Fairbanks shrugged. ‘Yeah. And?’
Lewis leaned forward, eyeing the accountant closely. ‘I wanna know exactly what you found?’
The accountant shuffled through his drawers, looking for nothing in particular. ‘Now that you mention it, I heard on real good authority that you’re on the board of Leoni now.’
‘I am.’
The accountant shrugged again. ‘So why are you asking me?’
Lewis eyed his friend curiously. He was clearly stressed but that was nothing new: his firm was one of the biggest auditors in the country, if not the world. Bags of purple were present under his eyes and the yellowing of his teeth revealed the negative effects of decades of smoking. His voice was raspier than usual, suggesting the presence of a cold or flu bug, also emphasised by occasional coughing. He had been a workaholic in Lewis’s younger days, and this had clearly continued into the man’s late fifties.
‘Who audited them, Ged?’
Ged blew smoke. ‘No one guy, Randy. Probably the guys on the floor below.’
He placed his left hand to his lips, covering his mouth as he coughed. His face reddened as he struggled to breathe.
‘You oughta see a doctor with that chest.’
‘Thanks for the medical advice.’
Lewis grimaced, contemplating his next question. Just as he did the telephone rang.
Fairbanks answered. ‘Hello.’
Without further words the accountant hung up. Taking a further drag on his cigarette, he turned away from Lewis and looked out through the window across the street. A man dressed in a designer suit and sunglasses stood innocuously on a street corner.
‘Ged, now we’ve known each other a long time. Are you in any kind of trouble?’
Fairbanks turned around, his face suddenly worried, more so. His eyes were wide open but his attention was scattered. He looked vacantly at Lewis whereas Lewis sat up rigid in his chair.
‘Now what in God’s name is wrong?’
Fairbanks stuttered, forcing his cigarette to his mouth. He looked briefly once more out of his window and then made eye contact with Lewis.
‘Listen, Randy, I’ve got a pretty busy schedule,’ he said, his face breaking into a smile. ‘Now, it sure was mighty sweet of you to come here and pay y’all best to lil’ Debbie. I’ll be sure to pass on the good wishes.’
The accountant forced another smile and escorted Lewis to the door. He patted him on the shoulder and closed the door behind him.
Lewis stood outside the office. What had he just witnessed? He thought about knocking then decided against it. He considered the accountant’s actions. His body language was peculiar, even for him.
He turned away from the office and headed straight for the lift.
At approximately 4pm Eastern Time in America, a helicopter descended unobserved over the garden of the large mansion on the New England coast. One man was present to meet it and he awaited its arrival intently.
The helicopter touched down in the middle of the lawn and the doors opened. Gullet exited quickly. His left shoulder was heavily bandaged underneath his dark fleece. He walked across the garden quickly, slowing his pace as he approached the bearded man. As usual the grand master smoked a cigar and showed little emotion. He removed something from the inside of his suit as he exhaled.
‘I have a new assignment for you,’ the bearded man said calmly.
Gullet opened the package. It was a simple photograph with no other communication. He looked at it for several seconds before making eye contact with the bearded man.
‘Do not fail me again.’
42
The hazy shape on the horizon came slowly into focus. Shielding her eyes with her right hand, Gabrielle squinted through the blinding light that dominated her sight and concentrated intently on the image before her. There was a man standing in front of her. He was saying something to her yet she failed to recognise him or understand what he was saying.
Other colours appeared. In a dazed and lifeless state she felt a bizarre floating sensation yet her body was otherwise earthbound. Where was she? How had she gotten there?
Suddenly she was aware that she was standing in a large kitchen, instantly recognisable as the one in the château in Switzerland. The kitchen looked spotless as always and in the middle of the room was her mother, looking at her and smiling.
Yet something troubled her. The vision, although real, seemed somehow dated, perhaps several years earlier, before recent events had taken their toll.
