Hands on hips she looked at him. It was not the most luxurious she had ever seen but it was not without its charm. More importantly it was quiet. Therefore it was secluded.
Their room was on the first floor, which in this case was the top floor. Two basic double beds dominated the room, separated in the middle by one large bedside table. Switches at the headboard activated both the main wall lights and two lamps situated above each bed. An ironing board was leaning against the main wardrobe, next to a long fixed table that included a kettle and a TV. A small ensuite bathroom was accessible just inside the door and contained a sink, a toilet and a bath with an electric shower. At first sight the room was pleasantly comfortable but stains and cigarette burns on the cream carpet quickly limited its appeal.
She surveyed the room and looked at him. ‘If I get nits it’s your fault.’
He smiled. ‘Nits can be washed away.’
‘So can blood.’
He smiled awkwardly. Gabrielle, meanwhile, turned away and walked towards the window. Outside, stunning Alpine views took the breath away. A glowing crescent moon rose above the mountains to the east. She looked for a few seconds at the view across the landscape before sitting down on the bed, as if testing it.
Mike looked at her nervously. ‘Okay?’ he asked, almost as if seeking approval.
‘Uh huh.’
He looked at her for several seconds. ‘Well, I’ll take a shower. You gonna be okay?’
She looked up and forced a smile. ‘Sure.’
With a sense of unease he retrieved his suitcase and entered the bathroom, closing the door behind him.
Although Mike was only in the next room she felt alone. She inhaled deeply and felt her eyes water slightly. The lingering smell of cigarette smoke teased her nostrils, somehow made worse by the curious smell of WD-40 or similar coming from the direction of the ensuite, feebly undermined by the lemon air freshener.
She looked around the room. It was basic but okay. It was the type of place adequate for a couple in town to see the castles or enjoy the scenery. A print of a painting, medieval in setting, modern in date, overhung the bed. The painting illustrated a battle in the St. Gotthard Pass centuries earlier. The sight of soldiers carrying halberds unnerved her slightly but also reassured her as her mind wandered again to the man in the next room.
She walked once more towards the window. The pleasant moonlight cast a warm glow over the peaceful landscape, disturbed only by the faintest sound of traffic heading towards Zürich, Vaduz or Milan. In the distance she thought of St. Gallen and the château. As she daydreamed she thought of her father, standing in the garden, then standing before her and smiling. For a moment the thought reassured her slightly even though it was nothing more than a memory.
The Swiss Guard limped across the floor of the deserted church. Walking in his condition was difficult, and he struggled to make out objects in the poor light. The hour was late and the church was consumed in darkness, illuminated only by the faint glow of moonlight that filtered eerily through the window above the Throne of Peter.
He approached the confessional and pulled the curtain to one side. He knelt down on the cushion, partly in comfort but also in reverence to the man behind the lattice.
He could not touch him but he knew he was there, merely centimetres away. His presence shook him. He could hear the audible sound of his impatience illustrated by his short breathing.
The Swiss Preceptor waited. He wanted to speak, but more importantly he wanted it over with. After several seconds the silence was broken.
‘There is a rumour going around the Vatican that we have a snake in the grass,’ the Sénéchal said calmly, his voice penetrating. ‘Do you know what this means?’
The preceptor hesitated. His words were meaningless, pathetic gossip, as if a glossy magazine or a tabloid was dishing the dirt on some lowlife politician’s affair with a skank. Yet his tone was serious. The Swiss could not see the other man’s eyes but he felt them staring at him through the panel.
‘It means nothing.’
‘It means you failed.’
The Sénéchal’s voice was startling. The notion itself was ridiculous. The Swiss Guard were the epitome of integrity, loyalty, bravery, esteem, and much more. No one would believe this could be true.
‘You were under no orders to carry out such an attack.’
‘I had to do something. Our entire existence was at stake. Your compassion clouds your judgment, eminence.’
