The Templar Agenda

by John Paul Davis

  Inside, the chamber was immaculate: decorated in the character of the Renaissance. High ceilings provided a pleasant airiness and brightness reflected by the light wall colourings.

  In the far corner of the room, Cardinal Tepilo was sitting quietly dressed in the pristine attire of his rank. He had a radiant peacefulness about him in keeping with his usual façade. His head was bent forward sacredly and his eyes were closed: to an outsider he gave the impression that he was at prayer.

  Although seemingly oblivious to the intrusion, the ageing cardinal detected all was not well. He remained unmoved for several seconds before turning towards Thierry. He opened his eyes slowly as though struggling to adjust to the light. He presented a cold expression distinctly offering displeasure at being disturbed. He folded his arms but remained seated.

  ‘Oberst,’ he said slowly.

  Thierry forced a smile. ‘Forgive the intrusion, eminence, but His Holiness has asked for you.’

  Neither Pessotto nor the halberdiers offered any hint of emotion or eye contact. The guards carried halberds in their right hands, appropriate for their rank, and dressed in the famous tri-coloured uniform. Each man was smartly presented, intensively drilled and standing to attention.

  The cardinal rose cautiously, maintaining eye contact with Thierry. He turned his attention to Pessotto and then the soldiers on either side. On this occasion he felt strangely threatened by their presence. He looked again at Pessotto. There was something different in the commander’s eyes.

  ‘May I take your arm to assist your journey?’ Thierry asked politely.

  Tepilo retreated slightly, displaying a look of discomfort. The wrinkles on his forehead seemed to thicken mysteriously as his facial expression changed.

  ‘No, no,’ he said, with good nature. ‘Thank you, thank you, my friend.’

  Thierry nodded reverently and smiled at the cardinal. He raised his left hand in the direction of the open doorway as though offering the cardinal right of way. He waited for the cardinal to pass and pointed with his right hand to the guards. Tepilo fired a piercing glare at Pessotto which was returned with a smile.

  Mike sprinted up the steep steps leading to the pinnacle of the dome and exited onto the ledge at the summit. His heart thundered with exhaustion and his eyes were blurred with dizziness. Over thirty-six hours without sleep had taken its toll and the physical strain of climbing the dome was unwelcome. Pilgrims come from all over the world to scale the famous landmark for the privilege of looking across the city from the centre of Christianity only to find on arrival the arduous climb was beyond them. And those that did complete it usually took their time on the way down.

  Mike inhaled deeply, attempting to catch his breath. The clean air felt pleasant on his lungs and his pulse rate began to slow. His body craved rest but adrenaline forced him to concentrate. He rubbed his eyes and his vision improved.

  Mike considered the nearby surroundings and saw nothing obviously wrong. After satisfying himself that there was no threat he inhaled once more, continuing to gaze out across the square.

  Hundreds of metres below in the distance the crowd appeared as little more than smudges, marking the square with every colour of the spectrum. In the centre of the square, hoards of pilgrims were gathered around the Egyptian obelisk, once part of the Circus of Nero, and hundreds more around the two fountains on opposite sides of the square. The summits of the buildings were deserted, as always during an audience, with the exception of countless stone statues lining the brownish coloured roof at regular intervals overlooking the square.

  He looked across the other side and saw that it was deserted. Seeing the area was secure, he switched his attention to the roof directly below him. That was also clear.

  He diverted his attention directly below, scanning the sloping roof at the centre. Carefully, he examined the outer buildings, their chimney-shaped features offering no obvious signs of life.

  Finally his eyes moved onto the front area where a further thirteen statues overlooked the square, denoting eleven of the apostles, standing either side of Christ, accompanied by John the Baptist. The stone figures stood elegantly, their backs facing him. He scanned each one, left to right, finishing at the clock.

  Something was wrong, very wrong.

  Crouched down on the right side with a perfect view of the square, a Swiss Guard in Medici uniform was holding a firearm.

  Instinct directed his actions. Mike about-turned and sprinted down the steps at a frantic and unsafe pace. Nearly losing his footing with every step, he jumped the final seven and felt a shooting pain rise from his right ankle travelling all the way to his knee. His bone was rigid with pain but still he refused to stop. His heart thundered and his mind raced with anticipation.

