The Templar Agenda

by John Paul Davis

  The historian replaced his notes on the desk.

  ‘Now this is fascinating,’ Henry said, turning in his seat. Gabrielle’s hands covered her face that now harboured an expression that displayed both fear and amazement.

  ‘If this is true,’ Henry continued, ‘not only did the order continue, but they did indeed participate in strange rituals, probably those accused by the Pope and the King of France, leading to their excommunication.’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ Gabrielle said, removing her hands from her mouth.

  ‘Furthermore, this account matches those that cropped up in the trials, stories of worshipping heads and idols.’

  Mike exhaled loudly, rubbing his hair with his hand. He sought to speak but Gabrielle beat him.

  ‘Roslin? Where is that?’

  ‘Scotland,’ Henry replied. ‘Just south of Edinburgh.’

  Gabrielle nodded.

  ‘The diary also provides a further invaluable insight. Now, according to the Larmenius Charter, the Templar Grand Master between 1381 and 1392 was a chap named Bernard Arminiacus, however there is a gap between 1392 and 1419 until Jean Arminiacus takes on the mantle. The Grand Master at this stage is not named. Now, according to Mr. Zeno in 1397,’ he said, turning through his notes, ‘Bernard Arminiacus is noted as having died five years previous, in keeping with the dates in the charter. Zichmni was sworn in as his replacement.’

  Mike raised his eyebrows, his attention on Henry.

  Henry: ‘Now, according to the diary, shortly before this time, with Antonio in Frislanda, Zichmni attacks Estlanda, which we can assume is the Shetland Isles. However, Zichmni gives up on this because it is too well defended. The story ends soon after with their return to Frislanda, around the same time that Nicolò returns from Greenland. The diary goes on to tell of the return of the fisherman from his voyage across what the author calls the “Green Sea of Darkness”, as mentioned in the letters, although this I’m afraid seems to be where the diary ends.’

  Mike exhaled, slightly louder than he intended. There was something about Henry Leoni’s enthusiasm that disturbed him.

  ‘Why was this diary left by the former President of France to your brother?’

  Henry looked at Mike, the question catching him unprepared. ‘I’m afraid I cannot possibly begin to guess.’

  Mike monitored the academic curiously.

  ‘So you think these Knights Templar still exist?’ Gabrielle asked.

  ‘I’m afraid such a question seems difficult, if not impossible, to answer,’ he said, turning to his niece. ‘But this Zichmni is described in no uncertain terms as being a Templar Grand Master. And such a fact fits in perfectly with the omission of this period in the Larmenius Charter. And what’s more there is a legend, which originated in France so I understand, that fleeing French Templars found refuge at the Isle of Mey in Scotland, in close proximity to what is now called Rosslyn. Now if we can find proof that the events described in the diary are true, then it seems almost certain that this legend has a basis in history after all.’

  Not for the first time, Henry scanned his notes with interest.

  ‘Not only does this seem to confirm that the famous Zeno letters were genuine but it builds on them. And Rosslyn Castle in Scotland is mentioned as Zichmni’s base, almost certainly confirming that Sinclair was the man. There is even a diagram outlining the exact layout of the vaults and how to enter them.’

  Gabrielle’s eyes lit up. ‘You think they may still be there?’

  ‘It seems doubtful. The castle is little more than a ruin these days.’

  Gabrielle nodded. ‘Well maybe the vaults are still there,’ she said, rising to her feet. ‘If there is anything still there at least it might provide an insight into what the diary means.’

  ‘Gabrielle, don’t be absurd,’ Mike said.

  Gabrielle turned to face Mike. ‘Excuse me.’

  The Swiss Guard hesitated. ‘I’m sorry, Ms. Leoni, but with all due respect…’

  Gabrielle turned to her uncle. ‘How can we get to Roslin?’

  ‘Getting to the village is straightforward enough. As I say, it’s near Edinburgh. In fact, the curator is an old friend.’

  ‘Awesome. You’ll come, right?’

  ‘My dear, this is incredible.’

  Gabrielle smiled before exiting the room. She walked with speed along the corridor, heading in the direction of her room.

  Mike exhaled forcefully. After six weeks in her company nothing surprised him anymore. It didn’t seem to occur to her that she might be in danger.

  The question was how to stop her.

  Rising to his feet, he sprinted through the open door and chased her along the corridor. He turned on reaching her bedroom and entered unannounced.

  ‘Look, with all due respect, I can’t let you do this.’

  A piercing stare, somehow made all the more painful by an aching silence, made him feel very cold and insignificant. Only now was he aware that this was the first time he had visited her bedroom. It looked fit for a princess.

  She slammed the door to her wardrobe. ‘I beg your pardon.’

  For what felt like several seconds he stood in silence, his eyes taking in the extravagant and lavish furniture that lined her room. A king-sized bed dominated the centre of the room, lined with purple sheets and elegant cushions, surrounded by modern wooden furniture and walk-in wardrobes. A widescreen TV was mounted on the wall over several cabinets filled mainly with clothes. An open door, leading to an ensuite, presented a luxurious setting, mostly silver and white, in keeping with those found in health spas.

