Gabrielle got to her feet and poked Mike in the arm. ‘What do you know? Come on. They knew we were there. Someone must have told. Come on, who was it? Tell me.’
Feeling the continuous irritation of Gabrielle pushing her long fingernails into his arm he finally answered.
‘It was your uncle,’ Mike said.
Suddenly she stopped. A cold chill breezed through her. Did she hear him correctly?
‘Gabrielle, wait…’
‘Uncle Henry? Where is he?’
‘Gabrielle.’
‘Where is he?’ she pressed, now louder than before.
Mark looked at Mike, searching for words.
‘Where is he?’ she demanded, punching Mike.
‘Down the hall. Room 408.’
Without waiting for further clarification she pushed past Mark and opened the door. The corridor, flowing with activity less than ten minutes earlier, was now practically deserted bar a small number of cleaners, busy washing the floor. The flurry of visitors had now dissipated due to the lateness of the hour.
She walked across the slippery surface, the tiled floor cold on her bare feet, causing a chilling sensation reaching all the way to her kidneys. She looked briefly at the signs, pointing in the direction of various departments such as Cardiology and Physiotherapy. The door to her room was one of many lining the corridor, all of which were numbered, each beginning with a four. She wandered the corridor with purpose, reading each number. 405. 406. 407.
Mike had caught up with her. He grabbed her arm.
‘Gabrielle, wait.’
‘Let go of me, Mike.’
‘Gabrielle, please don’t go in there.’
Gabrielle ignored his request and pushed through the door of room 408. She entered the room quickly. Unsurprisingly it was identical in appearance to hers. A single bed dominated the room and lying on the bed was her uncle.
Suddenly her blood ran cold. Bruises marked his face and arms: all that was visible above the thin white sheets. The presence of his heartbeat was evident from the heart rate sensor on the opposite side of his bed, bleeping at regular intervals, attached to his chest by a series of leads. On the monitor she could see jumbled lines and random numbers that offered her no significance other than that her uncle was breathing.
Gabrielle’s eyes filled with tears. She felt her chest tightening, her lungs refusing to take in air. Almost trancelike, she walked closer to his bedside and rubbed his hand with hers. She tightened her grip on his hand: no longer large and warm like she had remembered, but cold and lifeless. Somehow he looked older than he did the last time she saw him.
Yet there was a genuine sense of tranquillity on his face that she found strangely reassuring, as if he was oblivious to the injuries he had sustained: instead almost resembling a picture of a child lying calm and undisturbed dreaming in peaceful slumber.
Randy Lewis’s eyes lit up as he examined the document before him. After scanning the final paragraph for the umpteenth time, he exhaled energetically. His suspicions were confirmed.
Lewis removed the memory stick from his jacket pocket and inserted it into the USB port of his laptop. The file took only seconds to load.
Lightly clicking on the mousepad, he scanned the PDF for consistency and found it was exactly the same as the paper document. Fairbanks had done him proud on this one.
Rolling over his wrist, he looked at the time on his watch. It was approaching 2:34am. The clock on the bottom right corner of the screen said 8:24am. The Vatican bankers would be up, Central European Time.
Lewis opened his email account and attached the file to an email, sending it to four contacts. The first was for Rogero, the next Dominguez, and then Swanson. Contemplating his next move he added Cardinal Utaka to the list.
Two clicks of the mouse in rapid succession and it sent successfully. Seconds later he sent a second email, this time to de Courten and Pessotto. This one contained a different attachment, one that explained so much.
Lewis exhaled loudly, tightness leaving his lungs. There was nothing more he could do till morning.
In a dark corner of the hotel car park, away from watchful eyes, Ludovic Gullet stood over the slumped body of his latest victim. After looking with satisfaction at the look of despair still etched across the accountant’s stone dead features, he walked away coldly, silently relishing the familiar rush of adrenaline he felt on every occasion.
He looked at his watch. There was still time that night for his other target.
