I, of Limited Mercy: A Maxine Kordell Novel

By Larry M. Rosen

Maxine Kordell’s high school reunion is marred when al-Qaeda hijacks her plane, a female gang accosts her, her friend Marty Blair is murdered, and she’s threatened by a drug cartel, coyotes, and the police. Joined by Mena Harling and Willi Mayers, 3-M investigate, but are almost killed while in custody. Haley joins them, but events intrude involving lost Francisco Goya paintings, a Jim Bowie silver hoard, Sherlock Holmes, Pope Pius XII, The Cluster, a list compiled by former Vice President Aldrich Fellerson implicating The Vatican in war crimes, and a plan for hiding the list devised by Holmes. So Pope John Paul II brings the foursome to Rome, where they’re caught in a feud between two cardinals and become targets of the Mafia. 3-M and Haley soon learn their foes include four professional assassins. Aided by born again Christian/Sherlockian Nora Kelly, they find a letter from Holmes, pursue the treasures and list, then Max must face Marty’s killer, whose lethality may exceed her own.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Jul 11, 2012
• ISBN: 9781105950322

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I, of Limited Mercy: A Maxine Kordell Novel

Cover Page

Title Page

I, Of Limited Mercy

A Maxine Kordell Novel

By

Larry M. Rosen

Copyright Page

Copyright © 2012 by Larry M. Rosen

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

This Book Is

PUBLISHED BY LULU

(www.lulu.com)

First Edition: July 2012

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, businesses, companies, other organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and not intended by the author.

ISBN 978-1-105-95032-2

The author and publisher do not have any control over, and do not assume any responsibility for, third-party websites or their content.

Also By Larry M. Rosen

The Haley And Willi Novels

The Light In The Garden

A Shadow That Passes Away

Seal, Trumpet, And Vial

Cultural Landscapes

The Maxine Kordell Novels

I, Of Limited Mercy

The Emissary Novels

The Elixir Of Fools

Other Novels

Women Don’t Like Me

Acknowledgments

I’d like to acknowledge friends and colleagues whose names I modified and used for several characters -- Tom Coker, my first mentor at work and in life, who was best man at my wedding and made me a lifelong Dallas Cowboys fan; Ed Urquhart, my neighbor and friend, who often gives me his copy of The Weekly Standard, which he insists will neutralize any liberal tendencies I acquire reading The Washington Post; Cindy Flint, who coined the phrase Madam Manager, and continues to set a very high bar for decency, permitting me to exploit her generosity whenever we split a calamari appetizer; Larry Klapper, my software soul mate, who insists sales of my novels would dramatically increase if I inserted them in an Excel pivot table; Germana Miner, who now adds wine importer and catering tycoon to her already impressive achievements of a doctorate in mathematics, winning Italy’s high diving championship twice, and mastering the Dark Sith art of database development; Sal Culosi, a brilliant logistician and singer of Frank Sinatra standards, who elevates karaoke wherever he performs; Stephanie Klapper, a wunderkind who has recently become enlightened about government consulting; Nora Mayers, a woman of diverse talents, who inspired my writing career as well as two characters, although one of them was murdered and the longevity of the second remains a lever with which I can bargain; and especially Michelle Kordell, the most dangerous woman on the planet, who, despite her veneer of limited empathy and mercy (a phrase she first coined in an e-mail to me), is actually one of the warmest and most giving of persons, although there are many liberals who continue to vigorously dispute this claim.

A special thanks to my daughter, Samantha, who provided review and comment on draft versions, and, as she did for my first five novels, provided invaluable critiques and suggestions about the dust cover and book layout.

Dedication

To the Horner Family -- Donald and Mariko -- who have given the world a wondrous gift; the extended Kordell Family -- American patriots all, spanning several generations; and the immediate Kordell Family -- Steven, Michelle, Mari, Jon, and Pele.

And, as always, for the two women who moved me to write -- Nora Mayers and Michelle Ingrid Williams II.

