et Cie employee car park that led to the street. To her credit she didn’t need to be waited on hand and foot but that was hardly what he was there for. If the role of doorman were added to his list of duties then he’d most probably have pointed the SIG P75 at himself.

  Gabrielle walked so quickly that he needed to burst into a jog to catch up with her. Her high heels were hardly the most convenient footwear for the slushy underfoot, but it was otherwise in keeping with her appearance. It amazed him how she could walk so fast in such footwear. She was not the only person walking the street dressed as she was, but that was hardly shocking: it was a street of wealth and status. From her facial expression alone Mike could not tell whether she loved it or hated it. She pulled off the businesswoman look but it didn’t quite suit her. She wasn’t into the whole Carrie Bradshaw thing either. She was used to cocktails and designer clothing but boardrooms and business meetings weren’t really her. Not for the first time she made a good actress.

  They walked the street carefully, heading in the direction of the bank. The four-storey building dated back to the early 1790s, and had been built specifically for the new private bank. It didn’t look like a typical commercial bank. The grey stone looked dirty in the gloom, and what the tinted windows gained in privacy they lost in appearance. Overlooking the door was the bank’s eminent logo, a gothic castle, identical to the one she lived in.

  Leoni et Cie was one of the oldest banks in Switzerland. Like many private banks in St. Gallen it was founded as a partnership in the late 18th century and for over two hundred years had remained under the control of the same family.

  As Mike understood of the family history, Banque Leoni was founded in 1783 by Jean-Antonin Leoni, a thirty-three-year-old native of Zürich who had moved to Paris fourteen years earlier to pursue a career in banking having earlier studied in Geneva. Following the outbreak of the French Revolution, Leoni returned to Switzerland with an impressive fortune already amassed from his new bank and moved operations to St. Gallen while the French banking sector shut down. According to family tradition Leoni, a devout Catholic, used the bank as a mechanism to help fleeing aristocrats escape from France during the Reign of Terror and even funded some military operations for the Papal States against Napoleon I following his triumph in France.

  Even before the formation of Banque Leoni the Leoni name had been intricately linked to the political, economic, cultural and religious life of Europe. According to accounts from the 15th century a Sébastian Leoni had been a Burgher of Zürich in the 1450s while in the two centuries that followed the family distinguished themselves as bishops, priests, surgeons, theologians, members of the Zürich Grand Council, one composer, and from 1710 onwards concentrated their efforts on trade and commerce.

  Although Jean-Antonin Leoni returned to France in 1796, once banking had resumed in Paris, his stay lasted only until 1804 when he became a target of Napoleon I for his role assisting aristocrats fleeing the revolution. Despite managing to flee to Palermo, Leoni was eventually captured by an Italian mercenary on Napoleon’s behalf and guillotined in France less than two months later. With Banque Leoni now in the hands of his son, Jean-Sébastian, operations resumed in France during the reign of Louis XVIII before the bank was later outlawed on the orders of Napoleon III, leading to Banque Leoni concentrating on establishing trade links with much of central Europe and the new United States of America from its base in St. Gallen.

  For his gallantry in assisting the Papal States in their war against Napoleon I, and his later death, Jean-Antonin Leoni was made a venerable by the Church in 1886 and in 1921 was beatified.

  Gabrielle entered the bank through the four-pronged revolving glass door and walked confidently across the spacious atrium, followed immediately by Mike. It was his first visit to a Leoni et Cie bank and he didn’t really know what to expect. Behind the reception desk a woman of plain features sat with her eyes fixed on her work, her demeanour resembling the efficient manner of a 19th century Victorian headmistress. Gabrielle stopped at the desk and stood quietly in front of her. The woman looked up inquisitively but at first remained silent. She glared at Gabrielle, although still giving the impression of looking down her nose.

  ‘Oui,’ she said. ‘Comment ça va?’

  ‘I’m here about a deposit box,’ Gabrielle replied, choosing English rather than French or German.

  ‘Do you have an account?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And your name?’

  ‘It’s a numbered account,’ Gabrielle replied, almost as if to say mind your own business. ‘I phoned an hour ago.’

  She pointed to an electronic keypad. ‘Enter your account number here.’

  Gabrielle placed her empty briefcase against the desk and entered the digits from memory. The receptionist softened her stance.

  ‘Of course,’ she said, pointing to the lift. ‘Third floor.’

  The smartly dressed concierge standing by the lift acknowledged her presence and ushered Gabrielle and Mike inside. He pressed the button on their behalf and exited before the doors closed. The journey continued uninterrupted until the third floor at which point the branch manager, dressed in a smart suit and well polished shoes, was there to greet them.

  ‘Ms. Leoni, how nice to see you.’

  She forced a smile. ‘Philippe.’

  He smiled politely and pointed to a palm screen. He informed Gabrielle of the usual procedure, which was nothing new to her, and demonstrated the use of the fingerprint scanner, an alternative to needing a key. She pressed her right hand on the screen, which scanned her fingertips biometrically. The word Beglaubigt flashed momentarily, informing her she had been authenticated.

