Henry smiled.
‘Zeno.’
For now his attention remained focused on the grave. He waited for Henry to examine it himself, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the markings.
For over a minute the academic studied it. His bearded face broke into a strong smile. ‘I think we’ve come to the right place.’
Mike retreated away from the grave, standing beside Gabrielle, less than ten metres from the cobweb-covered archway. He eyed it closely, aware that the opening was deliberate and obviously made by man.
Mike entered first, careful to avoid losing his footing. Through the archway was a large chamber, its interior brighter than the corridor, its walls illuminated by sparse rays of light entering through cracks in the ceiling. It was obvious from the layout that the chamber had once been used frequently although not in recent years. It was more finely decorated than the other crypts, and was vaguely reminiscent of the inside of the nearby chapel, though not as complex. The torchlight uncovered various symbols decorating the walls ranging from that of pagan origin, such as the Green Man, to depictions from the Crusades and those seemingly belonging to the time of ancient Egypt. Whatever they were they seemed to have been made by the same people responsible for the markings on the wall of the cave.
In the centre of the room was an altar raised onto a stone platform. A chequered floor, almost resembling a gigantic chessboard, covered the ground whereas several stone pillars were assembled in equal measure. In the centre of the chamber, below the altar, was a tomb. High up on the wall behind it was a symbol etched into the stone, significantly faded, and yet instantly distinguishable as a skull and crossbones with a Templar cross flanking it. Other illustrations accompanied it, though their appearance practically unrecognisable due to centuries of decay.
Gabrielle came to an abrupt standstill, her senses heightened by a sudden sense of panic.
‘Oh, my God,’ she said loudly.
Mike walked closer, his eyes lighting up at the sight of the symbol. Was this why they were here? Was this why seven men had been murdered? Somehow the thought didn’t ring true. Several metres before the altar, a bizarre statue stood atop the tomb. It looked like a goat, but also an angel or a demon carrying a sword. A grim expression lined its face, both morbid and evil. Underneath it was an inscription. A strange etching of what seemed to be the Rite of Larmenius symbol was also present in the ancient stone.
‘What does it say?’ Mike asked.
Henry approached the stone, peering in for a closer look. The smell of the stone felt dank on his nostrils. He smiled as he read.
‘She sleeps through the centuries.’
‘Some woman,’ Mike said, his eyes transfixed on the strange object.
‘This is Asmodeus,’ Henry said smiling. He eyed the object curiously before examining the remainder of the room. The chequered floor, the pillars, the carvings on the wall: it all pointed to one thing.
‘This was a Masonic lodge.’
Mike retreated a few steps and examined the room in further detail. A former stairwell, leading to where the house was now located, was present in the east side of the chamber, covered in part by an identical logo. By now the feeling of coldness was starting to turn to numbness, heightened in no small part by the significant revelations that lay before them. For several seconds Mike stood still, awestruck, gazing intently at the strange logo that now seemed to hold the key to so much.
‘This is it,’ Gabrielle said, her body shaking with excitement. She shone her torch on the inscription of the tomb, carefully examining what remained. A smile crossed her lips. ‘Wow. I wonder what it means.’
‘It’s a riddle,’ Henry said. ‘The sleeping lady sleeps through the centuries. Something of importance must be buried inside.’
‘Open it.’
‘We can’t,’ Mike said.
‘Come on,’ Gabrielle said trying in vain to open it alone. ‘Help me lift it.’
Mike walked slowly around the tomb and examined it under the torchlight. Patterns of angels were carved into the lid, flanking the original Templar symbol of two knights to a horse. He placed his hands on both corners of the lid. Finding a grip was difficult. With gloved fingers he gripped it tightly. It was heavy but not screwed down. Gabrielle tried to lift it but failed. Henry smiled at her. He moved in alongside her, taking a position opposite Mike.
‘On three,’ Henry said. ‘One, two…’
After a few seconds of struggling it came free. Wasting no time, Gabrielle shone the torch inside.
Henry gazed inside. His smile withered at the sight of an empty tomb.
