The Templar Agenda

by John Paul Davis

  ‘This is a library, Ms. Leoni; of course the books have references. That is how we know where they are.’

  ‘No. They have references like Vat. 14570.’

  Still meaningless.

  ‘The manuscripts are catalogued according to subject, title, author and that is how we identify them. It is common practice in any library to catalogue their stock. Now if you please…’

  On any normal day his patronising tone may have led to a rebuke, if not worse. It did not make sense, not even to her but she was too excited.

  Far too excited.

  ‘So if I knew the reference for the manuscript I wanted then you could find it?’

  The cardinal huffed. ‘Ms. Leoni, I am very sorry that your manuscript does not exist. If it did it would have been on the catalogue.’

  ‘Can you try anyway, please?’

  ‘Sorry, I do not have time.’

  ‘Please, eminence, this is really important.’

  The Archivist and Librarian of the Holy Roman Church exhaled. Perhaps if he could prove to her that it did not exist she might leave him alone.

  ‘What is it?’

  Gabrielle recited the reference. Vat. Ross. 342.

  The cardinal typed the reference into the catalogue without interest and waited several seconds for the search to complete. He shook his head.

  ‘Sorry. No such reference exists.’

  A cold icy feeling overcame her. It was as if she was consumed by an indescribable sense of despair.

  Suddenly the cardinal’s tone changed.

  ‘Interesting.’

  Gabrielle looked up instinctively. ‘What’s interesting?’

  He looked at her curiously, as if taking notice for the first time. The way he looked at her unnerved her: it was almost as though she was sitting in an interrogation room waiting to be questioned by the FBI for possible murder. Only he was not asking any questions, not yet anyway. He just looked, looking as if he was listening, but listening to silence.

  ‘How did you come across this?’

  ‘I…’

  ‘Wait here, please.’

  The cardinal ascended to his feet and exited the office.

  Twenty minutes later Cardinal Marcelos returned through the open door and stopped a few feet in front of Gabrielle. At first he remained silent. He gazed at her with interest, seemingly friendlier than before.

  Then she noticed it.

  The cardinal was holding a box containing several manuscripts, perhaps seven or eight in total. The front cover of the top one was partially torn but the title was still legible. Decorated in gold writing, the title Rota Temporum was present above the author’s name of Abel.

  The cardinal looked at her inquisitively but remained silent. His expression suggesting interest rather than judgment.

  Gabrielle herself was gobsmacked. She opened her mouth, desperately wanting to break the silence, but failed to find any words.

  ‘This is what you need?’

  Gabrielle grimaced a smile. ‘Would it be okay if I looked at all of them?’

  The cardinal eyed her closely. His judging eyes returned momentarily.

  ‘I shall take you to the manuscript room. No. I shall take you to the study room. You may study what you need there.’

  27

  Mike looked on despondently as the row between Cardinal del Rosi, Commissario Pessotto and Thierry continued to escalate. What began as a frank exchange of views offering three complete differences of opinion had now developed into a verbal assault on the oberst for his handling of the situation.

  This was aimed at Mike: that was obvious but Thierry defended him. This in turn led to criticism of Thierry and Mike had become practically a spectator.

  It started innocently. Mike recited the story of Rosslyn for the second time. He included the legend from 1834 in detail, and Gabrielle’s vain obsession in validating its existence through the discovery of a further manuscript. Thierry blamed Henry Leoni for the recent activities and so did del Rosi but del Rosi also blamed Mike. And that in turn led to criticism of Thierry. Although the oberst continued to hear what the cardinal was saying he listened sparingly. Both Commissario Pessotto and Cardinal Utaka had stopped talking. In the corner of the room, Cardinal Utaka sat quietly, his glasses off, his right hand rubbing his tired eyes.