The next thing she noticed was her father. A glass of port was present in his left hand. His briefcase was laid down on the breakfast bar and a New York Times folded neatly on top of it. A glowing smile beamed from his bearded face.
She exhaled deeply as she basked in the happiness of the situation.
Suddenly everything changed. The aura of success displayed by her father seconds earlier faded. Instead she was confronted by the dark vision of his body the way it appeared in the morgue. The Templar cross with a skull and crossbones at its centre seemed to flash in her mind as if it was a lightning storm.
Then she saw Martin Snow: his normally happy face, recognisable from countless headshots from business articles in newspapers or magazines, was now a morbid expression of chilled fear.
Next came Nathan Walls, then Jermaine Llewellyn, then Cardinal Faukes and Major von Sonnerberg. Even though she had never met any of them she felt a genuine sense of compassion for their passing as the dreamlike visions of the murdered men flashed before her. Finally came the former President of France: his charismatic figure now lying cold and pathetic on a deserted floor. A cloaked figure was looking over him. As the man turned she saw it was Gullet, instantly recognisable from the way he appeared at Newport. An expression of cold concentration crossed his face as he turned and pointed his firearm directly at her.
Next, she found herself deep within the catacombs of Newport in the company of eight Templars, dressed in the armour of old, their faces covered by helmets. Fear and trepidation consumed her as she gazed across the cold stone surroundings. Everywhere she looked she was surrounded, no exits other than the one you can’t see with your eyes. In her mind, expressions of malice dominated the faces of the knights, despite their features being veiled by metal. Floating in the centre of the room she saw what she assumed was the legendary relic that the knights seemed to worship. A peculiar light shone out from its middle and all focus was lost.
Suddenly she was awake. The visions of Newport disappeared and she was aware that she was lying down. She felt a burning sensation in her eyes as sunlight attacked her retinas. Her initial reflex was to shield her eyes with her right hand. As she did she noticed feeling in her arms. She noticed that she could notice the feeling. Then she felt the feeling in the rest of her body.
Realising she was awake she squinted through the brightness. Every element of her nightmare faded as she saw for the first time that she was alone in a room. It was a private room, adequately furnished. From her right, sunlight penetrated through open windows that were surrounded by white walls that reflected its brightness. There were flowers in a vase on the windowsill and an unoccupied comfy chair just below it that had a clean dressing gown folded over the back. Next to the chair was a table, containing a tray with two coffee cups. For now it was unclear who had used them.
For the first time she heard sound. A vague echo in the distance from unknown sources became louder as her body regained alertness. Through an open doorway to her left she could see nurses and doctors moving with energy up and down the corridor. Further to her left she saw a panic button, placed on the bedside cabinet next to a full glass of water. Now aware that she was in a hospital bed, she realised that her combats and sailing jacket had been replaced with a long sleeve white top that felt at least two sizes too big.
She heard different noises. With her focus now clear she could see two figures standing in the corner of the room, engaged in animated discussion. Their language was American and their tone
informal yet urgent. She wondered which hospital she was in. What town? How did she get there?
She recognised Mike, dressed in his usual style, blue jeans and a white jacket, the same clothes he had been wearing at Newport. Opposite him was a man she had met before. The guy she had once called stupid. She thought his name was Mark.
She looked intently at the men who were yet to realise she was awake. Mike was the first to notice. He made eye contact unintentionally and ended his conversation with Mark mid-sentence. As their voices quietened Gabrielle was now aware that the television in the top left corner of the room was turned on, showing the Simpsons episode where Homer ran for sanitation commissioner.
Mike hurried towards Gabrielle. He smiled at her, thought about hugging her then decided against it as she deliberately looked away.
Mark walked nearer, but stopped at the end of the bed. He was more formally dressed than Mike but not in uniform. A pair of dark jeans looked like trousers from a distance and a dark jacket was somehow in keeping with his job as an investigative policeman.
Mike leaned over her with concern. ‘How are you feeling?’
