Mike nodded, a smile crossing his lips. ‘I think it’s a good idea. The further away you are from this the better.’
‘Exactly,’ she agreed. ‘Also, we need to visit Newport, Rhode Island.’
Mike’s eyebrows narrowed. ‘Why?’
‘Uncle Henry has been working on the diary. He thinks further proof of a Templar survival exists there.’
‘Gabrielle…’
‘No, it’s okay. He knows people high up in the city.’
Mike breathed in and out loudly. ‘I don’t like this.’
‘We’re going to Harvard to see his friend. We can stay at our home in Boston. We’re leaving in three days.’
The driver of the BMW typed quickly into his BlackBerry.
Subjects are on their way to America: Request permission to follow.
Second later he received an answer.
Permission granted.
32
Vatican City
The silence that had lasted less than twenty seconds felt more like the same in minutes to Markus Mäder as he watched Cardinal Utaka scan the photographs that he had just placed before him. Small in size and comprising seventy-three in total, the images were of several documents, not original but just as important. It was clear from their content that the information was private: not meant for outside eyes to read: particularly when the outsider reading it was in some ways a victim of the events described.
Mark leaned forward in his chair, his vision focused on the cardinal. Less than three feet away to his right, Commissario Pessotto did likewise, attempting to read the cardinal’s facial expression. To his right was Thierry, not behind his desk but sitting in a chair in front of it. The chairs of the four were located at 90-degree angles. All present were in a position to view one another’s facial expressions and everyone could be addressed with eye contact. No one was in the dark. At least no more than the other in a meeting concerned with matters of privacy.
The cardinal’s concentration was strained. His hand shook, partly due to the aching arthritis from which he had suffered for over a decade, but more due to shock at what he was seeing. After examining the final print, he removed his glasses and gently rubbed his eyes, placing the photographic prints down on his lap. The purple bags around his eyes had subsided slightly in recent weeks but the stress was starting to rebuild. A serious expression crossed his face, yet to an outsider it was still relatively neutral. There was no anger or even resentment in his expression – only concern.
‘What does this mean exactly?’ he asked, replacing his glasses.
Commissario Pessotto paused momentarily, taking the pause to make eye contact with Mark. Mark exhaled deeply, an expression of hesitancy and uncertainty crossed his features. The results of the photographs taken eight days ago had not produced a clear result until earlier that day. This was no hoax. New truths were being uncovered.
‘What this means, eminence,’ Commissario Pessotto said calmly, ‘or what it confirms rather, is that Ludovic Gullet was present in Mauritius the night of Mikael Devére’s death and that Gullet now has a possible connection with five of the seven murdered men. Also, it confirms that the same people responsible for the deaths of the first six also issued a warrant to Gullet for the murder of Mr. Devére.’
Cardinal Utaka nodded, aware that most of the prints were of documents: either the same or similar to those given to Mark by Mikael Devére two months earlier.
‘We now have confirmation as expected that Gullet was in Washington D.C. the night of the murder of Jermaine Llewellyn,’ Thierry added. ‘Only Cardinal Faukes and Al Leoni are the odd ones out.’
Commissario Pessotto nodded. ‘Leoni is hardly surprising considering the small time lag between his own death and that of Chairman Llewellyn.’
Mark: ‘We now believe that Ludovic Gullet was responsible for at least five of the seven murders and that he is working under orders from members of the Rite of Larmenius.’
Utaka looked at all present with widening eyes. ‘That is quite a statement.’
Mark nodded. ‘This is quite a find, eminence.’
Utaka looked once more at the first three prints, all of which concerned the same document. The document was not large but extremely complicated. Strangely there was very little text: most of the information came in numbers.
‘I want this plain and simple,’ the cardinal said, his facial expression unflinching. ‘What are we dealing with here?’
Pessotto and Mark exchanged glances. Thierry retreated slightly, placing his pen between his lips. He had not smoked for fifteen years but he felt the need right now.
