The Templar Agenda

by John Paul Davis

  ‘Which we have already seen,’ Broadie added.

  The bearded man nodded. ‘The voyage of Zichmni is legendary. If they indeed discovered the vaults of Rosslyn, then there is reason to believe that they successfully found the next piece of the puzzle. If the map is correct then Professor Leoni’s reason for suspecting Newport is obvious. This is indeed a dangerous trail.’

  The Sénéchal shook his head. ‘I tell you, you are wasting your time. The Vatican have already heightened security following the mistakes of your Swiss Preceptor. We must proceed with more important matters.’

  The American’s expression was rigid. ‘It seems your compassion on the matter clouds your judgment, eminence.’

  The cardinal eyed the American with malice. ‘To uncover the secrets of Zichmni uncovers history; none of this concerns the present. To succeed, they would still need to discover a way into the vault. It would take a miracle. I tell you the Leonis know nothing.’

  The bearded man walked. Smoke escaped from his mouth, rising toward the ceiling. ‘For over six hundred years our order has continued the tradition of long ago: we all know it, and we accept it. It was thanks to the bravery of our predecessors that led to our continuation. Such a miracle took time. The secrets of banking have been passed on – as have many other things. The knowledge that made the original Temple so great: true wisdom long since forgotten. But the vault at Newport is a dangerous place – particularly for those who know nothing of how to get in or out. Gentlemen, you ask me for miracles: I give you Professor Henry Leoni.’

  Broadie nodded, a worried expression crossing his face. The Sénéchal joined his hands together and shook his head.

  The bearded man returned to his seat, his eyes fixed on Broadie. ‘Do what you need to do. Tell the good professor he can investigate, and that he has our very best of wishes.’

  Broadie nodded, his facial expression awkward.

  ‘But enough of ancient legends,’ the Grand Master said, ‘our concern is not with the past. For over six hundred years the Poor Knights of Solomon have sought to right the wrongs of history. The empires that opposed us have crumbled and now only one remains. This, gentlemen, is where our concerns must lie. Less than four hours ago I received a phone call from Mr. Schumer telling me that one of his fellow governors happened to receive a recent visit from former Chairman Lewis. Apparently the new chief executive of Leoni et Cie seemed quite interested in some unpublished accounts.’

  De Bois’s fist hit the table. ‘Fool. Why didn’t you say?’

  ‘Such a discovery could be devastating in the wrong hands,’ the German said.

  The Grand Master smoked. ‘You are quite right to react this way. I will contact Monsieur Gullet this evening. Our concentration lies with other matters.’

  36

  Mauritius

  Mark rang the doorbell of the luxury villa that overlooked the perfect blue sea and waited patiently for a response. The six-hour journey along the bumpy road had left him tired, but at least he had avoided getting dust on his clothes. The meeting he had come for was potentially invaluable and the last thing he wanted was to devalue it.

  An elegant red-haired woman answered the door. She seemed different to what he expected, but she was definitely the woman he wanted to see. He recognised her from her years in the public eye but he was surprised just how small she was in real life: he estimated less than five foot two inches. The woman was dressed mainly in black, accompanied by a heavy pearl necklace that hung around her neck and silver earrings from her ears. She was not unattractive, particularly for a woman of sixty-nine. Countless facelifts had left her able to pass for fifteen years younger. She was thin but fine boned and graceful in manner and appearance. Her hair, possibly a wig or otherwise dyed and styled, was red and curly and in keeping with her brown eyes partially hidden behind tinted glasses. She was revered in her profession as something of a goddess and silently he was quite daunted by her.

  ‘Mrs. Devére,’ he said to the former actress.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘My name is Markus Mäder. We spoke on the telephone.’

  She looked at him, judging him. Mark, meanwhile, focused on her. At first glance her persona was that of a glamour icon but the façade was blown on closer inspection, particularly around the arms and neck. There was a visible sadness about her, as one might expect of the recently widowed. She offered her hand, which Mark gently shook: cracks in her skin became more obvious.

  ‘Well, come in.’

  Mark followed her into the hallway, wiping his feet on the welcome mat. He surveyed the interior as he walked and made a mental note of the surroundings. He was aware that this was the building where Devére had been murdered and any possible clue could be vital, even though the crime scene had long since been cleared.

  Awkwardly, he followed. The actress continued into a spacious living room with white walls and furniture that reflected the light. She pointed at a two-person couch.

  ‘Sit won’t you.’

  Mark forced a smile. For the first time he noticed her voice was huskier than it had been in her heyday: brought on no doubt from age and her habit of thirty cigarettes a day. He thanked her and took a seat opposite a second couch, gripping his hands together thoughtfully.

  Despite the luxury surroundings, he felt uncomfortable. Although he was used to interviewing relatives of victims or even victims of crimes themselves, it was the part of the job he hated the most. Since he had joined the Vatican Police it had become a rarity, and this was the first time he had ever had to interview someone famous. In many ways it was easier to interview the scumbags. In his experience interviewing relatives was never easy. He was surprised that she was so welcoming, but experience taught him that the polite ones were usually the most vulnerable.