Deep within the mock medieval cloisters of the luxury Newport mansion, the Senator for the State of Montana, the highly acclaimed academic, the senior director of Leoni et Cie, the superlawyer, the former Chancellor of the Exchequer and the chief executive of Starvel spoke to one another with urgency.
Matters of privacy must remain a secret, the truth to the public is a lie and the real truth must remain private.
46
Juan Pablo Dominguez had spent the last four days travelling: La Paz to San Francisco, San Francisco to New York and finally New York to Rome.
At Leonardo da Vinci-Fiumicino he collected his BMW from the long stay car park and drove through the empty streets back to his apartment in central Rome. He had barely slept for two days but that was nothing new. Throughout his career he had built a reputation on endurance and often made do sleeping in cabs and on flights forsaking rest as a poor alternative to work. Despite his semi-retirement at the relatively young age of 50, six years ago, he maintained his discipline for efficiency.
By the time he sat down at an outside table of a café in close proximity to the Trevi Fountain it was approaching 14:15. Yet time and day was misleading to him. South America to North America, west to east, and then to Europe may have left him feeling slightly disoriented, but under the circumstances he felt reassuringly fresh.
A waitress delivered freshly made coffee and placed it before him on the clean metal table that was covered in a red and white tablecloth. After adding one sugar and stirring the frothy liquid, he paused momentarily to take in the sights. The Trevi Fountain was trickling away peacefully, tourists whiled the time away pleasantly, and up above the sky was a clear shade of blue without the presence of cloud.
After taking a second to relax, he removed his BlackBerry and checked his emails. There were three in total. The first was from a man he had met in Bolivia. He scanned it: nothing important. The next was from Delta Air Lines: he had sufficient reward points for a free flight.
The final one was from Randy Lewis. Marked urgent.
There was a document attached. He opened it and began to read.
The young Vatican policeman turned away in disgust. Never in his eight years working as a detective had he witnessed such a sight. The victim had not been dead long but the unappealing stench of a flesh wound was already beginning to make itself known.
Judging by his expression, the victim had been caught unaware. His face suggested confusion rather than fear, and the condition of his chest, ripped apart by six bullets, suggested he was shot at close range. Blood marked his white shirt, now largely destroyed and marked by blood that had clotted around the wound.
Inside the luxury hotel room a crime scene had been set up for over an hour. Forensic experts searched the room for any clue, any hint of the killer’s identity. Commissario Pessotto would have to hear about this. It was nearing 8:30am Eastern Time. The story would undoubtedly catch the headlines come late morning. This left little time to prepare.
Angelo Rogero sat back in his chair. His large hands were cupped thoughtfully around his mouth and a serious expression dominated his face.
A black laptop was open in front of him, its screen displaying the content of his latest email. The attachment was a long report sanctioned by GPLA with regard to the financial performance of Leoni et Cie, conducted over five months ago by the late Nathan Walls.
Two decades in charge of the greatest bank in South America had taught him to know the signs and how to deal with them. After looking once more at the
information before him, he downed the remainder of his coffee and dialled his phone. He had always thrived on urgency and he had always conquered. He needed to act fast.
He needed to return to Rome.
Twenty minutes later, Dominguez was sprinting through a crowded street less than a mile away from the Vatican. He crossed the street without looking both ways, darting west towards the Castel Sant’Angelo.
As he passed an electronics shop something made him stop. His rapidly pounding heart missed a beat as he turned slowly towards the television that was playing in the showroom.
The breaking news: a man had been murdered in a hotel room in Charlotte, North Carolina. The man in his fifties had been shot six times in the chest.
Dominguez could not hear the sound but he instantly recognised the photograph accompanying the story. Vomit came to his throat.
It was Randy Lewis.
Gabrielle sat quietly by her uncle’s bedside. Despite the heat, her hands shook and she shivered slightly: the blanket, wrapped loosely around her dressing gown, failed to make much difference.