‘Just what the hell am I doing here?’ she demanded, louder than she intended. ‘Where are we? And who the hell gave me this?’ she said pulling at her pyjama top.
Mark spoke before Mike had a chance. ‘Calm down, Ms. Leoni, you banged your head when you fell.’
Gabrielle looked at Mike with an irritated expression. ‘Who is this?’ she asked. Secretly she knew and took no notice when Mike answered.
‘Really? So you say he’s not a doctor.’
Mike exhaled deeply.
‘Then can you please tell him to keep his diagnosis to himself. And get me out of these stupid pyjamas.’
‘I’ll get you a drink,’ Mike offered.
‘I don’t want a coffee,’ she said, attempting to get out of the bed. ‘We’re leaving, don’t touch me,’ she shouted at Mark.
‘Gabrielle, wait this is important.’
‘Where the hell are we? And will someone please shut that blind.’
‘Newport Hospital,’ Mike said adjusting the blind. With the shades down the light was far more bearable.
Gabrielle looked confused. Visions of Newport were vague. Had it really happened? She remembered the underground vault. Then Gullet. Then things were a blur.
Mike told her about Mark and Agent Gregore coming over in a Vatican Police helicopter some seven hours ago. Mike’s storytelling faltered from time to time as Gabrielle pressed him continuously for answers. She stared at Mike, her gaze momentarily wandering to the open door. Along the corridor various nurses and doctors continued to run every which way in a purposeful manner. Then she noticed the clock and saw the time was approaching seven in the evening. They had been there over six hours.
‘What are you doing in Newport?’ Gabrielle asked Mark, finally controlling her tone.
‘We discovered that Gullet had a contract on you,’ Mark replied. ‘We now know that the people who attacked you at the Vatican Library were the same people responsible for your father’s murder and the others. They knew you were going to Newport…’
‘What do you mean, they knew? Who knew? Who are they? How did you know? What’s he talking about Mike?’
So many questions caught Mike flatfooted. ‘Mark will explain everything. Just relax.’
‘I am relaxed. Now will you please tell me what’s going on? And get me out of these clothes.’
‘Mark works for the Vatican Police. He was asked by Commissario Pessotto to investigate the murders. He’s been tracking the Rite of Larmenius.’
Gabrielle looked up nervously. A man dressed in a dark leather jacket walked past the door.
‘Relax,’ Mike said. ‘That’s Gregore. He’s another Vatican policeman.’
Gabrielle looked at Mike. ‘He’s what?’
Mark: ‘Gregore has been working at Gullet’s casino for the last three months. He’s been keeping an eye on his activities. Gullet has been directly or indirectly responsible for every murder.’
Gabrielle looked at Mark, her expression one of annoyance. ‘Listen to me, you dimwit. Earlier today that man nearly killed me. He came down on me in a secret vault that was filled with dead Knights Templar. Did you really think I hadn’t worked that out?’
Mark exhaled loudly. Mike put his hand on Gabrielle’s right arm.
‘Don’t touch me.’
‘You have to hear this,’ Mike said. ‘Mark has been investigating every murder. Yesterday he visited Diana Devére.’
She instantly recognised the name. Diana Devére, née Saylis: the beloved wife of the former President of France and a star in her own right. Gabrielle had met her on several occasions. She assumed the woman would have attended her father’s funeral had her husband not gone missing.
Gabrielle looked at Mark. ‘You saw Diana Devére? Why would Diana Devére grant an audience to the likes of you?’
Mark scratched his head and exhaled loudly at the same time.
Mike: ‘Gabrielle, you have to listen to this. Mark has found out that Gullet has been carrying out these murders for the Knights Templar.’
Suddenly Gabrielle felt cold. The warmth of the late spring day in Newport felt pleasant yet the sound of that name made the hairs on her arms stand like pinpricks. She wrapped herself in the soft linen covers, her vision focused on Mark.
‘Tell her,’ Mike said.
