Wetting his lips, Swanson remained silent. There was a hint of fear yet also bravery in his eyes that Mike found out of character for the banker. There was also hatred, a strange bitterness resembling a playground rivalry between the bully and the fat kid. Swanson’s face slowly reddened and his breathing was becoming louder. Still he did not answer. Velis looked down at Swanson’s briefcase and unfolded his arms. He raised his eyes at Swanson and walked slowly towards him, stopping within inches of the Vatican banker and taking his briefcase.
Velis opened the briefcase slowly and removed several of the copied files. His eyes seemed to open wider as he examined the content. He looked at the Swiss Guard with slight alarm. Yet any momentary expression of panic was immediately replaced by one of calm, still conveying an air of contempt that seemed a permanent feature of his noble face. Perhaps it was the beard that did it: that dense covering that seemed to thin and thicken enigmatically whenever his facial expression changed.
He looked at Swanson, his focus centring on the banker’s eyes. His expression remained neutral. ‘Where are the rest of these?’
Swanson looked at Velis with an equally neutral expression, seemingly oblivious to any possible threat. Mike inhaled deeply, standing silently with his hands by his side, a briefcase dangling from his right arm. His focus centred on Velis. The banker’s tongue crossed his lips in a strange pensive movement. Suddenly there was movement. Velis removed a revolver from his jacket.
Velis’s eyes narrowed. He raised his firearm at the former Starvel director’s chest.
‘Now then, gentlemen: shall we do this the easy way or the hard way?’
On the top floor of the Starvel headquarters, the chief of security returned to his desk and looked with interest at the dashboard before him. His monitor told him that the red light had been flashing earlier and had continued for several hours.
He sipped his coffee nonchalantly and after several seconds deliberating decided it was important. He picked up the phone and rang the CEO.
No response.
Although he assumed that it was probably him, he thought it best to be sure. There was no CCTV in that part of the building: as requested by the CEO. He guessed the reasons but never fully understood why.
He picked up his walkie-talkie and spoke to one of the security guards.
At the other end of the line the overweight security guard understood the instruction. Replying the word ‘Roger’, he signalled to one of the other three and headed towards the elevator. He swiped his card and then pressed for the vaults.
The ageing man in the smart suit walked across the atrium with rigid determination, brought about by his recent argument with Velis. He ignored the security guards as he motored through the revolving door and walked across the rush hour traffic, entering the same car through the rear right door.
Almost forty minutes had passed since Rachel and Gabrielle had returned. Gabrielle was nervous; Rachel was nearly in tears and Mark reassured them with confidence that all was okay.
But silently he was nervous: this was taking too long.
The Vatican policeman checked the rear-view mirror for the second time in quick succession and concentrated on the entrance to the bank. He scanned the vicinity intently for almost ten seconds before returning his attention to Gabrielle. On this occasion he did not see the smartly dressed man exit the bank, heading back across the street.
Unlike Mark, the man with blond locks watched for a second time. The identity of the man was beyond doubt.
Velis instructed them along the corridor, their way directed by the movement of the gun. The Starvel magnate swiped his keycard at every door, his arm and wrist slicing downwards like a knife through butter, followed by the sound of the door opening and closing as they entered another stretch of seemingly endless corridor.
They continued all the way to the door of the restricted vault, coming to a halt within twenty feet of the photocopier. Velis briskly searched both men for firearms and confiscated a SIG P75 from Mike, hidden within his suit. He lined both men up with their backs to the wall and ordered them to place their hands over their heads. For several seconds they stood in silence. No sudden movements.
Velis lit a cigar and exhaled the smoke in the direction of Swanson. His facial expression thinned as his eyes focused. He removed a handful of photocopies from both briefcases with his free hand and waved them at Swanson.
‘Where are the rest of these?’ he asked slowly and quietly. Some of the photocopies fell to the floor as he waved them.
‘What makes you think there’s more?’
