D’Amato shrugged. ‘Both are good men. I have no preference either way. Both men support our cause and both are aware of our needs. They both appear to be family men and both are. The people will approve.’
‘People approved of Mr. Llewellyn,’ the Englishman said, sitting alongside D’Amato. A thick head of hair, grey to white, covered a large head, making him appear distinguished. The man spoke with a pronounced accent, the product of four decades living in Westminster.
‘And now they can approve of Schumer,’ D’Amato said.
The bearded man nodded in agreement. ‘Excellent. Hans Schumer shall be appointed to the position of Chairman of the Federal Reserve, recently vacated by one Jermaine Llewellyn, where he shall chiefly oversee banking policy for the United States of America which shall include satisfactory supervision of its institutions.’
His pronunciation of institutions was slow and with emphasis, and brought with it intentional and ironic laughter. He wrote neatly on the paper as he spoke and continued to smoke freely.
‘In addition to Mr. Schumer’s forthcoming appointment, our new Sénéchal informs me that Mr. Giancarlo Riva has been appointed as interim chief executive of Leoni et Cie International Bank, replacing the long serving Mr. Al Leoni who recently suffered an equally unfortunate death,’ the bearded man continued. ‘Gentlemen, I am sure you will join me in wishing Mr. Riva the best of luck in his new job and live in the hope that he will avoid a similar fate to that of his predecessor.’
All present nodded.
‘But now, gentlemen, to more pressing matters. As we are all aware, it has recently come to light, although still hidden from the outside world, that the health of His Holiness is deteriorating. The best medical projections indicate that he will not last beyond the next year. It is now time to prepare for the reality.’
‘Such news will be distressing to many, even of other religions, I should imagine,’ the Scot said. ‘He is seen as such a warm and loving man. It is perhaps not unjust to say he will be tough to replace.’
The English Preceptor, Lord Parker smiled. ‘I never knew you were capable of compassion, old man.’
The Sénéchal nodded. ‘I, too, bear no ill feeling toward him. Dare I say: he is my very good friend.’
‘It is the irreconcilable differences that have caused the problem,’ the German said.
‘I blame his predecessors more than I would blame him,’ the Scot said.
The bearded man nodded.
‘Such is the will of God in this modern Godless world,’ the Italian Sénéchal said. ‘Alas, it is time to take matters into our own hands. We live in desperate times, and such times call for likewise measures.’
‘These are not as yet desperate times,’ the bearded man said with an air of authority unrivalled by any of the others present. ‘Any course of action must be in keeping with the normal set of circumstances. As a man of God you know better than any that the Devil’s greatest trick was to teach the world he doesn’t exist.’
The new Swiss Preceptor nodded in agreement. ‘The Vatican Police and the Swiss Guard are being unusually vigilant. The deaths of Faukes and von Sonnerberg particularly shocked them.’
The Sénéchal looked at the new preceptor with piercing eyes. ‘Do you forget why you are here?’
‘No he doesn’t,’ the bearded man said. ‘And don’t you forget why he’s here either.’
The bearded man leaned forward across the table, glaring at the Italian. It was clear by his reaction that the Italian was not used to being disagreed with.
The Frenchman nodded. ‘If history has taught us one thing it is that everything must be fitting of the normal series of events. Kings reign, empires crumble but the consequences of their actions dictate the world for decades, if not centuries. People live and people die but wars don’t start by accident.’
The bearded man nodded.
The new Swiss Preceptor spoke. ‘These guys aren’t fools, eminence. Ever since the Vatican has learned that Major von Sonnerberg and Cardinal Faukes were murdered they’ve been smelling rats everywhere. And now that De…’
‘Do not mention his name!’
The American looked up with renewed energy. Blasphemy. If there is one thing this man could not stand it was blasphemy.
‘You take me for a fool?’ the Sénéchal asked with venom. ‘I speak not of murder. Attempts to infiltrate the Papacy have been occurring for over two hundred years; the concept is as old as the order itself. Our predecessors saw it fit to march on the Papal States. They thought they had won, but they were foiled by their own misplaced arrogance. Any mistakes could result in unthinkable problems.’