  He turned to face her, still captivated by the room. For the first time he realised that she had taken off her Dartmouth College jersey, leaving only a t-shirt. He looked momentarily at her revealing figure and turned away awkwardly.

  ‘With all due respect, I think you should stay here until this has blown over. It’s not safe.’

  ‘Think. You’re not here to think. You’re here to guard.’

  Silently, Mike considered his actions. He hardly felt the need to remind her that her father had just been killed, perhaps even in connection to this diary. He was aware that a threat existed, although he was still to tell her of the death warrant that existed on her. The last thing he wanted to do was to tell her.

  ‘I don’t think Cardinal Tepilo would approve of you going too far from home.’

  ‘Well too bad, I’m going and you can’t stop me,’ she said turning her back on him. She opened her wardrobe for the second time and began searching her clothes. The sound of coat hangers banged with fury.

  He placed his hand against the wood, hitting the door closed. ‘In case you’ve forgotten seven people have been murdered in the last three months. We don’t have a clue what we’re dealing with here, and until we do we’re doing this my way. I’m here to protect you, at least this way you’ll be safe. We’re staying.’

  Her mouth opened widely. For the briefest of seconds it was unclear who was the more surprised.

  Mike, meanwhile, stood in silence. He watched her face, reality sinking in. He expected a stern response, heck he expected an all out battering, but he was glad he had said it. Leaving the château was bad enough, but attempting to locate lost vaults that were possibly affiliated with the people who murdered her father was madness. Deep down she probably knew he was right although she would never admit to that.

  She approached him slowly. Her expression suggested dented pride and her eyes seemed angry yet at the same time uncertain. He knew she was uncertain, in fairness it was why she wanted to go in the first place. She inhaled deeply and exhaled loudly.

  He held his breath. He felt the warmth of her breathing on his neck as she exhaled. Every second seemed like an eternity to the waiting soldier. He had never faced physical danger and he knew he would never truly understand how it would feel until he did. This seemed like danger. Men had died, he knew that, but for the first time he imagined a different danger, a very real danger that he could not e
scape.

  She exhaled again, lowering her gaze. A tear trickled down her face and he suddenly regretted shouting at her. She swept her hair away from her face, trying to compose herself.

  ‘I’m not used to being spoken to like that,’ she said calmly. ‘I didn’t ask for any of this.’

  Mike sighed deeply, his facial expression softening.

  ‘I know. But the Vatican seem to think my presence is necessary. The Vatican Police have been investigating this for over a month but still they have no leads. People have been killed: they think it’s to do with Leoni et Cie. Now, I’m starting to wonder. But going to this place – it’s like running from a lion and hiding in a cage of tigers.’

  ‘Uh huh: and what about you? Do you think your presence is necessary?’

  Mike shrugged, the question catching him off guard. What about him? He didn’t have a say in the matter. Even if he thought his presence was pointless he had orders to follow.

  ‘I’ve been assigned here to protect you and that’s exactly what I intend to do.’

  She curled her hair with her finger and forced the briefest of smiles. Somehow the tension in the room alleviated.

  ‘Right. And wherever I go, you go.’

  ‘I never said that.’

  ‘No,’ she replied sweetly, ‘Cardinal del Rosi did. Wherever I go, you must go, he said. Think of him as extra security. Whatever you need he’s there, Cardinal Utaka said. Remember?’

  Suddenly he did. She had only just met him but she remembered. His mind wandered back to that night. Then he remembered the suit comment.

  ‘I don’t think he meant for me to take you to Scotland.’

  ‘Well that’s too bad,’ she said walking him towards the door. ‘Now pack your bags. We’ll be leaving in two days.’

  ‘What about Leoni et Cie?’

  ‘Mr. Riva can look after Leoni et Cie. Now come on.’

  The driver of the Mercedes had not slept much the night before. Boredom had struck days ago, and it was starting to affect his concentration. He looked at his reflection in the rear-view mirror. He looked tired. His face displayed a slight beard from several days without shaving.

  He blinked rapidly. Was he seeing things? In the corner of the mirror a car was reversing out of the driveway of the château. Finally there was action. He switched on the ignition and slowly followed in pursuit.

  Vatican banker Juan Pablo Dominguez had returned to the Vatican City earlier that day after a two-month absence in Venezuela. Feeling no ill effects from his flight from Caracas to Rome via a brief layover in New York, he strolled the grounds of the Apostolic Palace in the company of Cardinals Utaka, del Rosi and Tepilo.

  The banker walked slowly alongside the cardinals chatting briefly, a recent catch-up between good friends after a lengthy period without contact. On reaching a low wall they stopped momentarily, taking in pleasant views of the evening sun glistening down on the greenery.

  Despite the pleasant surroundings it was clear that the cardinals were troubled. Not for the first time, purple bags shadowed Cardinal Utaka’s eyes. He faced the garden with an empty expression, using the wall to support his frame.

  ‘The Vatican Bank will need to make a decision soon,’ the Colombian said. ‘Even in the present climate it will not take long for a rival bidder to be found.’

  Cardinal Utaka shook his head, his expression despondent. ‘This could not have come at a worse time. It is bad enough the market suffering as it is without everything that has happened.’

