Without warning the tunnel ended. The outline of a large chamber, possibly a chapel or crypt, loomed ahead. The walls widened noticeably, revealing a more open area.
Mike inhaled a sigh of relief. Although the air was dank it was more appealing than before, less enclosed. The light had also improved, but not by enough to allow complete visibility. As best Mike could gather the area had doubled in height, and the ceiling was arched in design.
He shone the torch around the chamber. It reminded him of the one at Rosslyn: high walls and ceilings were decorated with various carvings ranging from the Green Man to others that appeared to be of Egyptian origin, or alternatively early Christian and early medieval Europe.
Gabrielle wandered away to her left, pressing the wall with her hands. The smooth stone that had lined the corridor was now rougher than before, jutting out at irregular intervals. Up above she could make out other symbols, also reminiscent of the Rosslyn vault. In the darkness it almost appeared as though they were presenting a non-Christian Stations of the Cross.
Gabrielle knelt down on the stone floor. She removed her rucksack and opened it with her left hand, holding her torch with her right to illuminate the bag. She removed two portable lamps and switched them on.
Suddenly the dynamic of the vault changed. The chamber was now revealed to be circular in shape. She considered the tunnel they had just walked and the location where they were now: she guessed that they had walked west, back in the direction of the tower, and were probably exactly beneath it. In Gabrielle’s opinion the vault was almost certainly an exact match for what previously existed on the surface, a stone rotunda flanked by an ambulatory, either of stone or wooden construction.
Gabrielle’s pulse raced rapidly. Aided by the improved light of the portable lamps she could make out the interior of the chamber clearly. In its centre was a circular table, wood construction, flanked by eight chairs, all of which were covered in cobwebs. The floor, initially assumed to be stone, was in fact comprised of black and white tiles in a chessboard sequence, identical to the one at Rosslyn. As her eyes continued to adjust to the light she realised that the walled perimeter was decorated by a series of carvings, many of which she recognised.
Yet at first they refused to sink in.
Following on from what appeared to be decorations from the biblical period, ranging from those described in Genesis and Exodus to the life of Christ, the scenes depicted what she instantly assumed to be the formation of the Templar order. Nine knights, each one on horseback, were riding across the wilderness, leading to their induction at the Temple of Solomon. The knights then seemed to appear together, kneeling side by side before an unidentifiable object, held aloft by the Grand Master.
That was not the only anomaly. She recognised other Templar symbols: Templar crosses, identical to the ones on Perry’s statue above, four in total, each present at every point of the compass.
She blinked. Guided by the light, she recognised to her horror imagery that seemed straight out of folklore. Located prior to more modern imagery, including the logo of the Rite of Larmenius, she identified images of a Templar initiation ritual as described in the accounts of their trials. Among the symbols was an almost identical image of a man being blindfolded and whipped while another man, probably the Grand Master, was holding a skull or a head of some kind in front of the whipped man who was portrayed as being forced to kiss it.
Also on the wall were historical depictions of the Templars in their heyday, battling in the Crusades and praying in churches and cathedrals. Marking the following wall, though seemingly following on from the previous sequence, Gabrielle made out a depiction of the execution of Jacques de Molay and Geoffroi de Charny in 1314 on an island in the River Seine in Paris, followed by the curious illustration of a Jolly Roger. The words Je me Souviens were etched into the rock, located in close proximity to the image of de Molay’s execution. Following it was a different image, this time of two historical figures who she assumed were Philip IV of France and Pope Clement V.
Following on from that particular passage things became somewhat stranger. Another symbol, reminiscent in appearance to that found at Rosslyn, depicted a ship sailing on a starry night: one that she assumed confirmed the Templar escape from arrest. Next was a knight in armour, perhaps included to portray Zichmni.
Finally she noticed the most shocking sight yet. In keeping with the legends, she saw a semi-naked man being whipped while possessing a noose around his neck and leaning over a cross.
Mike looked at Gabrielle. For the first time in his life he felt a genuine surge of panic.
Only then did he see the room’s other distinguishing feature.