Pessotto: ‘Both the Vatican Police and the Swiss Guard have long been suspicious of Ludovic Gullet’s past involvement with the so-called Rite of Larmenius.’
‘He was a soldier once,’ Thierry said without emotion.
‘A guard?’ Utaka asked.
‘Yes,’ Thierry replied. ‘He was born in Zürich. Served in the Swiss Army before leaving to pursue a career in the Swiss Guard in the early 1970s.’
Utaka looked seriously across the room. The aroma of falling rain seeping through the open window felt vaguely refreshing as it served to combat the overall mugginess of the room. He looked again at the prints and huffed loudly.
‘I am not interested in history lessons, gentlemen. What has this to do with anything?’
‘Although Gullet was once a member of the Swiss Guard, his involvement ended in 1981 when he was expelled,’ Thierry said.
‘Why?’ Utaka asked.
‘Breach of discipline,’ Thierry replied.
Utaka nodded. ‘I see.’
Another pause followed. Thierry threw his pen down on the desk and turned to the cardinal. ‘We understand countless ex-Swiss Army and ex-KGB found employment with the Rite of Larmenius.’
‘Not just KGB,’ Mark said. ‘Rogue militants from all across Europe.’
‘For what cause?’ the cardinal asked.
Pessotto shook his head. ‘If the objective of the organisation was obvious then perhaps we would be closer to finding answers.’
The cardinal nodded.
‘Unfortunately,’ Pessotto began, ‘we still have no idea who their members are.’
‘Randy Lewis has been most cooperative there,’ Mark said. ‘His position as former Chairman of the Federal Reserve has provided him with a unique position of insight. He has given us positive IDs on several of their known members, both past and present. I’ve managed to question a few off the record, but as yet uncovered no leads.’
Utaka said something under his breath, possibly a religious mumble that was inaudible to all present.
He sat up as straight as his posture allowed. ‘What do we know about Gullet now?’
‘A fair bit,’ Mark said. ‘He lives as a tax exile in Campione d’Italia where he owns a casino – one of many. He owns several businesses worldwide.’
‘Mainly casinos,’ Thierry said, ‘casinos and hotels. He inherited some from his father.’
‘Makes sense,’ the cardinal said. ‘It takes several million just to start one.’
Pessotto nodded. ‘It is also a good way to cover your tracks.’
‘Precisely,’ Thierry said.
Utaka nodded. ‘But what of him now?’
Mark: ‘Only rumours really. According to some sources he is still a member of the Rite of Larmenius, yet they have never broadcast their activities: they have been largely quiet since 1982 following the murders of two bankers.’
Thierry: ‘Officially that was never proven as them. Nor was it proven as him.’
Mark nodded. ‘No, it was not. Yet, surely we can agree that the probability is strong. Judging from our knowledge of the man.’
Pessotto nodded.
Mark: ‘Before that the last Rite of Larmenius murder came in the late 1970s.’
‘You mean the last alleged Rite of Larmenius murder?’ Utaka said.
Pessotto nodded. ‘Very well. There is little or no chance that the murders o
f the past have any connection to the present. But the evidence suggests the same culprits.’
‘There is one connection.’ Mark said. ‘The Starvel Group.’
Thierry forced a smile. ‘Their activities have never been straightforward.’
‘If you remember from earlier,’ Mark said, leaning over to identify five specific prints, presently sitting on Cardinal Utaka’s lap, ‘these were also found in Gullet’s safe.’
The cardinal adjusted his glasses. The photos were of five single sheets of paper, mainly blank with the exception of writing on two lines in the centre of the document. On face value they concerned ordinary banking transactions: recording $4 million being transferred into one account and subsequently out into another one. Each receiving account was slightly different.
‘What is this?’ Utaka asked.
Mark: ‘This confirms that Gullet...’
‘We do not know for sure that it is Gullet,’ Pessotto said. ‘The accounts are numbered.’
