The Templar Agenda

by John Paul Davis

  Velis looked quickly over his shoulder, examining the position of the helicopter. He turned his glance to Pieterson and smiled like a madman, pushing the gun to Gabrielle’s lips. He shouted at the Feds as they continued to encroach and then at Pieterson. The procedure was simple and most of the time he knew it would work. Let them get on the helicopter or the hostage dies.

  Gullet opened the door to the helicopter and shouted at Velis. Velis shouted at Tepilo then at Pieterson. With each passing second the squad was getting nearer.

  ‘One more move and I’ll fire,’ Velis shouted, ramming the gun into Gabrielle’s cheek.

  Pieterson paused momentarily then ordered the squad to cease movement. It wouldn’t happen: he knew that. He, too, was a pro. Velis had a hostage but if he killed her then he in turn would be killed. This usually worked.

  Compromise.

  Velis fired a wild shot into the eastern sky and aimed the gun at Gabrielle.

  ‘Louis, please. Let her go,’ Tepilo said.

  ‘Get on the fucking helicopter.’

  Tepilo hesitated momentarily, slowly nearing the edge of the cliff. Gullet pushed forward on the controls, lowering the helicopter to less than a foot above the ground. Velis trod with care, practically carrying Gabrielle. His eyes focused on Tepilo.

  ‘Don’t do this,’ Velis said.

  ‘Louis, let her go. She has done nothing wrong.’

  ‘Get onboard now.’

  Tepilo grimaced, heading slowly towards the open door. As he neared the door he grabbed Gullet’s outstretched hand and took a seat nearest the window.

  ‘Now hear this,’ Velis shouted at Pieterson, ‘lay down your weapons or she’s dead.’

  With his revolver jammed into the back of her neck, Velis held Gabrielle tightly. Standing not a metre from the edge, Gabrielle felt a sharp pain as she attempted to exhale against the heavy wind. Down below, she could see the waves breaking against the cliff causing rocks to fly up to a considerable height before crashing back down again at the cliff’s base. The lack of air entering her lungs mixed with trepidation of peering down from the great height gave rise to a feeling of dizziness enhanced by the humming of the chopper’s blades.

  Showing little emotion, Pieterson reluctantly agreed. He ordered every officer to comply and all did except for Mike. Pieterson growled at the Swiss Guard but Mike’s eyes remained set on Velis. His eyes suggested focus.

  He could make this shot.

  Mark sprinted forward. ‘Mike, come on, it’s not worth risking her life.’

  Mike looked at Gabrielle. He bit his lip. With every passing second he felt his hatred for Velis becoming greater. He remained rigid for several seconds. Inhaling deeply, he eventually placed his weapon on the floor and took a step back.

  Velis smiled. With his eyes focused on the uniforms, he took a few steps toward the chopper. From an inside seat, the Camerlengo was leaning forward, a worried expression dominating his face. He eased towards the doorway and offered Gabrielle his hand. Then, in the blink of an eye, Velis fired at Pieterson. Gabrielle forced herself free from his grasp. Slowly, she fell towards the edge of the cliff.

  57

  As motion and gravity took her towards the edge, she lost control of her legs. A strange floating sensation overcame her as she lost all composure and understanding. She closed her eyes and held her breath.

  She crashed down with a thump, surely too soon to have hit the rocks. Next she heard gunfire. Instinctively she covered her head and rolled blindly. Sounds of panic followed. She heard screaming, somehow distant, then nothing but a buzzing sound.

  Next thing she knew she was on her back. She opened her eyes and blinked rapidly, her vision distorted by sunlight. Up above, the helicopter was departing, flying at speed in the direction of Maine. She ascended to her knees and turned her head, her mind racing, still unsure what had happened. In the ensuing seconds the Feds had regained control and bullets sprayed into Velis’s chest. As the bullets penetrated the banker’s body he looked aimlessly in all directions. He lost all feeling and balance as the force of the bullets took him backwards and his gun fell to the ground.

