by D C Macey
‘That’ll be Sam,’ said Grace.
‘Right, come on. Quick, let’s put the base away in the tunnel again for now and get on our way; we’ll look at it properly once everyone gets back.’
• • •
Cassiter climbed the now familiar steps. The guards, the bag carrier, his escort, nothing had changed. Except, this time his arrival was marked by Parsol’s appearance at the head of the steps. He was smiling, hand outstretched. Cassiter took the hand and then, after the warmest of greetings, the two men walked into the chateau.
Cassiter’s bag was carried up to his bedroom while Parsol guided him straight into the opulent study. It was in this room where he had first been let into Parsol’s inner circle. But he was mindful he had not been let too far in. Taking his seat, Cassiter declined wine, settling for sparkling water and a sharp mind.
Parsol went to his wall safe and discreetly executed an elaborate sequence to unlock and open it; codes, locks, alarms and finally a thumb scan combined to release the door. He swung it open and withdrew a small wooden case that he placed on the desk and then carefully opened it. The inside was lined with plush blue velvet padding; there were slots to hold things.
Cassiter’s jaundiced eye assessed it as a cutlery canteen. True, a special canteen, but canteen nonetheless. It had been made to hold a set of knives or daggers and he could see several, housed snuggly in their designated slots. He could see several gaps too.
Parsol stared almost reverentially at the box. He allowed his hand to glide across it and then looked up at Cassiter. ‘Well?’ he asked, straightening up, expectant.
‘My teams have been busy since we last met.’
‘So I understand. I had been a little concerned over what direction you would choose to take. But now, so much, so quickly. May I see?’
Cassiter had spent some time weighing up how much he should tell Parsol. Finally, he decided the information was of no use without Parsol’s insight. While he was quite aware that Parsol had not told him everything, he decided his best advantage was to run with Parsol’s expectations.
He reached inside his briefcase and pulled out a clear plastic packet. The label read Sandefjord. The dagger inside was accompanied by a neatly printed sheet of paper, providing a detailed account of its gathering and a list of the five Norwegian lives disposed of in the process - the lives didn’t matter, just incidental account items to be charged and settled.
Parsol picked up the package, held it up and beamed. ‘Excellent. Very good, and Sandefjord. Who would have thought it?’ He carefully opened the package and pulled out the dagger, allowed his hand to slide across the silver, tracing part of the pattern and then looked back at Cassiter. ‘You said you had retrieved more. What else have you got?’
‘This is very special,’ said Cassiter, pulling out another clear plastic package. It too contained a dagger and printed sheet with the retrieval details. ‘I only received it this morning. My team took it during the weekend. Took it from somebody you and I know only too well.’
‘Oh?’ said Parsol as he put down the Norwegian dagger and reached for the new packet. ‘How so?’
‘It belonged to the two priests who wrecked our plans in Edinburgh.’
‘Ah ha. The Latins. This explains their involvement. I have wondered a great deal about exactly what their connection to Edinburgh was.’ He paused for a moment, looking thoughtful. ‘Of course if they are formally connected to Edinburgh then that indicates there is a network against us. It is not just a scattering of ill-informed church people.
‘But this is the best of news. I hope the priests suffered, your people weren’t too easy on them. It’s not good practice to let our opponents survive. Especially those two. They did so much harm to our plans.’
‘The younger one had his head broken and the old one’s belly was opened. Unfortunately, my team had to evacuate early when the alarm was raised. So they didn’t finish things as I would have liked. My information is that both priests are in intensive care in Cagliari. I have somebody on location to tie up loose ends.’
‘Good, very good. Cassiter, you have excelled yourself. Every expectation is met, such progress could only have been dreamt of.’
Sensing his opportunity Cassiter pushed at Parsol. ‘Perhaps I would have done more, faster, had I known the full story. It’s difficult working with only half the facts.’
The smile vanished from Parsol’s face. He carefully placed the Sardinian dagger on the table and turned to look out of the study window. He stood silent and motionless for several minutes. Cassiter sat still watching, waiting.
