The Templar Agenda

by John Paul Davis

  ‘Rafa, this is Ms. Leoni,’ he gestured to Gabrielle. ‘Ms. Leoni would like to examine a manuscript from the library.’

  Marcelos looked at Gabrielle as if he was surveying an object. ‘I see,’ he said slowly, walking around the desk towards them. ‘And does Ms. Leoni have a reasonable purpose?’

  Gabrielle sought to respond but Utaka beat her to it.

  ‘The document is of relevance to my own position as well, Rafa.’

  The librarian remained silent. His pretence of all subjects was imposing, but Utaka clearly knew how to match the man. Marcelos walked a couple of paces forward, his eyes still focused on Gabrielle.

  He nodded slowly. ‘And tell me, what qualifications does Ms. Leoni have for viewing this manuscript?’

  Neither responded.

  ‘Because every scholar must present evidence of need and purpose. Otherwise everyone under the sun would want to search our possessions.’

  ‘I’m aware of our laws, Rafa.’

  The librarian ignored him. ‘We can’t have one rule for some and one for others.’

  ‘Nevertheless, the oversight commission of the Vatican Bank have agreed that she be allowed access. Ms. Leoni is a significant shareholder in Leoni et Cie. She is also Cardinal Tepilo’s great-niece. The Camerlengo himself was most adamant.’

  That was a fib but this stomped him. Rules or no rules, the “next Pope” was hardly likely to be argued with.

  The Brazilian motioned towards his desk. ‘This contains a catalogue of every manuscript or book currently located in the Vatican Library,’ he said pointing at the screen. He gazed at Gabrielle as if he had asked a question. A vague silence, a peculiar silence, engulfed the room, strangely appropriate for a library.

  ‘Does Ms. Leoni know the name of the manuscript?’

  The atmosphere made Gabrielle feel uneasy. She realised this was a test of her credibility.

  She smiled. ‘Yes.’

  The librarian’s expression remained neutral. In Gabrielle’s mind it hid disappointment. His fortress had been breached. Without further word he gestured with his left hand, offering her the chair behind the desk.

  Gabrielle sat down slowly, edging closer to the desk. The chair was heavy; it amazed her how the librarian managed to concentrate in such discomfort. She looked at the cardinal who stood silently, gazing intently over her shoulder. She looked at Utaka and forced a smile. He placed his right hand to his bearded chin and waited in anticipation.

  Gabrielle examined the instructions on the screen.

  Vatican Library.

  Language: Italiano.

  ‘Printed books or manuscripts,’ the cardinal said.

  Manuscripts surely. Go to catalogue.

  A series of instructions appeared before her, written in Italian.

  Catalogo Manoscritti della Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana. Catalogo Manoscritti or Accedi.

  Ricerca per indice: autore, titolo, soggetto, segnatura, incipit, explicit.

  Surely she wanted subject, or title.

  Titolo.

  She inserted the name: Rota Temporum.

  The cardinal gazed over her shoulder.

  Cerca.

  The search displayed countless results, none of which were obviously relevant. Quickly, she considered her actions.

  She removed the word Rota; this was no better. She tried several alternatives; again, similar results. She looked blankly at the names and their references, checking some in more detail.

  She tried a different search, this time the name of the author.

  Again nothing.

  A sudden feeling of apprehension overcame her. Sitting silently, she could feel the librarian’s eyes fixed on her from behind, monitoring her every move. She made eye contact with Cardinal Utaka, looking for inspiration. This was going nowhere.

  ‘In order to accomplish a successful search we must be sure we possess all the correct details,’ the Brazilian librarian said. ‘It would be most unfortunate should someone be searching our catalogue and finding something they shouldn’t.’

  On first reflection this sounded incriminating. What did he mean, find something they shouldn’t? Finances, perhaps? Records of Nazi gold lying hidden and gathering dust? Or maybe that legend about the pornography collection was true! Surely the other stuff would be in the secret archive.

  The secret archive?

  ‘What about the secret archive?’

  ‘Impossible.’

  ‘You have access to the catalogue on your desktop,’ Utaka said.

  ‘That is irrelevant. The secret archives are restricted access.’