Mark looked at Gabrielle, for the first time with sympathy. ‘Yesterday I visited Diana Devére in Mauritius. She has a holiday villa there and, equally important, it is where Mikael Devére was murdered. While no witnesses or even fingerprints were found at the scene, we do know that Gullet was on the island earlier that day and from the facts we have uncovered from Mikael Devére’s safe, we now know why Gullet carried out the murder.’
Gabrielle nodded as he finished. ‘That doesn’t particularly surprise me.’
Mark’s expression hardened. ‘Well what I’m about to tell you certainly will. You will probably not believe me. You will be horrified, yet I assure you I am telling the truth. But hopefully, with your cooperation, we can help make sure no one else will get hurt.’
He paused momentarily.
‘For over fifty years we have believed the Rite of Larmenius to be responsible for the murders of over two thousand people since the end of the war but until recently no one knew why. Thanks to you, however, we have finally managed to make connections. Every murder they have ever committed has been on the orders of an organisation that until recently no one knew even exists. They operate in secret yet their members include public figures: important people, politicians, people you see on television regularly: members of the media; businessmen; even royalty. No one who has come to learn of this society has lived to tell the tale. Many may have tried but each has wound up dead. Once someone becomes a member they have no choice but to abide by the rules. They have an extensive surveillance network and have been watching you throughout. They are more than an organisation. They are the most influential figures on the planet.’
Gabrielle looked at him, her focus intent.
‘You see, Ms. Leoni, these Knights Templar are everything you suspect. Their story begins centuries ago. It will undoubtedly continue as long as it remains secret. Its origins are said to go back to the original order and since 1307. These men have secretly been manipulating history for over seven hundred years. Even to this day. They have funded wars, assassinated monarchs: they even brought about the Declaration of Independence and the French Revolution. They have compiled extensive data on every politician, businessman, and person of influence throughout the world. They have rigged some elections, funded politicians, including many US presidents and European presidents and prime ministers. Any bribes are paid in the secrecy of Swiss bank accounts and they have ordered the assassinations of every major opponent. All for one extreme purpose.’
‘What do you mean elections are controlled? How can you possibly know this?’
<
br /> ‘Mrs. Devére showed me. Mikael Devére had evidence. They are a shadow government for all of the important governments of the world. Including his own tenure.’
Gabrielle looked at Mark, bewildered. ‘You can’t be serious.’
Mark looked philosophically at her and nodded. ‘Exactly. Mikael Devére was a Templar.’
Randy Lewis settled comfortably into the easy chair, located next to the bed of his hotel room in downtown Charlotte and looked with vague interest at the television. The Orioles were seven to two up against the Blue Jays at the bottom of the seventh at Camden Yards, and the MLS game between D.C. United and the New England Revolution would be on immediately afterwards. In his left hand he held a glass of whiskey, recently poured from a small bottle acquired from the mini-bar.
With his jacket folded over the chair, and his collar loose, he relaxed momentarily, sipping the whiskey slowly. Despite the fine taste the liquid offered no relief.
He picked up his mobile phone and navigated his text messages. He read the newest one for the umpteenth time. Fairbanks had something to say to him: but only in the privacy of the hotel’s multi-storey car park at ten-thirty.
He had three hours to wait, but at least it was something. Maybe the day wasn’t a complete waste after all.
43
Gabrielle gazed aimlessly through the small glass window of the closed door. Outside, the Vatican policeman continued to walk across her eye line. Clearly out of hearing range, the man sipped coffee from a cardboard cup at irregular intervals and ambled casually, out of sequence for a policeman, as if he was a visitor waiting for the patient’s family to leave before making an entrance. His presence provided security without drawing unnecessary attention.
Gabrielle looked at Mike, as if looking for clarification. Perhaps it was all make-believe, the most horrible of dreams. Or maybe this was the best news they could have hoped for. In a strange way she was relieved, at least she had not imagined it.
The Templar Agenda Page 41
