The Templar Agenda

by John Paul Davis

  Tepilo nodded, his facial expression thoughtful. ‘My darling, this is a difficult time – for us all. You must reflect before you make decisions of hurt.’

  ‘Being majority shareholder of a bank like Leoni et Cie is a heavy commitment. Sadly, that is something that neither myself nor anyone else in our family feel we can do.’

  The cardinal ascended to his feet and walked slowly in the direction of the altar. After ten metres he changed direction and walked towards a nearby statue of a saint. He paused momentarily before lighting a candle.

  ‘It may be difficult for you to find a buyer in the present climate,’ Tepilo said, peering towards the nearest stained glass window. Through the coloured glass he could see the sun was beginning to shine sparsely through the dense cloud that dominated the sky. ‘The world economy still suffers its terrible hardships.’

  ‘So I’ve noticed,’ Gabrielle said coldly. ‘However, if I am to sell, I would want it to be to the Vatican. I’m sure my father would agree.’

  Tepilo did not respond straightaway. Instead he maintained his attention on the flickering candles.

  Gabrielle rose to her feet, walking towards him. ‘Gilbert de Bois has already called me to enquire of my future intentions. If he gets his way he will acquire a majority stake. I would fear for the Vatican if Leoni et Cie were left in the control of a mercenary like him. Not to mention our family heritage.’

  Tepilo smiled at his niece. ‘I am pleased to see you value your Church and family heritage over profit.’

  Gabrielle’s expression was harder. ‘For whatever reasons, both my father and the Vatican Bank have allowed Mr. de Bois a fair amount of influence in recent years. If it were not for his desire for increased lending and high-risk investments Leoni et Cie, and perhaps many other banks, would have performed much better throughout the recent turmoil. The last thing you want is to give him any encouragement. Without the influence of the cardinals and the supervisory committee he could ruin that bank.’

  Tepilo turned, slightly animated. ‘The trouble is that the entire banking sector is affected and this is proving problematic all around the globe. Such a decline is the fault of no one man. Leoni et Cie has been a useful asset for the Church, and both your father and Mr. de Bois useful allies. But these are uncertain times. The Vatican Bank is overstretched and our resources thin. It would be unwise to put so many eggs into this one basket.’

  ‘If Mr. de Bois gets his way then you may find he is not so much an ally but a competitor.’

  ‘You talk of him as an enemy.’

  ‘Just because someone is on the same team as you does not mean his best interests are the same as yours.’

  Tepilo nodded. ‘That is true,’ he said, walking slowly in front of the altar.

  Gabrielle watched him as he moved. ‘I thought as a member of the oversight commission you could use your influence to convince the Vatican Bank to make a bid for our family’s stake in Leoni et Cie. My accountants recommend a value of $3.73 billion. However, I am prepared to let it go for less than that, but only to the Vatican.’

  Tepilo paused before answering.

  ‘Such a decision cannot be made by one man. The Vatican Bank is not only made up of ten members on the Vatican Council, we have officers, a directorate, statutes, regulations. Remember, my darling, the Pope himself would have to approve such an offer. No matter how good an opportunity for the Vatican.’

  ‘If Leoni et Cie is bought by an outsider then the bank will become just like any other.’ Gabrielle walked towards her uncle, gently taking hold of his cassock. ‘Leoni et Cie could become something new. The first Vatican owned multinational corporation. No religious institution has control of such a company. Think of all the good it could do.’

  Cardinal Tepilo paused, taking his time to digest the information. He nodded timidly. ‘Such potential is otherwise unheard of,’ the Camerlengo agreed. He moved closer to her, taking her hand. ‘My darling, please, no decision need be made in the blink of an eye. Rarely is the sale of assets made solely out of concern of family heritage.’

  ‘My father fought to preserve the bank to honour the work of his father. I would never undervalue the importance of family heritage.’

  For several seconds the Camerlengo failed to respond. Then he nodded slowly, his expression one of joy and at the same time pride.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, again nodding. ‘I shall speak with my colleagues at the Vatican Bank over the coming days. I shall inform them of your decision and attempt to find the best way forward.’

  Gabrielle smiled briefly. She hugged her uncle who blessed her reverently once more, before leaving the abbey. Outside, Mike was standing in the company of Giancarlo Riva, chatting freely. The conversation centred on recent activities.