  ‘Cardinal Tepilo…’

  ‘Cardinal Tepilo did not agree to that, I’m sorry…’

  ‘If the manuscript is there then I’m sure he’d be most displeased that Ms. Leoni was not granted access.’

  The Brazilian exhaled loudly. He leaned over Gabrielle and clicked a couple of times on the mouse. A new catalogue emerged.

  ‘Type in the name of your manuscript please.’

  Gabrielle looked at the screen, her concentration intent. Her heart began to thunder, her optimism heightening with each passing second. She looked at the flashing cursor and typed in the relevant letters. The Brazilian looked over her shoulder.

  The result was the same.

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘But it’s there. I know it is.’

  ‘Now if you’ll both excuse me, I must continue…’

  ‘Is this catalogue complete?’

  She looked longingly at Cardinal Utaka for guidance. He paused momentarily, nodding at the archivist.

  ‘Thank you for your time, Rafa.’

  Cardinal Utaka escorted Gabrielle outside and closed the door behind them, the sound echoing momentarily. Gabrielle exhaled loudly. For several seconds she stared at the closed door. It was there, it had to be, somewhere, hidden away, long since forgotten. She looked at the African cardinal and shook her head. Almost apologetically, he forced a smile.

  ‘Come,’ he said. ‘I have to see Thierry.’

  25

  Mike watched with interest as Cardinal Utaka and Commissario Pessotto entered the office, followed a few minutes later by Cardinal del Rosi. Mike could tell from the cardinals’ manner that the meeting in the Sistine Chapel had been stressful. He sprung to his feet and saluted each man on entering, his facial expression hardening in their presence. He assumed that Gabrielle had already told them at least of some of their exploits, and silently that worried him. He expected to be grilled.

  The office felt stuffy, and Cardinal del Rosi’s face reflected the temperature. He paced the room like a prison warden, eyeing all present curiously for several seconds before focusing his attention on Mike. His expression hardened.

  ‘Enough of this hand waving.’

  Mike’s eyes remained focused on the cardinal. He stood silently, waiting for a question that was still to come, slowly lowering his hand.

  ‘I hope you have some good news, gentlemen,’ del Rosi said. He eyed each man in turn, finishing with Mike. Mike remained silent. His throat felt dry, forcing him to swallow. He cleared his throat quietly, careful not to make a vomiting sound as catarrh formed in his gullet.

  ‘You can dispense with the formalities, Frei,’ Utaka said. ‘Tell us everything.’

  Once again Mike reverted to the role of storyteller. Utaka had heard the story once from Gabrielle in the tone of a uni student intent on revealing political corruption, whereas del Rosi remained in the dark. His facial expression remained unflinching throughout.

  Mike spoke for nearly ten minutes. He spoke faster than normal, struggling at times to disguise his nerves. Inside he felt flustered, a feeling that intensified every time he saw Cardinal del Rosi shake his head. Unlike Gabrielle, Mike said nothing of the Poli account and ended with Rosslyn.

  Cardinal del Rosi slammed hard on his knees. ‘Did you really think we would approve?’

  ‘Come now,’ Utaka said.

  Cardinal del Rosi pointed his f
inger at Mike, his face reddening. ‘You were assigned to guard her, wachtmeister, you disobeyed a strict order.’

  Mike’s resolve strengthened. ‘Eminence, with all due respect, I obeyed it precisely. I was told to go where she goes and that was exactly what I did.’

  ‘Don’t you use that tone. Remember to whom you speak.’

  Thierry: ‘Eminence, Frei informed Ms. Leoni of his views on countless occasions that she should keep a low profile. None of these murders have been related by geography. The risk was the same no matter where she went. At least she was in the care of her family.’

  Del Rosi turned to face Thierry, his expression unaltered.

  Thierry looked seriously at Cardinal Utaka. ‘Ms. Leoni was very adamant that Frei should not keep her against her will. Frankly, I believe her uncle should have been more persuasive. Frei was in no position to stop her. Unless he was to have pointed a gun at her head...’

  ‘And let’s thank God no one else did,’ del Rosi shouted.

  Silence descended: a hush so firm that all present could hear the passing of the air.