‘My friend… I can call you that now, I think,’ said Parsol, still staring intently out of the window. ‘I have been cautious not to tell you everything because while we know knowledge is power, knowledge can also be very dangerous. For me and for you. You know I have always trusted you. If you now agree to join us formally, I will introduce you to my friends and tell you what else remains to be told.’
Parsol turned from the window and fixed Cassiter with a steely gaze. ‘You must understand, once you are in, you can never leave. For all your team’s special skills, they could never resist the weight of our organisation.’ He smiled a cold telling smile. ‘Like you, we view the rules as obstacles for others to contend with. Not something that constrains us. Think about it carefully. On the outside, you are useful to us, but always outside. Come in and you are part of us, always. You are staying tonight. In the morning, you can let me know your decision. If you agree to join us, I will tell you all you need to know over lunch with some very important people who are gathering here tomorrow.’
Cassiter held Parsol’s gaze. ‘Until the morning then,’ he said.
‘Good. Now I believe there is more for me to see.’
Cassiter pulled out a third plastic package. He handed it over, the contents less inspiring, a little picture snatched from the dean’s office at Hereford Cathedral.
Parsol took it. Looked carefully and smiled again. ‘It has a set of blade markings. The dagger?’
‘Lost long ago, we were fortunate to track this down.’
‘Fortunate, nothing. You are a magician my friend. The pattern is everything. The blade is lost yet still you produce the pattern.’
Cassiter accepted the compliment, did not attempt false modesty. He reached inside his briefcase again and pulled out the parish dagger. It was the great prize that Parsol needed. He slid it across the desk. ‘This is the one you wanted most, I think.’
Parsol leant forward and quickly pulled the dagger from its wrapper. With a cry of triumph, he held it up to the sunlit window and studied it carefully. ‘This is the one. This is the key. Perfect. Perfect!’
‘Well it makes little sense to me,’ said Cassiter. ‘But I’m sure you know what it means.’
Parsol nodded. Looking at the number sequence, he stroked the blade and, wanting to be alone with the new discoveries, started to draw the meeting to a close.
‘I’ll have something else for you tomorrow,’ said Cassiter, ‘pictures from Germany. But in the meantime, I’ve got these too.’ He pulled out the packet of notes and pictures taken from New College. ‘I’m not sure what the relevance is but the church people seemed very excited by it all.’
Parsol glanced at the packet, absently nodded an acknowledgement and promised to review it later. The meeting ended. Cassiter could tell that Parsol only had eyes for the parish dagger.
• • •
Sam steered the hire car into the hotel car park and came to a halt. It had been a long journey. A planned change of planes at Heathrow had been accompanied by a long and unplanned delay. A French air traffic controllers strike had once again clogged up the skies over Europe. It was nearly evening when the flight had finally landed at Cagliari and they had all agreed to head straight for the hotel. Everyone wanted to clean up and get something to eat before going on to the hospital.
CHAPTER 20 - WEDNESDAY 28th AUGUST
Zurich. Helen picked her case
off the carousel and made her way from arrivals into the airport concourse. She scanned the cluster of drivers holding up name cards, spotted her name and approached the holder. He was impeccably turned out in a crisp chauffeur’s uniform and immediately welcomed Helen with a warm smile while reaching for her case.
A first visit for Helen, she thought about asking the driver for some information but he was clearly focused on getting the big Mercedes through the traffic with the minimum of delay. Instead, she settled back and watched the scene unfold as the car rushed into the city. Suddenly, they were crossing a bridge. To her left hand was a broad expanse of water.
‘This is the Quaibrücke’ said the driver. ‘See on the right, that’s the Limmat River feeding into our lake, the Zürichsee.’ The driver nodded his head towards the broad waters. ‘You maybe call it Lake Zurich.’
As Helen took in the scene, the car left the bridge behind and turned right, muscling through the traffic and into the financial district. ‘If you get lost don’t worry. Remember the bridge; the bank and your hotel are only four hundred metres away. Here, up ahead, see.’