Author’s Note

The fictional characters Aldrich Fellerson, Phil Fredericks, and Lalo Gomez are solely the author’s creation. Although some of their personal traits and history are loosely based on, respectively, former Vice President Nelson Rockefeller, Westboro Baptist Church minister Fred Phelps, and Illinois Congressman Luis Gutiérrez, these characters are pure fiction. In some instances, their words are portions of direct quotes attributed to their real life counterparts by various Internet sources. In other instances, some of their words are the author’s paraphrases of reported quotes. In most instances, the words spoken by these characters are entirely the author’s invention.

Sadly, the eleven Francisco Goya oil on canvas paintings, entitled Brujeria y La Guerra -- Witchcraft and War -- exist solely in the author’s imagination. The name of Goya’s manservant, Isidro, is a bit of author tongue in cheek, since Isidro Máiquez was the name of an actor whose portrait was painted by Goya in 1807.

There are many stories and, perhaps, facts about Jim Bowie, silver mines, and associated battles with Indians. The author has taken a bit here, a bit there, and stitched together a hopefully believable, if not historically tight, yarn. Similarly, there have been many tales and historical works about how Davy Crockett and Jim Bowie died at The Alamo. So the author created an entirely fictional account of a meeting between the legendary frontiersmen by expanding the often used tale of Crockett supplying two pistols to the bed-ridden Bowie. Also, the author, an inveterate Dallas Cowboys fan eager to please the good folks of Texas, has created an heroic version of their deaths, based on novels, articles, and films he’d read and seen over the years.

Sherlock Holmes, the immortal consulting detective created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, has thrilled readers for over 100 years. At times, however, the Holmes canon has teased its adherents, perhaps most unmercifully with a throwaway reference to The Giant Rat Of Sumatra at the start of The Adventure Of The Sussex Vampire. Since Maxine Kordell, Willi Mayers, and Nora Kelly are all Sherlockians, I have concocted a related stew that permits The Master another bow, borrowing or rephrasing several bits of dialogue from Conan Doyle’s golden pen. As some additional tongue in cheek, the name Sir Henry George Lionel honors actors who played Moriarty in three Basil Rathbone Sherlock Holmes films -- Henry Daniell, George Zucco, and Lionel Atwill. Also, the author has borrowed the timeline from William Baring-Gould’s biography of the detective, Sherlock Holmes Of Baker Street, wherein Holmes, still alive in 1955 courtesy of a royal jelly made from bees, lives on his farm in Sussex Downs, England. The disguise of a Lascar -- adopted by Holmes when aboard the Matilda Briggs and while in Mexico -- was suggested by the same Basil Rathbone masquerade on display in the film, Sherlock Holmes And The Secret Weapon.

The history of Eugenio Pacelli, who in 1939 became Pope Pius XII, is clouded by controversy. His detractors contemptuously dismiss him as Hitler’s Pope, and go as far as accusing him of helping Hitler gain power and of supporting the Nazi regime. Moderate chroniclers of his life and times, while refusing to portray the pontiff so severely, suggest he should have been more outspoken about and done more to prevent the horrors being perpetrated in Europe. The defenders of Pope Pius XII insist he gave sanctuary to many Jews in Rome, and did his best behind the scenes to help Jews across Europe. After a good deal of research, the author finds the evidence presented by both sides to be tinged with intellectual dishonesty. Even within the Church, many liberal Catholics view the pontiff negatively because his policies, as those of some of his successors, continue the Church’s condemnation of contraception and refusal to ordain women. Many conservative Catholics, resisting deviation from historical Church orthodoxy, readily embrace a pontiff who, along with Pope John Paul II and Pope Benedict XVI, strongly advocated papal absolutism and the sinlessness of the Church. The possible beatification and sainthood of Pope Pius XII has heightened passions about Pius’ life and times in Catholic and other circles. In such emotionally charged times, truth becomes an elusive quarry, and often the first victim.

