Another shake of the head. ‘What do you know about de Bois?’
Jacobs turned her hands over. The rings on her fingers dazzled as sunlight shone through the gaps in the drapes. ‘I’ve only met de Bois once. All I know is that he’s one shit-hot businessman. Attracts money better than Midas. But you know him better than me. What was he like at Starvel and Rosco?’
‘Never really did much at Starvel. He was involved more in the PR side than the AG area. He left, then it was mainly Velis.’
‘You ordered an investigation into their dealings once.’
‘That was different.’
‘In what way?’
Lewis pondered a response. ‘Starvel as a complete organisation are a monster. If they were left to their own devises they would have been a…’
‘Big monster.’
Lewis laughed. ‘Yeah. The kind that cooks you up real nice and eats you with pasta.’
Jacobs smiled inquisitively. ‘So there was nothing in those rumours back in ‘99 then?’
‘That alone was never an issue of the present ownership, although the old Starvel has been in the Velis family a long time. And bearing in mind Starvel AG is a part of the Starvel Group I’m not prepared to gamble. I’m sure you’ve heard about the trouble we’ve been having.’
Jacobs nodded sombrely. ‘Good news travels fast, Randy.’
Lewis grimaced. He still did not know exactly what was troubling him but it was there, eating away at him. Something he had stumbled over sometime during the distant past: during his tenure, perhaps even before.
‘So what’s the real problem, Randy?’
‘Call it a hunch.’
‘Uh oh!’ she replied. ‘When you get hunches stockbrokers start jumping from windows.’
‘Tell me about it.’
Jacobs looked directly at Lewis, considering her response. There was a certain distance to him, not unfamiliar but not in keeping with his usual self either. When Chairman of the Fed he rarely looked like a man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders but this was a different sort of pressure. It seemed almost personal.
‘Personally, I feel that Leoni’s performance may not be as strong as it appears. I’ve been over the accounts time and again and there are holes that can’t be accounted for,’ Lewis said. ‘As I say, there are far too many unpublished, and even unallocated, accounts, some of which go back to the original Rosco.’
He paused momentarily.
‘What do you know about the GREEN Foundation?’
Jacobs laughed. ‘Now there’s a humdinger.’ She left her seat and walked across the room towards a large file cabinet. She removed a file labelled classified from a middle drawer and passed it to Lewis. ‘Only because it’s you.’
Lewis looked with interest at the file.
‘Apparently he put the foundation together with help from retired venture capitalists. A great capital base to begin with.’
Lewis nodded. ‘I’ve seen some of the accounts myself. De Bois is very active there. Al Leoni and the board at Leoni recently granted de Bois over $40 million of corporate loans, yet his other businesses have paid over $70 million to GREEN in the past two years. What’s even stranger is that GREEN is unlike any foundation I’ve ever come across: it has links with countless other companies, particularly banks. Now call me crazy, but I think it’s nothing more than a special purpose entity deliberately put forward by de Bois to act as a subsidiary for Leoni et Cie, and perhaps others, for accounting purposes. What’s more, many of the people connected with GREEN have strong links with the Rite of Larmenius.’
The Vice Chair of the Federal Reserve eyed him closely. ‘I thought you said the rumours weren’t valid.’
‘They aren’t, but they’re hardly the kind of people I’d trust with a company affiliated with the Catholic Church.’
Jacobs raised her eyebrows. At that moment Rudolph Kodovski walked past the door with Schumer, a file in one hand and a cup of coffee in the other.
‘Well, I’ll be. Now he’s making his coffee.’
Lewis turned back to face Jacobs whose expression had become more serious.
‘There are other things as well,’ Lewis continued. ‘Last time I saw de Bois he was talking about Leoni et Cie spreading its wings, opening branches in South America, Asia, et cetera – hell there were places he mentioned I’d never even heard of…’ Lewis paused momentarily. ‘But going through the accounts Leoni et Cie has over sixty branches more than I realised: most of them are in the last places anyone would even think of opening a bank.’