  Riva smiled as she approached. ‘Gabrielle, how are you?’ he asked, standing with his arms open.

  ‘Good,’ Gabrielle replied, air kissing the banker, and shaking hands briefly.

  ‘I am honoured to see you again.’

  Mike laughed as he monitored her expression, but Gabrielle largely ignored it. She knew that Mike would have had a comment, but she never gave him the opportunity.

  They chatted for the briefest of seconds before she called for Mike to follow her. She walked with a quick pace, heading back in the direction of the car park.

  ‘You okay?’ Mike asked, zipping up his jacket to protect himself from the rain.

  ‘Sure.’

  Mike looked briefly over his shoulder, his attention on the doors. Riva had disappeared, now inside the abbey. He turned and looked at Gabrielle for a second time. It was clear to him that she was distracted.

  ‘Did your meeting not go well?’

  ‘No, the meeting was fine. I just can’t believe that they made him chief executive of Leoni et Cie.’

  Mike eyed her curiously. ‘You don’t like him?’

  She shrugged. ‘It’s not that. I just don’t trust him.’

  The Italian waited until he was alone before picking up the telephone. He dialled quickly, balancing the receiver between his head and shoulder as he punched in the numbers. Through the slightest of gaps in the blinds he monitored Gabrielle and Mike as they walked swiftly through the rain in the direction of the car park, disappearing from sight as they crossed the street.

  The ringing tone continued with regularity: eight times, nine times, ten…eleven…twelve and still no reply. It was most unlike him not to reply.

  Finally it connected.

  At just after 1:10am a relatively modern Toyota Corolla parked in a motel car park located less than twenty miles from Zürich. He had been driving for nearly three hours and fatigue was setting in. The road leading to Zürich was quiet at that time of night and that suited him just fine. It did not bode well to be conspicuous.

  The motel was quiet for a weekday. Outside, four hookers in their late thirties smoked fags, drank gin and smelt of both, mixed with a cheap perfume in a poor attempt to overwhelm what they consumed. Such behaviour hardly enhanced the reputation of the establishment but it was in keeping with the general setting. It was hardly the Ritz: just a convenient journey breaker for businessmen stopping off on their way to Zürich, hoping to avoid the rough and tumble of the city and perhaps indulge in a cheap thrill without judgment or a heavy hit to the finances.

  The driver exited the car and surveyed the location. In front of him, two storeys of red brick motel housed forty-six double bedrooms, most of which were vacant. On the opposite side of the street, a KFC was still open approximately fifty metres from a petrol station. He needed petrol but that would wait. He was here for a reason.

  He locked the car electronically and made his way past the whores up metal stairs to the second floor. The prettiest of the whores gave him a come-on as he approached, but he walked on without reply, shielding his face with his baseball cap.

  He stopped momentarily at the top of the stairs. Directly in front of him an unlit sign informed him rooms 201-211 were to the left and 212-223
to the right.

  At this time of night the rooms were quiet. The darkness escaping through windows on his right informed him that most were either not in use or the occupant was asleep. Only two rooms had lights on. The faint sounds of a television escaping through the open window of 218 in addition to the light shining through a small gap in the curtains informed him he was in.

  He walked towards the door and knocked quietly.

  Mark was fully clothed, lying on top of the covers of his double bed. An empty pizza box was leaning against the bin and a half full bottle of local lager was still in his hands. The television was on but his eyes were closed. The pay-per-view movie was entertaining and just his type. He had always loved the Die Hard movies and Die Hard 4.0 was no exception. Mike once joked that all he was good for was mindless mayhem.

  Awakening to the sound of gentle tapping at the door, he opened his eyes and gazed across the room. Bruce Willis’s daughter was trapped in an elevator and his beer was still in his hands. The clock on the TV informed him that it was after one.

  A further sound of knocking followed. He yawned vigorously as he rolled off the bed, placing the beer on the bedside table. He walked towards the door and opened it as far as the chain would allow. He viewed a familiar face.

  The visitor unzipped his leather jacket and removed a package. Neither said a word, but Mark knew what it was. The visitor handed it over, tipping his baseball cap in acknowledgement before departing in the direction of the stairs.

