Henry offered a sombre smile. ‘Thank you, Alex, I’m most grateful.’
Broadie nodded. He decided to sidestep drawing further attention to Al Leoni’s death.
‘So, what’s so big it couldn’t wait?’
Suddenly the mood changed, almost as if a switch had been flicked. Henry’s bearded face turned to a childlike smile. He leaned over the right hand armrest of the leather armchair and opened his briefcase. He removed a set of photocopies and handed them over the desk.
‘I’m sure this is right up your street.’
Broadie removed the cigar from his mouth and set it down on an ashtray in the centre of the desk, allowing ash to fall as it burned away from the tip. There was a photograph of his eldest daughter near the phone, dressed in graduation attire, standing alongside both him and his son.
Broadie accepted the photocopies from Henry and immediately began to scan them with interest. The images were largely of text, Italian handwriting, and as best he could tell written on some form of parchment. Making a note of the detail with his near photographic memory, he grabbed his glass of port with his right hand and touched it to his lips. The vintage taste was fine on his tongue. He swallowed it slowly, savouring the flavour.
‘It’s a shame you only brought copies, Henry,’ Broadie said, replacing his drink on the coaster.
‘I thought it best to conserve the find itself. After all, we don’t want these things to get damaged do we?’
Broadie looked up at Henry, reaching once more for his cigar. He looked at his old acquaintance through his glasses before returning his attention to the papers in front of him.
‘No we do not,’ he agreed, placing the cigar to his lips. ‘Incredible, nevertheless! You say you discovered it recently?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see. And the map?’
‘In the diary.’
‘I see,’ Broadie said again, his focus on the photocopies. There was a casual manner about him, far more so than Henry remembered of him. The way he smoked and drank. It was almost as if he was high.
‘So, may I ask how you came across all this?’
‘No one place, Alex. Scattered fragments here and there.’
Broadie smiled casually, realising it was unwise to pursue the matter. His gaze returned to the prints. ‘The Zichmni voyage is one of history’s true grey areas. The Zeno letters are regarded by many as a hoax.’
‘And what do you believe, Alex?’
The Scot laughed loudly. ‘As you know I once wrote a book on it. My only bestseller.’
‘I remember.’
Broadie held his smile, replacing his cigar with his port. ‘So you feel the location of the mysterious Frislanda has been revealed? And this diary achieves this?’
‘This is, Alex, without question, exactly what many historians have long been looking for.’
Broadie raised his eyebrows. The strength of the statement was profound. ‘Well, well, my friend. It sounds like you’ve done some good work.’
‘You’ll notice the significance of the map, Alex. Just as the Drogeo legend goes.’
Broadie looked down. A feeling of apprehension gripped him as he focused on the photocopy of the map with maximum interest. The text itself was not legible from the photocopy but this did nothing to detract from the scope of the find.
‘Pay particular attention to the position of the knight,’ Henry said.
Broadie looked as closely as possible. In reality he would need the image to be blown up several times to know the location for sure.
‘Looks like New England,’ he guessed. ‘Cape Cod?’
‘Close. Newport, Rhode Island.’
Broadie exhaled, his eyes demonstrating complete interest. The potential effects of the find were magnificent. To think, after all these years concrete proof supporting the Zichmni legend was emerging. Perhaps even with connection to his kin. Whoever Zichmni was had passed that way.
‘So what exactly are you looking for, Henry?’
Leoni paused momentarily. ‘Well, according to the diary, the surviving Templars built a round church there: a new Church of the Holy Sepulchre, so to speak. Of course, we don’t really know much about this Zichmni or what happened to the outlawed Templars, do we?’
Broadie smoked, his expression pensive. ‘No. Okay, I see. Well I don’t see what you’re going to find in Rhode Island that you don’t already know. Over the years hundreds of excavations have already taken place.’
‘Ah,’ Henry said. ‘But none of them had this.’