  As he approached the final door, his pace quickened. Fresh air entered his lungs as he crossed the red-brown roof at speed. In a trancelike state he failed to acknowledge the presence of the Pope’s helicopter flying overhead in the direction of the official heliport. A large cheer went up across the crowd as the anticipation grew.

  Mike darted in a zigzag direction between the lifts before slowing to a walking pace. For the first time he felt the heaviness in his legs brought on from a combination of pain and fatigue. He took brief cover behind the final lift and looked with interest at the Swiss Guard. His mind raced with hard questions, questions that he would love to ask, answers he wanted to know. With each passing step his breathing heightened and his heart rate started to pick up.

  As he approached the man he inhaled deeply to regain composure and slowed his pace to a tiptoe. He walked alongside Bernini’s bell tower and came to a metal railing. In front of him the Swiss Guard maintained his view across the square.

  Mike inhaled slowly, realising that the Swiss Guard was oblivious to his presence. He used the wall to assist him across the barrier and landed with sloping feet, his footfalls making no noise on the solid surface. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end and in his mind the noise of his beating heart resonated loudly across the square. Carefully he removed his SIG P75 from inside his jacket pocket and pointed it at the Swiss Guard crouching less than five feet away. He cocked the weapon with a clicking sound.

  The traitor blinked. Slowly, he moved his head to the left.

  ‘Every Swiss Guard who turns bad always ends up being caught,’ Mike said. ‘I don’t think you’ve got very good odds.’

  The traitor slowly turned, unveiling his face. ‘Personally, I kinda like betting on the outsiders.’

  A sudden knotting sensation hit Mike all over.

  It was Stan.

  Gabrielle banged loudly on the office door of Thierry de Courten, arousing the attention of a nearby halberdier. She shouted incessantly at the closed door, failing to accept that the office was empty.

  The Swiss Guard approached yet he was unprepared for what happened next. The authority of the woman was unrivalled and he felt surprisingly insignificant in her presence. More disturbing were the words that left her mouth.

  ‘Follow me,’ he said. Seconds later they were sprinting along the corridor.

  60

  Mike stood rigidly, his eyes focused on the traitor. He raised his right arm slowly and aimed his firearm squarely at his face.

  Neither said a word. As Mike inhaled deeply the traitor looked up from his seated position on the ledge and tightened his grip on the rifle with his enormous hands.

  ‘Drop your weapon, Stan.’

  Studer raised his eyebrows, his expression one of uncertainty. He considered his options but, for the present, remained still.

  ‘Don’t look so worried, Mike. It’s not got any bullets.’

  Mike watched, his eyes focused on the weapon. The design was similar to most sniper rifles but the barrel was strange, unlike any other he had seen.

  Stan removed the ammunition, more a dart than a bullet. ‘Barbiturate, paralytic and potassium solution. The effects appear harmless. But when it penetrates the skin they are like those used to exe
cute an American convict. Pretty amazing, huh?’

  Mike’s expression hardened. ‘Drop it.’

  Stan eyed him closely, pausing momentarily before throwing his rifle to the floor. The worried expression on his face turned to an icy smile. He nodded philosophically.

  ‘Well I gotta hand it to you, Frei. You found me out. How did you know?’

  Mike did not reply straightaway. Inside he was struggling to contain the shock. Of all the possible candidates none could have surprised him more.

  Yet strangely it all made sense.

  ‘Obvious really,’ Mike said, kicking the sniper rifle several metres away. ‘It took me a while to put all the pieces together. I felt pretty stupid when I worked it out.’

  A ghost of a smile crossed his face.

  ‘The night I met Gabrielle. It never really clicked that you knew Velis and de Bois.’

  Stan nodded.

  ‘Until now it never really dawned on me that I often saw you walking with Cardinal Tepilo.’

  He lifted his beret and replaced it on his head. ‘I tip my hat.’

  Mike nodded. ‘Plus, I saw you limping around a little bit the day after the attack on Gabrielle. I guess that must’ve hurt?’