He paused again.
‘Tamie, this may sound way outta leftfield…’
Jacobs raised her eyebrows.
‘Tams, I have a real nasty feeling that de Bois has been using Rosco and since the merger Leoni et Cie to launder for the Rite of Larmenius.’
Jacobs exhaled deeply. ‘I don’t like the sound of that,’ she said. ‘But from what I’ve seen from GPLA, the bank is fine.’
Lewis nodded.
‘And remember who you’re dealing with, mister. If something was going on, I’d know.’
An awkward smile reached his lips. ‘Well thank you, Tams, I won’t bother you with this any longer.’
Both rose to their feet. He hugged her goodbye and sought to leave. Preparing to exit she called for him.
‘Yo, Randy.’
‘Yeah.’
‘When have you ever been wrong about a hunch?’
Lewis shrugged. ‘I’d say never.’
Sitting alone in his prestigious office, the new Chairman of the Federal Reserve, Hans Schumer, picked up the phone and dialled. He waited several seconds for it to connect. Finally a man answered.
‘It’s Schumer here. Something big’s come up.’
35
The New Temple of Solomon
No ceremony took place on this occasion: the high intensity of the last gathering was replaced by a more urgent and volatile atmosphere, out of keeping with the religious surroundings. The hidden location consisting of mock medieval cloisters in the basement of the bearded man’s lavish colonial summer mansion, out of reach of the average man, serious and foreboding in appearance, was curiously offset by the breezy fragrance of lemon accompanied by the melodious sound of Beethoven’s symphony #5 in C minor, op 67 – 3 allegro that drifted through the seemingly endless passage. Once again the curious idols stood forlorn on the altar, reflecting the light of two ornamental candles.
For now, only six were present. D’Amato sat quietly, looking out of boredom at a copy of the Washington Post on the table in front of him.
Two seats along, the French Preceptor, Gilbert de Bois, sat dressed in a silver suit, his face partially concealed by the shadows. The seat opposite him, where the Swiss Preceptor normally sat, was empty and would remain so. The seat belonging to the Scot was also empty.
Parker and Klose were present, as was the Sénéchal, sitting in his usual seat at the far end of the table. The features of the ageing Italian second-in-command were still and stubborn. Not for the first time at one of these meetings he seethed with contempt, something that he was unable, if not unwilling, to hide.
Directly opposite the Italian, the bearded man sat patiently. They had been sitting in silence for nearly twenty minutes but his posture suggested he was relaxed. A bright orange glow briefly lighted up the room as he smoked his cigar and exhaled slowly, creating rings of smoke that rose towards the ceiling before vanishing into the darkness where an unlit light bulb hung.
Six hours ago they had all received word that an emergency meeting was to be called. In this world an emergency was just that and all emergencies needed dealing with immediately and efficiently.
And all emergencies must remain private.
Sounds from the floor above ended the silence. Reverberations, sounding like footfalls, resonated loudly, identifying direction and pace. The heaviness suggested running and running suggested urgency.
The door leading to the stairs opened. A brief sh
uffling followed by the sound of echoing on the stairs confirmed the latecomer was approaching. At the bottom of the stairs the sound of footsteps stopped. Out of the darkness a figure appeared, his features partially concealed in the poor light. He walked slowly towards the table, crossing the black and white floor as he had done at least a hundred times before.
All eyes were on the Scottish Preceptor as he took his seat without nerves or guilt. No words were said but eyes and facial expressions did the talking. The Italian’s face seemed somehow more red than usual as the light of the candles reflected off the various glasses lining the table, illuminating the lines on his forehead that seemed indescribably vicious in the poor light.
As yet no one spoke. The beautiful sound of Beethoven remained the only sound, its soothing melody filling the seemingly endless room. It was not physically endless, but endless in terms of possibility. Soon another key moment in the history of the New World would be decided by these men.
The bearded man left his seat and walked across the tiled floor towards a small stereo, hidden from sight on a small table. He removed the cigar from his mouth and exhaled, smoke rising in all directions. With one press of the middle finger of his left hand the room fell silent.