The meeting between Pope Pius XII and his private secretary and confidante, Robert Leiber, is solely the author’s creation, although it uses or paraphrases several Internet quotes attributed to the pontiff. The meeting between Robert Leiber and various Jesuits in his inner circle is solely the author’s creation. Portions of Lieber’s dialogue use or paraphrase quotes attributed to him by various Internet sources.

The meeting between Pope John Paul II and Max, Mena, Willi, and Haley is solely the author’s creation, although it uses or paraphrases sections of papal writings and speeches found on the Internet. The description of the pope’s private library was cobbled together by the author after examining several photographs of the library available on the Internet. In this fictional meeting, the author has taken the liberty of ascribing to Pope John Paul an informality and sense of humor, in the hope that so doing makes this scene more interesting. The author intended no disrespect by using such informality. Also, in an entirely fictitious account, the pontiff asks 3-M and Haley to recover a list of names -- also fictitious -- of Church members who assisted Nazi and Croatian war criminals to escape, so the list is not conflated with the emerging pedophile scandal to produce a sensationalized and hostile anti-Catholic reaction. After his initial reluctance and some probing questions, Haley agrees to assist Pope John Paul, largely because, as Haley states, the pontiff is one of the great men of the twentieth and twenty first centuries.

The meeting between George W. Bush and the Three Person Oversight Panel at Camp David is solely the author’s creation. Portions of Dubya’s dialogue use or paraphrase quotes attributed to him by various Internet sources.

The badinage between Nora Kelly and Haley over salt, while driving to the Arizona State University campus, was inspired by an article written by Jonathan Turley entitled, Seasoning with the Saints: Blessed Christian Salt Challenges Kosher Salt for the Palates of the Faithful. The article also references Mathew 5:13.

The meeting at Camp David between George W. Bush and Maxine Kordell, Mena Harling, Willi Mayers, Nora Kelly, Tom Coken, and Haley is solely the author’s creation. Portions of Dubya’s dialogue use or paraphrase quotes attributed to him by various Internet sources.

Lest I fuel yet another conspiracy theory, let me assure readers that the deaths of Francisco Goya’s manservant, Mexican painter Francisco Goitia, and Aldrich Fellerson (the Nelson Rockefeller inspired character) were not cleverly disguised murders orchestrated by The Leader. However, with regard to Fellerson’s death -- he was, after all, a Rockefeller Republican -- I have not been able to rule out the deft hand of Michelle Kordell.

Preamble

The pope is … not responsible to any earthly tribunal or power. He is the judge of all, can be judged by no one, kings, priests, or people. He is free from all laws, and cannot incur any sentence or penalty for any crime … He is all in all, and above all, so that God and the pope, the Vicar of God, are but one … He hath all power on earth, purgatory, heaven, and hell, to bind, loose, command, permit, dispense, do, and undo. Therefore it is declared to stand upon necessity of salvation for every human creature to be subject to the Roman Pontiff. All temporal power is his; the dominion, jurisdiction, and government of the whole earth is his by divine right.

16th Century, Council Of Trent Proclamation

And thine eye shall not pity; but life shall go for life,

eye for eye, tooth for tooth, hand for hand, foot for foot.

Deuteronomy, 19:21

Moreover you shall accept no ransom for the life of a murderer who is subject to the death penalty; a murderer must be put to death.

Numbers, 35:31

When society fails to seal a monster’s fate, placing its citizens in future peril, I, of limited empathy and mercy, shall exact the Max-imum penalty.

Maxine Kordell

Prologue

1824

Quinta del Sordo

Outskirts Of Madrid, Spain

FRANCISCO JOSÉ DE GOYA y Lucientes had isolated himself in a country house by the Manzanares River just outside Madrid. The house was known as Quinta del Sordo -- House of the Deaf Man -- after its previous owner, although Goya, too, was deaf. Goya was in what would be the last four years of his life, and was deeply depressed, the result of his dismal view of humanity, and his growing awareness of his own likely and deepening insanity.

Still, it was a productive, if dark time for the brilliant painter, considered to be among the old masters, as well as one of the earliest practitioners of an emerging school of modern art. It was here that Goya created the Black Paintings, some on the walls of his dining and sitting rooms, such as Satan Devouring His Son. But it was also here that Goya decided to thumb his nose at the Spanish monarchy, whose reactionary political and social policies he abhorred.