She had not spoken much to anyone that morning. Sleep was out of the question. She had refused the night nurse’s offer of sleeping medication. They offered her tablets; she refused. They offered her a session with a psychologist; she refused. They offered her food; she refused. They insisted they keep her in for observation; Mike and Mark agreed.
A nurse was leaving the room after checking Henry Leoni’s condition just as Mike entered. He held the door open for her before walking over to Gabrielle. He saw that the blanket around her shoulders was falling slightly.
Despite noticing his hand on her shoulders she did not respond. Instead she continued to gaze aimlessly through the window at the distant horizon. She seemed so innocent.
He considered enquiring of her health but decided the question was pointless. Instead, he watched her as she maintained a lifeless stare, looking at nothing in particular, blinking from time to time.
For several seconds Mike did the same. For the first time that day he spared a second to wonder what had happened to Gullet. Was he dead? Who shot him? Did Gullet kill the man who shot him? Mike shook his head.
A few yards away, Henry Leoni lay unconscious on the hospital bed. His eyes were closed and his face bruised. An IV drip was attached to his left arm and several cables attached to his chest. The heartbeat sensor bleeped with consistency, the monitor updating at regular intervals.
‘How is he?’
Gabrielle shook her head. ‘They say he’s stable. I’ve never really known what it means.’
Mike nodded. He wanted to help her; reassure her; anything he could.
‘It means that he’s in the best place to get better and that he wouldn’t want you to worry.’
Gabrielle turned and forced the briefest of smiles. She put her hand to her right eye as though to remove a loose eyelash, but there were no tears. Her gaze returned to the horizon.
Mike rubbed her shoulders softly and asked if there was anything else she needed. She shook her head and Mike smiled sympathetically. As he prepared to leave, Mark entered. A serious expression crossed his face.
‘We have to return to the Vatican,’ he said with authority. ‘Cardinal Tepilo, Commissario Pessotto and the oberst have summoned an emergency meeting. Randy Lewis has been murdered.’
Juan Pablo Dominguez supported Cardinal Utaka as they walked side by side along the corridor before stopping in front of a closed door. Both looked one another briefly with resigned expressions, hesitating before proceeding. Cardinal Utaka knocked gently on the door.
Dominguez exhaled nervously. A pause that lasted almost ten seconds seemed more like a lifetime to both men. The Colombian had never been to this part of the Vatican before and he always wondered how he would feel if he did. Yet never could he have predicted the circumstances.
Slowly the door opened and Dominguez came face to face with the occupant. Dressed in glorious white, reminiscent of the story of the Transfiguration, both men bowed reverently before the man, instantly recognisable as the current pontiff.
47
Vatican City
The meeting began on time. The doors to the Sistine Chapel were closed at both exits and Swiss Guards were posted at the doors, taking the place of the usual museum guards, standing with rigid authority with no hint of communication.
By 10am every attendee was present, sitting in equal spacing around the familiar table at the centre of the chapel. There were more chairs than usual.
At the head, President Rogero, dressed all in black, sat next to Juan Pablo Dominguez on one side and Giancarlo Riva on the other. Rogero remained taciturn, concentrating on the document in front of him while Riva chatted quietly with Cardinal del Rosi.
Mike was present: a first for him, sitting one empty space on from the cardinal. To his left was Gabrielle.
Alongside Gabrielle, Cardinal Tepilo sat opposite Rogero and he in turn sat next to Cardinal Utaka. Mark was next, one back from Thierry.
Next to the oberst was Swanson, who yawned for the umpteenth time. Dominguez came last, completing the table, taking advantage of the empty seat vacated by the absent Cardinal Atri.
Rogero cleared his throat emphatically and clapped his hands together with one swift bang.
‘Thank you for coming at such short notice,’ he said rising to his feet. With a hawk-like expression he monitored the facial expressions of all present, giving the impression he was speaking to everyone. ‘Cardinals Atri and Torres have sent their apologies. They are presently performing duties of office and have been unable to return in time.’
