The Templar Agenda

by John Paul Davis

  Yet what she saw was reassuring. Its layout suggested it was a diary, its content separated into various segments by dated entries. As best she could tell the content concentrated on the same time period as the Zeno diary although she was unable to clarify who wrote it.

  She skipped up to one hundred pages without consideration and squinted vigorously at the text. After scanning the next eight pages at rapid speed she realised the time period was around the late 1390s, documenting events that took place in the months of August and September. For the first time she began to read with interest, taking in every line as best her eyes would allow. The more she concentrated the more she recognised certain names and places. She read words slowly and turned the next page more carefully.

  She continued for a further three pages. Then, inexplicably, she smiled.

  A large map crossed two pages – strange considering it was drawn on vellum. The map was equally strange. It was definitely a world map but different from any modern map: any other she had ever seen. The map concentrated on Europe and Asia with some reference to America, surprising given the date of composition. The layout differed from modern maps, east placed as north, yet to her this was reassuring. Common practice at the time placed east at the top.

  She focused on the map for more than a minute, taking in the names as best her eyes would allow. On closer inspection the names of certain locations were in keeping with those of the first diary.

  Exhaling, she turned back towards the start. She began again at the first page and scanned the early content slowly, turning pages with regularity. The early pages were tough to turn, some stuck together.

  She turned carefully, making sure the pages did not rip when they separated. Only fifteen pages in she saw the symbol.

  The Swiss Preceptor slowed, practically coming to a standstill. In his mind he moved to the soundtrack of the Jaws movie, the sound becoming louder as the shark prepared to annihilate its prey. He approached the study room.

  At first she struggled to believe her eyes. These pages told a history, a different history, a history that until now was confined to hearsay and legend, hidden for over six centuries, and lost in the archives for over a century without being catalogued. The hairs on the back of her neck stood on end and her eyes began to water. This was what she had been looking for. She needed to find her uncle.

  Suddenly she stopped. Something had unsettled her. She could hear a sound, soft and vague. It was coming from the nearby corridor.

  She seemed incapable of moving. She felt cold, its impact strongest at the base of her upper ribs.

  For several seconds she remained silent. She looked down at the book and then over her shoulder. Concentrating on her hearing, she identified what sounded like light footfalls echoing softly outside the room. Although they say that all footsteps are unrecognisable she was aware the sounds belonged to a man. With imperfect knowledge they sounded like the footsteps of a soldier, probably a guard. They were heavy, yet disguised by a strange almost inaudible softness that filled her with dread as the realisation hit her that she was no longer alone.

  Straining her concentration for the faintest of sounds, her heart began to thunder as she realised the sound had stopped just outside the doorway. Visions entered her mind of a lingering presence, perhaps the very person who murdered her father, stalking her every move.

  Inside she felt panicked, glued to the spot in anticipation. With hurried breathing, she turned away from the chronicle, and ascended to her feet. The chair made a slight scraping sound against the floor as she reversed, further unsettling her already unsettled frame of mind. She tiptoed lightly in the direction of the doorway, all the while struggling to control her breathing. Her heart palpitated with increasing velocity and beads of sweat began to form at the top of her forehead. She blinked, her eyes remaining closed for over a second. Nearing the corridor, she took a deep breath and gazed bravely into the passageway.

  Nothing.

  The corridor was deserted, presenting only a long narrow void. She checked to her right, and then her left, and then once more to her right, her eyes focusing on the empty passageway. Still nothing: only silence.

  The silence seemed loud, almost as though she could hear the sound of the air moving in front of her. She was aware of her breathing. She noticed the beating of her heart. She noticed noticing these things.

  Looking both ways she inhaled deeply.

  Finally she exhaled in relief. She did not sense the presence behind her.

  28

  Her first reaction was to scream but the sound was inaudible. Hairy masculine fingers covered her mouth, restricting her passages. A horrible burning sensation dominated her lungs, forcing her to gasp for air. Her legs dangled above the floor, kicking frantically in every direction, knocking over desks as they made contact with her feet.