The cardinal bit his lip. ‘Your rashness clouds yours.’
Silence followed, lasting several seconds.
‘Thankfully for you the committee are unsuspecting. It seems the Lord favours you. I have been asked to carry out the investigation myself.’
The preceptor smiled.
The cardinal shuffled in his seat. Vulgar. Indignant. He felt such contempt – not only for the man’s incompetence, but his very being. The smell from his neck, some kind of cologne, made his skin crawl. It somehow smelled of treachery. It also smelt of ineptitude.
The Swiss Preceptor inhaled deeply. It was a mistake; he knew that. It takes a certain type of man to become preceptor. He was stepping into big shoes, old shoes, shoes that perhaps predated where he now knelt.
Plan A was over. Next comes B.
The courtyard was well lit, not unlike the hotel. It was clean, surprisingly clean: no graffiti, no litter. The same was to be said of the car park. The good lighting may have served to put off vandals and thieves but the cars were hardly worth stealing.
Except for one.
Parked in a secluded corner in between a ten-year-old sedan and an SUV was the woman’s Lotus. Parked to avoid attention.
No one saw the BMW emerge. No one saw the driver exit the car, survey the vicinity or enter the hotel. No one saw him leave.
31
St. Gallen
Henry Leoni polished the magnifying lens using the lens cleaner and breathed gently on the glass. After removing countless fragments of dust and smudge marks that had earlier distorted his view, he replaced the 8x zoom lens and peered with one eye through the microscope. Adjusting the zoom, he focused on a certain line of the second diary. The content was mind-blowing. The more he read the more convinced he became that he was dealing with something of intrinsic importance.
Centuries of use had left countless marks on the page but it was generally in good condition for its age. Around the edges colours ran thanks largely to contamination of the fingers. Minor burn marks and evidence of shrivelled corners backed up his belief that the manuscript had once been moved from Rosslyn on the outbreak of a fire. The Italian handwriting was fairly easy on the eye, particularly one as trained as his, but reading it was one thing, comprehending it another. Never in all his years had he been treated to such a find. He concentrated on the section where Gabrielle had discovered the symbol and was amazed at what he found. He praised her profusely. He worried about her but the magnitude of the find dominated his thoughts. It was incredible. Lost for all those years. The thought made him shake.
Behind him, the door to the study creaked open and Gabrielle entered slowly. Her jet-black hair was parted at the middle, partially covering her carefully made up face. Bruising around her cheek, purple in colour less than two days earlier, had now faded to a dull yellow colour concealed by three layers of makeup. She carried three full coffee mugs in her hands: one for Mike, who had disappeared, one for her, and one for her uncle. She placed two cups down on the desk and the final one on a coaster near the computer monitor. With her hands now free, she slipped coasters under the other two and moved them away from the manuscript.
‘Thank you,’ Henry replied looking up briefly. He paused momentarily to adjust the lens before continuing to focus on the manuscript. Gabrielle leaned over his shoulder, looking with interest at the diary. She had read parts of it already although she failed to understand it. The night at the hotel had been plagued by fear, and reading the text had passed the time productively. Sleep was ha
rdly likely: every little noise had spooked her, every light frightened her and every passing car unnerved her.
Four days had passed since their return. Mike took up occupation in his old room, his mind concentrating on security, while Gabrielle brought her uncle up to speed with the second diary. Her hands still trembled slightly but far less than they had in previous days. A façade of confidence had returned.
Everything about her suggested focus. Instinct told her to move forward and she was determined not to let the memory of the attack trouble her. Her father always told her that the past never mattered: everything was experience; if it’s bad, learn from it. The only past that mattered was that which was recorded in the second diary. Although she still had no idea what it meant, it continued to dominate her thoughts. Mike wasn’t fooled. She told him not to worry; he didn’t buy it. She told him she had moved on; he didn’t buy it. Maybe he wasn’t as useless as she thought.