Flanking every wall at ground level were the effigies of deceased medieval knights, marking their graves in the ground below. Every effigy portrayed a knight in armour holding a broken sword and shield. Also present were others without effigies and displaying an engraved sword in the company of a long cross with a botonny base and a Templar cross at the top. Every effigy incorporated the words along the verge “Knights Templar”.
He looked at Gabrielle. ‘Come on. We need to find your uncle.’
Nodding aimlessly, Gabrielle looked at Mike then once more at the symbols, the horror of their reality still refusing to sink in. Leaving the lamps, she followed Mike in the direction of the tunnel, heading back toward the stairwell. Suddenly they stopped. Footsteps could be heard moving slowly toward the chamber.
‘Uncle Henry, we’re in here,’ Gabrielle said, shining the torch in the direction of the tunnel. Seconds later a figure appeared in the archway.
Ludovic Gullet emerged from the darkness. ‘I never would have guessed.’
40
The Swiss Guard stared at the stranger standing less than five metres in front of him. Although he had never met the man he was well aware who he was. He had seen the ponytail before, at least in photographs.
He studied Gullet intently. He carried a SIG P75, the weapon of a Swiss Guard, in Mike’s opinion an ironic insult considering the people who had died, possibly from bullets fired from that very gun. Gullet stood rigidly. Unsurprisingly for a soldier he was dressed in dark colours, increasing his ability to blend in with the background. Should he have passed Mike in the street he would have been instantly forgettable. Forgettable meant anonymity. And anonymity in Gullet’s business was good.
Gabrielle pointed the torch directly at Gullet’s face. ‘Ludovic Gullet, I knew it was you, I could smell your vile stench through water.’
Gullet was unimpressed. ‘Ms. Gabrielle Leoni,’ he said quietly, his eyes focused, ‘please do not fidget. There is no one else here and I am armed.’
Gullet walked slowly towards them, ensuring that the tunnel remained blocked at all times. He closed his right eye as a reaction to the torchlight.
‘Lower your torch, please,’ he said, his weapon remaining fixed on Gabrielle. She, meanwhile, looked back unflinching. Finally, she lowered the light.
Mike looked vainly at the tunnel behind Gullet, praying that an opportunity to escape would arise. Through the corners of his eyes he looked without expectation for an alternative exit. It was worthless. Try reason.
‘What do you want?’
Gullet removed a packet of cigarettes from his pocket and put one to his mouth. The flame from his lighter lit up his face momentarily. He exhaled immediately. Smoke blew towards Gabrielle and Mike, heavy in the damp air.
Gullet removed the cigarette from his mouth. ‘Stand still and follow my instructions,’ he said exhaling. ‘No sudden movements.’
Despite the hatred, Mike was somewhat in awe of what he saw. Unmistakeably, the man had the efficiency of a Swiss Guard. No doubt he was impeccably trained in what he did. He spoke quietly, but with great authority.
Yet Mike detested him. Behind the militarily instilled efficiency Gullet was a traitor.
‘Who are you?’ Mike asked.
‘Do not waste my time with pointless questions, wachtmeister. You know e
xactly who I am.’
That was not his question. “Who are you?” was a question relevant on other grounds. “Who are you working for?” that was the real question. “What kind of person resorts to such tactics?” He had no idea who they were.
‘Ms. Leoni, I am so sorry, it appears the rightful owner does not want you trespassing on his property.’
Gabrielle’s face reddened. She exhaled deeply, her eyes focused on Gullet’s.
Mike looked at Gullet with disdain. ‘If Mr. Broadie didn’t want us here then why didn’t he say so?’
Gullet looked at him without emotion. ‘I said the owner of this, wachtmeister.’
A cold realisation hit him. The man in the Merc at St. Gallen, the biker at Rosslyn, the man who nearly killed Gabrielle: surely he had been watching them since the beginning.
He looked at Gullet. Was it he who attacked Gabrielle? Surely not, even with his experience it would take a miracle to infiltrate the Sistine Hall.