  She lost all sense of balance. She blinked, almost in desperation, her vision centring on the ornate crucifix above the door that seemed to sway from side to side. The image of Christ, though pinned to the wall, seemed to float in front of her.

  Other objects flashed by. She could see colours, almost as though she was seeing a rainbow. Unmistakeably it was the uniform of a Swiss Guard, yet she could not see his face. As the assailant tightened his grip her vision began to blur.

  For him it was beautiful, just like he had planned. The face that he had come to despise now resembled a gigantic beetroot, comically drowning in its own juice. His hands felt warm and moist: drool perhaps vomit as well oozed onto his hairy palms. Just a few more seconds…

  The strength of the man was overwhelming, depleting her energy. She fought, guided by panic. In desperation, she reached for a bookstand from the nearest desk and picked it up with difficulty. Gripping it tightly, she smashed it against his head.

  The walk to the Vatican Library continued. Their speed had picked up slightly, their minds filled with purpose.

  Without breaking step Mike’s attention picked up. In the distance he thought he heard the sound of a heavy object fall to the floor.

  The impact was little more than a nuisance. The assault had taken him slightly off balance but that was not enough to defeat him. The wooden material bounced off his head and shattered on hitting the floor. He reaffirmed his grip tightly, obstructing every nasal passage with sweaty palms. Below him, her breathing began to relent. Her eyes closed for what seemed like an eternity, but in reality it was less than a second.

  A burning sensation dominated her chest. A shooting pain, perhaps similar to what her father felt when he was murdered: probably by the same man. It shot through her arms and legs, and even her head. With seemingly her last vision she saw the ancient manuscript in front of her. Not that it mattered now. It was nearly over.

  Swaying vigorously, her eyes saw what was directly in front of her. Those tweezers were on the table: that complicated tool that she had earlier failed to master. With one desperate reach she stretched for them. Her index finger barely reached, but she felt the slightest touch of metal. Next she was falling backwards. The Swiss Guard had stumbled, but remained on his feet.

  Momentum brought her forward, his movement dictated by the fall. Inch by inch she was getting nearer. Her lungs burned with fire and her vision began to fail. With her other senses failing, she felt contact with the tweezers with her index and middle finger. As she fell backwards once more she felt the cold feeling of metal between them.

  She adjusted the grip. With little to aim at she used it where it would hurt the most.

  She opened her legs and squeezed.

  Mike stopped in his tracks. An echo reverberating with urgency and despair dominated the lengthy corridor.

  His eyes widened as he realised that it was coming from the direction they were walking.

  Then it hit him clear as a bell. Without conscious thought he was running.

  A gasp of anguish dominated her ears as excruciating pain dominated his scrotum. Although still in his grasp, she was looser than before. She felt air ente
r her lungs.

  Gabrielle screamed incessantly but failed to escape the attacker’s grasp. Her direct hit had allowed her the chance to breathe but the setback was only momentary. Seconds later the Swiss Preceptor reaffirmed his grip. He shouted obscenities at her in German and punched her twice on the right cheek, making instant impact on her already reddened face.

  She gasped for air but failed. As his strength took over the smothering sensation returned. Now she could see his face. A Swiss Guard, disguised in a balaclava, was looking down on her. His face may have been hidden but she could see from his eyes that there was hatred. Ice cold, silent, he reached for her throat. In the background she thought she heard the sound of a door opening.

  He was sure from the scream that it was Gabrielle’s voice and it was clear from her tone that she was in trouble. Cardinal del Rosi shouted at Mike as he began to sprint but the Swiss Guard did not reply. The oberst had responded to his change of pace immediately and was less than ten metres behind him, followed by Pessotto.

  Mike thundered through the corridor, his heart racing, images flashing through his head. He heard another scream, this time unmistakeable. It was Gabrielle but her voice was softer than before. Something was restricting her. Experience told him she was being gagged, but instinct told him it was a hand. A morbid groan, definitely male, was also audible, coming from beyond the doors in front of him. His pace increased, the doors appearing nearer and nearer. Conscious thought left his mind and instinct took over. He sprinted at the doors and forced them open.