She looked with interest over her uncle’s shoulder at the top right hand corner of the page, approximately fifteen pages in. On closer inspection it was the same page that had the symbol on it.
‘The inclusion of the symbol is intriguing.’
‘Yes,’ he said, still looking down. ‘Fascinating. Most unique.’
Henry looked away from his work and made eye contact with Gabrielle. She smiled at him. Despite her calm façade it was obvious to him that she was putting on a show.
‘You need to take it easy.’
She looked away briefly, taking a sip from her coffee.
‘I’d rather concentrate on this,’ she said replacing the cup. ‘I’d rather keep busy. You know.’
He smiled. ‘Just like your father.’
Despite offering a wide smile, secretly her thoughts continued to wander. She could not help but feel the man who attacked her was the same man who killed her father, perhaps others as well. She hated him more for her father’s death than the attack on her. The thought angered her.
‘Gabrielle.’
She shook her head, returning to reality. ‘Sorry.’
Henry looked at her with concern.
‘I’m fine.’ She flashed a smile. ‘Seriously. I’m fine.’
Henry sipped his coffee, gazing thoughtfully.
She changed the subject. ‘So what do you think?’
Henry replaced his coffee mug on the coaster. ‘The story of Zichmni picks up again around late 1398,’ he said, loosening the manuscript from the microscope and turning back to the beginning of the text. ‘The manuscript seems to be the second instalment of diary entries, this time written by Antonio Zeno. Early indications suggest that they cover both the end of the first set of letters, all of the second, many of which were written by Antonio to their other brother Carlo, and other elements otherwise unheard of.’
Gabrielle looked on with interest. A smile broader than the occasion merited spread across her face. The magnitude of the statement, something the Harvard professor was still unable to clarify, met her with a sudden sense of purpose and excitement. To her it was progress: clear evidence that the pieces of the puzzle were fitting together. History was being created before her eyes.
Henry: ‘The surviving letters are known to tell the story of four fishing boats from Frislanda whose men accidentally landed in a country named Estotilanda, somewhere to the west, after becoming lost in a storm. According to the letters, one of them managed to return twenty-six years later in the company of natives from the island. After learning that it was a rich country, Zichmni declared his desire to travel there himself. Unfortunately, three days before they left, the fisherman died, leaving them without a guide. However, Zichmni decided to proceed anyway in the company of men who returned with the fisherman. Interestingly, this diary suggests that a historical voyage took place, plotted out by Zichmni in around 1398, therefore supporting the content of the letters. It doesn’t say who Zichmni was I’m afraid, but according to the diary members of the same order joined him.’
Gabrielle nodded. ‘What else does it say?’
Henry sipped his coffee. The way he did so was almost ritualistic, as if it offered some sort of intellectual benefit.
‘The diary confirms that Zichmni and his men set off to find Estotilanda, somewhere beyond what the writer refers to as the Green Sea of Darkness, meaning the Atlantic and Arctic Oceans. However, instead they reached an island called Icaria, somewhere west of Frislanda. This was also mentioned in the letters.’
Henry replaced his mug on the coaster. ‘Interestingly, the diary continues in the same way as the letters. It explains how they were forced from Icaria and continued across the ocean and in time made landfall, and named the area Trin. But then things become less easy to follow.’
‘How do you mean?’
Henry retrieved a 19th century hardback book from his desk and opened it on the penultimate page. The book was a historical investigation into the original sets of letters on which the diary seemed to be based.
‘What you must remember is that many of the letters discovered by the fellow’s descendent are alleged to have been destroyed,’ Henry said, showing Gabrielle the book. ‘But, interestingly, in the last letter to Sir Carlo, Antonio confirms that he was keeping records. He writes:
‘Concerning those things that you desire to know of me, of the men and of their manners and customs, of the animals and neighbouring communities, I have documented in a separate book, which, please God, I shall bring with me.’
‘You think this diary is the book he spoke of?’