  He turned and looked at Dominguez and Tepilo.

  Cardinal del Rosi also nodded. ‘Our resources are stretched enough already.’

  Dominguez grimaced philosophically. Cardinal Utaka arched his back, walking slowly away from the wall. He looked briefly behind him. In the near distance Stan walked slowly, his eyes on the cardinal. This evening it was his task to escort the cardinals. From time to time he spoke on a walkie-talkie.

  ‘For many years your family have been a key ally for us,’ del Rosi said to Tepilo. ‘They have often acted as the peacekeepers between Mr. de Bois and ourselves. I hate to think what would happen if she should go.’

  Tepilo nodded. ‘Alas, recent weeks have caused her great sadness.’

  Dominguez listened with interest. ‘The markets will pick up in time. These things always work in cycles.’

  Utaka shook his head. ‘It is not that what worries me.’

  They passed two on-duty Swiss Guards who saluted efficiently as they turned towards the basilica. The dome glowed brightly as the setting sun shone down on the orange stone. Stan saluted as he approached, continuing thirty feet behind.

  ‘I feel Gabrielle Leoni can still be a useful ally for us,’ Cardinal Utaka said. ‘She may not have the capabilities her father had but she has always had our best interests at heart.’

  ‘A new CEO will need appointing anyway,’ Dominguez said, the slightest hind of a Latino accent on his pronunciation of CEO. ‘I would personally recommend Mr. Lewis or Mr. Swanson. Honestly, I am a little surprised that neither was appointed in the first place.’

  Cardinal del Rosi nodded. ‘Giancarlo is well qualified. Leoni et Cie is in good hands, for now.’

  ‘Of all the Vatican bankers it is he who Mr. de Bois and the other directors fear the least,’ the Colombian said. ‘If you ask me, his long-term appointment would be of great benefit to Mr. de Bois.’

  ‘He has been my close adviser these many years,’ Tepilo said. ‘I trust his counsel.’

  Utaka nodded. ‘And what of you, Juan?’ he said. ‘What would you do?’

  Coming to a standstill, Dominguez replied immediately. ‘Personally, I would attempt to persuade Ms. Leoni to keep her stock. After all, many a rash decision can be made without careful consideration: particularly financial. However, if she could not be persuaded, I would recommend that the Vatican Bank make her an offer for some of her shares: giving us enough for control of the bank but no more. Perhaps she will agree to keep a stake, perhaps between six and fourteen percent, which will ensure that she is still the third highest shareholder in the business.’

  Both Cardinal del Rosi and Cardinal Utaka smiled. It was as though they had received their first bit of good news in a long time.

  Del Rosi turned to face the Camerlengo. ‘I see no reason why your niece cannot keep matters in her own hands.’

  ‘I shall discuss the matter with her soon,’ Tepilo said.

  ‘Any takeover would still require high leverage,’ Dominguez said. ‘It is pivotal the bank not overstretch.’

  Utaka nodded. ‘We will discuss the possibility in detail at the next meeting. In the meantime, let us pray these things do not become any worse.’

  17

  Roslin, Midlothian, two days later

  The sound of ringing bells from a nearby church echoed in the wind as the morning light broke over the small village of Roslin. The early March weather was predictably damp and the underfoot slippery. A white mist originating from the river had replaced the overnight downpour that finally ceased around sunrise. Groups of elderly women, accompanied by equally aged men, walked along the drenched pavement towards the church, overcoats zipped up, umbrellas at the ready, walking sticks at their side as they battled against the dreary Scottish weather.

  The village was sleepy: a quaint Scottish community in the Edinburgh commuter belt largely unspoilt by the passing of time. There were very few cars on the road and the area surrounding the castle was almost completely devoid of life, unsurprising for a Tuesday.

  The castle was located on a quiet road, adjoining the chapel, and the car park was equally deserted. A black Renault had come and gone from outside the gate of the chapel, its place taken by a Jaguar driven by a white-haired man in his late eighties whiling the time away waiting for his wife. At 11:00am the driver of the Jaguar looked across the concrete without interest as a relatively modern minibus pulled up in an empty bay. Its passengers, a party of tourists from the USA paying homage to the Magdalene myth,
entered the chapel slowly, many stopping on the way to take photographs as they prepared to rack their brains attempting to solve the chapel’s ancient enigmas. Three cars lined the car park, each one locked and uninhabited.

  Ten minutes later the driver of the Jaguar paid equally little attention as another car pulled up in an empty space. Its arrival did not arouse suspicion. Seconds later a bearded man opened the driver’s side door and exited the car, walking in the direction of the chapel. He was dressed sensibly for the weather: a heavy blue raincoat protected him from the cold and rain, while dark waterproof leggings ended with heavy hiking boots.

  The driver was Henry Leoni. Meanwhile, Gabrielle and Mike stayed in the car.

  From his position sitting in the front passenger seat, Mike surveyed the location. The area was depressing: the grey stone, a prominent feature of the area, looked desolate in the poor light, brought about by a combination of weather and time of year. The misty air was a distraction, making it difficult to focus. He was pleased so few people were present.