  Commissario Pessotto looked thoughtfully at Mike. ‘George tells me that Ms. Leoni was most adamant that the library held something of importance, wachtmeister. What was this?’

  ‘The library?’ Thierry asked, surprised.

  Cardinal Utaka raised his hand and the room fell silent. To Mike, Cardinal Utaka commanded respect that was otherwise unrivalled in the room, even by Thierry.

  ‘Frei.’

  Mike took a deep breath, attempting to gather his thoughts.

  ‘Well the vaults at Rosslyn had clearly not been used in centuries but the remnants of painted markings on the walls included the same symbol found on the diary. I also saw evidence that at least one of the Italian seafarers was buried there. Several days later, Ms. Leoni spoke of a story dating back to 1834 regarding a man from Italy who returned to Rosslyn to remove a chronicle from the castle vaults and deposited it somewhere in the Vatican. Apparently in the past the vaults at Rosslyn were used as a scriptorium. Ms. Leoni believed the story to be true and that a manuscript of importance had been deposited somewhere among the Vatican collections. Her uncle also validated the story.’

  Further silence fell, less awkward but still unsettling. Cardinal Utaka looked thoughtfully at the Swiss Guard, seemingly more interested in the account than Cardinal del Rosi. Thierry’s walkie-talkie crackled in the humid air. He answered and del Rosi spoke.

  ‘The Knights Templar, I’ve never heard such rubbish.’

  ‘Ms. Leoni seemed fairly convinced,’ Utaka replied.

  ‘And that proves it does it? You said yourself there was nothing in the archives.’

  ‘They are not all catalogued, the ancient manuscripts.’

  Pessotto: ‘Professor Leoni sounds quite convinced also, and he’s more advanced in his field.’

  ‘Hearsay, Gianluca,’ del Rosi said. ‘If all of the world’s scholars were to be lined up from east to west they still would not find the south.’

  Mike bit his lip, his gaze centring on Pessotto. ‘Professor Leoni did show me proof of his claim. He had in his possession an old manuscript, similar to the Zeno diary. He showed me a reference to an organisation that was allegedly active behind the scenes in the French Revolution. The writer referred to the descendents of the Templars and they also had the same logo as the Rite of Larmenius.’

  ‘I have never heard of this,’ del Rosi said.

  ‘Jacques de Molay thou art avenged,’ Pessotto said.

  Curious stares followed.

  ‘What did it say, wachtmeister?’

  Commissario Pessotto’s comments were surprising to Mike. His mind wandered back to the day they showed Henry Leoni the diary.

  ‘Very little, sir,’ Mike said. ‘Only something to do with the French Revolution and the role of a so-called band of conspirators.’

  Pessotto nodded. ‘Did Henry Leoni give any indication of how the initial manuscript was given to his brother by Mikael Devére?’

  Mike shook his head. ‘No. He seemed completely clueless.’

  Cardinal Utaka looked thoughtfully at Pessotto. ‘Did Leoni know Devére?’

  ‘Devére banked with Leoni et Cie,’ Pessotto said.

  ‘Devére was certainly friends with Henry Leoni,’ Mike said.

  Cardinal Utaka nodded.

  ‘This interests me,’ Pessotto said. ‘Wachtmeister, tell us everything that Henry Leoni said.’

  A Swiss Guard in Medici uniform stopped Gabrielle as she approached the Sistine Chapel. Like most Swiss Guards he was well-presented, some five-eleven in height and of Swiss complexion. He eyed her curiously as she attempted to enter the chapel and after recognising her from the meeting, allowed her access.

  Within twenty minutes the chapel had changed dramatically. Its interior, earlier more reminiscent of a New York boardroom than a church, once again resembled the sacred site of religion. The long table in the middle of the floor was still present but most of the chairs had been cleared away. Three whiteboards lay folded up by the far doors awaiting collection but the majority of the apparatus had disappeared. It was strange to think that less than an hour ago this very room had been a site of constant deliberation between the banking heavyweights of the suit and the cloth.

  Gabrielle took a seat by one of the walls, within a few metres of where she had spoken to Cardinal Utaka. Not for the first time, she focused on the images of biblical times lining the walls and ceiling above her, only now desperation and frustration had replaced her earlier feelings of boredom.