‘I checked, sir. I have a buddy at Starvel,’ Mark said. ‘Each one of them opened and closed by Ludovic Gullet. From what I can gather each payment was immediately sent on to another account and then immediately closed straight after.’
Thierry and Pessotto both smiled.
Utaka looked anxiously at Mark. ‘So what does this mean?’
Mark: ‘It means that Ludovic Gullet has recently received five payments of $4 million for unknown reasons at infrequent intervals.’
Cardinal Utaka paused momentarily. ‘What makes you sure this is not business related?’
‘If it were then why does he not use his regular accounts?’ Mark said, looking at Utaka, then Pessotto and Thierry. ‘We know from receipts that he hired a Jeep in Mauritius not six hours before the murder of Devére.’
Utaka did not respond. Pessotto nodded.
‘A large sum of money entering a Starvel bank account and leaving it instantly clearly suggests that this was not meant to be seen,’ Pessotto said. ‘Particularly as the amount seems to occur on such a regular basis.’
‘Particularly as it’s an unpublished account,’ Mark added.
‘Where did the money come from?’ Utaka asked.
‘A numbered account that we have been unable to identify,’ Mark responded. ‘Never the same one. No clue of ownership other than the account is always with Starvel.’
Utaka looked at Mark, a serious expression crossing his features. He paused momentarily to examine each of the prints, some more than once, as though trying to work out an algebraic equation. The pattern was recurring.
‘What does this mean?’ the cardinal asked.
‘This is self-explanatory,’ Mark said.
‘You really think he murdered them?’
‘He may not have killed Leoni or Cardinal Faukes but it suggests he was involved.’
Thierry nodded. ‘It seems Mr. Gullet is at least partially responsible for all of them. Regardless of the reason.’
Pessotto: ‘The possibility cannot be ruled out that Mr. Martin Snow was murdered for connection in this.’
Utaka cleared his throat. ‘May I offer another suggestion?’
Thierry nodded.
Utaka: ‘Based on the events of the past few days. The Knights Templar.’
Pessotto exhaled deeply.
Thierry shook his head. ‘The Knights Templar have been extinct for centuries.’
Pessotto nodded. ‘I suggest we concentrate on the here and now.’
Utaka looked at all present with a nervous expression. ‘The Vatican has a long history with the Rite of Larmenius. It has an even longer one with the Templars.’ He breathed in deeply. ‘Perhaps those rumours are true after all.’
Mark shook his head. ‘Whoever they are, they must be willing to pay millions of dollars to eliminate the murdered men.’
‘It is not that what worries me,’ Utaka said. ‘There are people on this list who are still alive. This threat cannot be ignored.’
Pessotto nodded. ‘I agree.’
Utaka: ‘I want every person presently sitting on either committee of the Vatican Bank to be assigned security. And from now on, all business related to the bank takes place within the confines of the Apostolic Palace.’
Pessotto and Thierry nodded.
‘Good,’ the cardinal said.
‘I spoke to Mike the other day. Henry Leoni helped me locate Mikael Devére’s widow. We’ve finally made contact,’ Mark said. ‘She disappeared following her husband’s murder. Scared stiff.’
‘Good. At least that way we might uncover what in God’s name he had gotten himself into,’ Pessotto said.
‘Gianluca,’ Cardinal Utaka said to Commissario Pessotto.
‘Yes, eminence,’ he replied.
‘Make sure you and Thierry do as I say. I want each member of the council under around-the-clock supervision.’
‘Yes, eminence.’
33
Cambridge, Massachusetts
The Honourable Alexander Broadie was one of Harvard’s most distinguished academics. Such a term was not to be banded around lightly, but even in this day and age his reputation spoke for itself. If reputations were to be formed on achievements rather than words then his may have been rather modest, but when coming from such famous lineage, other stuff could do the talking. Rumour had it he was a descendent of one of the great Scottish families, the St. Clairs, whereas others claimed his ancestry also went back to Robert the Bruce. He had never been sure exactly where he came from but he never worried about correcting people who took the assumptions as accurate. It never did any good to downplay one’s esteem; particularly when it was not easy to prove otherwise.