  Meanwhile, Mike’s attention wandered, thoughts of Gabrielle dominating his mind. He imagined the archivist denying her permission. He imagined her fuming. Perhaps she would resort to force. He could just imagine the ageing librarian struggling, well and truly beaten by his fiery glamorous opponent. He thought of her refusing to accept that it wasn’t there, then having to be carried away kicking and screaming by the guards.

  Then he thought of her outside. Returning to St. Gallen.

  Alone.

  He may never see her again.

  The more he thought about the situation the more he blamed Henry Leoni. Perhaps if he had shown more sense none of this would have happened. In some ways he wished he had concentrated more on convincing him to stay. But that was never likely: the man had based an entire career, an entire life, on discovery, excavation and adventure.

  Perhaps, after all, it was his fault: he should have kept Gabrielle quiet. He shouldn’t have let the excitable Henry Leoni run amok. It was foolish, reckless. They could have been killed.

  He inhaled deeply, looking to his left. Cardinal del Rosi had finished his attack on Thierry and was now slating Commissario Pessotto for his lack of leads.

  Silently, he considered the possibilities. Although technically the role of the Swiss Guard was security of the Apostolic Palace and the Vatican City while matters of criminal investigation were left to the Vatican Police, the possibility enthralled him. Devére. The diary. Devére must have known, perhaps Al Leoni knew, but how did he have the original in the first place?

  He knew Leoni was friends with Devére, he knew Devére banked with Leoni et Cie. Perhaps Devére had connections to the Templars. Then in that case why was he killed?

  Political? Made sense, but in that case what about the others? How would a cardinal, a Swiss Guard and several bankers know of the Zeno diary? They couldn’t. Dammit. Why?

  The ringing of the telephone broke his concentration. Thierry raised his hand to Cardinal del Rosi and the astounded cardinal fell silent. The oberst answered the phone.

  ‘Yes, cardinal.’ He looked at Cardinal Utaka. ‘Cardinal Marcelos for you.’

  Cardinal Utaka rose timidly to his feet and collected the receiver from Thierry. He spoke quietly, leaning his weight against the desk. The conversation between del Rosi and de Courten continued at whisper level.

  ‘Our precise orders were for her to be guarded in St. Gallen,’ the cardinal said to both Thierry and Mike. ‘Not to gallivant across medieval Europe.’

  Thierry sought to respond but was interrupted by the change in tone of Cardinal Utaka.

  ‘That was Cardinal Marcelos,’ he said replacing the phone. ‘It seems Gabrielle Leoni is cleverer than you think.’

  The cardinal looked at Thierry then at Mike.

  ‘Frei, walk with me.’

  The deserted corridors of the Sistine Hall were the perfect decoy. With nowhere else to run she would be completely at his mercy. He was still a Swiss Guard but she would never know which one. Besides, by the time he had finished she would be in no position to tell anybody.

  He removed his beret and replaced it with a balaclava.

  In his mind, the track changed to Handel’s Freedom to Move.

  The Old Study Room of the Vatican Library was empty apart from her. Its appearance was reminiscent of a classroom from the last century, basic and enclosed, and was set aside as a study area for scholars wishing to view documents and manuscripts.

  In Gabrielle’s opinion the room lived up to its name. Ten rows of desks and chairs lined up in columns of five across the wooden floor: three-person desks on the left separated by a small aisle from smaller two-person desks on the right. Every desk
was equipped with a lamp and a wooden stand for the manuscript or book to rest on.

  The room was less appealing than most in this part of the Vatican but it was still impressive.

  On the right side of the room, a statue and two paintings she did not recognise covered the walls that had been painted white.

  On the left, elegant arches separated five large windows, veiled by translucent drapes at regular intervals, one of which was decorated with a charming photograph of the current pontiff.

  At the front of the room, another statue stood dominantly, located in an alcove over the door in the middle of the wall, while at the back of the room three silver filing cabinets flanked another door connecting the room to the library.