In that split second time seemed to linger, almost as though they were disconnected from the wider reality. The airiness of the room somehow seemed to have vanished and the darkness seemed almost tangible. The cloisters, almost in keeping with that of a monastery in setting, now seemed more like a desolate and foreboding dungeon from which there was no escape.
The bearded Grand Master returned to his seat, the echo of his footsteps giving way to the sound of wood scraping against the hard floor as he inched closer to the table. He exhaled once again on his cigar. For the briefest of moments the end lit up his face as if he were Belial emerging from the depths of hell before vanishing inexplicably back into the void from where he had come. He eyed every member in turn but as yet no one spoke. Alert eyes focused on the head of the table.
‘Well,’ the bearded man said to the Scot, his concentration total. ‘It seems that you were correct after all.’
The Italian studied his superior. This was not the usual passage of play. Mind games had become customary for these critical games of chess but the mutual courtesies were rare. When one bombarded the other the other retorted. Words would fly from either side and both would always get burned with the Sénéchal forever infuriated at another’s shortcoming. For him it was maddening: but this was the price for his involvement with the Church. He was a pilgrim in an unholy land. And for a place of pilgrimage, the setting had all the key ingredients of a passage from Dante.
‘You seem to be forgetting that the key points of history are still to be resolved,’ the Italian said. ‘Even for us.’
‘Yes,’ the bearded man said, rising to his feet. He walked slowly around the table as if he was a shark encircling his prey. ‘Thank you.’
The bearded man moved closer to the Scot. ‘Alex, please describe to the council, in your own words, what these photocopies looked like.’
Alexander Broadie cleared his throat quietly, causing him to hesitate slightly. ‘There was no mistake. They were clearly of pages included in a diary once written by Antonio Zeno.’
The bearded man nodded. ‘Excellent,’ he said calmly. He flicked ash from his cigar into the ashtray before Parker and walked slowly in the same direction.
D’Amato shuffled in his chair, his eyes on the Grand Master. Of all present his historical knowledge was the most limited.
‘So what’s all this have to do with anything?’ the American asked. ‘I thought all the Templar loot had been found.’
‘Loot, ay. We’re not speaking of pirate treasure, old boy,’ the Englishman said.
The bearded man looked at both men in turn.
‘That may be true of the cargo that went to Switzerland,’ the bearded man said, still smoking, ‘salvaged by men thanks to whom our organisation survived. It was from that the great banking network was born.’
The Italian watched the Grand Master closely, turning his attention toward D’Amato. ‘Perhaps it is difficult for someone such as yourself to appreciate the problems of our ancestors.’
D’Amato smiled. Not this horseshit again. He always spoke like that: ancestors and stuff. The Scot was just as bad. He spoke as if he knew them. Or he was descended from them: a prince or lord or something.
‘Well why don’t you explain?’ he asked.
The bearded man made eye contact with the American. He exhaled on his cigar, the end lighting up the room like a flame from a fire, before blowing out smoke in all directions. ‘The plight of our ancestors is not recorded in any history book…’
‘Except this one,’ Broadie interrupted.
The bearded man eyed him curiously, walking slowly. He walked with arrogance, each stride an act of purpose that carried an air of dominance unrivalled by any other man in the wider world.
‘Yes,’ he said smiling briefly. A pensive expression dominated his face. ‘Following the dissolution of the first Temple that left many thousands of our brethren homeless, wanted men, some fled to the mountains to lay the foundation of the Swiss banking system.’
‘Like yours?’ D’Amato asked.
The bearded man exhaled. ‘Precisely.’
D’Amato smiled as the Grand Master continued to walk and smoke: he smoked elegantly, making him appear noble. He stopped momentarily between Gilbert de Bois and the Sénéchal to tip ash into the ashtray before replacing the cigar in his mouth.
‘While some indeed made their home among the mountains of Switzerland, many other members, rich in spirit but poor in wealth, went to Scotland where they defeated the English at Bannockburn. The new order in its purest form.’