  The traitor’s face turned to hatred. ‘So where is the rich bitch?’

  Mike hit Stan across the face with the outside of his right hand. The Swiss Preceptor fell to the floor, his left elbow taking the impact of the fall. He looked up at Mike and spat, his spit landing just in front of him. Slowly he rearranged himself.

  ‘Assaulting a superior,’ he said, spitting in reflex. ‘Lemme guess, you’re in love with her?’

  ‘Keep still,’ he said, gun at the ready.

  The traitor remained on his knees. He looked at Mike without speaking for several seconds.

  ‘Well, I have to congratulate you, Frei.’

  Mike looked confused.

  ‘That’s right. I congratulate you. You see, the Knights Templar have continued to exist for over seven hundred years. I know; I was as surprised as you are. And no one had ever realised. But you found out.’

  Mike’s facial expression hardened. He looked down at his friend, yet it was different. It was almost as though he was looking at the man for the first time.

  ‘Yeah, I did.’

  Stan smiled. ‘Always knew you had an eye for detail, Frei. And I heard about your performance at Newport. Ludo Gullet was most impressed. He said we could do with a guy like you.’

  Mike remained rigid, a look of hatred dominating his face. ‘So you’re the Templars’ insider. You were the guy they needed. Rippling with honours and equipped with all the necessary capabilities and security clearance.’ Mike shook his head. ‘Why?’

  ‘Come on, Frei – is it really that difficult to understand?’

  ‘Understand? Understand that you’re a traitor?’

  ‘Traitor?’ Stan said, appearing to be hurt. ‘Now that’s an odd word, Frei. The Vatican and the Templars aren’t really enemies. I mean, think about it. The Templars fought for Christianity in the Crusades. The Rite of Larmenius acts in the best interests of Christianity now. Our mission was to bring the two together again. Lunacy and greed forced them apart. In the real world, one cannot really exist without the other. Perhaps you’re still too naïve to understand.’

  There was a peculiar smugness in his voice. It was manipulative yet also quite secure. Strangely it was not evil. To Mike, Stan probably felt he was part of a virtuous cause.

  ‘I’d hardly call the loss of three thousand innocent lives since the end of the war as acting in the best interests of Christianity.’

  Stan raised his eyebrows philosophically. ‘I guess you are too naïve to understand.’

  Mike shook his head. ‘Ludo Gullet,’ he said under his breath. ‘Is that why you’re here: to finish the job he failed? How many others have you killed?’

  ‘Oh, come on, Frei. You look at me as if I’m a rapist or a paedo. You don’t think I enjoy this. I’m a soldier, not a murderer. You know what I’m made of. We’re of the same mettle, you and me. I mean, say a terrorist was driving a car into the Pope? You’d have to try and kill the terrorist, right?’

  ‘That’s hardly the same.’

  ‘Ah, but imagine the terrorist was in fact a cardinal?’

  Mike raised his eyebrows slightly. ‘Funny you should mention that. Because it seems that’s exactly what is happening.’

  Stan laughed. ‘Cardinal Tepilo is no terrorist. Just imagine, God himself as Pope.’

  Mike nodded, aware his reference to Cardinal Tepilo as God was not uncommon. His reputation among the Vatican as the most pious of characters would hardly find opposition, at least until earlier that day. In Mike’s eyes, only Cardinal Utaka would be more appropriate.

  ‘Was this his idea? Is that why Cardinal Faukes was killed?’

  ‘No. It was really more of a group decision.’

  Mike bit his lip. ‘How about Major von Sonnerberg? Was that a group decision too? Or did you just fancy a promotion?’

  A wry smile. ‘Sonnerberg knew too much. Besides, the Pope has less than twelve months to live anyhow. It would’ve happened anyway, Frei.’

  ‘Then why all this?’

  ‘It wouldn’t have been necessary if you hadn’t come along and spoilt everything. Fortunately the poison works fast, when fired precisely a small sharp entry into the hair leaves little trace. As far as the world will know he’s died from a simple cardiac arrest. Pretty elaborate I appreciate, but thanks to you necessary. It’s a shame you had to meddle in things that don’t concern you.’