  The doors opened violently. File cabinets wobbled and a picture came off the wall. The first thing he saw was a man in Medici uniform standing in the centre of the aisle, surrounded by desks. He saw that his face was covered with a balaclava, and his hands strangling Gabrielle over a desk.

  Their eyes met and without breaking step Mike sprinted towards him. The traitor dropped Gabrielle and hurried towards the front of the room. Mike pursued him. His feet lost momentum on the slippery floor but he managed to keep his balance. As he closed on the attacker he dived at his feet.

  Mike brought the traitor to the ground and with a powerful right arm punched his side. The man groaned on impact but kicked back immediately. He struggled to his feet and scurried towards the door.

  Mike wasted no time. Back on his feet, he made his way through the small gap between the desks, struggling to avoid hitting them. The Swiss Preceptor passed the final desk and picked it up with ease. Turning quickly, he threw it at Mike and exited through the open doorway.

  The first thing Thierry saw was a room in shambles. The picture above the doorway to his right had smashed to the floor and the file cabinet to his left was leaning on the next. Tables and chairs were scattered across the room as though a category five hurricane had descended. Several bookstands and lamps were lying broken on the floor.

  Three desks on, he saw Gabrielle gasping for breath and holding her throat. Her face was bright red, mascara dripping down from her eyes. Less than five desks away, Mike was lying flat out with a desk on his torso.

  A slight stinging sensation dominated Mike’s chest: a mixture of a hard right-hander from the man in the balaclava and the weight of the table. He felt his muscles twinge slightly as he moved. He threw the table off his chest and struggled to his feet.

  He studied the room in detail, looking at Gabrielle for the first time. The sight made his heart ache. He had once seen a prostitute being questioned by police in Atlanta after a sexual assault and this was much the same. Her designer suit was torn and her face was still heavily red. Colour was slowly returning as she breathed without restriction but she did so with difficulty. Tears fell down her eyes, forming a sticky substance as they mixed with her makeup and elements of blood on her right cheek. Her appearance was unrecognisable, her body shaking. He walked slowly towards her. The tears fell slightly faster from her eyes the closer he came and as he neared she lunged into his arms.

  He looked down at the back of her head. From this alone all was normal. He felt her breath frequent his chest through his uniform and her tears on his neck. She trembled, whereas he was solid. He held her tightly, gently stroking the back of her head.

  The first thing Cardinal del Rosi saw when he entered was enough to make his face red but for a completely different reason. A picture was lying broken on the floor by the doorway; a file cabinet was turned onto its side; tables and chairs were tossed randomly across the room and directly in front of him one of his Swiss Guards was cuddling a woman while the oberst was leaning against one of the desks watching.

  ‘What in heaven’s name happened here?’ del Rosi fumed, looking at Thierry and then at Mike. Mike made eye contact with the cardinal but did not answer. He spoke softly to Gabrielle and gently laid his head on top of hers.

  Del Rosi walked closer, still looking at Mike. Gabrielle released herself from his grip and turned to face the cardinal.

  The remaining two cardinals entered soon after, surveying the room for the first time. Both looked in disbelief at Gabrielle.

  Cardinal del Rosi’s expression changed to one of kindness. ‘What happened?’ he asked. ‘Who did this?’

  Cardinal Utaka looked at Gabrielle with warmth in his eyes. He approached her quickly, placing his hand to her cheek. ‘Who did this to you?’

  Commissario Pessotto exited the room via the rear right doorway, carefully avoiding the broken picture frame and peered with interest along the empty corridor. Whoever was there was now gone.

  He entered the study room again and walked towards Gabrielle. Cardinal Utaka was comforting her and Thierry was asking Mike about what he saw. Commissario Pessotto walked towards Cardinal del Rosi. Both he and Marcelos stared at the desk where Gabrielle once sat.