Leoni leaned over the desk and handed Broadie another photocopy, this one of the diagram of the church. Henry drew attention to the presence of an underground vault beneath the tower.
Broadie examined the photocopy with intent. His heart missed a beat. A purple mist, accredited no doubt to the way it was captured by the Xerox, swarmed around the diagram almost like a halo.
‘The Newport Tower?’
‘That was my first inclination,’ Henry said, nodding.
Broadie paused, his focus intense. For several seconds he studied the diagram, paying close attention to the layout. Finally he nodded, practically smiling.
‘This is incredible. If it’s genuine.’
Henry nodded, his eyes on his colleague. Silence followed, not awkward but still intense as Broadie allowed his mind time to digest the immensity of the find. This was why historians became historians. This was not necessarily the search for treasure but the search for truths long undiscovered, or, as the case may be, forgotten.
‘I must admit when I came into possession of the first diary I never realised its true significance. But since the discovery of the rest…’
‘So what do you ask of me, Henry?’
Henry shuffled in his seat, removing his cigar from his mouth. ‘From you, Alex? Nothing. Only a kind courtesy to use your influence with the good City of Newport to allow me permission to work on the city’s estate.’
Broadie exhaled with the cigar still fixed between his lips. An expression of hope and triumph disguised his true feelings.
‘Henry, if you think you can pull this off…’
‘I assure you I shall do my very best.’
‘I’ll make a couple of calls.’
‘You can reach me in Boston.’
Broadie ascended to his feet and shook hands with Henry, broad smiles crossing their features.
‘Keep the copies,’ Henry said, walking toward the door. ‘Once we’re through you might have another bestseller on the cards.’
For over thirty minutes Gabrielle sat quietly in the rear passenger seat of her uncle’s 4x4, gazing aimlessly at the surroundings. The windows on either side of the car offered sparse relief from the cramped conditions. It was exceptionally muggy for the time of day, and the time of year. The interior of the SUV was luxurious, but it was hardly what she was used to. Several weeks of being chauffeured around by her guard, who was currently dozing in the front passenger seat, had left her complacent. Yet she loved driving: particularly 4x4s across dirty terrain. Her last boyfriend had been a touring car driver and that was the appeal, not that it lasted.
Sitting quietly in the parked car currently located on Broadway outside Robinson Hall, she watched the campus for activity, or, as the case was here, the lack of it. She remembered from life at Dartmouth the hustle and bustle of life at Ivy League.
But today was different. The campus, normally heaving with brainiacs and ‘gifted’ students strutting or ambling across campus to the buildings of various faculties, now delivered an eerie silence almost reminiscent of a small city following a nuclear holocaust. As she gazed across the deserted streets she could not help feel she was being watched, although that was nothing new of late. The faint wind rustling through the green leaves of the trees, the echo of an empty coke can trickling along the concrete street, even the squawking of birds overhead left her nervous.
She looked in front of her and saw Mike was looking through the passenger side window, ever vigilant d
espite the lack of threat. He had been on the computer until 3am. She had heard him: not because he was loud but sleeping had become difficult since the day of the attack. He suggested she take tablets, she refused. Her uncle suggested seeing the doctor, she refused. Rachel suggested they go away together.
Maybe next year.
She yawned but still felt awake, her anxiety at fever pitch as she awaited the return of her uncle. She looked at Mike, yawning loudly. She giggled as he inhaled.
‘What?’
She shook her head. ‘Nothing.’
Mike watched her, following her eyes before looking away. He had seen her smile more since their return. Something had definitely changed. To him it was an honest smile: one that after his first night at the château he thought he would never see.
Yet somehow it was one he had seen before, many times, if only subconsciously.
The front door to Robinson opened. The heavy frame swung backwards and forwards in the breeze before coming to a stop against the weight of the other door, closed on its hinges. Henry walked briskly towards the car.