  She felt like kicking out or screaming in anger. Biting her lip, she inhaled deeply, allowing the air to frequent her lungs. The air was cooler with the far doors open. The location that had earlier constituted privacy and secrecy would be opened to the public later that afternoon and life would move on. Soon she would return to her car, then the long drive home.

  Alone.

  She thought of Mike, then the manuscript that did not exist. Then that made her think about Marcelos: that asshole who made her feel like a criminal, or worse. It was like being back at school, accused of cheating by a teacher. It was there, dammit. It had to be.

  She thought about Rosslyn. Then she thought about Poli. Perhaps it was all just a legend. Perhaps there was no Poli. Perhaps the book never existed.

  No, dammit. It was there. It had to be. It fitted.

  If the Templars continued they went to Rosslyn. Sinclair had connections with Rosslyn. Zichmni was Sinclair, Zichmni was a Templar, she knew that much.

  She kept thinking about Rosslyn. The splendid tomb, if it was a tomb, whatever it was. The markings on the wall, the Templars: something existed, or still does: once hidden in an empty tomb, as suggested by the diary.

  Maybe there was more to the diary. It had the cross and it provided an in-depth guide to the vaults of Rosslyn. She had seen them; she knew they were accurate.

  And there were those markings. Vat. Ross. 342. Whatever it meant. It was meaningless. Dammit.

  She looked up once more at the far wall of the chapel, her eyes concentrating on Michelangelo’s Last Judgment. The illusion stimulated fear. It was incredible the way the wall seemed to become more intimidating the higher up she looked. It reminded her of Rosslyn…

  Then it hit her.

  Jumping to her feet, she sprinted instantaneously towards the door.

  Outside the doors of the Sistine Chapel the Swiss Guard appeared an image of goodness. Four hours carrying out duties to ensure the safety of people he despised did wonders for his patience.

  The beautiful melody from Beethoven’s Ninth Symphony was playing loudly through his head as if on a continuous loop. He loved the way the brass and strings seemed to rise to an unattainable height at its peak. Even in his mind they reached epic proportions, giving himself a much needed lift. It took a strange kind of patience to idle away the time dressed in the circus costumes that he loathed.

  He had always despised the bankers but he despi
sed the cardinals even more. And now he had found someone he hated even more than them, if that were possible.

  Being born into a poor family perhaps gave him a reason to hate her. They say poverty is unavoidable: no one can alter the hand they are dealt. But the so-called elegance of the wealthy was avoidable. It didn’t exist: it was nothing but a superstition: a selfish insult to those who had nothing. He had learned to hate them. He would enjoy breaking her.

  In his mind the sound of Beethoven became louder. That was when he saw her, running past him in the direction of one of the corridors. She did not see him. She never saw him.

  He was just a guard.

  But he was not her guard. It was a skill to kill. It was a skill to investigate. But it was a master class to investigate and possibly kill at a moment’s notice without being seen.

  He was a master of discretion.

  26

  Gabrielle sprinted, her footfalls echoing along the ancient corridor. Despite wearing high heels she somehow managed to retain her balance.

  At last she was concentrating. It was there. It was there all along, right before her eyes. Was she blind? Was she stupid?

  How could she have been so stupid?

  She stopped before the door of the librarian’s office and took a few seconds to gather her thoughts. She inhaled a couple of times, taking the opportunity to smarten her appearance and catch her breath. She adjusted her shoes, which had nearly slipped off as she ran and quietly cleared her throat. Finally, she tapped gently on the door.

  ‘Come.’

  Cardinal Marcelos monitored the door expectantly. An enquiring stare changed to one of disappointment. Now what did she want?

  ‘Ms. Leoni…’

  ‘These books, they have references,’ she interrupted.

  The cardinal looked back blankly. ‘Forgive me.’

  ‘The books, the manuscripts,’ she went on, ‘you can look them up by their specific reference.’

  He looked at her with a lost expression. He was used to being bombarded with requests from various scholars but this was stupidity. Was she an idiot? probably. What did Cardinal Utaka, or the Camerlengo for that matter, see in such lunacy?