  It was not the desk as such. It was what was on the desk. He had noticed that half a dozen or more of the manuscript holders were scattered across the floor but the one on Gabrielle’s desk had not moved. An ancient manuscript lay before them, still open to the page she was reading.

  Commissario Pessotto’s eyes lit up, his gaze focused on the vellum. The first thing he noticed was the symbol. Suddenly his blood ran cold.

  Cardinal del Rosi hesitated slightly, clearly taken aback. He looked at Gabrielle. ‘Who did this to you?’

  Gabrielle shook her head quickly, visibly shaking. Mike continued to hold her but more softly than before. She turned her face and wiped her eyes. ‘I didn’t see his face.’

  Mike inhaled. ‘It was one of us,’ he said sternly. ‘It was a guard. His face was veiled.’

  Cardinal Utaka’s facial expression hardened. He looked at Thierry. ‘Search your men, oberst. We must ensure that this monster does not leave the vicinity.’

  ‘It’s too late,’ Pessotto replied. ‘He’s gone.’

  Utaka eyed the Vatican policeman curiously.

  ‘The Swiss Guard are here to protect,’ Cardinal del Rosi shouted with menace, his voice echoing. He looked at Thierry then at Mike. Gabrielle was still shaking, clinging to Mike.

  Utaka: ‘I think under the circumstances, oberst, perhaps you might spare Frei a little longer.’

  Thierry nodded, as did Commissario Pessotto, their eyes serious. Utaka nodded at Mike and then smiled at Gabrielle.

  Gabrielle turned and looked timidly at Mike. He smiled at her. Beyond the fear he saw gratitude, even though she never said a word.

  The Swiss Preceptor closed the door to his apartment quickly, his limp worsening with every step. Once he was sure that the door was closed he squealed in agony. At least he had not been seen.

  The throbbing in his genitals was horrendous. The pain dominated every feeling in his lower body, restricting his movement.

  Now inside, he removed his balaclava and slowly took off his garments. He was no longer bleeding, but his underwear was stained all around his scrotum. He needed to remove the stain.

  Otherwise all would be revealed.

  29

  The intruder closed the door of the unlit room as silen
tly as possible. With gloved hands he locked the door from the inside, making sure the key did not rattle in the lock, and placed it carefully into the pocket of his trousers. These were not his usual trousers. The camouflage combats that he usually wore on operations were hardly necessary on this occasion. This was a different kind of procedure. Tonight was about blending in.

  He tiptoed carefully across the darkened room, slowly approaching the desk. Despite the darkness, he did not care for risking torchlight. Sparse rays of moonlight shone through partially open blinds identifying outlines of furniture, allowing reasonable observation of the room.

  Markus Mäder scanned the room, reacquainting himself with the surroundings. Orientation came naturally to him, but this place sure looked different at night. The water dispenser by the door gurgled quietly and a red light flickered from the fax machine, perhaps the only items in the room operating. He contemplated helping himself to a cold glass of mineral water to rid the dryness in his throat but dismissed the idea immediately; even with the gloves it did not do to leave a trace.

  In his early days he always did things like this. Working in intelligence sometimes meant operating as a detective or a spy, but in this case what he did bordered on burglary. Officially he was not there and officially they could know nothing about it. In and out unseen.

  No one would know he was there.

  The situation could not have been more different to the last time he was there. Three days earlier it had been a quiet and more formal affair. His appearance, dressed in a smart suit and dark tie, identical to what he was wearing now, did nothing to suggest his true profession: to the unsuspecting Ludovic Gullet, he was Garfield Van der Haatz, a potential descendent of an illegitimate branch of a famous family of Austrian nobility whose loyalty had always been to the Reichs, who came with the intention of opening a large and high-profile account at the casino. He approached Gullet with noble arrogance and spoke abruptly in fluent German. His needs were Gullet’s needs, business was business, and all else must be put off. What he wanted, he wanted yesterday and what he wanted next week he wanted now. He spoke with interest about spread bets, poker and other bullshit: it was vital to make the meeting relevant. After all, Gullet owned the casino.