She entered his bedroom again that morning but on this occasion her mood was different. She carried a large cup of coffee and for the first time since his arrival she seemed pleased to see him. She told him that her uncle, one Henri, or Henry, Leoni would be returning to the château later that day after a two-year absence and would need to be collected from Zürich. On this occasion Mike agreed without argument. In principle it was a good thing. At least she would have someone else to keep an eye on her.
Henry Leoni arrived at Zürich Airport around midday. Mike had seen him once before, but it was not until Gabrielle introduced him that he realised. He appeared at the funeral, delivering a moving tribute to his brother. As best Mike could recall, Henry Leoni had spent much of the occasion in the company of others, but he did spend one night at the château, one of forty or so guests who did so, before departing briefly back to his job at the University of Harvard.
Since their return they had spent most of the time in a large ornate room on the fourth floor overlooking the garden that Gabrielle’s uncle used as a study. Of the few rooms that the Swiss Guard had seen so far in the 83-room château the study was one of the most spacious and definitely one of the most finely decorated. A varied portfolio of art hung from the walls where space allowed, although most of the room was occupied by large bookcases holding hundreds, if not thousands, of curious books: most of which were to do with history. Original pieces of medieval armour and broken tapestries hung from the walls throughout, creating the bizarre impression that he was in a library or even a monastery. A large globe dominated an antique desk that was placed near the room’s large windows that offered appealing views of the garden and the surrounding countryside.
Gabrielle sat quietly, slumped into an elegant easy chair situated about five feet from the desk. She sat facing her uncle, at times making eye contact while at other times drifting as she listened to him.
Conversation centred on the Zeno manuscript. When the topic arose she spoke of her discovery with the authority of a scholar and that was amusing to Mike. Only days earlier, her knowledge of the book, her knowledge of anything, seemed limited yet on this occasion Mike was impressed as evidence of her Ivy League education became apparent for the first time.
Gabrielle’s uncle on the other hand was a scholar, and he, too, was an expert. As a Professor of History at Harvard, he was generally thought of throughout the academic world as a fine mind but also something of a loose cannon. His theories, particularly with regard to archaeology, were often met with opposition from other historians, especially as he seemed to centre his research on the mysterious, unlikely and implausible. In his youth he was fascinated by the stories of Robin Hood, King Arthur, and the Pied Piper of Hamelin and concentrated much of his early career on the Greek legends, Aesop’s fables, and claims of Viking crossings to America. Myths and legends had a romantic portrayal, not like the well documented later years. As a religious scholar Christianity was central to his life, and many of the unique items lining the walls were religious in nature.
At sixty-three years of age, he was now semi-retired but continued to lecture at Harvard. He was fluent in eight languages and spoke perfect English with the slightest hint of a Massachusetts accent rather than the expected German-Swiss. He was now on sabbatical from Harvard. He reassured Gabrielle the break was overdue, but it was obvious to Mike that his return had a more serious purpose. Every Leoni was included in the sphere of their ancestral bank: it was a custom that had originated over two hundred years earlier. Since the death of his brother, he had decided to return to St. Gallen where he would spend some time organising family affairs, including his largely ceremonial role as a Leoni et Cie director.
Without question there was something about Henry Leoni that Mike liked and it was immediately clear what that was. Whereas his niece was uptight and demanding, he was like a young boy in a toyshop. Since his return the atmosphere in the château had been calm and relaxed.
Equally, there was something disturbing about him. He looked exactly like his brother. Physically he was a man of fine features, a thick beard, grey to white in complexion, striking green eyes below a full head of predominantly grey hair. Unlike Al, Henry possessed something of a potbelly, but many of their features were shared. To Mike, Henry Leoni seemed somehow warmer than his brother. Not that he knew, but perhaps because the first picture he had seen of Gabrielle’s dad was the one he saw that first night at the château. Without question Henry Leoni was very much alive. As far as he knew the death warrant was for Gabrielle and her alone.