  Suddenly Stan laughed.

  ‘But then again you did locate a few of our old manuscripts. Now that’s particularly fascinating. Even Alexander Broadie didn’t know exactly what had become of the second Zeno diary.’

  Mike nodded. ‘Yeah, I hear he was a bit of a dimwit. Couldn’t work it out himself. He needed a socialite and a Swiss Guard to find it.’

  ‘On the contrary, my friend.’

  ‘I’m not your friend.’

  Stan laughed again, this time briefer than before. He shrugged his shoulders then his expression became somewhat philosophical. Finally, he held out his hands with the palms facing upwards.

  ‘As a matter of fact Alexander Broadie was the first to twig. Remarkable man. Shame about some of his friends.’

  ‘It will grieve you I’m sure to learn that he’s dead.’

  Stan looked up quietly. An awkward expression spread across his face.

  ‘Committed suicide in his office; I heard it over the radio on the way here.’

  ‘Nice try, Frei.’

  ‘No, it’s true. So is Velis actually. Saw that one with my own eyes.’

  Stan spat on the floor.

  ‘De Bois threw himself out of a window. D’Amato shot himself in Senate. They know about Parker. Gullet. Cardinal Tepilo. As a matter of fact he’s being taken away as we speak,’ he said not realising his own accuracy.

  Stan failed to reply. He bit his lip, notably shaken. He looked at Mike and saw rigidity in his face: a stern expressionless stance demonstrating no information or emotion. That’s the way they train you.

  Stan looked at Mike and laughed. ‘Pretty weak, Frei.’

  ‘Stan, as of yesterday the Knights Templar no longer exists. Every member is either arrested or dead. You are all that remains.’

  Still kneeling, Stan looked across the roof and spat in front of Mike. Next his attention turned to the sky.

  ‘There are thousands of people in this square. Do you have any idea what would have happened if you’d succeeded? There would be mass panic. Rioting in the streets. God knows what else…’

  Without warning, a cheer went up across the crowd, catching Mike momentarily off guard. With this, the traitor leapt from the traps and the Swiss Guard came crashing down. Blood spewed from the right side of Mike’s head as he came into contact with the floor while a crushing sensation inflamed his pelvis.

  Momentarily daze
d, Mike rolled in a reflex action and launched a powerful right arm at Stan. In the confusion, Mike’s SIG P75 had rolled across the roof, sliding against the rail and out of reach. With limited options the pair tussled, arms locked together. After several seconds of deadlock, Mike released his grip and punched Studer in the nose.

  Blood flew on impact across Mike’s face. With swift retaliation, Studer launched a left hook at Mike and the Swiss Guard sergeant rolled several metres to the left. The blow left him disorientated. He saw little, but felt coldness on his face. Turning onto his back, he scanned his surroundings quickly and saw his firearm. Without hesitation he hurried towards it. Stan jumped over him and did the same.

  Both dived simultaneously.

  Down below, the crowds celebrated as the Pope made his way through St. Peter’s Square in the Popemobile. Pilgrims cheered, cameras flashed, hands waved and smiles covered thousands of faces as the kindly figure of the current pontiff waved to the crowd.

  Up above, Mike and Stan wrestled. The gun was now in Mike’s hand, but attempts to aim failed; the traitor’s grip was strong. Studer elbowed Mike in the jaw and the gun flew towards the ledge, coming to a stop just before the wall. Studer launched a punch. Mike rolled. Stan hit his hand against the concrete and shouted out in pain. Mike regained his composure and caught Studer off guard. Two punches to the stomach made him lose balance. With all his strength, Mike dived at Stan and knocked him to the floor. Blows to the liver, kidneys and neck left bruises. Blood seeped from the nose.

  The sound of boots running in unison echoed loudly from the left side of the roof. Mike looked quickly. Thierry was sprinting in the company of Mark, Alessandro and over twenty Swiss Guards including halberdiers, korporals and wachtmeisters, each man armed with Heckler and Kochs. Thierry’s face showed surprise for less than a second before turning to firmness that presented complete authority. He looked at the Swiss Guards wrestling and raised his weapon.