In truth Mike was partially relieved. Using his torch he peered inside, examining the 14th century grave from top to bottom. It looked like a tomb but where decaying remains should have lain in rest, there was nothing: a dark void cut only by the shining of the torch. He checked everything thoroughly, satisfying himself that it was empty.
Gabrielle looked blankly at her uncle for inspiration.
‘The sleeping lady,’ he said. ‘If she can somehow be awakened Rosslyn Castle shall rise again.’
Gabrielle shrugged.
‘Medieval tradition says a great treasure worth millions is buried beneath the castle vaults. It never says what this treasure is. Clearly, once upon a time something was buried in this very tomb; something of intrinsic meaning to the castle’s purpose,’ Henry smiled philosophically, his eyes continuing to survey the chamber. ‘Very interesting.’
Gabrielle looked around, a lost expression dominating her face. ‘How do we get out?’
‘How about the way we came in...’ Mike said.
‘You wanna piece of me…’
‘Shhh!’ Henry put his hand to his lips.
A strange silence followed. Close by, water fell from the dizzy heights, echoing briefly then leaving nothing but the vague sound of rain falling against sodden ground several metres above. Henry walked slowly around the chamber, paying particular attention to the walls. He walked toward the archway, his eyes focused on the area directly above it. He shone the torch. For the first time he noticed another painting on the stone. It was vaguely familiar. It was of a knight, possibly lying down. A strange emblem marked his shield. It appeared to be a ship sailing on a starry moonlit night.
Gabrielle was also looking at the image. ‘Take a photo.’
Henry searched his pocket and removed a small digital camera. A quick sound followed as the built-in lens escaped from inside the camera. For several minutes he photographed the area in detail. The initial sense of excitement returned as he captured various images on the portable memory card.
‘Right,’ he said. ‘Let’s go.’
Over twenty minutes later they exited through the same cave, walking slowly in the direction of the approach bridge. The ground was muddier than before as it continued to absorb the rain.
Mike exhaled deeply. The first thing he noticed was that the heavy atmosphere inside the tunnel had lifted only to be replaced by a different type of oppressiveness. The chilly rain was falling heavily, only now the cold delivery felt somehow refreshing on his dusty face.
Gabrielle walked quickly, heading back towards higher ground. Following the path, she led the way tirelessly up the slope and within a few minutes reached the car park.
Several bays along from the hire car, the man with blond locks had returned to his bike. He saw that the Swiss Guard had noticed him but not for the first time his face was covered by his helmet.
Moments later, he watched as the academic reversed slowly and turned right on leaving the car park. Within seconds the biker followed.
They were the only two vehicles on the road.
18
The GPLA headquarters in Charlotte, North Carolina, was deserted by eight. For the last two hours Ged Fairbanks had been the only person in the office. He rarely stayed beyond six but tonight he was in no rush to leave. Neither was he in the mood to work.
With his back to his desk, Fairbanks swivelled on his chair
and gazed through the window down at the road. Several feet below on the opposite side of the street, a man with a shaven head and dressed in a designer suit stopped momentarily to check his watch before continuing with clockwork efficiency from one end to the other. Several metres later he stopped again, looked up at the window of the accountant’s office, and made a casual about-turn at the corner before repeating the sequence for the umpteenth time. An outsider may have assumed he was waiting for someone. The accountant, however, knew better.
Fairbanks turned away from the street and returned his attention to his desk. An empty glass was present in front of him, accompanied by a bottle of single malt whiskey. The bottle, full at the start of the evening, was at least ten percent down. The accountant refilled his glass and downed it in one. The fine liquid burned on the back of his throat, yet in his dazed state he struggled to notice. His mind was troubled by the activities that would come to pass. Sometimes he wondered if he were a stronger man whether he would have resisted them.
Yet he was not a strong man.
At least now he could move on and life could return to normal. For far too long this agenda had dominated his life. Men he had never met phoned him at all hours, demanding everything and anything in exchange for everything from one hundred-dollar bills to villas in the South Pacific: most of which he accepted. Thoughts turned to Fiji: sand, sea…women in bikinis.