Still elusive was the motive.
Five feet from the desk, Mike sat in comfort, his attention still focused on the manuscript that lay open on the desk. He sipped fine port in the manner of a connoisseur and spoke openly with his new host. He listened to his opinions with interest, not because he had any fascination with the subject, but any opinion Henry Leoni had about the symbol would certainly be worthwhile. Gabrielle thought he was intruding, but on this occasion Mike won. He had already informed Henry Leoni of his suspicions regarding the Rite of Larmenius but refrained from going into specific detail about the Vatican Police. On face value the Harvard academic seemed more interested in the historical impact.
The academic spent over ten minutes looking through Mike’s notes and translations of the diary, scanning the original intermittently. He made notes of his own from time to time, but was impressed by Mike’s work so far. His excitement had built steadily throughout the last hour as both Mike and Gabrielle talked him through what they knew. The academic was hanging on every word. Mike had never seen anyone so excited by a book before.
‘Fascinating, Gabrielle, fascinating,’ Henry said, removing his glasses and rubbing his beard. ‘You say this was found in St. Gallen?’
‘Yes,’ she said, offering a vague hint of a smile. She fiddled with her hair as she spoke. She had been doing so regularly, practically every time she answered a question, and Mike had noticed. ‘It was in a safe deposit box.’
‘Fascinating,’ he said again, replacing his glasses and looking with interest at the tome. ‘And to think. Lost for all these years…incredible.’
For several seconds Gabrielle looked at her uncle, then aimlessly across the garden. Her curvy posture was slumped comfortably and a strange smile crossed her face. It was Mike’s opinion that this was the first time she had relaxed in a while.
‘So what is it?’ Gabrielle asked.
‘It will take time to uncover all of the secrets,’ Henry said, ‘but, God willing, it may offer genuine historical support regarding one of the greatest enigmas in history. Take a look at this.’
Gabrielle leaned across her seat and looked down at the open page.
‘Now unless I am very much mistaken, the manuscript appears to be some kind of diary which provides a most unique insight into the life of the legendary Prince Zichmni,’ Henry said, validating much of what Mike already knew. ‘And judging by these markings on the front,’ he referred to the stamped reference Vat. Ross. 342, ‘it was once part of a significant collection, perhaps a library of some form.’
He paused momentarily, turning several pages with gloved fingers.
‘Now Mr. Frei appears to have uncovered the gist of the story,’ he said smiling, turning to both Gabrielle and Mike. ‘You are both familiar, of course, with the story of the Zeno brothers?’
Mike couldn’t help notice a twinkle in his eye as he said that. It was almost as if he was Father Christmas and he was about to give a good little girl the doll she had wanted all year. He finished every sentence with a laugh, not in the comedy sense but almost a chuckle, or even, a ho-ho-ho.
Gabrielle shook her head, obviously confused.
Henry smiled and looked at Mike. ‘And our friend here surely?’
Mike paused as he raised the glass of port to his lips. ‘Only what you see in my notes.’
Henry looked at him, almost in disbelief. ‘You mean you had never even heard of them?’
‘
Sorry,’ Mike said. He sipped the port slowly. The taste felt brilliant on his tongue.
‘Astounding. Quite astounding,’ Henry said, adjusting his glasses. He returned his attention to the diary, turning to the first page. ‘Well, we will not know for sure what secrets the manuscript contains until we have translated the text in its entirety, but we can go over the basics.’
He placed the book on the desk.
Henry: ‘Now, historically, Nicolò and Antonio Zeno were brothers of the great Carlo Zeno, the famous Venetian captain general in the war against the Genoese. During the Middle Ages the Zenos were amongst the most distinguished families in Venice. At the height of the Crusades the family are recorded as being the chief franchise holders for transportation between Venice and the Holy Land. However, the brothers themselves had another claim to fame.’
Mike placed the glass of port down on a coaster, waiting in anticipation for the academic to begin.