Velis tipped the ash away, using the copied files as a makeshift ashtray. A soft burning smell poisoned the lemon air, causing the paper to shrivel but without catching fire. Strangely there were no fire taps installed in the ceiling of this section of the vaults. He walked slightly closer to Swanson.
‘How did you get down here?’ Velis asked slowly. ‘Who else was with you?’ He turned his face towards Mike.
‘Her?’
No response.
‘Yes, I might have known. But how did she get access to the vaults?’
Velis smoked for a couple of seconds. Suddenly it dawned on him.
‘My wife, of course,’ he said, a strange smile forming across his mouth. ‘Probably slipped one of her peasant friends a fifty.’
Although he smoked incessantly Velis hid his nerves well. This was not a man who had something to hide.
‘I am going to offer you one chance to leave these vaults alive,’ he said with emphasis on the final word. ‘Where are the rest of these?’
Swanson stiffened his posture but remained silent. He muttered the words, ‘I dunno what you mean,’ and shrugged at Velis.
‘Do not take me for a fool, Irving. There are over twenty thousand documents in that vault – you know that as well as I.’
Velis paused momentarily, his eyes still focused on the intruders. Biding his time he smoked. Mike’s eyes all the while remained locked on Velis.
The banker exhaled at Swanson. ‘Why? Why now after all these years would you risk your life? Risk incriminating yourself.’ A brief pause followed. ‘After all we’ve been through together.’
Swanson laughed in irony. ‘All we’ve been through. You mean that you stitched me up. That you blackmailed me; threatened to hurt my wife; my daughter, you even threatened lil’ Millie if I told anyone about your goddamn lies. You made me sign my own pact with the Devil.’
‘So that is why you took up your new position with the Church. You were worried about your salvation?’
Swanson looked at Velis. There was a resigned hatred in his eyes. The fear Mike had witnessed only days earlier had withered and flourished into a strange peacefulness. He had never liked Swanson: he always struck him as being a snob and a soulless mercenary: more interested in cash than religion. Yet images can be deceiving. Now there was a strange sense of liberation about him.
‘The world knows, Louis. We know about Mikael Devére. We know about Nathan Walls’ report: that you killed him to conceal the real performance of Leoni et Cie: that you’ve been funnelling Vatican funds and God knows what else to fund your criminal activities. That Gile is a crook; that you’re a murderer. Did you kill Randy too?’
‘You are a foolish old man, Irving. Do you have any idea what you are really getting yourself into?’
‘Yeah I do. And I was an even more foolish middle-aged man. Ever since I met your pops I was afraid of him; West, I was afraid of him; afraid of the Rite of Larmenius; afraid of what you people would do to me if I said anything out of line.’
Velis smoked, retaining eye contact with Swanson.
‘I can barely forgive myself, knowing all I did of your activities,’ Swanson said, slightly stronger than before: ‘knowing that I kept my mouth shut and failed to lift a finger despite all these people being killed before my eyes. I thought it was right: right to protect my family. But what you’ve done is unforgivable.’
‘Do not be naïve, Irv
ing. I kept you on as a favour. I even thought that in time there might be a place for you as a master of the Rite of Larmenius.’
‘A favour,’ Swanson laughed in irony. ‘Am I supposed to be thankful? You talked as if you were some kind of goddamn prophet; a saviour of humanity. You are not even human, you evil son of a bitch.’
Velis removed his cigar from his lips and exhaled, sending smoke spiralling toward the panelled lights, the smell overwhelming the scent of lemon.
‘It’s over, Louis,’ Swanson said. ‘Even if you kill me it won’t make a blind bit of difference. The confessions of Mikael Devére will soon be known to the world. The Vatican can work without me. Come on. Let the guard go.’
Mike looked at Swanson, in surprise if nothing else. Velis looked at Mike.
‘I never did get that stain out of my shirt.’
Mike felt a tightening sensation in his chest.