  Mrs. Devére walked into the adjoining kitchen and returned with a collection of biscuits, tea and coffee and a large box of Belgium chocolates. Although he was not in need of refreshment, he accepted a coffee out of courtesy and took it without milk or sugar. When offered a smoke he declined. Offered something to eat he declined. When asked if he required anything else he declined.

  Mikael Devére’s widow took a seat opposite Mark on a three-person couch and instantly lit a cigarette. She looked at him briefly, her gaze vaguely provocative. Mark watched her for several seconds, all the while remaining silent. In his mind he rehearsed his first question.

  ‘Thank you so much for agreeing to see me.’

  Although seemingly oblivious to the comment she nodded. Smoke left her mouth like a chimney, partially through her nose.

  ‘So, you say you’re a Swiss Guard,’ she said, adjusting a position in her seat and crossing her leg. The angle of her skirt revealed several inches of stocking.

  ‘I’m an investigator for the Vatican Police.’

  ‘I never knew Mikael knew any Swiss Guards.’

  Mark grimaced a smile, not knowing what else to do. As he looked across the room he noticed that much of the furniture was dated, though it suited the woman’s character. It was like he had stepped into one of her movies from the ‘60s.

  ‘So,’ she said, exhaling smoke. ‘What can I do for you?’

  Mark contemplated his first move. He considered his words extra carefully. This was no ordinary investigation. This was the widow of the former President of France.

  ‘Mrs. Devére, if you don’t mind I’d like to ask you a few questions about your husband?’

  ‘I’ve already told the police everything I know. I really don’t know what further help I can be.’

  Mark nodded, forcing a smile. This was clearly an honest answer.

  ‘Well, I was hoping we could focus on your husband’s activities in the days before he died.’

  She shrugged. ‘They were nothing unusual. Mikael lived a busy life. As I told you, I don’t see what I can tell you that I haven’t told the police already.’

  Mark nodded. She seemed determined to underline the point. Was she being evasive or genuinely unsu
re?

  He paused briefly. ‘I understand he had been travelling recently?’

  He was pleased with his wording.

  ‘Mikael was a busy man. He was always up to something. You know what you men are like. Business, business, business.’

  ‘Did your husband have many business interests?’

  Diana Devére shook her head. ‘Not really – although he was never short of offers. He knew lots of people; everyone wanted to know him. That’s what happens when you’re President of France.’

  She paused briefly.

  ‘Most of his activities were charity related.’

  Mark nodded, no surprises, not yet. ‘Is there anything in particular he had been involved in recently? Anything new perhaps?’

  ‘Not really.’ She moved forward, her attention on the Belgium chocolates. ‘Do help yourself.’

  He forced a smile. ‘How would you describe your husband’s relationship with other people? Did he have any close friends? Away from politics?’

  ‘Mikael was a likeable man. Most of his social engagements were with similar people.’

  Mark nodded. Hopefully he might find an opportunity.

  ‘Do you know these people? Did he ever mention any names? Any companies?’

  ‘Maybe. But I never took an interest in that, boys and their toys.’

  ‘Was your husband a member of any fraternities or societies? Attend dinners et cetera?’

  ‘A couple.’

  ‘What can you tell me about his relationship with the Rite of Larmenius?’

  She shrugged. ‘Nothing really. He was always receiving invites, but mostly he declined. He used to be a Mason but that was a long time ago. Once a year he would meet with that silly ski club.’

  He eyed her closely, his neutral expression hiding his true feelings. ‘Do you personally know any of their members?’

  She laughed loudly. ‘They say anyone who’s anyone is a member…’ she exhaled extravagantly and looked him up and down. ‘So you say you’re a Swiss Guard?’

  Mark considered her first statement. Perhaps all of them were members?

  ‘Did your husband spend much time in their company? Did he attend lodges? Did he spend time with any of their members outside of the society?’

  She shook her head again. ‘I don’t go in for all that rubbish.’

  The ageing actress and supermodel shot another glance at Mark, this time more seductive than before. She blew smoke toward the ceiling.

  ‘Are you sure you won’t have a smoke?’

  Mark shook his head, his eyes focused on the floor. Her movies and photo shoots confirmed she had been a stunner in her day. He felt sudden pity for the widow.

  ‘I feel it’s important to identify your husband’s exact activities before he died. Perhaps that way we might be able to identify who could have known where he was.’ He paused again. ‘Is this location known to any of his acquaintances?’

  She left her seat and poured a clear alcoholic liquid into a glass. ‘Enough of the past,’ she waved a drink at him. ‘Are you sure you won’t join me?’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  She looked back disappointed.

  Mark hesitated briefly, contemplating his next move. ‘Mrs. Devére.’

  ‘Diana.’

  Mark forced a smile. ‘Your husband made contact with me four days after Al Leoni and Jermaine Llewellyn were murdered. He was most insistent that their deaths had been decreed by members of the Rite of Larmenius; furthermore, he suggested that the same people had murdered many other men, including, I must add, two key Vatican officials,’ he said, taking a breather to allow her to digest the information. ‘How could he have known this?’

  ‘I assure you I don’t know.’

