The Templar Agenda

by John Paul Davis

  ‘The council are pleased with your work,’ the Grand Master said quietly.

  Gullet remained silent, his eyes alert. A white man dressed in heavy clothing was walking towards them, heading in the direction of the toilet at the end of the next carriage. He was not going to draw attention to the subject matter in these circumstances. The bearded man watched him intently, waiting until he was out of sight. He did not have a reputation for being an anxious man. No, it was not that. He was tired. He didn’t show it but he sure felt it. Recent events were taking their toll.

  The Grand Master waited until the man was inside the next carriage before continuing. He removed an envelope from his inside pocket and slid it across the table.

  ‘I have another assignment for you.’

  Gullet paused momentarily. He picked up the envelope and checked the contents without removing them. A surprised expression crossed his face.

  ‘You’re quite sure?’

  ‘Quite sure,’ the bearded man replied. As usual he spoke slowly. His voice seemed calm and calculated, almost hypnotic in tone that Gullet always found disturbing and somehow unnatural.

  ‘The terms of your contract will be in keeping with the last. Once the council is satisfied that your duties have been fulfilled you will find your payment in the usual place at the usual time.’

  Without further examination Gullet placed the envelope inside his jacket pocket. He would study the content in further detail later but he had seen all he needed to see. In many ways it was just another job in a different location at a different time for the same reason. In his profession he had learned to cope with shock but nothing could have prepared him for this. In his mind he considered the public reaction should he succeed. Wars had been fought over less. He remembered the reaction when he carried out his last high-profile assignment.

  ‘People will ask questions.’

  The bearded man folded his arms. ‘People always ask questions – it’s in their nature. Fortunately for you the press will blame the incident on a one-off disgruntled patriot or a protest to the economic downturn, as they are now,’ he said pointing at the front page.

  ‘Why would they?’ Gullet asked, lowering his voice. ‘Why would they take him out? He always acted against that stuff.’

  The bearded man shrugged. ‘People are stupid. They believe what they are told to believe.’

  ‘I thought Llewellyn had a lot of enemies. Strange the press are suddenly backing him.’

  ‘You know what people are like. Anyone who gets an obituary is suddenly a hero in the eyes of the media.’

  Gullet smiled. ‘I remember when that guy first made office. I thought the Klan may’ve made a comeback.’

  ‘Well in your case, I suggest you do nothing to convince people otherwise.’

  Baltimore/Washington International was announced and the train began to slow down.

  ‘I suggest you make your way from here.’

  Gullet nodded. He waited for five passengers to disembark before ascending to his feet. He would not go on to New York. As he sought to leave the bearded man grabbed his arm.

  ‘And tell him that Mr. Broadie wants his manuscript back.’

  Gullet made lengthy eye contact. He released his arm and continued towards the door. He exited the train as the doors began to bleep before walking along the platform in the direction of the exit. He walked quickly, the route well known to him. Several minutes later he entered the airport.

  4

  Canton of St. Gallen, Switzerland

  Not for the first time, an expensive Jaguar made its way past the luxury château located in the heart of the St. Gallen countryside. Stopping momentarily for its immensely wealthy passengers to disembark outside the stone steps leading up to a pillared entrance, the driver continued along the seemingly endless driveway, lined with woodland on either side, toward the garage area, allowing the next wealthy guests to arrive. The timing of the arrivals was done with military precision: in keeping with the host’s own insistence for punctuality.

  And it was not just Jaguars they arrived in. The garage area was cluttered with luxury motors of all kinds. Most of the guests arrived in pairs. The men dressed in dark suits and the women in designer dresses, their fingers and wrists lined with various items of jewellery often found in the windows and catalogues of upscale retailers in Paris and New York. The occasion matched the location. On first inspection it was just another social gathering of the rich and well connected in a close-knit society of businessmen, bankers and hereditary fortune earners.

  The château was impressive. Viewed from the outside, an imposing façade of stone in the medieval gothic style rose to a great height, its features including ornate carvings and high windows. Inside, eighty-three rooms spanned five floors, less than fifteen of which were in use, and decorated to maintain a historical feel. Technically the building belonged to Al Leoni’s brother, as Mike understood from Mark, and dated from the 13th or 14th century, with extensions added in the 16th, 17th, 18th, and after the Second World War. From what Thierry had told him it had been in their family for over two centuries after being bought by his great, great, great, great, great, grandfather, the original founder of Leoni et Cie, from an exiled French duke back in 1793.

  Most of the guests frequented what was once the great hall, the main attraction. A large tapestry depicting an epic battle scene covered much of the main wall that was predominantly brown in colour, matching the stone and oak combination. A large fireplace was set into the lower wall, and spanning the room were various pieces of art, mainly Renaissance, and artefacts dating from twenty years ago back to the Middle Ages. A loud humming sound engulfed the room, the accumulated noise of countless individuals chatting in small groups.

