She shone the light at the various texts, attempting to read the words along the seam. Suddenly she shuddered. In a reflex action she pointed the torch to her left. The antique clock standing against the wall next to an elegant portrait chimed softly as it confirmed the time of 10:00am. Seconds later the door closed with a loud echoing bang, its vibrations fading slowly.
For several seconds she remained motionless. As best she could tell no one had entered the room. She inhaled deeply, convincing herself it was merely the wind. She had always hated that door.
Regaining her composure, she knelt down by the far wall and cast her eyes on the various texts that lined the bottom shelf. After examining several she removed a heavy tome. It was more delicate than the last one but heavier in weight. She pulled it out carefully and shone the light on the cover. Unsurprisingly the text was printed, dating from the late 18th century. It was written in English by a man named Drummond, a Scottish writer, and entitled: European History 1300-1650. She returned the book to the shelf and slowly pulled out the one to its left. Neither were the one she wanted.
Replacing the manuscript, she froze. A series of creaking footsteps emerged suddenly to her left. She flashed the torch. Through the poor light she could vaguely make out the silhouette of a human.
The figure retreated slightly, dazzled by the torchlight. The figure raised an arm and squinted through the light, incredibly managing to avoid spilling the warm liquid from either mug of coffee in her hands.
‘Rachel,’ Gabrielle said getting to her feet and lowering the torch.
‘Hi,’ she replied.
As Gabrielle emerged into the light Rachel looked her up and down. Gabrielle’s blue Levis were now almost brown in colour, covered in dirt and dust.
Rachel controlled her astonishment well. ‘Your mom asked me to give you this,’ she said, offering Gabrielle a cup of coffee. ‘We thought you might be thirsty.’
‘Thank you,’ she replied, stepping away from the bookcase, without taking the mug. Although the door was wide open and the curtains no longer closed the room was still dark. At least being nearer the window she could make out the face of her friend. She was dressed in a grey Dartmouth hoody, blue jeans and flip-flops.
‘I thought you’d gone,’ Gabrielle said, giving Rachel a hug and partially covering her in dust.
‘I got back thirty minutes ago. You said we’d go shopping, remember…last week...’
Gabrielle’s hands covered her mouth.
‘Oh, wow, honey, I’m sorry, I...’
Rachel smiled warmly. ‘That’s okay. I know you’ve got a lot going on right now, and…you know…if you want we can just stay here.’
Gabrielle looked at Rachel. For so many years they had been best friends.
‘Oh, no, don’t worry: it’s nothing to do with that.’
Rachel looked at her sympathetically. She didn’t want to push the subject of her father.
‘You know, I’m glad you’re here,’ Gabrielle said changing her tone. ‘I’ve got something to show you.’
Without waiting for a response, Gabrielle accelerated through the open door. Rachel hesitated before following. Walking on uneven carpet and balancing coffee mugs was difficult. The carpet was Persian, dating back to the 16th century. The last thing she wanted was to leave a stain.
The door to the study was open when she arrived. In the corner of the room, the desk area was surprisingly empty aside from a large manuscript. Unbeknown to Rachel, the ancient tome discovered not twenty-four hours earlier was still sitting on the desk. The gold-plated lettering on the cover was slightly more visible than before but any meaning was still unclear.
Rachel entered tentatively, passing the coffee mugs to Gabrielle. She placed them down on coasters several feet away from the manuscript and wiped her wet hands on her dirty jeans. Her eyes focused on the tome standing alone like a lost treasure in the centre of the desk.
Rachel looked blankly at the mysterious book. She waited for invitation before turning several pages – even in the improved light failing to understand the handwritten Italian text. She turned her head and made eye contact with Gabrielle.
‘Where did you get it?’
‘My dad had it in a safe deposit box.’
‘Wow,’ Rachel said, returning her focus to the text. She had seen the style before. The writing was in keeping with that of many chronicles from the 14th to 15th centuries. She closed the book and looked at the title. An expression of confusion dominated her face.
‘What does that mean?’
‘I don’t know,’ Gabrielle replied. ‘But have a look at this.’
Gabrielle pointed at the front cover. Rachel looked closely at the symbol.
‘Oh, my God.’
Mike yawned vigorously, his vision slowly coming into focus as he rubbed sleep from his eyes. It was approaching 10:30am. He was not used to getting up as late as this, but since his arrival his routine had been anything but straightforward. After two weeks he was beginning to identify the usual patterns of the family and their neighbours, making it easier to notice anything out of the ordinary.
He went to bed later than normal. Something was bothering him. He was aware that a black Mercedes-Benz had pulled up twenty metres from the electronic gate and stayed there all night but it had left by the time he awoke. He decided he would keep an eye on it but he was not convinced it was a problem – probably just another visitor to one of the family’s flamboyant neighbours. No, the disturbance he felt was different. It was almost as though he was being watched, but he couldn’t work out why, or from where or who.
It was nearly 2:40am when he finally fell asleep and his body felt all the worse because of it. He was still to shower, but that could wait. The first agenda was coffee.