  ‘Follow me please.’

  The dark-haired manager retrieved the safe deposit box before leading her to a private cubicle, cloaked by a red curtain. Mike walked slowly after her, stroking his SIG P75 through his fleece and examining the location with interest. On either side of the room countless deposit boxes lined the walls like a gigantic filing cabinet. He had seen many similar ones in the American banks but somehow these seemed more secretive. He had seen countless movies where deposit boxes like these concealed unimaginable secrets, hidden away like pirate treasure. He had been in the Vatican Secret Archives and this was in some ways quite similar.

  The safe deposit box was of metal construction, approximately twelve inches in width and breadth and twenty-four inches in height. Inside the cubicle, a desk was fixed in the corner and a chair was tucked neatly underneath.

  Gabrielle pulled the curtain closed and slowly opened the box. It was not particularly different to the contents of years before. Inside she found several documents, birth certificates et cetera, ad hoc selections of various currencies but nothing out of the usual. A few contracts of significance, including various property rights and ownership documents were recognisable by the logos, perhaps twenty in all, some of which dated back two centuries. Finally she located a large envelope, brown in colour, sealed with the official stamp of her lawyers. This was what she had wanted: it was her father’s will.

  She knew what was inside. A few scraps went to distant cousins, nephews and nieces, et cetera; a certain amount would go to her aunt in Frankfurt. Some would go to her mother, and the majority to her uncle and her. Unsurp
risingly that would include a forty-three percent controlling stake in Leoni et Cie PLC.

  She opened her briefcase with two distinct clicks and slipped the envelope inside. Once finished, she returned her attention to the box and scanned the remaining documents.

  One in particular caught her eye. Unlike the others it was a small white envelope that had been officially sealed with a Leoni et Cie logo. She moved her painted finger and thumb gently across the envelope unveiling a single sheet of white paper. It was clearly the information for another bank account. The Leoni et Cie logo was also present at the top right corner and the account number began with three zeros. Unsurprisingly, no name or any other details were present. More surprising a key was also present in the envelope indicating another deposit account, but of the older pedigree.

  Her heart rate increased as the sound of footsteps outside the curtain suddenly became more vociferous. Unbeknown to her a white Frenchman in his forties was being escorted by an employee to a faraway cubicle. Returning her attention to the other account, she closed the deposit box slowly and placed it on the desk. The key was still present in her hand.

  Mike had become quite used to waiting outside a cubicle over the last two weeks. She was always running errands. She shopped, she visited other banks, she visited other institutions of which she was patron, all of which helped endorse the feeling that he was an outsider. It was clear she loved her privacy, but not just against him. Everything was an intrusion.

  He looked for several seconds at the red curtain, doing his best to concentrate on the task at hand. It was funny that the curtain, such an inanimate object not unlike those used in changing rooms at clothes shops, somehow seemed to separate him from her like some great impenetrable force field. He had seen it happen in several films: someone was abducted from a changing room or toilet or similar and the thought silently amused him yet at the same time also unnerved him. He glanced quickly at the clock above the reception desk. The sooner she was out, the happier he’d be.

  He looked around the bank out of ritual and saw that it was practically deserted. Behind the desk, about ten feet away, the man named Philippe continued to stare but until now he was still to speak to him. He was only doing his job, but maybe he could sense the firearm. The man did not know he was a Swiss Guard, but something told him he knew he was a soldier. Maybe it was the way he stood, or the way he carried himself. Who knows? It takes one to know one and this guy possibly used to be one.

  More than five minutes passed before the curtain opened and Gabrielle walked out. The black briefcase under her arm, empty on arrival, now carried the weight of one small document.

  ‘I’d also like to see this,’ Gabrielle said, waving the other key at the manager.

  The man named Philippe nodded. ‘Of course, Ms. Leoni.’

  He asked for the key and she passed it to him. He had never worked with her personally but he was well aware who she was, and what she was known for.

  Gabrielle stood silently, giving the impression of calm and patience.

  ‘If you would put in the numbers, please.’

  She inserted the numbers from memory and calmly held her breath. Her relaxed persona was in keeping with her usual demeanour but inside her head was filled with curiosity. Her father had never mentioned this account.

  ‘Would you like to use the same cubicle?’

  ‘That would be fine.’

  Without looking at Mike she followed the employee to retrieve the box and re-entered the cubicle. He placed it on the same desk and closed the curtain on leaving, returning the original box to its rightful location. The second box was identical to the last one. That was no surprise. The weight was also the same; that was no surprise either. The content’s weight was insignificant to the build of the box.

  The box was definitely the same, same height, metal clasps and a handle. Yet somehow this was different. It was somehow more mysterious. It reminded her of a time ten years earlier when she was in Peru with her uncle, working with him on an excavation in the City of Ica, around the area where a series of bizarre stones had once been found suggesting man once lived alongside the dinosaur. She hesitated momentarily but decided to continue. She checked the curtain before slowly opening the box.