‘The natural series of events will eventually bring with it the inevitable,’ the bearded man said. ‘The only aspect of importance is the timing, and that we can only predict within reason. We have already lined up his replacement,’ he said pointing to the Italian.
‘There is more to consider than merely the man,’ the Frenchman said. ‘The most important consideration is the bank.’
‘That and Gabrielle Leoni,’ the German said.
‘What? That silly girl?’ Danny D’Amato said.
‘The owner of Leoni et Cie, yes,’ the Preceptor of Germany said.
The bearded man nodded in agreement. ‘Gentlemen, as you are now undoubtedly aware our associate in Washington D.C. completed his business with the former Chairman of the Federal Reserve while our new preceptor was in St. Gallen. He completed his search and he took care of the outcome. I hope there is no need to talk about how he did it.’
The remaining seven shook their heads. No stupid questions. Careless talk must be eliminated.
The Grand Master cleared his throat. ‘The former owner of Leoni et Cie became aware of a leak from a source that we now understand to be our former Sénéchal. A problem, I think it is fair to say, surprised him slightly.’
The Italian stiffened his neck, his gaze concentrating on all present.
‘Where did the leak come from?’ the Scot asked.
‘Nathan Walls,’ the German Preceptor, Jurgen Klose said.
‘Walls has been dead for weeks.’
‘Yes. But the former Sénéchal was aware of his findings,’ the Frenchman said. He placed a black briefcase on the table and opened it, its locks clicking together with precision. ‘The former owner of Leoni et Cie carried this in his briefcase the night he died.’
He distributed the content to the Italian.
‘Turn on the lights.’
The American left his seat and strolled across the room toward the light switch. His gait was almost leisurely – as though he hadn’t a care in the world. The American had a habit of irritating the Italian. Bloody Americans, he always said. Nothing but arrogant sons of bitches! D’Amato knew the Italian disliked him, but this was business. D’Amato hated half the people he did business with.
He was a master of discretion.
Several minutes passed in silence as the Italian read the document.
‘Is this the only copy?’ the Italian asked.
‘Of course not,’ the bearded man said. ‘He faxed one to Llewellyn.’
‘And where is that?’
‘Right here,’ the French Preceptor tapped on his briefcase. ‘Courtesy of our friend Ludovic Gullet.’
Smiles crossed the faces of most present.
The French Preceptor resumed. ‘Nathan Walls was in the process of recommending certain irregularities to the Federal Reserve before he was cut off. Llewellyn was informed of the same findings by Al Leoni.’
‘And you are sure no one else knows?’ the Italian asked.
‘Well Martin Snow did…’ the German said.
‘Gee, that was unfortunate,’ D’Amato said sarcastically.
‘That has been taken care of,’ the bearded man said. ‘Once Mr. Schumer is sworn in the findings of Mr. Walls will no longer be of concern. In time, Leoni et Cie will come to be controlled by the Vatican Bank and the process of evolution will continue. What’s mor
e, this will all take place under the watchful eye of our own Vicar of Christ.’
‘May I also take this opportunity to remind the council that we will soon be approaching the seven hundredth anniversary of the formation of our order in its purest form and yet due to such incompetence it was very nearly our last,’ the Sénéchal said, his voice rising, his eyes taking in the facial expressions of all present. He centred his attention on the Preceptor of Scotland. ‘This is not acceptable. It seems your expertise is misplaced.’
Eyes focused on the Scottish Preceptor sitting opposite D’Amato. The man had a fine head of once brown but now whitening hair that was combed neatly. He looked strongly at the Italian through rimless glasses.
‘Your explanation?’ the bearded man asked coldly.
‘I have no explanation,’ he replied with confidence.
The Scot straightened his posture. He was an academic, and of high regard. Many of his close acquaintances would have been shocked to learn how he was spending his sabbatical.