Without thought to his appearance he exited his room dressed in tracksuit bottoms and a basketball vest revealing nicely toned muscles. He walked in the direction of the stairs, paying passing attention to every room. At the bottom of the spiral staircase he changed direction, heading along the corridor he first walked with Thierry the night he met Gabrielle. It already seemed like a long time ago.
As he passed the sitting room something caught his eye. The room was different, noticeably different. A large collection of books were scattered across the cream carpet.
He entered the room cautiously and walked slowly around a pile of handwritten manuscripts. Some were written in Latin, others in Middle English, some written on parchment, some printed on paper, others on goodness knows what. Scattered across a large coffee table was a more modern collection. As best he could tell all of the books and manuscripts were history related, but seemingly connected to nothing in particular. Two empty coffee mugs were placed on coasters on the edge of the table and a cigarette lay perched over an ashtray. His first impression was that she had emptied her entire library down onto the floor.
Knowing her that was probably it.
Shaking his head, he left the room, thoughts returning to coffee. Without paying particular attention to his surroundings he entered the kitchen, failing to see Rachel sitting at the table.
‘Good morning, sunshine.’
The voice startled him slightly. He didn’t jump. He was rarely shocked. Seven years in service had taught him to expect the unexpected.
He turned around, looking at the kitchen table. In keeping with the sitting room, the table was covered by at least ten history books, one of which she was reading.
‘Hey,’ Mike said, his tone of voice slightly whiny, humorously whiny. He was suddenly aware of his appearance. Rachel smiled as she studied him, almost admiringly, her face partially hidden behind the large manuscript.
‘I thought you’d left.’
‘Obviously,’ she responded, closing her book. ‘I’ve been in Zürich for the last few days.’
Mike nodded. An awkward silence overcame them.
‘If you’re looking for Gabrielle she’s in the lounge.’
Gabrielle – or Ms. Leoni as she liked
him to call her. She was the last person he was looking for. At least this was a welcome change. Every now and then he caught her looking at him. He was glad to see her, not because he thought it would come to anything. Any company was better than just guarding her.
The atmosphere in the room changed as Gabrielle entered, armed with another large book. She was hardly her usual self: her Levis were still partially coated in dust and she was not wearing any makeup. She was still beautiful, he had to admit that, but she was different. She was almost normal.
‘Aren’t we a little overdressed,’ Gabrielle said, clearing some space at the table for the newest book.
He considered saying the same about her but thought better of it. He had to admit she was not wrong.
‘I’ll go take a shower.’
‘You do that.’
He sought to leave, but something made him stop. In the periphery of his vision he caught sight of something strange. The ancient manuscript Rachel had been reading was now set down on the table, the front cover showing. He did not recognise it: in fact he had never seen it before. Yet he could not help feel as though he had.
Despite the relative warmth of the mid-morning sun radiating through the château the hairs on the back of his neck were standing on end. Gabrielle was still to tell him about what she had found in the safe deposit box only a day earlier, but in his mind a connection was already made. It was indisputable. The mysterious logo on the cover was identical to the one Mark had shown him only a couple of weeks earlier.
He walked towards the table and picked up the manuscript, his attention focused on the cover. Although the markings were faint there was no doubt it was the same. He studied it for several seconds before opening the manuscript to a random page. He squinted, a vague attempt at understanding the Italian text. After living in Italy for so long he had learned to speak and read Italian fluently but he found the penmanship painful on the eye. The 14th century text was harsh, probably a thesis of the time, written by what Mike assumed to have been one of the great chroniclers. The lettering was elegant but tough to comprehend. Ideally, this needed a translator.
Gabrielle had been staring at him for almost a minute. He turned to face her, placing the tome carefully down on the table. He put his hand to his chin – a slight beard had grown from five days without a shave, burning slightly against his hand. He wondered how much she knew; he also wondered what to say, what to tell her: he was not going to tell her more than she needed to know.
The time for playing games was over. Maybe it was a good thing. Maybe she knew something, some snippet of information that could prove helpful. If luck was to hold the identity of the murderers may be obvious. Maybe that was why he was posted here.
It was a clue, perhaps even a definitive lead to the identity of those responsible for a heinous series of crimes. There was a connection between the murders, there had to be. Somewhere, anywhere in the world, they lay silent, plotting, contemplating, considering their next move. But who were they and what did they want?
Mike looked at Gabrielle and addressed her with authority.
‘Where did you get this?’
The black Mercedes hardly looked out of place. To the untrained eye the luxury motor was yet another flash car that lined the leafy street in one of the richest areas of St. Gallen.
The man with blond locks sat in the front seat as he had done for over three hours. He certainly felt like a rich man. He may not have been the owner of the car, the suit or even the designer sunglasses but he certainly looked the part. Not that fashion was an issue: fitting in was an issue, and he was doing a very good job fitting in. The sunglasses not only went with the suit but they also hid a large part of his handsome face. But that wasn’t the most important thing: anyone can forget a face when it’s not looking suspicious. That was the real purpose: they also concealed where he was looking.
He couldn’t see into the château. Three car spaces from the electronic gate was far enough to avoid suspicion and, more importantly, allowing reasonable observation of the entrance. Not that he had a perfect view: he was still over quarter of a mile from the nearest wall and he certainly couldn’t see through stone.