  Mark closed the door and dropped the package on the desk. At last he had a lead.

  16

  ‘So why don’t you trust him?’ Mike asked Gabrielle as he adjusted his position in his chair. Both sat facing the open window of Henry’s study, watching wildlife as it scampered across the large garden. It was a pleasant morning in St. Gallen, the best since his arrival. It was almost 11:30am on the ninth of March and the sun was approaching its highest point, beating down on the nearby countryside.

  ‘Because he’s a banker,’ Gabrielle said, swivelling on her chair.

  Mike laughed. ‘Are all bankers untrustworthy?’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, continuing to swivel. ‘Except for my dad, of course. And our ancestors.’

  ‘You don’t trust anyone do you?’

  Gabrielle placed her feet down against the floor, slowing the chair to a standstill. ‘I don’t trust him.’

  ‘What makes you think that a Vatican banker is untrustworthy? Particularly one who has the approval of the cardinals? A Gentiluomo di Sua Santità, no less.’

  Gabrielle shook her head. ‘That means nothing.’ As usual there was authority in her answer. ‘And it was very foolish of you.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘Outside the abbey: you were talking to him about…things.’

  His eyebrows lowered. ‘Oh yeah, what kinda things?’

  Gabrielle’s mouth opened, slightly surprised. ‘You know what things…things that have been happening…’

  ‘Oh yeah. When?’

  ‘Just when I was leaving. Right after you shook hands with him.’

  A broad grin crossed Mike’s unshaven face. ‘You mean right after he said he was honoured to see you again? After you air-kissed his cheek?’

  Gabrielle tried not to smile but to no avail.

  ‘Don’t be cheeky.’

  ‘You ladies, suckers for an Italian.’

  ‘Yuck. Riva is no charmer. He’s slimy.’ She shuddered slightly.

  Mike shook his head, continuing to smile. A strange feeling overcame him as he looked at her. Her attitude had certainly changed since the return of her Uncle Henry. Whereas the Gabrielle he had began to know was bossy, obsessive and up herself, as Mike had recently said on the phone to Stan, the new Gabrielle was different. Not all that different he had to say, but for the first time since meeting her he was no longer in awe. The pain of losing her father was still great but at least she was no longer trying to fool anyone. In many ways she was what he expected of a grieving daughter. At least there was one person she could trust.

  Even if it wasn’t him.

  He continued to watch her, her attention also focused on him. They had only known each other for six weeks but in many ways it was starting to feel like a lot more.

  ‘But seriously, you have to be careful. Just because the Vatican Police decide to tell you something it doesn’t mean they tell everyone.’

  Mike watched her, his eyes giving nothing away. Finally he shrugged. ‘I told him nothing.’

  Gabrielle fidgeted, slightly lost for words. ‘Well that’s okay then.’

  The door to the study opened and Henry Leoni entered. He carried a cup of coffee in his left hand and a selection of papers under his right arm. As usual he had a beaming smile on his face.

  For the last few days Mike and Gabrielle had not seen much of him; in fact Henry had not seen much of anything. Day and night passed him by as he continued with his attempts to understand the curious manuscript.

  Henry took a seat at his desk and began to organise his notes. To an outsider they were incomprehensible.

  ‘After several days, countless hours, minutes and seconds of constant research,’ he began, ‘I have made a brief translation of the manuscript.’

  Gabrielle smiled. She knew her uncle had the excitement and giddiness of a schoolboy on Christmas morning when he had something important to discuss. His enthusiasm excited her.

  ‘Now, as yet we do not know all of the secrets that the text contains – to do so shall require further research in detail. But from early translations it appears that the manuscript is indeed a diary written by Nicolò Zeno concerning the activities of both he and his brother from 1390 right up until around 1398.’

  He paused momentarily.

  ‘Now, as I mentioned several days ago, historians have long been aware that Antonio and Nicolò Zeno reputedly wrote of an incredible voyage in a series of letters, which were later found by one of their descendents. However, until now there has been no way to validate their authenticity.’

  ‘Is this about the letters?’ Mike asked.

  ‘Shhh!’ Gabrielle said. She placed her finger to her lips, her expression stern.