‘This is your last chance,’ he said to both of them. ‘Where are the rest of these?’
The sound of the opening door echoed throughout the corridor, followed by the appearance of two security guards. Looks of startled fear and amazement crossed their faces as they witnessed the scene in front of them. The normally dormant archives were playing host to a bearded man in an expensive suit pointing a gun execution-style at two men standing against the wall.
Velis hesitated momentarily. The security guards lifted their guns and shouted, causing the banker to panic. Velis aimed to his left and quick as a flash shot three times. Adrenaline set in and Mike grabbed Swanson and sprinted towards the racks. Ducking his head, they dived into a row of shelves, breaking them and causing several boxes to fall to the ground around them.
52
The sound of scampering footsteps gave way to that of a metal door opening and closing. Several gunshots in quick succession ricocheted off metal, bouncing in all directions, causing deafening echoes that continued for several seconds. Behind the door, footsteps sprinted in an unknown direction, while in the main corridor furniture crashed against furniture causing files to fall, boxes to break and paper to tear, creating an image of chaos.
Now on the floor, Mike rolled over and placed his hands over his head as a protective reflex. He waited for the sound of bullets to stop and from his cramped position surveyed the corridor, still unsure what had happened. Had he been shot? He felt numb, but felt no pain. He checked his body; he was not bleeding.
He rose cautiously to his haunches and surveyed the vicinity in better detail. The sound of recent gunshots was still ringing loudly in his ears, but the activity had now ceased. As he looked around the room, he saw one of the security guards sprinting down the corridor in the direction of the restricted vault. Velis was already on the other side of the door and, not to Mike’s knowledge, climbing a concealed staircase. The second security guard was running gingerly, pressing his hand to his shoulder. A gunshot had grazed the bone and left a faint blood wound.
Mike struggled to his feet. Books and documents were scattered across the floor, appearing as though a tornado had swept the room. He looked down at Irving Swanson who was lying on the floor and grimacing in pain. His smart suit jacket was partially ripped and his glasses absent from his face.
Mike looked at the security guard then down at Swanson. Moving was difficult. He tried to sit up but failed. Only now to Mike’s horror did he see the patch of red across Swanson’s white shirt.
Swanson growled out in pain, his back stiffening as his body rose in keeping with the movement of a seizure. His face was frozen and his breathing audible.
The Swiss Guard knelt down by his side, and grabbed the banker’s ripped shirt. He pressed it frantically against the wound, but the delicate silk had little effect. Blood gushed at an alarming rate.
Mike barked at the security guard to call an ambulance, all the while continuing to focus on Swanson. The security guard nodded and walked with difficulty, edging closer to the door. He swiped his keycard and continued through the door, now sprinting towards the lift.
Mike removed his own suit jacket and pressed the quality material to the wound but realised it was useless. Blood continued to ooze down from his chest. Swanson’s breathing heightened.
‘Just relax, Mr. Swanson,’ Mike said. ‘We’re gonna get an ambulance. You’re gonna be fine. Just hold on.’
Swanson blinked rapidly. A look of lifeless resignation overcame him as he gazed aimlessly up at the light.
Blood spread beneath Mike’s sticky fingers as he continued to put pressure on the wound. The suit was covered in blood but clearly had no positive effect.
‘Hold on, Mr. Swanson, the ambulance is on its way,’ Mike said, removing tissue paper from his pocket and pushing it to the wound. The low quality paper fell apart in his hands and formed a messy substance on impact. Left with no further option he removed his own white shirt and pressed it to the wound.
Swanson looked up at Mike.
‘Frei,’ he said weakly.
‘It’s okay, Mr. Swanson. Save your strength.’
Mike checked Swanson’s pulse and realised it had weakened considerably. Swanson’s face was excessively pale.