Boredom was already setting in. He would have a long, long wait.
In a room located somewhere in the Vatican City the Italian cardinal typed quickly into the keyboard of a desktop PC. The instruction was in German, as usual, the numbers slightly larger than what he was used to.
The confirmation from the bank in Zürich would come at 10:00am the next morning. It was always the same time, always the same date. Then he would receive the second confirmation, this time from the man in America.
This was the way it had been for over eight years.
13
Mike sat quietly, his vision fixed on the curious manuscript. Despite the relatively good light from the nearby window his eyes were hurting. The elongated writing of the Italian manuscript was difficult to read, practically illegible in parts. Located next to the tome was an accompanying notebook, now over one hundred pages long and written in bullet points.
It had been five days since Mike had learned of the discovery of the peculiar tome. The initial surprise he had felt on seeing the manuscript for the first time had now subsided and was replaced by a unique blend of curiosity and anxiety as he considered its significance: in particular what appeared to be the symbol of the Rite of Larmenius marking the cover.
For the first day he questioned Gabrielle continuously, his focus on the exact circumstances behind its history and ownership. He was now aware that the manuscript had been found in a safe deposit box at Leoni et Cie and that Gabrielle had been unaware that the account even existed. He wondered silently whether the identity of the book’s original owner might also be of significance, but that in turn had created a new problem. As Gabrielle’s suspicion of the Swiss Guard for the reasons behind his newly found interest heightened, surprising interest for a Swiss Guard, he found himself susceptible to an inquest of his own, notably his own knowledge of the Rite of Larmenius. Though he was reluctant to go into too much detail, he finally relented in telling her of the Vatican’s suspicion regarding the order, in particular the death warrants for six individuals including her father.
The explanation made no sense: Al Leoni had never been a member of the Rite of Larmenius: at least as far as Gabrielle let on. Although she clearly knew more about the society than Mike did it was equally clear she did not take them seriously. It was Mike’s fear that news of the discovery might have a negative effect on her. The last thing the Vatican needed was Al Leoni’s niece going off at the deep end after making a snap conclusion. It was for that reason he decided not to tell her the exact circumstances of Mark’s meeting with the former President of France, or the existence of a death warrant with her own name on it.
The next day had been largely uneventful. Early that morning, Gabrielle’s mother departed on a plane to Ottawa, leaving the running of Leoni et Cie in the hands of her daughter. While Mike was still to see Gabrielle display any interest in the bank he frequently found her speaking about it on the telephone. Thierry called later that day, informing him that Giancarlo Riva was to take over as interim CEO and would remain so for the foreseeable future. While the oberst was largely unspecific about what the foreseeable future meant, it was clear to Mike that he would not be leaving anytime soon.
Although Mike was anxious not to let Gabrielle’s emotions get the better of her, the manuscript troubled him. And seeing the unexpected turn of events as a productive way to pass the time, the Swiss Guard had spent every free minute investigating the text.
As best Mike could tell from his limited grasp of 14th century Italian handwriting, the manuscript was a diary written by an Italian seafarer named Nicolò Zeno, cataloguing the events of one of his journeys. According to the diary, Zeno had been sailing in northern Europe in 1390 and became shipwrecked on an island somewhere off Scotland, although Mike was unable to translate the name. Following his arrival, the
Italian was surrounded by natives of the island, and feared he would be killed. Luckily his life was spared on the orders of a prince named Zichmni. From then on, Nicolò Zeno remained in Zichmni’s company, and was later joined by his brother Antonio who took up a position of command in Zichmni’s navy in his ongoing war with Norway and his explorations of the North Atlantic.
For Gabrielle, the diary was a tease: an irrelevant fairytale, probably not even factual, that had nothing to do with anything. For Mike, the content was equally confusing. From what he had read so far the explorer’s entries mentioned nothing of the Rite of Larmenius leading him to wonder whether the symbol on the cover was different to what he assumed. Nevertheless, he was convinced enough to continue reading, leaving less than eight hundred to finish it completely.
He looked across the room, his attention on Gabrielle. Her attitude had softened in recent days, but moments in her presence were still uncomfortable. Rachel returned to Boston two days after her mother left, leaving Mike and Gabrielle the only people living in the château, the first time that had happened. She spoke to him more frequently but conversation generally centred on the same subject. She largely avoided his bedroom, but on the rare occasions when she did enter it she always appeared distracted. She seemed to stare: not at him but at one particular photograph on the wall, the same photograph. There were several photographs in the house, but only one of that man. He recognised no one, except for the odd one of her, her mother and her father while they were still married and he assumed the rest were of relatives or friends. The more Mike focused on the man’s appearance the more he noticed the little things. The setting was familiar: Mike had one of himself and Mark that was quite similar, taken after they had completed their initial six months training in the Swiss Army. Evidently this man had gone through the same process. Strangely, Mike had not noticed any other photographs of him in the house. The face meant nothing to him, but the more he looked at it the more it seemed somehow familiar. A blurry blot in his memory from the distant past that he couldn’t seem to recall.
The Templar Agenda Page 13