‘The portents of our former Sénéchal will never come to light. While I am aware that mistakes have been made in the past, both by myself and those who came before us, I am supremely confident that we shall have what is required in our possession very soon.’
The former Foreign Secretary, Defence Secretary and Chancellor of the Exchequer, Melvin Parker, looked at the Scot closely. ‘This is good news.’
‘Indeed,’ the bearded man agreed, nodding at the Sénéchal. ‘Very well, the second attempt at gaining control of Leoni et Cie, including $3.7 billion of investment from the Vatican Bank and a further $245 million belonging to the Roman Curia, is soon to be accomplished. This will be further confirmed with the appointment of our own Vicar of Christ and the natural process of evolution can continue.’
‘This sounds rather familiar,’ D’Amato said with a smile, feeling more excited than before. Now was a chance for some real power – and money.
The Italian folded his arms, staring at D’Amato. ‘Being an American brought up away from the turbulence of European history it is difficult to understand the true suffering of our ancestors. We are merely the descendents of the original Knights Templar, a phoenix risen from ancient flames by those fortunate enough to escape with their lives after being so wrongfully condemned in 1307AD. We ourselves exist to carry on the purpose, the meaning and the agenda of those who came before us.’
‘And what exactly is that agenda, eminence?’ D’Amato asked. ‘To guard pilgrims in the Holy Land?’
All present laughed. The Italian may not have liked it but the American was right. His background wasn’t privileged like the Italian’s. Being underprivileged was not a bad thing. In the past its members were always underprivileged. It was an organisation of charity: poor in money terms but certainly not lacking wealth of spirit. Once what they had went to the order. That was the way it was then, but it was not the way it was now. The organisation was built on the donations of their predecessors. Following in such footsteps was a privilege. But with privilege comes great responsibility.
‘Our agenda, Danny, it seems you already know,’ the Englishman said. ‘It is our new preceptor who does not.’
He referred to the new Swiss Preceptor in the manner of a disposable item. He was new, as opposed to them being old. They were the masters and he was the apprentice. It was their way; it had always been their way. Eventually he would be the master and those whose time had not yet come would be the apprentices. Heck, they would not even know the organisation existed: or to be more precise, continued to evade the glances of the wider world looking down upon them. Hidden in a forest, hidden in time, yet out in the open for all to see.
The Italian spoke for nearly forty-five minutes, his concentration firmly fixed on the Swiss. The other six did not speak during that time. As the speech continued the Scot and the Frenchman nodded from time to time.
The words that left his mouth were staggering. Had he been responsible for all this? Maybe it was all of them. D’Amato’s role was obvious, the rest, less so, at least for now.
‘Do you understand?’ the Italian asked.
All present gazed at him. Their gazes were strong: it was as if they were piercing right through him. He knew why they needed him but nothing could have prepared him. How? Why? So many questions he wanted to ask, too many questions, questions that must remain unanswered, at least for now. All matters were private, some private even between the individuals. There would be some secrets between them, but most of the secrets were shared. And all the secrets that were shared must remain completely private.
‘It is agreed then,’ the Grand Master said, ‘Mr. Kodovski shall take over the duties of former Chairman of the Federal Reserve, Llewellyn, as the seventh governor, and with it Mr. Schumer will take over as chairman. Giancarlo Riva will become permanent CEO of Leoni et Cie which shall in time become fully incorporated into the Vatican Bank, including all funds connected with the Roman Curia. In time, the Knights Templar shall oversee the election of our own Sénéchal who shall replace the present occupant on the throne of St. Peter. This will bring the start of a new era, a chance to right the wrongs of his predecessors brought up not privy to the sacred mysteries entrusted to our predecessors long ago…’
‘And if we should fail?’ the German asked.
‘We shall not fail!’ the Scot interrupted.
The Sénéchal shot the Scottish Preceptor a piercing stare before finishing his master’s speech.
‘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.’
‘Jacques de Molay, thou will be avenged.’