Perhaps he had made the right decision.
He looked at the document for the final time before replacing it in the bottom drawer of a nearby file cabinet. He locked the drawer, breathing a sigh of relief as he did so. No more people in suits would be monitoring his every move.
What needed to be done was done.
The Scottish Preceptor was snoring loudly when the phone rang. He always was a deep sleeper and it was not until the fourth ring that he finally awoke. His wife poked him a couple of times and swore at him but by that stage he was already awake. In a dazed state, he rolled over toward his bedside table, his blurry vision fixed on the clock. The red LED from his alarm clock suggested it was 2:13am. Who the hell would possibly call at this hour?
‘Yes…’
‘Hello, Alex!’
The voice was cold and precise. There was no need to ask who it was.
‘Now where the Devil have you been?’ the Scot asked, rubbing sleep from his eyes. ‘I’ve been trying to call you all day. And with all due respect I’m due in Baltimore in seven hours.’
‘I’m not interested in your social events, Alex,’ he said clearly. ‘This is important.’
The Scot sat upright in bed, and switched on the table lamp. The man always sounded angry on the phone. This sounded like bad news.
It was bound to be bad news.
‘Listen, I’ve been trying to call you,’ the Scot said.
‘That can wait.’
It was no use arguing; it was never worth arguing with him. The sooner he listened the sooner he would be asleep again.
He adjusted the phone to his ear. ‘Very well, so what can I do for you?’
‘Our Sénéchal informed me earlier today of the Vatican Bank’s intention to up their holdings in Leoni et Cie to just over 50%.’
The Scot paused. ‘Fine. I’ll read all about it in The Times on the way to Baltimore. You should be thrilled.’
‘But we have another problem.’
The Scot yawned vigorously, reaching for a bottle of mineral water on his bedside table. He filled an empty glass and downed half of it in one. The cool liquid felt pleasant on his throat.
‘And what about it?’
‘Certain members of the Vatican supervisory council have decided that Randy Lewis should take over as chief executive.’
‘What about him? He’s just an ignorant SOB.’
‘He may be an ignorant SOB, as you say, Alex, but to me he’s a bloody ulcer.’
The Scot shook his head, looking once more at the clock. The Scot’s wife kicked him in the back.
‘I’m not quite sure I understand.’
‘Well understand this!’ the bearded man said coldly. ‘Former Chairman of the Federal Reserve, Lewis, has been advising the council, including our very own Sénéchal, to let him and Swanson run the board. He’s made numerous attempts at reminding them that a former Banco Ambrosiano and Starvel manager is largely unopposed to make decisions and Lewis thinks the idea is a bad one.’
The Scot blinked several times in succession. He rubbed his eyes but it made no difference. The situation was still there. Time was ticking. Six hours, fifty-eight minutes until Baltimore.
‘Sir, that was always on the cards…besides, what do you want me to do at 2am? And we have a presence on the oversight commission. Shouldn’t you be discussing this with him?’
There was silence at the other end. The preceptor breathed deeply.
‘Besides, perhaps Lewis won’t even notice.’
‘No, professor: Randy Lewis may be a lot of things, but he’s no greenhorn. He isn’t one to let things slip. He’s a workaholic. People are already suspicious. It is vital there is no trail.’
A brief pause followed.
‘I will be meeting with our Sénéchal in Rome on Friday to discuss the matter further. I suggest you accompany me before returning home from Baltimore.’
The Scot paused momentarily, gazing once more at the clock. ‘Fine. Now, about the other matter?’
Silence dominated the line.
‘I had an interesting phone call today from a second cousin of mine.’
‘Do you really think I’m interested in your family reunions, Alex?’
‘Well you might be once you hear what he had to say.’
The bearded man did not respond. Silence.
‘He informed me that he received a surprise visit today from none other than Professor Leoni, his wee niece and her wee puppy.’
The Scot spoke for several minutes.