  Mark bit his lip. ‘How would you describe his behaviour in the week before he died? Anything unusual? Was he excessively worried?’

  ‘Not that I noticed.’

  ‘Is there anything else you can think of that may be able to assist us. Any reason you can think of as to why someone may have wanted to kill your husband?’

  Devére exhaled smoke violently. ‘I think the markings on the wall of his study confirm the culprits, Mr. Mäder. He was the President of France, deary. Or perhaps you had forgotten?’

  He looked her in the eye and relented. He was getting nowhere: he was getting nowhere fast.

  Mark nodded, forcing an acknowledging smile. ‘Well thank you for your time.’

  He rose to his feet and sought to leave.

  ‘He was writing his autobiography,’ she said quickly. ‘Before he died. It was due for publication next spring. I can show you if you like.’

  His eyes focused on the Frenchman’s widow. She was holding the box of Belgium chocolates in her hands.

  ‘Chocolate?’

  He took one and nodded.

  ‘I found a printed version in his safe. Lord knows how it got there. Come. I’ll show you to his study.’

  37

  Newport, Rhode Island

  The silver hatchback pulled up in an empty parking bay in a car park just off Pelham Street in the City of Newport, Rhode Island. Henry Leoni was the first to exit, leaving through the driver’s side door, closing it behind him. Mike was the second to depart followed, finally, by Gabrielle. Mike eyed Gabrielle momentarily as he opened the rear right door for her, before diverting his attention to the surrounding area.

  The car, a silver E-Class Mercedes-Benz, was one of only five cars parked in the car park, situated across the road from the tree-lined Touro Park to the north. The area to the west and south comprised largely of housing, relatively modern in nature, while an ageing building, now belonging to a private club, was located several yards to the east, apparently closed and devoid of any signs of life.

  Henry led the way, heading north towards Pelham Street. He looked both ways before crossing it, followed closely by Mike and Gabrielle, heading in the direction of Touro Park. There was a slight chill in the air, not unpleasant but enough to warrant a jacket. It was not yet raining but the sky above was overcast, threatening anything from steady drizzle to a heavy shower.

  Despite the weather it was quiet, surprisingly quiet, even for a Wednesday morning. High above them several seagulls flew in circular motions over the nearby harbour, their cries echoing almost endlessly as they reflected down over the walls of historic buildings below. To their right, at the corner of Pelham, Bellevue Avenue was largely deserted bar the occasional passing car heading south toward the shopping centre or north to where Bellevue Avenue merges with Kay Street, continuing in the direction of Green End Pond.

  Although it was early April and the tourist season was still to hit its height, the city’s numerous historical inns and guest houses were open for trade, their car parks lined with motors of all sorts, usually belonging to single businessmen in town for meetings, or retired married couples soaking up the sites of Newport’s colonial past in peaceful solitude before being run out of town by the mass onslaught of holidaymakers throughout the months of summer and the fall.

  Across Bellevue, the Redwood Library and Athenaeum appeared gloomy in the dull light, its four pillars presenting an elegant façade in the style of an ancient Greek temple, while the nearby Newport Art Museum was frequented with locals and tourists alike walking its corridors respectfully, examining the impressive legacy of some of New England’s finest artists. Despite the cloud, the city’s picturesque harbour was decorated with elegant white sails as boat owners enjoyed a peaceful morning on the calm waters preparing their boats for the sailing season ahead.

  Henry led the way east along Pelham Street before turning left and entering Touro Park. A long pathway headed northwest from the southeast entrance, passing a statue of Newport hero Matthew C. Perry, and continued to the park’s centre.

  Henry walked slowly, carefully examining the grassy area. It was lonely in nature but not unpleasantly so. An abundance of trees lined the park from every corner, providing seclusion from the surrounding roads, and del
ivering a fresh aroma, intensified by recent rain. He paused momentarily on reaching the middle of the park, at which point six separate pathways joined together to circle the centre point. A large sign had been placed there, highlighting the park’s formation in 1865.

  Mike glanced briefly at the sign, reading it quickly. He gazed intently at the gaps between the trees, keeping a sharp eye out for any signs of life from any passerby or passing car.

  After several seconds of careful surveillance he turned his attention toward the far end of the park where the path spread out in two directions: one to the southwest, passing a statue of the Unitarian pioneer William Ellery Channing, while the other continued northwest toward a partially ruined stone tower.

  Mike looked at Henry, the academic’s focus on the tower. It was evident from his expression that he had found what they were there for.

  A black Toyota pulled up in another car park, some two hundred yards north of Touro Park. The driver exited the car quickly and jogged with intent across Bellevue, heading south toward the park. Unlike the Swiss historian walking through the park less than two hundred yards in front of him, he had been told the exact location of the vault and the way to get in. Secretly he doubted whether such a place even existed, but he knew his knowledge came from a special source. Equally important, he knew that the only way to get in was also the only way to get out.

  The man with blond locks watched as the driver of the Toyota crossed the car park. Although he had never met the man personally, he recognised him instantly from his long ponytail.

  He waited until the driver of the Toyota had crossed the road before removing his helmet, placing it safely under the seat of his motorbike. Keeping his distance, he followed him.