  Among those present, Mike and Mark chatted quietly, standing in close proximity to one of three buffet tables that offered sandwiches and snacks of various descriptions. A glass of mineral water was present in Mike’s hand that was feeling vaguely restricted by the arm of his brand new suit that had been bought for him especially for the occasion. Although he had been complemented on his appearance he never enjoyed wearing suits: he was used to the suited look from his role guarding the Pope on official visits but at the Vatican he rarely needed to. He never understood the fascination with the lavish lifestyle. His father had been a sheriff in the Deep South while his mother was a nurse. Neither was blessed with much money but growing up doing without had never really bothered him. His goal was to become a soldier.

  And he succeeded.

  He had never felt so out of place. The room was larger in height and width than some three-bed apartments. Large paintings of people and places of significance decorated the room that was illuminated by a pair of spectacular twelve light crystal chandeliers that dominated the ceiling. Standing next to a piano, not to Mike’s knowledge the piano was a Steinway, a large man in an expensive dark suit was engaged in conversation with a blonde-haired lady who was about half his age and weight and a thousand times more attractive. They discussed the fine array of art and tapestries hanging from the walls in the manner of a collector and every so often she laughed quietly, and probably falsely, at his anecdotes. Small groups of women, aged thirty to fifty, chatted near the door to the corridor, their conversation clearly one of catching up, while near the double doors leading to the courtyard a man with dark greasy hair and a malevolent looking face was standing facing a man with white hair and an equally malevolent face. Not to Mike’s knowledge they were both British Members of Parliament.

  Although the occasion smacked of opulence, there was also an overwhelming sense of sombreness about it. Every guest was dressed appropriately for an occasion of mourning, and had arrived in preparation for the funeral of Al Leoni, due to take place in St. Gallen the following morning. Most would be staying at the château for at least one night. Many of the guests had attended Mass earlier that evening: marking the occasion where the body of Al Leoni was brought into the main church of the Abbey of St. Gall.

>   Several key Vatican officials had attended, also standing in the great hall. On the other side of the room from Mike and Mark, the Cardinal Secretary of State and Camerlengo, Cardinal Tepilo, an elderly white-haired and bearded Italian with a kind heart, stood near Stan and talking to a smartly dressed gentleman facing in the direction of an impressive collection of medieval armour. Cardinals Utaka and del Rosi were also present, standing in close proximity to the fireplace and chatting freely with a crowd of four. The glorious red of their zucchettos and fascias against their black cassocks shone like a supernova in the oily sea of black and white that filled the room. From a distance it looked like a house of penguins.

  ‘Imagine living in a place like this,’ Mike said, looking up at the chandeliers.

  ‘I know,’ Mark said stuffing a sandwich into his mouth and spilling crumbs onto his suit jacket. It was a different make to Mike’s but it was very smart all the same. ‘Just wait until you see her place in Boston.’

  Mike laughed quietly, probably in amazement. Although he was aware that the château technically belonged to her uncle, it certainly coloured his preconception of the woman he had been assigned to protect. He had seen the château once or twice from a distance in his youth but he never imagined he would visit it. It was large enough to house an army. In fact, according to Thierry, it once housed a band of mercenaries led by a famous Italian condottiere.

  He looked around for Thierry but couldn’t see him. The oberst’s absence was frustrating but he assumed there was a reason. Quietly he was nervous: not of fear but the situation. The main point of Mike’s presence was to become acquainted with Ms. Gabrielle Leoni, or whatever her name was, and the sooner he met her the happier he would be. He guessed from the general atmosphere of the gathering that she would have enough on her plate without being guarded by a stranger and the thought silently concerned him. Knowing his luck she was probably just some spoiled brat intent on making his life a misery.

  His eyes wandered the great hall with interest, attempting to take in everything as it happened. As he examined every face of the ever increasing attendance he couldn’t help wonder if she was one of them. When he asked Mark about her he said he hadn’t seen her, and that figured. Mark told him there were two types of women present: the real ones and the wannabes. And there would only be one real one.

  And he would have the pleasure of guarding her.

  ‘So why are you here tonight?’ he asked Mark, sipping slowly from his mineral water. He decided to keep off the wine, at least until after the introductions were over. ‘Don’t tell me she invited you.’

  Mark laughed, also sipping mineral water. ‘Are you kidding? She wouldn’t spit on me if I was on fire.’

  Mike laughed quietly, shaking his head. He continued to sweep his eyes across the great hall. He eyed each woman with interest. Soon he would meet her, but which one was Gabrielle Leoni.

  ‘I’m gonna keep my ear to the ground,’ he said, surveying the guests with circumspect eyes. He paid most of his attention to the male guests, some of who he hoped to question off the record. Most were aged forty-five to eighty, and armed with glasses of expensive drink and trophy wives or girlfriends, or in some cases both. Their attire suggested wealth and power, yet none of the faces were obviously famous or recognisable.

  ‘So who are these people?’ Mike asked. ‘Don’t tell me they were all his buddies.’

  Mark placed three pieces of shrimp into his mouth and answered as he chewed. ‘Not exactly,’ he said, swallowing. ‘But most of them knew him.’

  ‘Paying their respects, huh?’

  ‘Exactly,’ Mark said wiping his mouth. ‘Interesting gathering though. Some of the men are members of a society called the Rite of Larmenius.’

  ‘Rite of what?’

