Henry laughed, his eyes still focused on the pathway. A group of five other identical creatures appeared at the end of the path near where the first Little Bustard was running.
‘Your father always said you had a fine mind.’
‘No. That was you.’
Another rattling in the greenery, somewhat louder than before. Something had spooked the pheasant-sized birds.
‘Well I was right.’
A pause followed as the birds regrouped on the ground in close proximity to the stream.
‘Little Bustards are gregarious. They choose to stay in packs. Out in the open rather than flying alone.’
‘Safety in numbers you mean?’
‘Not just that.’
‘What then?’ she asked, slightly more interested than before.
‘Some enjoy the company. For others the best way to hide is in a crowd.’
‘Sounds like the Knights Templar,’ Gabrielle said.
He looked at her with confusion.
‘You said yourself they were among the rebels of the French Revolution.’
Another of Gabrielle’s dogs, this time a Finnish Lapphund, almost wolf-like in appearance coloured predominantly black and white with orange and yellow colourings around its head, made its way to the bench. Gabrielle stroked the dog, her facial expression lifeless.
Henry smiled philosophically. ‘You mustn’t upset yourself.’
‘The Vatican Police think the murders were connected. That the cardinal, the Swiss Guard, the Chairman of the Fed, Mikael Devére and the others were all carried out by the same people.’
‘I’m afraid I don’t know anything about them. The killing of Mikael Devére I must say was particularly shocking. I knew him well. He was a good man.’
‘Even more so than dad?’
‘No,’ he responded with sorrow. ‘He was a good brother and a good friend. I miss him dearly.’
‘Me too,’ she said, leaning her head on his shoulder. As the sun set behind the château, a glint of moonlight gleamed down peacefully on the lake. The dogs barked at the moon as they played together along the path before running out of sight.
‘I’m thinking of selling our stake in Leoni et Cie.’
A thoughtful expression crossed his face. ‘It’s been in the family many years.’
Gabrielle’s lips formed a thoughtful smile. ‘You think I should keep them?’
Henry looked philosophically at his niece. ‘I think you should do what feels right.’
Gabrielle nodded. ‘I’m going to see Uncle Roberto next week. I’ll discuss it with him.’
Henry hugged her closely and Gabrielle smiled.
‘I’m really glad you’re here.’
Over two hundred yards away, Mike watched them, vigilantly anticipating any sign of disturbance.
He walked slowly, keeping to the path that circled the lake. He licked his lips as he walked. The delicious taste of Henry Leoni’s unique Fondue, succeeded by a rich tasting Carac, still dominated his tongue. It was clear to the Swiss Guard from growing up in America that the Harvard academic had given the traditional Swiss dishes something of an American twist.
His intention since his arrival had been to remain as distant as possible. If nothing else it was a token gesture at attempting to respect her privacy. It was his job to monitor her closely, but he could never shake the feeling he was intruding, even stalking her.
The garden was particularly difficult. He had gotten used to her taking long walks in the garden over the past few weeks. On a couple of occasions they walked together, but most of the time he kept his distance, though keeping her in his line of sight. She was always aware that he was there, even though she never showed it.
At night the setting became distracting. Strong rays of moonlight created shadows across the greenery, causing images to appear distorted. There was no wind but greenery was never completely motionless. Leaves on trees fluttered, rattling sounds occurred among the vegetation as the animals moved, practically invisible. Up above the darkening sky was bathed in starlight, partially polluted by lights from the château. If his job had been different perhaps he would have enjoyed the setting. Instead everything was a threat.
As he came to within 150 yards he turned and slowly walked in the other direction, his focus still on the sun house. Gabrielle remained unmoved. Even in the moonlight he couldn’t help feel that she was watching him, her stare penetrating gaps in the greenery. Her eyes had that effect on him, an effect like no other.
He focused his attention briefly on the lake, walking away from the sun house. He would continue back to where he started and then when he finished start over again.
He would remain invisible.
That was the way he was trained.
Less than quarter of a mile from the château, the driver of the Mercedes typed quickly into his BlackBerry, his view intermittently focused on the rear-view mirror. Within seconds the message was sent. Moments later he drove away. Nobody saw him leave.
14
The New Temple of Solomon: Headquarters of the Knights Templar
Seven times in the space of two hours the large metal gateway opened allowing another smartly dressed individual driving a luxury car to make his way up the driveway towards the grandiose colonial summer mansion. Their arrivals did not arouse curiosity. With the thunderstorm that had lasted all day pelting down all the heavier on the prestigious street located close to the New England coast they were unlikely to be seen. Even if they were, the area was famed for its privacy.
Most of the property owners on the street ruled their own empires. The residents included media and oil barons, investment bankers, venture capitalists, and CEOs of various multinational corporations and those who weren’t were lawyers, esteemed professionals, minor royalty, former politicians or members of some other highly paid profession.
All of the locals were multimillionaires. The house prices were a barrier to entry, the smallest starting at a couple of million, and this kept out outsiders.