Had he been right all along? Had the man dressed as a Swiss Guard been trying to obtain the diary, hidden within the Vatican for over a century? Surely it clicked into place. Whatever the hidden agenda of the Rite of Larmenius and the Knights Templar it was surely not about gold, yet it was worth its weight in it. It was the answer to many riddles: riddles that had lasted centuries: even preceded the Swiss Guard: riddles that would remain secret.
He looked at Gullet, then at Gabrielle. There was no fear: only rage.
‘You killed my dad,’ Gabrielle said.
Gullet smoked. ‘He was killed, never mind how.’
‘You bastard.’
Gabrielle charged at Gullet. The mercenary walked forward slightly and pistol-whipped her across her face. She fell to the floor, banging her head.
‘No,’ Mike shouted, leaning over Gabrielle. He looked up at Gullet. The Swiss’s firearm was aimed at him. ‘Look, do what you want with me, but leave her alone, she’s done nothing wrong.’
‘You are in a position unsuitable to give orders, wachtmeister.’
Mike’s concern was for Gabrielle. He cursed the situation. He cursed their being there against his better judgment. Then he blamed Henry Leoni. Was he that much of a fool or was this planned? Broadie surely knew. His thoughts turned to earlier days. Why was the diary in Al Leoni’s safe deposit box? It still didn’t make sense.
He considered playing for time, but what for? They were isolated. Fear and anger had subsided. He was assigned to guard her, yet he had failed. How had it come to this?
Gullet walked to within two metres of them and raised his firearm. He cocked the weapon.
Mike closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable. Silently he prayed, his thoughts frantic. He heard a gunshot, earlier than expected. Was he still alive? Was this what death was like? He was sure it was not.
He heard a groan. Gullet lunged forward. He heard a scampering of footsteps from along the tunnel.
Mike wasted no time. Now on his feet he dived at Gullet and punched him hard in the face. Gullet groaned for a second time. Even in the poor light it was evident that Gullet had been shot in the shoulder.
Gullet wrestled Mike and kicked him hard in the upper torso, forcing him to roll several metres. Gullet rose to his feet, his firearm now on the floor beneath the table.
Gullet was gone in an instant, sprinting away from the chamber in the direction of the stairwell. Mike looked up, shuffling quickly to his feet. He removed his firearm from his inside pocket and fired once. As best he could tell the shot missed – he saw a bright spark followed by a pinging sound as the bullet rebounded off the stone. A second gunshot followed, unmistakeably from a different gun, then another.
Mike turned, his attention scattered. He scampered toward Gabrielle who was still lying dazed on the floor. He shone the torch in her face.
By now she was unconscious.
41
The GPLA building was identical to the other major ones in the central business district of Charlotte, North Carolina. It was impressive in both material and design, comprising over forty storeys, rising to a considerable height forming an iconic part of the city’s skyline. As with the other major buildings, it was visually a large glass tube that narrowed towards the summit and ended with a 150 foot antenna spire, pointing into the sky like a needle. In total fifteen firms occupied the building, including GPLA, all of which were law or accountancy based, employing everybody from lawyers, accountants, bankers, and auditors who worked in seclusion behind tinted glass.
The atrium on the ground floor was both spacious and modern. The carpeted floor was luxurious in feel while high ceilings and a large selection of greenery made the room feel airy. The large tinted windows bathed the floor in a dense light, making the sun appear fainter in the sky when viewed from the lobby. At the entrance, two sets of revolving doors catered for the incessant demand of bodies coming and going from the various floors. Most of the individuals were wearing suits, strolling in various directions with briefcases hanging by their sides, while most of those entering carried takeaway coffees as they returned to the grindstone at the end of their lunch break.
At 2pm Randy Lewis entered through the second revolving door and stopped on reaching the carpet. As usual, he was dressed in a trademark silver suit and a white shirt accompanied by a matching red tie although unlike most his hands were empty.
After taking a few seconds to become acquainted with the surroundings, he asked the nearest security guard for information and was directed to a desk located at the far left of the atrium where visitors were requested to sign in. He walked casually in that direction and queued for several seconds behind a man wearing a cowboy hat who was chatting to the receptionist in her mid-forties sitting behind the desk. Eventually the man left and the woman smiled at Lewis.