  Up above him the sunlight was blinding. The blades of the chopper somehow seemed to turn in slow motion then in chequered movements as it moved away from the coast. Velis saw his escape route fading away. Only now did he realise he was falling, eventually coming to an end on the rocks.

  Mike sprinted to Gabrielle, his firearm now safely within his jacket. He placed his hands on Gabrielle’s shoulders and looked down at the back of her neck. After standing silently for several seconds, he felt the soft touch of her delicate hands on his. Strangely they were not trembling. She no longer seemed to be afraid. Instead a rigid determination had overtaken her: it was the way he had always known her and was fast coming to love.

  Gabrielle turned, still on her knees, and looked up at Mike. In the background she could see Alessandro and Mark helping Pieterson remove his armour. He had caught one in the chest but the bullet-resistant vest had taken the force. Knowing he was safe she smiled. She looked to her left. In the distance she could see the helicopter now resembling little more than a dot on the horizon.

  She rose slowly to her feet and looked at Mike in the eye. For several seconds they held one another’s gaze.

  ‘We have to go,’ she said urgently. ‘The Templars are planning on making Cardinal Tepilo the Pope. I think His Holiness is in danger.’

  A look of surprise overcame Mike. In the heat of the moment he sought to dismiss the idea but in the light of recent events he knew anything was possible. Many had already been killed, including a former President of France. And he knew they had tried twice before: once succeeding.

  He nodded at Gabrielle and grabbed her hand. It was approaching 3pm.

  On the 15th floor of the Starvel headquarters in Boston, Gilbert de Bois sprinted back and forth around his desk, searching in vain for an escape route. Outside the office, the banging on the door was becoming louder as the four uniformed officers attempted to force an entry. All four were armed, while the leader held an arrest warrant in his hand and read off a list of charges as if he was listing the specials at a restaurant. The media mogul was facing ten years for the fraud alone, but conspiracy to murder.

  They’d throw away the key.

  Left with little choice, de Bois opened the window as far as he could and looked down with anguish at the sight of downtown Boston fifteen storeys below. He looked back at the locked door and realised time was almost up. Slowly, he placed his right leg outside the window and inhaled deeply. He remembered the words of Cardinal Tepilo.

  ‘And if we should fail our lives shall become forfeit and the Temple of Solomon shall burn to the ground like our predecessors before us until such a time when a new phoenix is born arising from the flames.

  ‘And may the Lord have mercy.’

  In the nearby City of Cambridge, the summer’s day had been warm and pleasant. On the campus of Harvard University, students walked casually in short sleeved t-shirts and girls in their summer clothes. Groups of up to fifteen sat quietly on the grassy areas eating and drinking, reading, chatting or standing tossing American footballs, frisbees or baseballs to one another as they passed the time carelessly.

  Meanwhile, in a locked office in Robinson, Professor Alexander Broadie was slouched backwards in his chair. A smoking revolver lay at a random position on the floor, previously gripped in his right hand that now hung lifelessly over the edge of his chair. A strange dripping sound was occurring at regular intervals, similar to the sound of a tap. Around the base of the chair a large pool of red liquid was beginning to appear slowly seeping across the floor in the direction of the locked door.

  The Swiss headquarters of Renouf, Anderson and Klose was largely uninhabited by 8pm. Every office on the ninth floor was locked and appeared deserted. No one was there to hear the sound of a lone revolver coming from the office of Jurgen Klose.

  In a large estate, situated somewhere in the
English countryside, the butler of the former Chancellor of the Exchequer walked powerfully down the long gallery. In his hands he carried a large plate of biscuits, milk, sugar and recently made tea. His destination: the library.

  He knocked once on the large wooden door and waited for a response. Seconds later he knocked again, this time calling out his master’s name. It was unlike his master to ignore him in this way.

  The door to the library opened, its ancient frame creaking on its hinges. Seconds later the plate hit the floor.