Damn them, Goya thought to himself. "I’ll leave Spain for France before I give even tacit acceptance to their repressive views. But first I’ll rob them of my finest work. Eleven oil on canvas paintings. Brujeria y La Guerra. Witchcraft and War."

*     *     *     *     *

1828

Bordeaux, France

I am dying, Francisco Goya said. A few more weeks, perhaps but several days. So I must be certain you will honor my request, for I fear to entrust it to another.

Isidro, his manservant, nodded, since the deaf Goya would not be able to hear his yes.

I have a parcel I wish sent overseas. It is already bundled and addressed. I wish you to ship it to Paco Montera in Mexico City, but I must demand something else from you as well. No one must ever know about this parcel. I will give you money for its passage. You may keep whatever remains. I will also provide for you after my death.

Isidro made the arrangements, got a receipt, then, on April 16, 1828, Francisco Goya died.

A short time later, Isidro, a heavy drinker, was in a Bordeaux bar, drinking alone. He began to speak loudly, eventually bragging about his time with Francisco Goya. A well-dressed man, clearly an aristocrat, approached Isidro’s table, then sat down. The newcomer bought several more rounds for Isidro, then the soused manservant mentioned the parcel he’d secretly sent to Mexico City. The nobleman gently pressed Isidro for more details, then, after ordering Isidro another round, left the bar.

At closing time, Isidro staggered out of the bar, then began walking unsteadily along a cobblestone street, on his way to his quarters. As he neared the corner where he’d turn right, Isidro vaguely registered a loud noise coming rapidly behind him. A moment later, Isidro was dead, crushed beneath the hooves of a team of horses pulling a closed carriage.

Well done, the passenger replied, speaking to the driver through an open slot. Now transport me to The Leader’s home.

Two weeks later, the man in the carriage set sail for Mexico, where he died with all the other passengers and crew aboard, after a hurricane overturned the ship.

The Leader, occupied with more pressing business, placed a low priority on continuing the venture. It would be one of his successors who took up the hunt again.

From The Alamo To Baker Street To Phoenix

Mine And Shrine

1831

Vicinity Of The Los Almagres Mines

Ruin of Santa Cruz de San Sabá Mission

Somewhere In The Mexican Province

Of Texas

I’LL BE DAMNED IF I LET MYSELF get massacred here, Jim Bowie said, to his brother Rezin. We’ve put ourselves into all kinds of wild schemes, and come up with little for our trouble. So now, after we’ve hit a mother lode of silver, nobody’s takin’ it away from us.

Bowie, his brother, and a band of seven friends and a servant were in a live oak thicket, under cover behind a breastwork of rocks abutting a spring, awaiting an attack from an Indian band numbering, they estimated, near 150 men. A young boy, who had also been a servant, had been sent for water, when quite suddenly an Indian arrow killed him.

Boys, if they charge us, Bowie shouted, let me handle anybody gettin’ over the rocks. You just watch my back while I’m cuttin’ and shootin’. We’ve got plenty of rifles and pistols primed and ready, so let’s make ‘em pay dearly for their first charge. After that, they’ll think twice fore they try to overrun us.

The men readied themselves, then heard yelling, as some twenty Indians charged their position. Bowie’s men fired, and eight Indians fell dead. Each of the men picked up an already loaded rifle at his side, then fired again, killing another eight. As one Indian tried to vault the rocks protecting the men, Rezin pulled his pistol and shot him in the chest. Jim, carrying two pistols, shot two more Indians trying to get at them.

A last Indian, brandishing what looked to be a stone knife, managed to get over the rocks as everyone was reloading or scrambling to pick up an already loaded weapon. Jim Bowie moved between the Indian and his men, drew the knife named after him, easily parried the Indian’s clumsy slash, then reversed the direction of his double edged blade and slashed his attacker’s throat.