Despite the wealth they lived without arrogance and that was good: they did not attract attention – and the last thing they wanted was to draw attention to themselves.
Being so far from the major cities provided anonymity, and anonymity was good – the activities of those present might have attracted suspicion if there was any suggestion of their true purpose.
The high gates, walls and trees, despite lacking greenery at this time of the year provided seclusion, and seclusion was good – a meeting could continue for hours away from watchful eyes and this enabled progress.
On the whole, the neighbours took little interest in each other’s affairs. They respected their neighbour’s privacy, and privacy was good. A person could go missing for weeks and no one would care, or perhaps even notice. This would be handy, and, at times, necessary.
The location was ideal for its privacy, but there was one even more appealing feature. The address did not show up on any database. Nor were there any glorified keep out signs or guards walking the perimeters. This was the most important guarantee of secrecy. High security apparatus might serve its purpose of keeping out outsiders, but such things can themselves be a magnet for suspicion. Sometimes, effective privacy requires presenting one face to the world to hide one within or the concealment of a secret truth with a public lie. Supposedly all things are built on lies and all lies are based on truth. Therefore are all things built on truth? As these men certainly knew: the answer was no.
In the eyes of history, the achievements of men whose legacy has helped shape a nation or industry are frequently susceptible to exaggeration or false prestige. Should one be the subject of enquiry by a curious writer, the truth should it be revealed is more than likely to be slightly out of line with the way their image had hitherto been portrayed. Though such revelations are usually not disastrous, on the rare occasions when the effects of enquiry are more than they bargained for, particularly when the person under investigation is still living, the attention of t
he press can be explosive, at least until the next sensation. Such media focus seldom results in world changing events, but their world is not all encompassing. In the case of these individuals, members of a society whose very survival throughout history has depended on discretion, they had no such luxury. Should the truth of their endeavours be uncovered the repercussions of disclosure were limitless. The possibility was unimaginable. Should the truth be concealed from the public with a lie then so be it. The real truth must remain private.
As the seventh car disappeared behind the northwest wall of the summer mansion, the driver changed direction. Instead of joining the three fine cars, all belonging to the owner, neatly parked outside the garage area, he descended at an angle over a wooden bridge, stopping on the other side of a brook. Once parked, the driver exited and walked calmly toward one of four doorways, leading into the rear of the property. The route had been pre-designated, not just through careful planning, but regular routine. Even before the invention of the motorcar the principle was the same.
It had been this way at the property for over three hundred years.
The house did not look like the headquarters of such an organisation. The mansion was surrounded by trees and contained a beautifully kept garden that boasted several water features set amongst the trees and elaborate statues of the ancient muses. Inside, the rooms on the ground floor were impeccably decorated, the ceilings high and the furniture opulent. Much was in the colonial style, in keeping with the character and age of the house. Priceless art and antiques from the time of the British occupancy up until the civil war lined the living room that was located next to the dining room, which was in keeping with the character of European royalty. The kitchen was practically a dining room, consisting of a high modern breakfast bar and large glass doors that offered access to the forested garden.
The upstairs was in keeping with the downstairs. Thirty large lavishly furnished bedrooms spanned three floors, offering scenic views along the coast and the four acres of garden through high windows. The master bedroom was the most extravagant. A king-sized bed dominated the wooden floor that was flanked with antique furniture and walk-in wardrobes in close proximity to an ensuite bathroom that resembled a small spa.
But hidden within this lavish façade was something somewhat bizarre. An inconspicuous doorway that led from the sitting room down carpeted stairs to the basement that one would immediately assume to be a wine cellar or a basement cluttered with unused suitcases, washing machines and toys once belonging to the grown up children of the occupant in fact led to something different.
No, this was no ordinary basement. Heading down the carpeted stairs the witness would suddenly be greeted by the inexplicable illusion of stone cloisters from the medieval era in Europe. Black and white tiling covered the floor like a giant chessboard stretching across a large room that was mostly unfurnished except for a large circular wooden table surrounded by six leather armchairs, one large wooden chair and another even larger, appearing like a throne at the head of the table. An ancient stone altar lay at the opposite end of the room situated between two stone pillars and covered by a large white linen sheet, different from any other due to a large red cross that originated from its centre.
Three unusual relics stood atop the altar, flanked by two lighted candles.
The first relic was a long wooden staff, protected by a glass container.
The second was a mummified human skull, sitting atop two thighbones in the manner of a Jolly Roger.
The final relic was an idol, ungodly in appearance, its face in keeping with that of a goat with arms crafted from alchemist’s gold from the 7th century Before Christ. One hand held a sword, while its clawed feet were fixed on top of a round ball, depicting the world, concealed by a serpent – half snake, half skeleton – coiled up around the base. A vulgar pair of angel’s wings supported the idol that stood naked except for a gold medallion covering the gap between its breasts. A hideous expression dominated its face illuminated by the sparse flickering of the candles, the only light entering the room, thus hiding the identity of the eight silhouettes in the shadows near the altar.