  Above the doorway an extravagant crucifix was nailed to the wall marked by a plaque reading PIVS XI PONT MAX. The upper part of the room was painted in glorious white, whereas the lower part was a duller more skin-coloured shade. The arches, which separated the windows, continued upward all the way to the summit before spiralling inwards toward the centre which was decorated by an emblem she did not recognise.

  Gabrielle entered the room respectfully and sat down three desks from the back on the right hand side of the room. The smell of the wood accompanied by the typical smell of the ancient tomes dominated her nostrils, reminding her of days gone by. It even smelt like a classroom.

  She placed the box down on the desk next to her and removed the first manuscript.

  She began with Rota Temporum. Equipped with plastic gloves she placed the tome delicately on the wooden book-holder and opened it slowly. Turning the pages was difficult. The manuscript felt rigid after over a century without use. She felt squeamish holding the text, not out of fear of the book, but the wrath of the archivist should she damage it. Marcelos had provided her with a pair of tweezers and gave her strict instructions on how to handle each manuscript. She picked them up with confusion and suddenly felt as though she was at a Chinese restaurant. This was going to be a hassle.

  She inhaled deeply, using each breath to compose herself. Inside, she felt the excitement begin to buzz. She turned the heavy cover and looked with interest at the early pages. On early inspection there were several hundred in total.

  As predicted, it was written in 16th century Latin and was difficult to read under the naked eye. The writing style of Adam Abel was in the form of an ancient thesis rather than the smoother modern Latin of later scholars. Her uncle had already given her a vague idea of what to expect. She was aware that the book was a history of Scotland from the beginning of the world to 1535AD. She scanned the early pages and on first impression considered them irrelevant: stories of a Scottish version of Gathelus of Greece as the early constructor of Scotland dominated the early pages, a common myth at the time. Without concern she turned several hundred pages in one go. The language, seemingly the same as the early pages to the untrained eye, was slightly less easy to read than before, the pages evidently damaged by fire and water. She turned several more pages, still wearing the gloves but neglecting to use the tweezers. She had reached the reign of James II of Scotland, now in the 1440s.

  She had gone too far.

  All five left the office, walking with intent in the direction of the Old Study Room.

  The walk was no better tempered. The booming voice of Cardinal del Rosi sounded like a judgment from biblical times as it echoed endlessly through the corridors. To a passerby, the sound of raised voices may have aroused interest but today that was less of a problem. The hallways were still deserted and would remain so for over an hour.

  Thierry considered a response but decided against it. His lack of fight might have provided a perfect example of turning the other cheek, potentially proving a sensible ploy at dampening the situation, but in the circumstances it gave del Rosi more leeway. With every passing second the cardinal’s voice became louder, his words largely a repetition of his earlier points.

  ‘Will you shut up,’ Cardinal Utaka said, finally showing some emotion. He looked at his fellow cardinal with blood red eyes and then at the oberst with a somehow more forgiving stare. Cardinal del Rosi glared momentarily at his fellow cardinal but remained silent. He huffed as he walked, slowly calming himself.

  Mike’s face was rigid, thoughts concentrating on Gabrielle. He felt his pace quickening, far too quick for Cardinal Utaka. He forced himself to slow down. The last thing he needed was a further backlash.

  It was strange to think that he had walked the same corridors not four hours earlier with Gabrielle. The awkward parting now seemed like a distant memory, faded following the passing of time. When he thought about it he thought about their embrace. It didn’t seem real.

  As they entered the Gallery of Maps, they saw Cardinal Marcelos walking towards them.

  ‘Your eminence,’ he said mainly to Cardinal Utaka, ignoring Pessotto and the Swiss Guards. ‘This is, how you say, a most strange matter.’

  ‘What is it?’ Utaka asked.

  Mike held his breath.

  ‘It seems your banker knows much of the content of our archives.’

  ‘Go on,’ Utaka nodded.

  ‘She returned not long after you left, only now with a precise location for a non-catalogued manuscript.’

  How the hell did she know that? Mike thought. Gabrielle, dammit. What have you done?

  ‘She knew the reference? How?’