Good work, boys, Jim said. That’ll sure get ‘em to thinkin’

Five minutes later, the Indians charged again, this time with twice as many men. Bowie and his boys mowed many of them down, but a good dozen made it over the rocks, beginning a fierce close-in fight. Bowie again shot two, then went after targets of opportunity with his iron mistress. Eventually, Rezin and he piled up five corpses with their knives. The remaining attackers were killed by Bowie’s men, although one of them, Thomas McCaslin, was killed by an arrow in his chest.

That might do it boys, Jim Bowie said. I don’t think they’ll charge us again. We’ve hit ‘em too hard. But make sure your rifles and pistols are ready if they do.

The men obeyed, then settled in to wait. When nothing happened, Rezin and Jim ventured out from behind the rocks, walked a good hundred yards, then saw that the Indians were gone.

It’s over, Rezin said.

Appears to be, Jim replied. But since we’ve got the chance, how do you want to handle the silver?

Let’s pay off the boys, then hide the lion’s share, Rezin said. Looks like some bad weather’s comin’, the Indians are still out there somewhere, and I don’t fancy having to watch three mules totin’ silver while I’m watchin’ my back. We can come back as we please, and bring the rest out in small lots.

Makes sense, Jim said. But let’s mark a location in a way that lets us find it again.

The Bowie Brothers paid off their friends, then, after they’d ridden off, buried the bags of silver in the live oak thicket in a large rectangular hole about four feet deep. They marked the location of their treasure with triangular shaped rocks, with which they formed a triangle.

*     *     *     *     *

March 5 - March 6, 1836

The Alamo, San Antonio de Bexar

The Mexican Province Of Texas

I brought you a little somethin’, Davy Crockett said, to Jim Bowie, who had managed to sit up on a cot in an interior room of the Alamo.

Crockett handed Bowie two loaded pistols. The knife fighter nodded his appreciation, then managed a smile.

The only thing I’m not sure of, Bowie said, is whether I’ll die first of whatever it is that ails me, or if the Mexicans will carry my corpse off on their bayonets.

Well, a man couldn’t ask to die in better company than with the fellas we got with us here.

Aren’t you gonna defeat Santa Anna’s army on your own? Bowie playfully asked, smiling at the Tennessean. Davy Crockett can surely do that.

Davy surely can, but I think it’s only fair to them Mexicans that it’s David Crockett who opposes ‘em. Can’t expect real flesh and blood men to whip a legend.

I know. When I walked away from that sandbar fight after taking several shots and a sword cane through me, people began to think I can’t be killed. This pestilence I got don’t seem to know about that, so it’s doin’ the job pretty good.

What is it that ails you, Jim?

Pneumonia, typhoid pneumonia, advanced tuberculosis. Take your pick.

Want me to stay with you to ward off the Mexicans?

You won’t be able to kill a thousand of them single handedly from in here. Better you and your boys man the Palisades. Those Tennessee long rifles will do a lot of damage.

Thanks, Jim. The boys and me prefer to be outdoors.

David, I’ve been fixin’ to talk to you, and since I believe Santa Anna will attack in the next day or two, now seems to be a good time.

What is it, Jim?

This is for your ears only. I trust you because you’re a legend like me. You know what a weight that can be. But it does shape a man, I believe, ‘cause it makes him try to live up to the good lies that have been spread about him.

I knew right away you understood that, Jim. Now what is it you want to tell me?

Bowie told Crockett the story of the silver treasure, the fight with the Indians, and the place where the treasure was buried.

Quite the tale, Jim.

There’s more. My wife, Ursula, and my two children died of cholera in Monclova in 1833. My brother, Rezin, took some of his share over the years. Since then, he’s had trouble with his vision, and finally settled down on a plantation south of Baton Rouge, Louisiana. That makes me a dead man in waitin’ with nobody to leave the remainin’ silver to. So I’ve decided to leave it to Texas. Sam Houston can use it to help build his army, then set up Texas as a republic once Santa Anna’s a bad memory.

Problem, seems to me, is getting’ that little tidbit to Houston, Crockett said.