The Harvard professor took a seat on the driver’s side and smiled at Gabrielle as he entered. She looked at him apprehensively, as if waiting for an exam result or worse. The feeling of the campus brought back memories of a history exam in her sophomore year. She was certain she had failed it. Sure enough she had passed easily. Yet the not knowing was vastly worse than the result.
‘Well?’
‘Well what?’ Henry said with a smile.
‘Uncle Henry, come on.’
Henry shook his head, an act of pretence. For several seconds the look in his eyes was one of uncertainty and disappointment. Then the academic began to beam.
‘He said he’d have to make a couple of calls but he didn’t see a problem.’
‘Oh, Uncle Henry that’s awesome,’ Gabrielle said hugging her uncle. A warm sense of gratitude overcame her, aimed at the man who her uncle had just visited.
Mike, meanwhile, leaned back against the headrest, forcing a smile. Inside he felt nervous. It didn’t do well to tempt fate.
As he looked up through the tinted sunroof of the car, the sun seemed to dance on the glass as if it were light hitting the ocean. He thought of what the Templar church might look like, if it even existed. He thought of the darkness of Rosslyn, surely an omen or portent of what might exist in another vault. Slowly he closed his eyes.
34
Washington, D.C.
At forty-six years of age, Tamie Louise Jacobs was the youngest of the seven governors currently serving on the board of the Federal Reserve. The only independent in office, she was one of only two women, and following the death of Jermaine Llewellyn, she was the only black.
Despite her relative youth, Jacobs was now the second longest serving governor of the Federal Reserve. When nominated to become a governor five years earlier, no one really knew what to make of her. The first black woman on the board was itself a talking point in what was traditionally a white man’s domain, and while her predecessor was just that, the initial assumption in some quarters that she was a staunch feminist had yet to find solid ground. Before coming to office her skills were company law, first as a lawyer, rising to partner, at three firms in New York, and later six years in the Attorney General of New York’s office, rising to Deputy General where she acted on numerous occasions before the Supreme Court. Her speciality was anti-competition and that eventually caught favour with both former Chairman Randy Lewis and the President of the United States when choosing to replace Eddie McGoldrick of Boston as a governor of the Federal Reserve.
Jacobs was still in her office at seven that evening, her head firmly planted over a large document, as it had been almost continuously for the last four hours. At just after seven-fifteen a gentle knock at the door stole her attention. She looked up from her work and invited the visitor to come in. Her facial expression turned to one of surprise as she looked upon the face of her former colleague. Dressed in a silver suit, perfectly matching his hair, Randy Lewis smiled from the doorway.
She removed her gold-framed reading glasses, putting the tip to her lips and looked at him with fake malice.
‘Why of all the nerve…’
Lewis laughed as he walked towards her. ‘Tamie, you look wonderful.’
Jacobs placed her glasses on the desk and rose to her feet. Her rigid expression turned to a smile as she walked towards Lewis with open arms. Formality consisted of a kiss on both cheeks, but they kissed once and hugged. For several seconds both smiled widely. She offered Lewis a seat and asked about his family. Lewis followed, asking meaningless questions about husband, wife, kids and banter.
Of all his former colleagues, Tamie Jacobs was his favourite. Unlike the other governors her independent status left her free of the Republican and Democrat ideals and that in turn allowed her to act without discrimination. Although in the early days she was kicked from both sides, he knew she was never one to allow herself to be beaten. The first eighteen months were the most difficult, and after two years in office she was accepted as part of the furniture. It was no surprise when he turned on the news one morning to learn that she would be serving as Llewellyn’s Vice Chair.
For over five minutes they reacquainted, talk centring mostly on family, before their conversation faded to awkward silence. A strange feeling overcame her as she looked Lewis in the eye. She remembered him as a workaholic but there was an obvious tiredness in his eyes, yet strangely different from what she remembered. Despite being her former boss their relationship had always been one of friendship rather than professional courtesy.
‘So what brings you back home?’ Jacobs asked. ‘You know Hans just loves it when you drop by.’