Henry paused momentarily before beginning his story. ‘Now, according to a book published in 1558, written by one of their descendents, the author stumbled across a series of letters in the family home in Venice written by the brothers in life. Now, we understand that there were at least two sets in total, the first of which were addressed from Nicolò to his brother Antonio, while the second was from Antonio to their other brother Carlo.’
Leoni paused to check his notes.
‘In the first set of these letters we learn that Nicolò set off in 1390 on a voyage to England and Flanders but somewhere on the way becomes stranded on an island somewhere between Britain and Iceland known as Frislanda. A superb place, even larger than Ireland.’
Mike looked up. He had seen the word Frislanda written in the diary, but despite his best efforts he had been unable to translate it.
Gabrielle looked confused. ‘Frislanda? I’ve never heard of it.’
‘Precisely,’ the scholar replied. ‘It is a complete mystery. It has baffled historians for centuries. It is of course important to remember that they lived at a time when mapmaking was still in its infancy; much of the world was still uncharted. But according to the letters, Zeno was stranded on Frislanda after being lost in a storm. The natives there were about to kill him and take his goods, but as luck would have it a man named Zichmni, a prince of some kind, found Nicolò and rescued him and his men. Now the letters refer to this prince as having a significant presence in the Orkneys and was the owner of some islands known as Portlanda.’
Gabrielle’s eyebrows lowered. ‘Where?’
‘Near Frislanda, perhaps Pentland in Scotland – I’m afraid no one knows exactly,’ he said, sipping his port. ‘Now, the letters go on to confirm that Nicolò invites Antonio to join him there. Antonio raises a crew to make the voyage and stays for fourteen years. Under the command of this Zichmni fellow, Antonio is treated well and pledges allegiance to the prince. Antonio later uses his own fleet to attack an island called Estlanda on Zichmni’s behalf. Now some historians believe this may have been the Shetland Islands.’
‘The Shetlands?’ Gabrielle asked. ‘What in Scotland?’
‘Precisely. Now Zichmni then attempts to attack Iceland but fails. After this he attacks seven other islands in close proximity, named in the letters as Bres, Talas, Broas, Iscant, Trans, Mimant and Dambere,’ he counted each one off with his fingers, ‘none of which can be definitively placed. Now after building a fort in Bres, the prince puts Nicolò in charge of his fleet and he later makes a voyage to Greenland and founds a monastery.’
Henry paused momentarily.
‘Now, Nicolò then returns to Frislanda where he dies in around 1402AD; a claim disputed by historians, I might add. But soon after his death, Zichmni receives word that a fisherman, one of a lost group from Frislanda, has returned after an absence of twenty-six years. The fisherman tells the prince that they made landfall in a faraway country known as Estotilanda. Estotilanda we understand as being the areas of Labrador, Newfoundland and Nova Scotia.’
‘You mean Canada?’ Gabrielle asked
Henry nodded. ‘Well now, Zichmni then decides to explore for himself, and, taking Antonio with him, travels west. But instead of reaching Estotilanda he reaches an island called Icaria?’
‘Where?’ Gabrielle asked.
‘We are unsure exactly where. As I say, this has perplexed historians for centuries. But the letters suggest that the inhabitants make them unwelcome. After making their escape they sail to the west and eventually encounter an island called Trin situated south of a place named Engroneland. Engroneland we assume also to be Greenland.’
Gabrielle shook her head vigorously and exhaled with impatience. ‘You’ve lost me!’
Henry laughed. ‘There, Antonio takes the crew home leaving the prince to explore.’
‘Lemme guess, he was never seen again?’ Mike said.
Henry laughed, this time louder than before. ‘You’re forgetting, my friend, he was never seen in the first place.’
Gabrielle exhaled in frustration, rising to her feet. ‘Great. So a guy no one has heard of went somewhere but no one knows where. So what? What does this have to do with anything? What the hell was this doing in a safe deposit box and why was it left to me?’
The academic paused momentarily.