  Henry nodded and smiled. ‘After going into limited detail of his initial voyage leading to his being stranded on Frislanda, Nicolò points out numerous observations, some of which were also included in his letters to Antonio. He goes into specific detail about his first meeting with Zichmni following his arrival in Frislanda. Roughly translating, it says:

  ‘And when he learned that we came from Italy and that we were men of the same country, he was overjoyed. Promising us all that we would receive no discourtesy, and assuring us that we had come into a place where we would be well treated and very welcome, he took us under his protection and pledged his word of honour for our safety. He was a great lord and possessed certain islands called Portlanda, lying not far from Frislanda to the south; these were the most richest and populous of all these parts. His name was Zichmni.’

  The historian paused before continuing.

  ‘Interestingly, the diary also confirms that Nicolò had written to Antonio, potentially confirming the authenticity of the first set of letters while also adding support to the claim by their descendent that many papers regarding the trip were accidentally destroyed in his youth. Moving on, Nicolò says of Zichmni:

  ‘I have heard that he is a great lord from a great and ancient family of Sorano, lying over against Scotland: Sorano, of course, being Caithness.

  ‘Now, according to the letters, Zichmni had recently taken the island from the King of Norway. Interestingly, the historical Henry Sinclair had not beaten the King of Norway in a fight, but he did inherit the earldom of the Orkneys in 1379 beating off competition in the same year mentioned in the diary. What’s more, Sinclair’s seal on a document now located in Copenhagen spells his name Zinkler, noticeably similar to both the Venetian spelling of Zichmni and Sinclair.’

  Henry adjusted his glas
ses.

  ‘Now, some seven years after Antonio’s arrival the brothers make a very interesting observation:

  ‘Following my return from Engroneland, we were treated most warmly, and after many months in his company we were included in Zichmni’s full confidence. Over a period of several months we were made welcome among his followers, some of who were outlawed soldiers also under excommunication from Rome. I have heard that their ancestors had fought alongside the King of Scotland against the English at Bannockburn earlier that century. The identities of these men, I was never then nor in the years that followed made fully aware, yet I have heard people say that they include survivors of that great chivalrous order excommunicated by Rome.’

  Henry turned, facing Gabrielle and Mike. ‘Now, the Battle of Bannockburn was in 1314. Officially the Templars were excommunicated in 1312 but the arrests began in 1307. Now the brothers then go on to tell of a fascinating account that occurred later in 1397:

  ‘I accompanied Zichmni and his followers to his castle south of Sorano, known locally as Roslin. At this time I thought it good to make diagrams of the surroundings and I was later granted a full tour of the castle including a grand chamber away from prying eyes. In this dark chamber, as I do recall, located far below the outer wall and entered from somewhere in the cliff side, I witnessed Zichmni and his followers participate in rituals and traditions unlike any other I have seen in Christendom. Dressed in the armour of a century earlier, torsos marked with a red cross in keeping with that adorning the uniforms of the famous Crusaders in their heyday, the prince and his followers I now understood were indeed the inheritors of that great order that continues to this day as it has done since the Year of Our Lord eleven eighteen. These men whose predecessors were accused of worshipping the Devil and other frightful crimes against God and man by His Holiness and the King of France continue to undertake these ancient rites that are mysterious in form and unholy in appearance. I have heard it said that these men are gifted with wisdom of the ancient time and with it possess hidden knowledge of the dark arts, science, alchemy and even the power to speak to the departed. Central to their ritual, the armoured men gather in the celebration of a curious object contained within a tomb more splendid than any other throughout Christendom. Located before a raised altar, decorated with angels and etchings of a bygone time that glow reverently in gold, lining the tomb below a strange winged statuette of an unknown demon standing atop the tomb, vulgar in appearance, great dark eyes appearing like coals in a sea of blood, this strange object I have seen to glow mystically in the torchlight. Of its significance, I do not know though I have heard the knights say that it is capable of granting almighty power to those who possess it. Of its true origin I cannot possibly comprehend, though I do believe it to be the very source of their great torture and heresy. In my time there I was never again invited to bear witness to this ungodly event, yet in my curiosity I returned to the chamber where this item once came. While the location remains to the wider world untold, I do believe that to this day it remains, under the perpetual watch of eight knights, who stand around this splendid tomb.’