‘May I help you?’
‘Yes,’ Lewis replied, leaning against the desk. ‘I’m looking for Mr. Ged Fairbanks, please. He’s a director at GPLA.’
The woman studied him from behind the desk. She looked away momentarily to type something on her keyboard and informed Lewis that Fairbanks was in a meeting.
‘I’ll wait,’ Lewis said, forcing a smile.
‘Fourteenth floor.’
She directed Lewis to one of four lifts, located twenty feet to his right at the far end of the atrium. Without further instruction, he walked across the carpeted floor to the lift and pushed the button for the fourteenth floor. The building was unsurprisingly crowded but the doors of the lift closed with no one else entering. People came and went on the fifth and ninth and Lewis exited on the fourteenth. Directly in front of him, an attractive blonde-haired woman in her late twenties was sitting at another reception desk.
The woman offered him a seat at the nearby waiting area where he sat for nearly fifteen minutes. At just after 2:15 a scrawny man with dark brown hair and a moustache emerged from a nearby corridor to greet him. It was a brilliant, warm day outside, although the man’s face suggested it was raining. Lewis stood as the stranger approached and held out his hand.
‘Randy Lewis,’ he said, without enthusiasm.
‘How’s the wife, Ged?’
‘Divorced last month.’
‘Gee,’ Lewis said, ‘I’m sorry.’
‘Don’t be – I’m sorry I goddamned married her.’
Fairbanks led Lewis along a deserted corridor and opened a brown door to a tidy office. It was a basic office for the standards with extensive views over downtown Charlotte through large windows. A photograph of the accountant’s son and daughter was present on a busy desk that was surrounded by countless post-it notes, a telephone, a desktop PC, and a thousand-page audit of a finance company from Illinois.
Lewis looked at the photo and smiled. ‘How are Debbie and Cliff?’
‘Debbie got married and Cliff’s sophomore at NYU.’
The man’s negativity showed no signs of fading. For Lewis, monotonous guys in suits act as a stereotype to outsiders, often poorer in bank balance, yet richer in happiness, a
nd Fairbanks showed it all. The expensive watch on his wrist, a birthday present from himself to himself, illustrated the brashness of an industry where nobodies became somebodies because of the clothes they wore or the cars that they drove, but to Lewis the owner’s ignorance diminished all significance. A man’s clothes, car, watch, house, swimming pool or wife says a lot about a man, but not as much as the man himself. Lewis had seen it all before and nothing really surprised him. He was more interested in the worried expression on his friend’s face.
‘Rough day?’
‘Usual shit,’ he said. ‘Take a seat.’
Lewis pulled up a chair and eased it towards the desk. The leather upholstery was more comfortable than it looked.
‘So little Debbie got married, huh?’
‘Yuh huh,’ he replied without a smile. ‘She’s pregnant, too.’
Lewis smiled. ‘Well how about that.’
Fairbanks sat down and cupped his hands together thoughtfully. He twiddled his thumbs and monitored Lewis like a security guard. His moustache seemed to shuffle as he attempted a smile but Lewis could see that the smile was forced.
‘But you didn’t come all this way to talk about my daughter. Did you, Randy?’
Lewis forced a smirk. ‘You’ve got my number there haven’t you?’
‘We go back a long way.’
‘Yeah, we do.’
‘What is it you need? Money? Cigarette?’ he asked removing the last of a packet and firing it up.
‘Information, now you mention it.’
The accountant exhaled immediately, sending smoke rising towards the open window behind him. ‘Yeah, well I didn’t see nothing.’
Lewis laughed ironically.
‘What is it this time? I thought you retired from the Feds.’
‘My term ended, Ged.’
‘Same thing.’
‘Yeah, well, this is different.’
Lewis considered his words, his attention on Fairbanks.
‘I understand you guys recently carried out an audit of Leoni et Cie?’
The Templar Agenda Page 40