Lewis laughed. ‘So what else is new?’
‘You back on vacation?’
‘I’m never on vacation, Tamie – you know that.’
‘Ain’t that the truth? So it’s business then?’
‘Kinda.’
‘You’re not pissing in someone’s pool are you?’
‘Actually, Tamie, I’m taking one in my own.’
‘I don’t think Cardinal Tepilo will like that,’ she said, accompanied by the briefest of cheeky smiles.
Lewis folded his arms. He scanned the walls of her office. Whereas other governors made their walls a mark of honour to their degrees and qualifications, Tamie Jacobs was a refreshing change. Instead of degrees, awards and diplomas, she covered hers instead with photographs of her children when they were children, and her eldest daughter graduating high school. Standing either side of her daughter were the beaming parents. Randy had never met her husband but he could tell from the photo he would like him. He faced the camera with a beaming smile and thumbs up. Facially he looked like one of the singers from Boyz II Men.
‘So what can I do for you?’
Lewis breathed in deeply as he pondered his options. He chose his words carefully.
‘What do you know about Leoni et Cie?’
Jacobs sat back in her chair. A confused expression crossed her face.
‘Well, they’re a bank from Switzerland: one of the rising hot shots on the global scene; market capital well in excess of $6 billion; worldwide assets of over $70 billion; listed on the SMI in the mid-90s, formerly controlled by the Leoni family until their recent sale to the Vatican Bank who are now the majority shareholder and last I heard had made you their new chief executive.’
Lewis nodded.
‘Why are you asking me?’ Jacobs asked.
Lewis grimaced. Distinguished wrinkled lines on his forehead seemed deep and thoughtful. The lines seemed a permanent feature, equally on par with a thick side parting which had not receded a centimetre.
‘I was looking through Leoni’s accounts recently and found this,’ he said, removing a small folded document from the inside of his jacket pocket and passing it to Jacobs. ‘And that’s just one of them.’
‘What is it?’ she asked, replacing her glasses.
&n
bsp; Lewis grimaced, unsure where to start. ‘Leoni et Cie has many irregularities.’
Jacobs looked back with interest.
‘How have you found them? How did they come up in recent audits?’
Jacobs shrugged. ‘Fine, as far as I’m aware; at least as far as America is concerned. It’s not within our jurisdiction to see for other countries.’
‘I’m well aware of that, Tamie. I was only in office for fourteen years.’
With that she smiled. For a second she forgot whom she was dealing with. She missed the days when he had acted as chairman before being replaced by Jermaine Llewellyn. Both men were of the same mould. Both taught many of the other governors much of what they knew and they in turn passed it on.
‘Who audited the firm itself?’ Lewis asked.
‘As far as I’m aware it was delivered by GPLA from the Charlotte office and all was normal. In comparison to the size of other banks it was hardly important. Leoni is only about the fortieth largest in the States all considered.’
She eyed him closely.
‘Do you mind telling me what this is all about?’
Lewis hesitated. Looking into her brown eyes he could tell that he could trust her.
‘Leoni et Cie has a large number of unpublished accounts, even for a Swiss Bank. In fact, they have far more than I’ve ever seen for a firm that size. What’s more, they have far too many unpublished accounts with Starvel AG.’
Jacobs removed her glasses and put the tip to her lips. Her golden earrings, hanging like lampshades from her ears, swayed slightly below her neatly combed ponytail. ‘Most banks have unpublished accounts with Starvel AG, Randy. You know that. That’s what Starvel AG is for. It’s a clearing bank.’
‘Not like this.’
‘I thought you knew Leoni et Cie inside out.’
Lewis shook his head. ‘Not really, only what I did with the Vatican Bank. I was good buddies with Al Leoni, but in recent years Leoni did very little. It was mainly de Bois and his managers who ran the show.’
Jacobs rested her chin on her hands. ‘You don’t trust him?’
The Templar Agenda Page 36