‘I would be astounded if there was more than one – particularly bearing in mind many of the events included here do not appear in any of the letters.’
He paused momentarily.
‘Look at this for example,’ he said, turning several pages of the diary. ‘According to the diary, after arriving at Trin, Zichmni and Antonio formed a colony there but they continued further south after the men failed to warm to the conditions. However, rather than finding Estotilanda, they landed at a country named Drogeo where they became shipwrecked – something not mentioned in the letters. Unable to replace one of the ships, Zichmni headed off to explore. Meanwhile, the remaining sailors formed another, this time more permanent, colony in the location where they became shipwrecked, somewhere on the coast. Eventually Zichmni returned having spent time exploring during which time his men had constructed a circular church on the coastline and a small settlement of basic huts. The diary confirms they were assisted by many of the natives.’
Gabrielle looked over his shoulder. A diagram depicted the structure, drawn by Antonio Zeno. The church was portrayed in detail. It composed of a round stone tower, incorporating eight legs, with a wooden dome at the top and surrounded by a vaulted ambulatory. The entrance was located on the west side through an arched doorway.
‘It looks like the Church of the Holy Sepulchre,’ Gabrielle said.
‘Yes, and probably no coincidence: the Templars themselves are alleged to have built an identical one in Cambridge, England.’
Gabrielle nodded, her eyes still focused on the diagram. On closer inspection she realised that this church also included an underground vault, curiously reminiscent of Rosslyn.
‘Where is it?’
Henry shook his head. ‘I’m afraid it doesn’t say. Somewhere in Drogeo, wherever that is.’
‘Do you think it still exists?’
Henry shrugged. ‘If it ever existed at all,’ he said sombrely. ‘The diary still refers to make-believe places. Frislanda, Estotilanda, Drogeo…not much help if you don’t know where you are going.’
Suddenly she remembered reading the manuscript at the Vatican.
‘Maybe it says in the map.’
Henry looked up, confused. ‘Map?’
‘Sure, it was about halfway in. Like the famous Zeno map of 1558 but bigger.’
The academic looked at her, noticeably intrigued. Readjusting his glasses, he carefully placed the text in the nearby manuscript holder and started to turn the page
s. He turned the pages slowly, his hands covered in protective gloves in order to spare the vellum from further harm. He continued until they were approximately halfway in.
‘There.’ She said.
The academic raised his eyebrows, his focus on the map. He studied it for over a minute.
‘This is remarkable,’ he said, smiling. ‘This predates the Zeno map in Venice by over one hundred years.’
Gabrielle looked at the map. ‘Look here,’ she said, pointing at the location just above Scotland. ‘Have a look at the place names.’
Henry looked down at the map. He viewed it on its side, allowing north to face upwards. The drawings were crude in comparison to those of modern day maps. The location of the islands had been determined without reliable equipment, but latitudes and longitudes alone seemed reasonably plausible when compared to present day knowledge. The map was more in keeping with a modern one than the other famous Zeno map of 1558 and covered a wider area. France, England, Spain and the majority of Europe fitted perfectly. America was present but not the way he would expect: it was divided into several parts. Scotland was there as predicted, though the areas to the north were more scattered than he expected.
‘Have a look at this,’ Gabrielle said. ‘Frislanda comes below the Faroe Islands. They are where Fair Isle should be.’
Henry smiled widely. ‘I don’t believe it.’
Gabrielle smiled. She looked further afield. As she looked across what was confirmed as the Atlantic Ocean she saw things that she had not noticed before. Or at least not remembered noticing.
‘Icaria is very nearby. Very small.’
‘St. Kilda,’ Henry said nodding. ‘Well bless.’
Gabrielle continued to scan the map. Towards the west she recognised various place names. Iceland and Greenland were where they should be under the names Islanda and Engroneland.
‘Estotilanda,’ Gabrielle said. She examined the area around Greenland and Canada where the name was located. ‘What’s that? Labrador?’
The Templar Agenda Page 33