A couple of minutes later he was nudging the car to a halt halfway along a short street lined on both sides by old terraced buildings. Each was fronted with the same ornate dressed stone, similar windows, similar doors. Here and there, symmetry was broken where a café had rolled out its pavement canopy, but for the most part it was elegant anonymity.
The chauffeur jumped out and opened Helen’s door for her. She stepped out and he shut the door behind her before guiding her towards a doorway.
It took Helen a moment to realise she was at the bank. The discreet polished wooden doors were swung in and hooked open to allow free access to a pair of glazed inner doors, through which she could see a plush reception. Standing inside the glass doors were two men, wearing uniforms identical to the chauffeur’s. One stepped forward and opened the door for Helen. They were younger than her chauffeur, but she noticed them nod discreetly to him as he followed her in. The slightest flash of holster strap and the telltale bulge in their jackets told her these were security guards, not just doormen.
A lady behind the reception desk beamed a smile at her as she approached. ‘Miss Johnson. How nice of you to visit us. I hope you had a good flight.’
Helen nodded and smiled.
‘Herr Brenner is expecting you. Please, let me take you up to him.’ She stood, came from behind the desk and guided Helen towards a lift. Its doors slid open silently as they approached. ‘Simon will take your bag directly to the hotel for you. It’s just round the corner.’
Franz Brenner had appeared exactly as he had done on their first meeting earlier in the summer; perfectly turned out and impeccably polite. He was well aware of the horrors that had taken place in Norway but his normal calm air prevailed and exactly mirrored the atmosphere of his bank. This was like no bank Helen had ever been in - no cash machines, no tellers, she hadn’t seen any other customers.
They had spent an hour talking, going over various papers and signing documents; finally Franz had sent Helen away with a folder of papers to study and promises of dinner that evening in his home. Simon would collect her. In the meantime, his staff would process the documents that would formally consolidate her position as the trust account holder. Thereafter, she could access the safe deposit box that was stored in the bank’s vault.
• • •
There were perhaps thirty people ranged around the table. All men, all impeccably turned out and every one exuding an air of self-confidence; it sat very close to arrogance - businessmen, diplomats, politicians. The range of accents told him this was a multinational group but everyone spoke English during the meal.
Parsol sat at the head of the long table; Cassiter to his right hand. From his position at the dining table, Cassiter carefully reviewed the elegant room and its occupants. Parsol had stood at the start of the meal, called the group to order and introduced Cassiter to the guests. It seemed they all knew who he was and about the progress he had made. His formal induction had followed. It had started with a simple oath - secrecy and loyalty unto death. Cassiter was not overly concerned with oaths, and loyalty was not high on his list of priorities either, though he did approve of secrecy.
Today, he was intrigued to understand more about Parsol’s group and its strengths. Perhaps more pressing, he was aware of the damage and losses his own group had suffered over the summer. Many more manpower losses and his group might start to lose critical mass. Certainly, joining with Parsol offered the chance to offset that loss.
Earlier in the day, Parsol had briefed him on the organisation. It was not a masonic lodge, almost but not quite. Cassiter interpreted the description as an international spider’s web of rich and powerful men, self-serving, self-preserving. At its head was Parsol, the hereditary master. Many of the others around the table had inherited their places and wealth from fathers or grandfathers. A few others had come from nowhere, excelled in their line of work and, having demonstrated a suitable disposition, been invited to join. Cassiter fell into that category.
Cassiter lived a life invisible to the wider world but his desire to be known amongst his peers as the best in his field had found him accepting the invitation to join. He would remain free to go about his own business, but would be ready to help members without question when called on and could call on such help himself. On first inspection, Parsol and his friends had goals that interested him: yes to self-preservation, yes to joint development and yes to mutual protection and support: yes to all of them. But additionally, they had a collective goal - to retrieve the wealth, and most importantly, the lost religious treasures of the group’s founder, Parsol’s ancestor. It appeared this was not just a group of wealthy men interested in more wealth, which Cassiter could appreciate. There seemed to be some additional aspect - some religious element that was harder for him to get a handle on. He would sit on his scepticism for the time being.