‘Frei,’ he said, once more. ‘You must believe that I could never have been a part of this…’
Swanson coughed vigorously, leaving his sentence incomplete. Mike looked down at the banker and felt he was referring to the activities of the Rite of Larmenius and the meeting of four days ago. A grim irony consumed him as he realised Swanson still believed that he was on trial.
‘Please believe me.’
Mike felt a stray tear come to his eye as he looked down at the banker. He blinked a couple of times, continuing to press the blood-soaked shirt to the area of impact. Swanson coughed weakly and blood seeped from the corner of his mouth. The sound was familiar.
‘I believe you, Mr. Swanson. Everyone does.’
‘I just could never let them harm my family. I couldn’t do it to lil’ Millie.’
Mike nodded. ‘I understand that, sir. I promise you nothing bad will happen to them.’
Swanson seemed to grimace and smile simultaneously. For the first time he felt a sense of light-headedness as his body lost all sense of feeling. As he looked up at the light, various images entered his head. In the moment they say when your life flashes before your eyes, the vision for Irving Swanson was different. In the light he thought he could see a brilliant angelic vision: perhaps marking his journey to heaven. He saw his wife as she had appeared in her younger days. Next to her was his daughter standing by her husband, cradling a child in his arms. In the distance he thought he could hear the vague siren of an ambulance, fading slowly. Then he felt the strange sensation of being underwater.
He smiled as he surrendered to the beautiful floating sensation as he lost feeling of any pain. In his final vision he saw little Millie.
Then he saw nothing at all.
Thierry de Courten killed the phone line with his finger and dialled the next number without replacing the receiver. It was approaching 9pm Rome time but the commander of the Swiss Guard was still at work and would be for some time yet.
Outside, the sky was fading to blackness with faint sparkles of starlight beginning to appear at irregular intervals across the horizon. A stunning gibbous moon was glowing like a lighthouse through sparse cumulus in the area above the Colosseum, lighting up the otherwise clear sky.
The oberst put the phone to his ear and poured mineral water into a glass. He searched his desk drawer for something for his headache and found one remaining tablet among scattered empty packaging. He placed the tablet to his mouth and swallowed it down with water. He exhaled forcefully as he waited for the phone to connect. Finally it answered.
‘Get me Cardinal Utaka, please. This is urgent.’
‘Yes, sir,’ the female voice replied.
De Courten grimaced impatiently as some forgotten band from the late 1970s filled his ear with outdated trash. He inhaled slowly and contemplated what he would say. It had
been another day of surprises.
Despite the tiredness, his mind instantly forgot about sleep. All thoughts centred on the news he had just heard. A senior Vatican cardinal was seen leaving the main Starvel building in Boston. Perfectly innocent perhaps; or at least he would have thought so a week ago. Only now no chances could be taken. Strange as it sounded it made perfect sense. There really was a traitor among the Vatican bankers. Only his name was not Giancarlo Riva. Nor was it Irving Swanson.
The music suddenly stopped and the familiar voice of Cardinal Utaka spoke clearly down the line. The oberst’s ears pricked and his concentration resumed.
‘Eminence, please come to my office. There is something we need to discuss.’
In a modern fifth floor apartment, the ringing of a telephone offered the only sound. Within seconds, the ringing was accompanied by the creaking of a door opening followed by heavy footsteps marching across wooden floor towards a nearby desk.
The apartment’s sole occupant answered immediately.
‘Oui,’ Gullet said.
‘I have a new assignment for you.’
The line went dead instantly, and Gullet hung up. Seconds later he heard the bleeping sound of an incoming fax from the accompanying machine. He waited for the printout to finish and studied it with serious eyes.
The phone went again.
‘And this one I want alive.’
Gullet hung up for the second time in succession and exited the room. If he was quick, he could get it done tonight.
53
Mike had become fairly well acquainted with Gabrielle’s mansion in Boston in recent weeks. While it was completely different to the château in Switzerland, to Mike it offered an identical level of elegance, which he had slowly begun to enjoy over the past few months.
The Templar Agenda Page 50