The facial features of seven of the eight present lay concealed not just from the lack of light but also the iron helmets that shielded their faces with the exception of their eyes, partially visible through eye slits. All seven were dressed in identical attire: chainmail vests, white surcoats, and tunics, identical to that worn during the Middle Ages, and white mantles with red crosses, similar in manner to the linen sheet covering the altar. To an outsider the bizarre gathering was out of time and geographically out of place: instead in keeping with a time when the Holy Land was plagued by hostilities over seven hundred years in the past.
The eighth individual stood isolated in the middle of a circle formed by the positions of the other seven. Unlike the others he was not dressed in the attire of old but rather stark naked bar his underpants. His sight was restricted by a blindfold, wrapped tightly around his eyes and shaven head, and a noose around his neck. A crucifix, nearing eight feet in length and two in width, had been placed on the floor in front of the man who was reciting a long-winded speech from ritual while being continuously whipped by five of the seven.
‘…So help me God and keep me unswerving in this my grand and solemn obligation of an entered Preceptor of the Temple.’
With the vow complete the brutal behaviour stopped. The nearest man removed the blindfold and the garrotte, allowing him to tend to his wounds. Blood seeped continuously from his back, causing an unpleasant warm sensation and incessant itching. For the first time in over five minutes he breathed in deeply, his passages no longer restricted by the noose. At last came the final part of the ceremony. The most senior present returned before him carrying the head and thighbones from the altar on top of a glass container. The eighth individual kneeled before the final man. He kissed the relics and muttered words in French.
The remaining present removed their outer clothing and took their seats around the large table. In the centre of the table was a manuscript, though its appearance was unlike any other that existed in the known world. It was a strange assortment of papyrus and various types of ancient parchment bound together more recently, consisting of thousands of entries, some dating back to the 10th century Before Christ. Most of the early pieces were written in Hebrew or Egyptian, whereas other more modern pieces were written in Latin, French, and a mixture of middle and modern English. The content was incomprehensible to an outsider, and even to some present, but its relevance was central both to their organisation and its very formation. Everything that was to be discussed was to be written in keeping with the earlier records in the manuscript. And should such records fall into the wrong hands, their relevance in the eyes of an observer would be meaningless. This was a custom that dated back to the Crusades. If the game of life were a game of chess then these men were the chief players of the most important yet ominous game of all involving an organisation whose existence in the eyes of the common folk is assumed to have ceased over seven hundred years ago.
‘And so let it be noted for the record,’ the bearded man said removing his helmet, armour and outer garments revealing an elegant suit, ‘that on this night the 214th Preceptor of Switzerland was witnessed within these cloisters to take up the “grand and solemn obligation” of a Preceptor of the Temple.’
The bearded man spoke slowly and clearly as he always did. He was the most important, working under the title of Grand Master. He took his seat at the head of the table, opposite the Sénéchal, the second-in-command. He said all this as he wrote on paper with a gold fountain pen. The other men watched, allowing the dim light of the candles to illuminate their faces, making them recognisable to one another. The new Swiss Preceptor was the last to take his seat, his back still bleeding.
‘Following the unfortunate death of the Chairman of the Federal Reserve, it is vital a replacement be quickly appointed,’ the bearded man said, firing up a cigar and exhaling immedi
ately. ‘All this could hardly have come at a worse time for the President. The economy has enough problems without this. This is the ideal time to answer his prayers.’
‘It’s just a shame that he’s praying to the wrong god,’ the American Preceptor said with a smirk.
Brief laughter filled the room.
The bearded man spoke. ‘As we have previously agreed, Rudolph Kodovski of Seattle will be appointed to replace the previous governor. Nominations to take over the role of chairman include established governors Ian Harte and Hans Schumer.’
The American Senator looked carefully at the documents on the table, scanning the content in the dull light. He would study them in more detail later, but he had seen all that he needed to see. Both of them were male, early fifties, happily married with children, white and had solid backgrounds in finance. Both were Christian: one a Republican, the other a fairly right of centre Democrat.
‘I have a meeting with the President tomorrow,’ the American Preceptor, Danny D’Amato, said quietly. ‘His personal preference seems to be for Schumer over Harte and he is hopeful he can persuade others that his choice is the right one.’
The French Preceptor nodded. ‘Personally I thought he might have preferred Harte to Schumer.’
‘Ah,’ the Scottish Preceptor said, also smoking a cigar, ‘you’re forgetting the President is also a Republican.’
‘Yeah. But how many other Democrats can the guy meet who loves Nascar as much as he does?’ D’Amato said.
‘Enough,’ the Sénéchal interjected, his eyes appearing red as the light of the candles reflected off the red glass placed in front of him. ‘You talk of hicks and cowboys. This is important. There is much to discuss.’
The American smiled. ‘Now, eminence, you need to learn to relax.’
The cardinal eyed him scornfully. ‘I will relax, senator, only when our task is completed.’
The Templar Agenda Page 16