  ‘She did not say. I think it particularly strange. You see, most references are ordered categorically, yet this was out of sequence.’

  ‘How? How was it out of sequence?’

  ‘It was not catalogued at all.’

  ‘An error, surely,’ Utaka said.

  ‘I think not,’ the archivist replied shaking his head timidly. ‘It was…disguised.’

  Mike’s attention intensified. What the hell did he mean disguised?

  ‘The reference suggested that the manuscript had not been archived properly.’

  ‘It was in the secret archive?’ del Rosi asked.

  ‘Not only that, but its reference is seemingly linked with the location from where these books once came. The entry was old and contained only one keyword. Roslin.’

  Suddenly it hit him. Vat. Ross. 342. Devére’s diary was previously kept in the Vatican Secret Archives.

  Utaka’s stance hardened. ‘Take me to Ms. Leoni.’

  Failing to master the tweezers, Gabrielle delicately turned the pages with gloved fingers and scanned the text for any kind of meaning. The era was now at the beginning of the House of Bruce, the early years of the 14th century. Zichmni would still be nearly one hundred years away, if it was even included. Realistically if she was to uncover all of the secrets of the tome it would be necessary for her uncle to study it in detail. Something Cardinal Marcelos would undoubtedly be against.

  Although she was not reading the content with an air of authority it was obvious that she was going nowhere. She closed the manuscript and placed it on the desk beside her, turning her attention to the next one.

  This was untitled.

  She turned several pages in one go and the book ripped slightly at the seam. She grimaced, studying the rip in detail. Slowly she opened the manuscript. This, too, was history related. She scanned the pages with interest and made out the period to be at the beginning of the House of Balliol in Scotland. She skimmed the pages quickly and decided it was irrelevant.

  She opened the third book.

  Awarding himself a moment of silent reflection, the Swiss Preceptor walked slowly along the corridor. In his mind, he watched with satisfaction as his victim dangled before him: her face turning from scarlet to purple as he smothered her with his hands; her feet kicking above the ground; saliva covering the palm of his busy hand, and his knuckles warm from the sickly discharge of blocked nasal capillaries. He looked down with morbid pleasure as the victim soiled herself. With her life at an end, he lowered the lifeless body to the floor. It would be hours before she was seen.

  The truth would remain private.
>
  Cardinal Marcelos led the way through deserted corridors, heading in the direction of the study room. They walked in silence. Not for the first time, a look of frustration dominated the face of Cardinal del Rosi.

  Mike hid his anxiety with a firm expression. In his mind he continued to consider the recent events that were continuing to unfold. For the first time he considered the possibility that Gabrielle was right. Something of significance was there, deposited by the Italian over a century earlier. He was desperate to know. He was desperate to make sure that she was okay.

  At the end of the passageway two guards stood at attention, unflinching as they waited for the cardinals to arrive. They opened the doors and saluted as one. Ignored by the cardinals.

  The third manuscript was a 15th century chronicle entitled the Orygynale Cronykil of Scotland, written by a canon from Loch Leven named Andrew of Wyntoun. She recognised the title immediately as one of seven or eight copies from the time and decided it was of no relevance to the Zeno diary. The same was true of the next two. Both were well-known chronicles of the 15th and 16th centuries written by respected chroniclers, John Fordun and John Mair, and both were concerned with the history of Scotland. She paid brief attention to the following book: a thin manuscript regarding Gothic architecture. After skimming the first few pages she moved onto the next.

  This left two manuscripts to consider. One was another chronicle by Fordun, whereas the other manuscript was untitled. In keeping with the Zeno diary, it was approximately six hundred years old and damaged by fire. It comprised over seven hundred pages and was also written in Italian on vellum parchment.

  For the next three minutes she concentrated incessantly, turning pages at infrequent intervals. The text, although easier to read than the previous manuscripts, hurt her eyes, causing her to lose focus. She squinted at the text. Realistically she needed a translator.