Rogero looked briefly at Dominguez who was also scanning a large document. His face looked pale, much more so than usual. Swanson sat with his arms folded and Thierry likewise. Cardinal Utaka nodded briefly at the president but for now remained silent. He watched as Rogero cleared his throat for a second time. The way he did so conveyed authority, causing an echo to reverberate around the chapel.
‘Nevertheless,’ Rogero continued, his eyes darting across the room, ‘there are matters of extreme importance that must be dealt with swiftly. I am sure everybody is by now aware of the tragic circumstances surrounding Mr. Lewis.’
Heads nodded in unison.
‘And I appreciate that everyone has forsaken important business to be here. I myself was out of the country.’
Cardinal del Rosi nodded. ‘Precisely. Yesterday I was visiting a famine stricken village in Botswana.’
Cardinal Tepilo also nodded. ‘I delayed my trip to America as soon as I heard the tragic news.’
Swanson studied the Camerlengo, but remained silent. He decided against informing the council that by attending he was breaking a promise to his granddaughter by failing to take her to Disneyland.
Thierry looked at Rogero. ‘I don’t think we should waste time, Angelo. Let us proceed.’
Cardinal del Rosi shot a look across the table at Thierry. ‘Alright, oberst, give the president some air.’
Rogero smiled yet not altogether convincingly. ‘Shortly before Mr. Lewis was killed he sent an urgent email to myself, Juan, Mr. Swanson and Cardinal Utaka. It appears as though Mr. Lewis had made a personal visit to a Mr. Ged Fairbanks, a senior director at GPLA.’
A meaningless silence filled the room.
Cardinal Tepilo’s facial expression suggested confusion. ‘The accountants?’
‘Correct.’
‘What was that about?’ asked Irving Swanson. ‘I’m afraid what with everything that’s happened I haven’t been able to check my emails.’
‘Perhaps it would be wise to start from the beginning, Angelo,’ Cardinal Tepilo said. ‘I am afraid I did not receive a copy.’
Rogero nodded. ‘Very well. GPLA were chiefly responsible for auditing Leoni et Cie, in particular its American activities. Now, with prior knowledge to myself and Juan, Mr. Lewis made a visit to GPLA’s headquarters in North Carolina.’
He paused momentarily, watching every r
eaction.
‘We are still unsure of Mr. Lewis’s previous intentions and expectations. However,’ he paused uncontrollably. ‘Forgive me if I seem apprehensive. What he found is quite shocking.’
Riva looked up at Rogero. Bollocks: that guy is never shocked.
‘Well, president, you have told us where he went, but you are still to tell us what exactly he found,’ Riva said, arms folded. ‘I am afraid I also did not receive this email.’
Rogero looked with interest at Riva. He was aware Riva had not been included on the email.
‘According to this email, read by both Juan and myself,’ he said, gesturing to his fellow countryman, ‘Mr. Lewis acquired a certain document, provided by this Mr. Fairbanks. The document was a recent audit of Leoni et Cie assembled by Mr. Nathan Walls.’
Mike’s ears pricked at the sound of that name. Gabrielle’s eyes lit up. She turned and looked at Mark, Thierry and Cardinal Utaka. None of them looked surprised: each clearly had already been told.
Rogero inhaled deeply. There was an edge to the Colombian’s expression, which was strangely out of character for him.
‘I have read the document in insufficient detail to comment further,’ he said. ‘Juan has read it in far more detail. Perhaps I should leave it to him to give you a more informed overview.’
This was hardly a rarity. Over the years Rogero often presented Dominguez the floor given half a chance. Yet this was hardly an act of cowardice. It was often said of Rogero that his greatest strength was that he knew when to take the floor and when to step down.
Dominguez rose slowly to his feet and gazed awkwardly at every face in turn. Exhaling slowly, he rubbed his hands together, a rare sign of nerves. He looked briefly at Cardinal Utaka and then at the glorious ceiling above him. In the eyes of all present he looked strangely lost.
The Templar Agenda Page 45