  In the evening light the shadow of the room cast eerily across the far wall, moving from side to side. He did not need to examine the room to see the figure hanging in the noose was his master.

  In Washington D.C. Danny D’Amato checked his watch for the umpteenth time in quick succession. Yawning momentarily, he slouched back in his chair and looked without interest across the Senate Chamber located within the Capitol building. The Democrat from Illinois had been talking for well over forty-five minutes and D’Amato had lost interest. There was at least another hour to go.

  He watched the presiding officer sitting, gavel in hand, and looking with interest at the senator in speech. Seconds later, his phone vibrated in his pocket, catching the attention of the ageing senator to his right.

  He removed his phone and looked at the text.

  Suddenly he was worried.

  D’Amato cleared his throat as a reflex and looked nervously over his right shoulder. For the first time he noticed uniformed guards standing inside the closed door looking at him.

  Pausing momentarily, he considered his options. He remained still for several seconds before ascending casually to his feet. He pushed through the crowd to his left, nearly knocking over the antique desk occupied by the Senator for Wisconsin. He passed three others before noticing the next gathering of uniformed guards waiting less than ten metres away at the end of the row.

  Suddenly the air felt stifling. Now silently panicked, D’Amato turned slowly and walked back the way he came. The nearby occupants slowed his progress, causing him to make contact with their desks. Their reactions were obvious. The presiding officer glanced away from the standing Democrat and gazed up at the Republican from Montana pushing his way through the crowd.

  Three men were following D’Amato, and two more waited at the other end. The American Preceptor turned quickly and searched the floor for exits. He was surrounded on both sides.

  To his right he saw one guard closing in. As discretion gave way to loud panic, he kicked him quickly and sprinted to his left. The Democrat on the floor had now stopped speaking and all eyes turned to D’Amato as he sought to evade the passing men.

  He reached the end of the row and stopped abruptly before the next guard. Five officers on either side surrounded him. He removed a Smith and Wesson secreted inside his suit and cocked the trigger. In the upper tier observers moved frantically, some attempting to leave as they watched with shock.

  He moved quickly away from the nearest guards, attempting to think of an escape route. He pointed it in one direction, then in the other.

  Finally he pointed it at himself.

  Mark closed his mobile phone with frustration. ‘Still no answer,’ he said after failing to contact Commissario Pessotto or Thierry.

  Mike looked at his watch and then out through the helicopter window across the night sky. A feeling of nervous anticipation dominated his stomach. Three hours until they would land in Rome.

  But that might not be soon enough.

  58

  Rome

  The sun glowed ominous red when it rose that morning. Shopkeepers recited the red sky at morning prophecy to their early customers as they purchased groceries and newspapers before making their way through the deserted streets to continue with their errands. By 10am the pleasant early morning coolness had risen to scorching temperatures of over 28º Celsius, and the red sun had returned to its regular yellow-orange as it continued to rise through the cloudless sky.

  It was a typical Wednesday morning in Rome. Cars made slow progress along gridlocked streets: fans were blowing on the highest setting, windows were down and horns were honking as the drivers waited impatiently for the traffic to clear. On the metro commuters stood rigidly, packed like sardines in overcrowded carriages, their arms grabbing the metal rails while guarding their pockets from thieves. An overpowering stench of coffee filled the morning air, marked with the unpleasant odours of sweat and stickiness brought about by the stuffy conditions.

  In the nearby Vatican City, pilgrims were gathering in St. Peter’s Square as they did every Wednesday. Thousands upon thousands of faithful Catholics, both men and women from all nations and occupations, spoke with strangers, displaying friendliness and good Christianity toward one another as they soaked up the atmosphere in anticipation of the arrival of the Pope.

  Across the crowd, cameras flashed, mobile phones were held aloft, hands waved and certain groups chanted and sang; women were dressed in summer clothes, while men dressed in all sorts ranging from suits to polo necks of all colours, many wearing baseball caps or sunglasses, willingly enduring the muggy conditions for the once in a lifetime Mass with the Vicar of Christ.