‘Well,’ Henry said, leaning back leisurely in his chair, a smug but at the same time light-hearted grin crossing his features, ‘I cannot answer the question of why it was left. But these letters are the only proof of the matter that is otherwise regarded by many modern day historians as a hoax perpetuated by the fellow’s descendent.’
Gabrielle looked through the window, her attention scattered. A ghost of a smile crossed Mike’s lips, as though enjoying her confusion.
‘My dear, do you not understand what this means?’
Gabrielle shrugged.
‘If this diary is indeed what I think it is it may offer genuine historical proof that these gentlemen made a trip to North America in the late 1300s.’
Mike looked at the academic with renewed interest. ‘But America wasn’t discovered until…’
Mike broke off mid-sentence, immediately understanding his point.
Henry nodded. ‘Most historians now accept that the Columbus voyage was in fact one of many later voyages to the continent previously reached by sailors from China, Scandinavia, and perhaps even the Middle East: the first rediscovery of America, if you like. But question marks still remain over the authenticity of many that came before.’
He smiled at the manuscript.
‘Hidden for all these years in a bank.’
Mike forced a brief smile. ‘I feel you have no real interest in banking.’
Henry reached for the bottle of port, already nearly a third empty. He leaned towards Mike and refilled his glass. ‘No,’ he said pouring. ‘My passion is history.’
‘I’m beginning to understand why,’ Mike said. ‘Cheers.’
‘Cheers.’
Mike sat up slightly as he sipped his port. His facial expression hardened. ‘Sir, with all due respect though I feel you’re missing the big picture.’
Henry looked at Mike with interest. ‘A diary that may provide genuine evidence of the greatest historical find of the century, sir – now that is one big picture.’
Mike nodded. He had to admit it was amazing.
However.
‘Personally, I am more interested, and more concerned, by this symbol on the cover. A symbol, I hate to remind you, that just so happens to belong to a secret society presently viewed by the Vatican Police as prime suspects for the murders of seven good men, including your brother.’
Henry Leoni looked philosophically at Mike through his glasses and then at his niece. He moved a little uneasily. He collected some ice from a container on his desk and dropped it into his glass. He mixed it with his finger and reached for the bottle of lemonade.
‘The circumstances remain largely unknown to me.’
‘I’m afraid that’s one thing we have in common.’
‘Sir, what do you know about the Rite of Larmenius? I mean as a scholar.’
Leoni shrugged, ascending to his feet. ‘Freemasons: elderly gentlemen acting out meaningless rituals about long dead stonemasons, if they even existed at all.’ He smiled shaking his head. ‘Am I wrong?
‘Right or wrong this symbol is an exact match for the logo used by that order. And from what I’ve heard they might be responsible for several hundred murders of this kind.’
‘You never mentioned this,’ Gabrielle said, looking at Mike. Her expression was one of frustration.
Henry laughed ironically. ‘You really think the Freemasons killed my brother?’
Mike looked at the academic with serious eyes. ‘I’m pretty sure someone did. And whoever it was has killed at least six others in recent months. Three of which were poisoned – cleverly poisoned.’
Henry shook his head. ‘Walking in the footsteps.’
‘Excuse me.’
Henry looked thoughtfully at Mike, returning to his seat. ‘The Rite of Larmenius are not evil, Mr. Frei; that much I am sure of. I know some of its members myself. Perhaps a few individuals have killed over the years; such a possibility is plausible for an organisation of such a size. But as for this,’ he said referring to the manuscript. ‘This has nothing to do with Freemasonry.’
The comment was intriguing. ‘You sound pretty sure.’
‘Over the years this symbol has been used by several organisations,’ he said, offering a vague smile. ‘It has been adopted by armies; banks; even ships. It is not as uncommon as you believe.’
Mike nodded.
‘Historically, these were logos used by the Knights Templar.’
A confused expression crossed Gabrielle’s face. Mike, meanwhile, looked at Henry Leoni with intent.
The Templar Agenda Page 14