‘Most interesting,’ the Scot continued. ‘It seems that Monsieur Devére had left them a wee present: something that once belonged to me, you might recall. Now, as I’ve told you before, we are still unaware exactly what became of some of our ancient texts. We know that Monsieur Michalak left some of them to Monsieur Devére, but what we don’t know is what became of them. Remember, he was quite evasive of the subject. But it seems that one of the most important has returned to the surface.’
‘Superstitions, Alex, I care not for them.’
‘But do you not see what this means? Let’s say Monsieur Devére decided to inform some of his, shall we say, close friends about a few select things. Many historians have sought for years to find evidence of a genuine Templar survival.’
‘And…’
‘Well let’s just say he perhaps gave someone a certain history lesson.’
‘Such as?’
‘Well. Al Leoni.’
The line was quiet for several seconds. ‘And?’
‘Well, we now know that it was Devére who passed on the findings of Nathan Walls and Martin Snow to Leoni. It seems fairly likely that if he was going to talk he would talk about everything.’
A further pause followed.
‘This is good news,’ the bearded man said.
At the other end of the line, the Scot’s expression was one of confusion. ‘This is not good news if these things find their way into the wrong hands.’
‘Such matters do not remain in the wrong hands for long,’ the bearded man said. ‘I will be speaking to our Swiss Preceptor myself in due course. Perhaps he may have a plan.’
‘I’ll give him my regards.’
The bearded man laughed slowly. ‘Now get some sleep. You’re in Baltimore in a few hours.’
The line went dead and the Scot hung up the phone. He smiled momentarily, but was gone before his head hit the pillow.
19
They returned to St. Gallen late the next evening after spending one night in Edinburgh. The hotel was grand in nature, regarded by many as one of the most prestigious to line Edinburgh’
s Royal Mile, and one night’s stay cost the equivalent of a week of Mike’s salary.
Although it was Mike’s first experience staying at this type of hotel, he didn’t have the opportunity to enjoy it. The majority of people present may have accepted hoards of smartly dressed guests whiling the time away in extravagant surroundings as part of the furniture yet for the Swiss Guard each was a possible suspect. A bald-headed bearded man in his late sixties chatted for over an hour with Henry Leoni in the bar, yet another old friend, acquaintance and well-wisher of the distinguished academic, and a handsome man in his early thirties stared incessantly at Gabrielle’s legs, and she had noticed, but he later vanished, not to be seen again.
In many ways the relaxing environment was the perfect backdrop: a chance for his host to escape the events of recent weeks, but for Mike the evening dragged. Sometime after nine, in the corner of the bar he saw what on first impression was a man dressed in biking gear, perhaps the man from Rosslyn, but he disappeared almost as soon as he appeared. In his dazed state of mind the Swiss Guard thought he recognised the man, but he dismissed it as implausible. Even so, the thought lingered.
He awoke that morning slightly later than usual. Despite the relatively short flight across one time zone being insignificant in terms of jet lag, the lateness of their return had left him feeling dazed. At just after 10am he left his room and entered the kitchen, his mind on autopilot as he searched for coffee. Kopi Luwak, St Helena, Hacienda la Esmeralda Geisha and El Injerto were just some of the crazy names that lined the cupboards of the oversized kitchen, recognised worldwide as some of the best coffee brands available, most of which he had never previously heard of. Before his arrival he had never questioned the pedigree of coffee. He poured himself whatever was in the percolator and savoured the flavour: another prestige brand that would be absent from the shopping list of the Polish sisters. The one thing he would miss was the coffee.
He paused momentarily, sipping from his coffee while looking through the windows across the landscape. The torrential downpour that had lasted all morning was showing no signs of abating. It had been raining constantly for three days in Switzerland and, not for the first time, the day’s weather would see him confined to the indoors. And that was fine, if it hadn’t been for Gabrielle’s ceaseless thirst for hidden knowledge. What did it mean? He still had no idea. Soon enough, it would all be beyond him.
The Templar Agenda Page 21