  On either side of courtyard, water sparkled in the sunlight as it splashed from the famous fountains creating a pleasant trickling sound. High above the square, the dome of St. Peter’s stood dominantly in the clear blue sky, basking in a unique orange colour that also reflected onto the many stone pillars that lined the building as it reflected the sunlight.

  All in all there was a lovely togetherness and purity about the occasion that was unique to a Papal Audience. Within thirty minutes he would arrive and the tens of thousands of pilgrims would celebrate with delight.

  In a large chamber nearby, Cardinal Tepilo spoke quietly with the Preceptor of Switzerland. His hands were cupped together thoughtfully as though he was in prayer. Listening intently, the preceptor nodded philosophically. He prepared himself for the matter at hand.

  59

  There was no time for the official heliport. Located among gardens to the west of the basilica, the heliport was approximately one kilometre away from the square, impossible to navigate in the Wednesday traffic. Hundreds of feet below, the crowd waved expectantly at the helicopter as it flew overhead from the southwest, changing direction over the dome. From the ground, the gathering thousands could hear but not see the helicopter descend in height behind the dome, hovering for several seconds before heading off at speed towards the west.

  Agent Gregore lowered the helicopter over the dome and allowed the other four to disembark. Mark came first. He opened the door slightly and jumped from about four feet onto the flat roof, bending his knees on impact.

  Gabrielle came second, jumping almost straight into Mark who stood expectantly with his arms held out wide. He caught her on impact and released her immediately.

  Alessandro followed, his long locks of blond hair blowing under the force of the chopper.

  Mike disembarked last. He closed the door with his right hand on landing and waved at Gregore that he was clear to move on. Seconds later the pilot climbed in height and disappeared, leaving the four passengers standing on the roof.

  Mark dialled his mobile phone once more and failed to get a reply. Throughout the flight he attempted ceaselessly to contact Thierry or Commissario Pessotto but to no avail. He shook his head. He failed to understand where the commanders would be: particularly on a Wednesday. He looked at his watch. It was nearly time to begin.

  ‘Alright,’ he said as the humming of the chopper faded. ‘Sandro, you hit the floor. Inform whoever you see that there is a genuine threat. Mike and I will search the roof.’

  ‘What can I do?’ Gabrielle said, using her right hand to shield her eyes from the sun.

  ‘Find the oberst or Commissario Pessotto.’

  Wasting no time, Alessandro sprinted across the roof towards an open doorway leading into the dome and made his way in the wrong direction through the one-w
ay system. He descended several steps in quick succession and sprinted along a winding corridor past an unsuspecting guard. He continued down more steps and into the heart of the dome. Over the rail the sun shone brightly through the window of the Holy dove, causing shadows across the Throne of Peter. He checked his watch as he ran.

  Time was precious.

  Gabrielle followed closely, doing brilliantly to keep up with Alessandro. Unsure of where she was heading, she passed the unsuspecting guard who shouted at her. She ignored him and continued to the base of the stairs.

  Mike and Mark separated immediately and began searching the outer dome. Mike ascended stairs in the opposite direction to Alessandro while Mark searched the present floor. Both kept an eagle eye out for any possible threat.

  Yet what they were looking for was still unclear.

  Crouched behind the ancient statue, his view was perfect. Dressed in the uniform of the Swiss Guard no one would suspect him: he was just an extra vigilant form of security aiming to ensure every angle was covered.

  The Swiss Preceptor adjusted his lens and looked with interest across the crowd. In a few minutes it would all be over. Carefully he set up his sniper rifle.

  In the nearby Apostolic Palace, Thierry de Courten jogged for about one hundred yards along the deserted corridor until coming to a standstill before a closed door. He waited a couple of seconds for Commissario Pessotto and the four halberdiers to catch him before lining the guards up two by two on either side of the door. He whispered instructions in a huddle before gently knocking on the door. After pausing for less than a second, he opened it without hearing a response.