He looked at Broadie when he said those words. Purest form: it had a nice ring to it. What did it mean to be pure? Perhaps being a direct descendent; he was that. Perhaps being chosen represented it; he was also that. With both he could appreciate it. And that made him appear distinguished.
‘Following this, some went to the New World. Lead by your ancestor no less,’ the bearded man continued.
‘Prince Henry Sinclair,’ the Scot said.
‘Zichmni,’ the Englishman said.
The bearded man continued to walk and smoke. ‘And that, of course, is why we are here.’
He said the last bit slower than before as if he was calculating a possibility in his mind: as if plotting the latest move of his opponent before making his own. He walked over to the altar and placed his hand on a large chronicle.
‘The foundation of our very being.’
A brief pause followed, one the Italian found unsettling.
‘Where was the diary found?’ the Italian asked.
‘He did not say,’ Broadie said. ‘But based on recent events I would think it fair to presume that it is the same book found by his niece in the secret archive of the Vatican. And it would appear that there are two books. One of which I believe to have once been in the possession of our former Sénéchal.’
D’Amato looked at the Scot with dismay, his arms folded. ‘I always said I never trusted him.’
The bearded man nodded. ‘It appears you were correct.’
De Bois shook his head. ‘Our order has continued to survive for over seven hundred years in secret. If we are to survive it will be necessary to conceal fragments of clues.’
The Scot shook his head. ‘That name tells them nothing.’
‘Baphomet,’ the Italian said.
Broadie did not answer.
Klose also smoked, his facial expression suggesting no interest. ‘What good is the diary? Even if proof is found of the Zichmni voyage it still doesn’t prove anything. What good is a key if people don’t know what door it opens?’
‘Who said anything about doors?’ the Scot said. ‘The map of the Zenos is well known to us. I have spent the last twenty years researching it myself.’
‘But what good are
Frislanda and Drogeo to the outside world? As far as the people know the world is made up only of what exists on an atlas.’ Klose said.
‘Ah but they do,’ Broadie said. ‘Deutschland, Germany, Allemagne: the same country by three names.’
‘And what say you of these fantasies?’ the Italian said, his expression stern. ‘What say you?’
Broadie shook his head. ‘I say nothing. The location of Newport has always been important to this order. We know that ourselves. We, too, have seen that with our own eyes.’
The Englishman watched with uncertainty, the subject of the conversation transcending his expertise. The bearded man nodded, otherwise neglecting to reply. Taking a couple of steps toward the light he put the cigar to his mouth, perching it between his lips. Removing a lighter from his trouser pocket he flicked the wheel with his right thumb and put the flame to the cigar, reigniting the dying fire. He exhaled immediately, allowing himself a smile.
Private matters do not remain secret in the wrong hands.
Broadie sat silently as if he were under a jinx. Eyes were fixed on him, gazes of judgment, ill deserved and firmly directed. Their expressions suggested it was his fault. An answer was staring him dead in the face, shining like a beacon, almost blinding to look upon.
‘Our former Sénéchal once owned the diary,’ the Grand Master said finally. ‘Now the diary has found its way back.’
Silence filled the room. The bearded man eyed all present.
‘The survivors of the original Knights Templar founded a colony at what is now Newport, Rhode Island, as they sought to escape the brutality of their persecutors. For six centuries we have known this. What knowledge our ancestors inherited was passed on to us. But the legacy of our predecessors did not exist in gold and silver. And heaven knows we have enough of that.’
Laughter echoed around the room.
‘Our legacy is more than money,’ the bearded man said.
‘In the wrong hands this diary could ruin everything,’ de Bois said.
‘For over five centuries our legacy has remained secret from the wider world; we know of its value, yet even we, the present Knights Templar, do not know all of the secrets of the past,’ the bearded man said, pausing momentarily, continuing to smoke. ‘If the manuscript is really that once owned by Antonio Zeno then the location of Rosslyn was obvious.’
The Templar Agenda Page 37