15
For the second time in three weeks Mike parked Gabrielle’s silver Lexus in the multi-storey car park in close proximity to the Leoni et Cie headquarters in St. Gallen. After locking the car behind him, Mike escorted Gabrielle through the car park and across the city towards the Abbey of St. Gall. Outside, the weather of three weeks ago had been replaced by moderate rain that had fallen all day, washing any lingering remnants of recent snow down the roadside drains and forming puddles on the pavement. Water sprayed from the road as cars passed by at low speed in both directions while individuals in suits walked with open umbrellas along the soaked concrete heading to various finance institutions that lined the street.
Cardinal Tepilo was standing alone at the front of the abbey when Mike and Gabrielle entered. Stirred by the sound of the opening door, the elderly Italian walked with enthusiasm towards his great-niece, embracing her some eight pews from the altar.
‘Gabrielle, my darling,’ he said with a beaming smile. ‘How are you?’
‘Good,’ Gabrielle said kissing him on both cheeks. She stood silently while Cardinal Tepilo placed his hand over her head and muttered a blessing in Latin. She remained motionless throughout. Once it was over she looked over her shoulder at Mike who was standing with folded arms by the large doors.
‘You can wait for me outside.’
Mike nodded before turning away, closing the door behind him.
Gabrielle turned to face her great-uncle. ‘You remember Wachtmeister Frei?’
Tepilo nodded. ‘Of course, how is everything?’
‘Totally unnecessary.’
‘I am very pleased to hear it. Please sit.’
Gabrielle returned his smile as she took a seat in the nearest pew. ‘I understand Mr. Riva is the new chief executive,’ Gabrielle said, a statement not a question.
‘Both the supervisory and oversight committees of the Vatican Bank have asked him to take over purely on an interim basis. I hope this pleases you.’
Gabrielle forced another smile. Honestly, she was quite surprised by Riva’s appointment. While most at the Vatican, her father included, viewed him as a hardworking and talented banker with a reputation for pragmatism, in her opinion his record was less distinguished
than the other four. His reputation for devotion and charity had earned him few enemies, yet to Gabrielle this seemed somewhat at odds with his appearance that was seemingly always abundant in jewellery and accompanied by luxury suits – a strange feature for someone so close to the pontiff. Rogero or Dominguez were never likely candidates, but it disappointed her Swanson or Lewis had not put themselves forward.
‘Sure.’
Tepilo smiled warmly, his hands cupped together thoughtfully around his chin.
‘So how are things? You would like to check the books?’
‘No,’ Gabrielle shook her head, reaffirming eye contact. She adjusted herself in her seat.
‘My father’s strength was efficient forward planning and an ability to minimise risk. Now he is dead. And I am the owner of a bank.’
A look of pity crossed the camerlengo’s face. ‘My darling, your father’s death has come as a shock to many. It would warm your heart to know of the many tributes I have received of him. It seems from every corner of the world he has touched hearts.’
Gabrielle smiled warmly. ‘I’m sure it would,’ she said, attempting to maintain composure. ‘But that does not really take care of the problem.’
Tepilo nodded, forcing a brief smile.
‘Uncle Roberto, I am not a banker. Neither is Uncle Henry. So I have decided to sell our family’s holdings in Leoni et Cie.’
Tepilo’s facial expression did not alter. He shuffled momentarily in his seat, his eyes fixed on the floor.
‘I see.’
Gabrielle studied her uncle. She arched her neck slightly, allowing her eyes to take in the abbey’s exquisite frescos. The ceiling was painted in consistent style and colour and supported equally throughout by strong white pillars, some decorated. The interior was different from the last time she had seen it. In the position where five weeks earlier her father’s coffin briefly lay there was only empty space providing a clear view of a painting of Christ’s crucifixion, one of three paintings located at the front of the church, one of which was covered by a thick curtain behind the main altar.
‘I informed my lawyers this morning that I wish to sell my 43% in Leoni et Cie.’
The Templar Agenda Page 17