It was a big step to become part of a group but the opportunities, the scale and the motivations attracted him. For someone who had never belonged anywhere, it almost felt like a homecoming.
As the meal ended, a man at the foot of the table stood, he gave a further welcoming speech to Cassiter and exhorted everyone to redouble their efforts to finish the task. He thanked Cassiter and acknowledged it was due to his efforts that the goal was within their grasp at last. A round of polite clapping ran round the table and glasses were raised in Cassiter’s direction. As the noise faded, it dawned on Cassiter who the speaker was. Tall and square shouldered with an impressive quiff of hair and the lightest of French accents - it could only be Parsol’s son, Eugene Parsol, Junior.
• • •
In response to a message from the hotel reception desk, Helen slipped her phone into her pocket, left her hotel suite and made for the lift. Simon was waiting in reception to take her to Franz Brenner’s home for dinner.
She was feeling a little easier in herself now. The folders Franz had given her had made fascinating reading. More importantly, a message from Sam indicated that there had been no further deterioration in the priests’ condition today. They were not out of the woods but at least there was no more bad news.
CHAPTER 21 - THURSDAY 29th AUGUST
Helen stepped towards the bank’s glass inner entrance door. It was pulled open by the same guard who had opened it the previous day. Beyond him hovered the other guard while the receptionists beamed welcoming smiles from behind their desk. Just as she stepped in, the lift doors opened and Franz Brenner emerged. He greeted her warmly, accepted back the paperwork she had brought with her from her hotel and passed it to one of the receptionists before guiding Helen into the lift.
He didn’t select the top floor button that would have carried them up to his office. This time, the lift travelled down into the deepest basement. Franz smiled at her. ‘My wife thoroughly enjoyed your company last night, Helen. Sara wonders if you would like to return one day as our houseguest. Perhaps all
ow us to show you something of our country.’
‘That would be great, Franz, thank you. You have a lovely house and what little I’ve seen of Switzerland seems so beautiful. It would be great to spend some time here.’
‘Excellent, that’s agreed then. Sara will be delighted. We can make a plan in due course. And of course, the invitation includes your friend Sam. He sounds a splendid fellow. I… no, we both look forward to meeting him when you visit.’
‘That’s a deal then. I know Sam would love it here too.’
The lift came to a halt and the doors slid open to reveal a broad and empty corridor. At the end were clear glass doors set in a glass wall. Beyond she could see three men, all smartly dressed like the men on reception - more guards.
Her approach was being monitored through the thick glass. Armoured she guessed. Franz stopped at the glass doors and waited patiently as the men watched respectfully from beyond the barrier. ‘Why won’t they open the door?’ said Helen.
‘They can’t, I’m afraid,’ said Franz. He turned and pointed back towards the lift. Helen turned too, wondering what the delay was. ‘The staff can’t open the doors; they remain auto-locked until the lift has returned to reception level. Just a little security measure to ensure the guards can never be rushed unexpectedly while the strong room doors are open.’
‘Is that ever likely to happen?’
‘No, we have made other provision to prevent it. However, in private banking, you assume the worst and plan accordingly. That ensures things don’t happen. Likely or not.’
They both watched the lift indicator light marking the lift’s progress up through the building until it reached reception level.
Franz turned back towards the glass doors, which were immediately opened for him. As they entered, the guards gave respectful greetings and one opened a side door, holding it, allowing Helen and Franz to enter, then closed the door after them.
Franz sat Helen in a seat beside a broad table, a solid piece of polished hardwood; it filled the middle of an otherwise empty room. The walls’ wood panelling sported a grain that was repeated in the table - all cut from one tree. She glanced at the arm of her seat, touched it; suspected it was of the same ilk. He gestured towards a closed hatch set in the far wall. ‘I will go and organise your box. When the hatch opens, you will find it inside. Please, take all the time you need. When you’re finished lock the box and place it back inside the hatch. Then just leave the room. You will be escorted back to the lift. Please come up to my office and we can have coffee before Simon runs you back to the airport.’ He pressed the buzzer on the wall beside the door. The door opened and, with a polite nod, Franz was gone, pulling the door shut behind him.