  It was the last thing she expected. Located at the bottom of the box, paper casing, brown in colour, surrounded what felt like a box or a heavy manuscript, possibly several hundred pages thick. A look of confusion crossed her face.

  She picked it up slowly, attempting to ascertain its significance by feeling the cover. The strong casing gave nothing away. She placed the peculiar item into her briefcase before double-checking the box. It was the only item.

  Moments later she exited the cubicle breezily and smiled at the manager. After handing over the now empty deposit box she walked behind the desk and stopped before a computer monitor.

  ‘May I check something?’ she asked looking at the screen.

  Considering himself in no position to argue, he moved out of her way, allowing Gabrielle access to the desktop. She clicked several times in succession on the mouse and typed numbers on the keyboard. She waited several seconds. Finally a bemused expression crossed her face.

  ‘When was this last used?’ she asked, referring to the second deposit box.

  The man thought for a moment. ‘It must have been four weeks ago.’

  Gabrielle nodded.

  Shortly before her father’s death.

  St. Peter’s Basilica had been closed for over an hour. Not for the first time in recent weeks, Cardinal Utaka had entered the church at its quietest and was kneeling silently at prayer. For the cardinal it was a time for quiet reflection at the end of another day of chaos. The purple shades under his eyes were seemingly larger than the previous day and his mind continued to be plagued by dark thoughts.

  Life may have been a struggle at present, but he had known worse. There had been times when his whole life had been burdened by constant pressure. Ever since his birth in a now destroyed shantytown in Niger, the only boy of five, all products of the same father, a teacher, and mother, a cleaner, his life had been plagued by poverty.

  Then at the age of nine his life became even worse.

  Following the destruction of his home, he was exposed to the realities of the nation’s capital of Niamey. Living in a one-bedroom house during the peak of the Diori Regime following the independence from France in 1960, Utaka learned the harsh circumstances of a nation suffering severe drought and famine at a time of rampant corruption. During his teens his aim had been to become a physician, but his parents could not afford the cost of education. After working for a time as a teacher the young man moved to France in 1965, just as the nation’s hold on its former colony began to diminish.

  Until his arrival in France religion had never been a big part of his life. Officially he was pagan, a survivor from Niger’s pre-Muslim past that was barely relevant to the harsh realities of the new regime. But he never considered himself spiritual. Death, corruption, famine and drought left little time for the traditions of the desert and what little faith Utaka had was dampened by the circumstances of the time.

  But in France that changed after meeting a local priest, Father Abidal, the only white man who treated Utaka like a white man. Niger still reeked of the colonial past, yet Abidal illustrated to him the true meaning of Jesus Christ. Love thy neighbour seemed lost on Utaka after witnessing so many years of tyranny but soon he became enthralled by the ways of his new friend. Within a year he chose to be baptised and within four years he was ordained a Catholic priest. He began as a missionary in the shantytowns of Peru and Bolivia, but fate took him back to Niamey. His parents passed away but his mother lived to see him become a bishop. It was one of his lasting regrets that when she died he was away in the Philippines. Yet it warmed him to learn that in her last days she entrusted to his eldest sister that knowing his success had made the last years of her life the ones she regarded as her proudest.

  For ten years now the
man who came from absolute poverty had defied the circumstances of his early years and found a home in the house of St. Peter. Despite a life sapping in energy and hardships his motivation for his vocation remained undiminished. He had beaten cancer once and struggled with pain to the joints but still found the energy to undertake all the roles placed on him by the Church. Some he cherished; some were great hardships.

  At present, it was the latter.

  The echo of heavy feet disrupted his thoughts. The cardinal opened his eyes slowly and turned in the direction of the noise. After seeing Thierry approach from the back of the church, he struggled to his feet and genuflected toward the main altar. He placed the pressure of his frame onto the nearest pew and came face to face with the oberst.

  Neither spoke to begin with. The Swiss Guard knelt reverently before the cardinal who placed a hand on his shoulder. The cardinal uttered a blessing in Latin and removed his hand, placing it on the pew for support.

  Thierry kissed the cardinal’s ring and rose to his feet. The tiredness in his eyes remained – something also present in the cardinal. Both had needed time to reflect on what was now an escalating problem. In many ways their lives would have been so much easier if they could strike back with violence. But even if they were so inclined, they were still not sure exactly what they were dealing with.

  ‘Tell me, de Courten,’ the cardinal said slowly, ‘is what I hear true?’

  Thierry did not respond immediately. Yet an answer was clear from the seriousness in his eyes.

  ‘I’m afraid it is, eminence.’

  The cardinal seemed to shake slightly on hearing the news. He closed his eyes momentarily.

  ‘I spoke to Commissario Pessotto not one hour ago. Mikael Devére was found in his home in Mauritius. He had recently been holidaying there.’

  Utaka mumbled something, possibly the man’s name, something that to Thierry seemed an act of compassion: that by acknowledging the deceased man’s existence the cardinal felt sympathy for his passing.