  ‘Rite of Larmenius. It’s an appendant body of the Masons, but only for the really high-up guys. Its members include some of the most influential men on the planet. Practically every major President of the USA or president or prime minister from Europe is a member, at least honorary. Basically it’s a society that can only be joined when you reach a certain level of influence. They meet in lodges every month and have a three-week bender in the Alps at the end of January. No one really knows what goes on. Most did a lot of business with her father.’

  Mike nodded. ‘Oh good, I love skiing.’

  Mark smiled, continuing to scan the room. Mike did the same: half in habit and half through boredom. In his profession he was used to keeping an eye out for anything suspicious. Although he considered it unlikely that he would be called into action tonight he knew the possibility was not out of the question. In many ways the large number of people would make it easier for any potential assassin to wander in undetected.

  He watched the crowd, particularly the men. He paid particular attention to their body language, attempting to judge their personalities. To Mike the night had a unique atmosphere: it was merrier than a wake, yet far drearier than a wedding. Without question, this was the atmosphere of a gathering of people uncertain how to react to the death of the château’s owner.

  In close proximity to the piano, cardinals del Rosi, Utaka and Tepilo were now all standing together. Thierry, who had appeared from nowhere, was with them and talking to a very beautiful brunette.

  Mike raised an eyebrow at the sight of the elegant lady. Like many ladies present she wore an expensive dark dress and exuded an air of confidence. She had the persona of a princess and, by the looks of her, also the wealth.

  But what struck him was her face, particularly her eyes. The subtle shade of her dress seemed to bring out the brightness of her stunning blue eyes that looked capable of lighting up a room of their own accord.

  Like most ladies present she was about five feet six inches in height, a slender figure of maybe eight and a half stone at the most, a perfectly rounded chest and to top it all off a naturally beautiful face. She wore two rings on her left hand and one on the other, none of which lined the marriage finger. Expensive earrings hung from both ears, shining like pearls behind jet-black hair, bearing an uncanny resemblance to the Belgium chandeliers and lining her neck was a heavy necklace that reminded Mike of the one from the Titanic movie. On face value she must have been wearing more in monetary terms than the average person earns in a lifetime: if not ten lifetimes.

  ‘Here we go!’ Mark said.

  Mike continued to watch the mystery woman. Although he heard Mark speaking, for now he failed to respond. For the first time in what felt like a long time he was captivated. His last girlfriend was Tracey, an all-American girl of great taste but varying intellect. Had Mike have stayed in Annapolis maybe things would have turned out different, but the calling of the Vatican was never going to be defeated. As a Swiss Guard he was used to being married to the job. In recent years romance was a side of his life that had practically shut down.

  ‘You what?’ Mike said, returning to reality. He spilled some water down his suit. He cursed under his breath and turned to find a serviette. He picked up two together and brushed vigorously against the spill.

  ‘I said the oberst is calling you.’

  Mike looked across the room, his focus on the colonel. Indeed Thierry was waving him over. The beautiful woman standing close by was looking aimlessly in his direction.

  Suddenly Mike felt warmer than before, his tight shirt stifling beneath his jacket. He felt his breathing heighten slightly, his heart rate increasing with each breath. He threw the serviettes onto the nearby table and adjusted his cufflinks as he walked. His legs were moving but without conscious thought.

  Finally he began to concentrate. He gently brushed his right eyebrow with his index finger and cleared his throat quietly, placing particular effort on his breathing. He walked slowly through the crowd, taking care to avoid contact with any of the guests. The air was warmer when the crowds were together.

  He came to a halt before Thierry. Three of the cardinals were also present. To Thierry’s right Cardinal Utaka stood elegantly with
his hands together, whereas on his left Cardinal del Rosi stood silently. His facial expression was imposing, his arms folded across his black and red garments. As much as Mike liked the cardinal he was the one man he feared more than any other. His neatly trimmed moustache and goatee beard below a full head of curly greying hair, partially hidden by his zucchetto, always made him look angry. Cardinal Tepilo was also present, standing next to the mystery woman, a kind smile crossing his wintry beard.

  Mike greeted the cardinals individually, paying particular attention to Cardinal Tepilo, before greeting the oberst. For the first time the mystery lady was staring directly at him. Her face seemed preoccupied but she also displayed an empty expression that was vaguely provocative. For now the Swiss Guard could not tell whether it was friendly or unfriendly.

  ‘Gabrielle,’ Thierry said, turning to her, ‘I would like to introduce Wachtmeister Frei. He will be acting as your guard for the next…well…’

  Mike’s heart missed a beat. Surely he wasn’t serious.

  ‘I’ve told you before, oberst,’ the lady replied, now facing Thierry, ‘I do not need a babysitter. I am quite capable of taking care of myself.’

  Cardinal Tepilo smiled kindly. ‘Gabrielle, my darling, recent events have been tragic to us all. I do not wish to risk the safety of my remaining family…’

  ‘I am well aware what happened, Uncle Roberto,’ she replied, turning to face him. ‘Besides, he was your nephew too.’

  The Camerlengo’s smile faded and his eyes seemed to water slightly.