At least he looked like a distinguished academic. Not that a distinguished academic had a precise description but whatever it was, he was it. He wore an elegant brown tweed jacket with the stereotype elbow patches on either sleeve. He wore a tie despite the informality of the day – most of the students had already gone home for spring recess – smart black trousers and an expensive watch on his left wrist.
Perhaps he was once good-looking but that was now gone. His balding head, flanked by brown hair that was slowly beginning to turn white looked like a poorly attempted comb over as it crossed in the middle. A pair of rimless bifocals sat perched upon his nose, suiting his face.
He may not have been good-looking in the classical sense but women still liked him. Perhaps it was an attraction to status that had earned him the approval of his wife, but equally the same approval of others that had twice nearly led to divorce. He had a history of preference for his female students, which was frowned on by those who knew, but discretion was a useful tool, particularly in such a prestigious location. Having a family pedigree brought approval, certainly in the eyes of those who mattered, but others clung to what he represented. He was an Ivy Leaguer, but one of a dying breed. His dress, his manner and even his general appearance was thirty years out of date. His reputation was one of an old campaigner. And old habits died hard.
His office was in keeping with his character. An antique globe sat atop a large ornate desk, in the manner of a Victorian study. Historical prints, charts and maps lined the walls of the office, located in the elegant Robinson Hall, the history faculty of Harvard. The fax machine and inkjet printer were neatly tucked away in the corner of the room while a modern sink was fitted neatly between two filing cabinets to the side of the door.
Broadie sat quietly at his desk, his eyes concentrating in the direction of the window. As he stared out across the Broadway stretch that was usually heaving with students making their way toward Harvard Yard, he smiled. It was sure peaceful with the students gone. Another seemingly endless term was at an end and there would be no more knocks on the door from disappointed students whinging about his overly harsh marking. This was the way he liked it. No marking, no students, and no distractions: no one to watch what he was doing.
The gentle chime of the elegant antique clock informed him it was two o’clock. He stretched
in relaxed mood. With it came a gentle knock at the door.
Broadie turned around and looked up at the door.
‘Come in.’
The door opened and Henry Leoni entered breezily. A tweed jacket covered his torso and a brown briefcase hung from his right hand. There were no handshakes when they entered but not out of ill humour. Remaining seated, Broadie raised a glass of port to him.
‘Straight outta Douro Valley, Henry. Ice and lemon?’
Henry laughed loudly. ‘Sir, I thank you.’
Broadie placed ice into two glasses and raised his left hand to Henry with a showman pose. ‘Vintage stuff.’
‘I’d expect nothing less.’
‘Cigar?’
‘Thank you.’
Broadie removed two cigars from a brown container and leaned across the desk to light Henry’s before doing the same to his own. Smoke swirled upward toward the ceiling and out through the open window.
‘Have a seat, Henry.’
If only their students could see them now. Like Broadie, Henry looked like an Ivy League professor, but Henry had always been more popular with his students. He enjoyed a drink; so did the students. He loved to joke; so did the students. All in all there was a likeable informality about Henry that won him affection. His beard and potbelly gave female students a certain teddy bear innocence feeling around him whereas Broadie was the opposite. Whereas Henry encouraged students to live life to the utmost what Broadie preached and what he did were often at loggerheads. A student entering one of his lectures hung over or skunked from the night before could be met with severe disapproval or even a firm dressing down whereas the opposite was true if he did it.
He returned to his seat.
‘So, Henry,’ Broadie said, exhaling on his cigar, ‘how’s life been treating you?’
‘All things considered, Alex, I can’t complain.’
‘I’m pleased to hear it,’ he said, continuing to smoke. ‘I’ve been meaning to have a chat. May I say how most sorry I was to hear about your brother.’
The Templar Agenda Page 35