I’ve figured that out, if you agree to help me. I need you to get a message to Juan Seguin, the one man I trust outside the Alamo. Juan’s helpin’ Old Sam build his army. I drew up a map and wrote Juan a letter, which I’m gonna give to you. I want Juan to take the map, retrieve the silver, then bring it to Sam Houston. Old Sam can then do with it as he pleases.

I’ll get a rider out to Seguin in the morning, Crockett promised.

Just before sunrise on March 6, 1836, Santa Anna’s forces stormed the Alamo. The Texans took a heavy toll on the Mexicans early in the fight, but were unable to prevent them from overrunning the North Wall and the Palisades. Trapped in the courtyard and several buildings, most of the Texans were systematically killed. A few were captured.

Jim Bowie sat on his cot, listening to the battle raging outside. When the Mexicans battered down the door to his room, Bowie immediately killed two with the pistols given him by Crockett. Bowie’s legendary ferocity allowed him to overcome his fever and weakness, grab his famous knife, stand, and hold on to an overhead hanging lantern. A Mexican soldier charged at him, his bayonet held high, aiming at Bowie’s throat. Bowie swerved, ducked under the thrust, then eviscerated the man with a sweep of his blade. Bowie then cut down two more charging soldiers, who tried to gut him with their bayonets. Seeing the feral Bowie, two Mexican soldiers wisely decided to avoid directly engaging him. Instead, standing in the doorway, they shot him in the head. Bowie’s body fell back onto his cot, his iron mistress clutched in his dead right hand.

Davy Crockett had climbed a staircase in the courtyard, and was standing in an alcove so the riflemen below couldn’t shoot at him. Several Mexicans tried to rush him, only to be struck down by Old Betsy, Crockett’s rifle, which he swung at them like a club. When one of his attackers managed to grab Old Betsy’s stock, Davy drew his knife and stabbed the man in the heart. Seeing the fate of their fellow soldiers, the Mexicans at the foot of the stairway didn’t try again.

When Santa Anna entered the mission, he was told about the lone defender at the top of the stairs. Some of his men, knowing the man was Crockett and aware of his legend, told Santa Anna he couldn’t be killed. Other Mexican soldiers asked that Crockett’s life be spared. Furious, Santa Anna ordered some of his personal staff to herd the other half dozen or so survivors to the area by the foot of the stairs, then told one of his men, who was conversant in English, to speak to Crockett.

His Excellency says he will spare the lives of these men if you come down the stairs and surrender.

Low on shot and knowing he couldn’t hold his position indefinitely, Crockett hesitantly walked down the narrow staircase, carrying Old Betsy in one hand. When he was about two thirds down, Santa Anna gave an order to kill the prisoners. A dozen of his personal staff used their sabers to slaughter the defenseless captives.

Enraged by the massacre, Crockett bolted down the stairs, shouted Liberty and independence forever, then began frantically swinging Old Betsy, trying to get in a lick at Santa Anna. A captain drew a saber, came up behind Crockett, then struck the frontiersman in the back of his head. Crockett staggered, managed to stay upright, then took several bayonettes in his back and chest. He roared once, then collapsed, Old Betsy falling on the courtyard floor beside his coonskin covered head.

Santa Anna ordered the bodies to be burned. Among the ashes were the letter and map prepared by Jim Bowie for Juan Seguin.

The Game’s Afoot

1894

221B Baker Street

London, England

AS I REMARKED EARLIER, COLONEL Moran will trouble us no more, Sherlock Holmes said, speaking to Doctor John Hamish Watson.

The two friends were seated in their Baker Street flat, which Holmes had quickly managed to once more make messy.

The famous air-gun of Von Herder will embellish the Scotland Yard Museum, and once again Mr. Sherlock Holmes is free to devote his life to examining those interesting little problems which the complex life of London so plentifully presents.

And Professor James Moriarty and his despicable cohorts are now a successfully closed chapter in your illustrious career, Holmes.

Would that were true, Watson, I would be content to retire and tend bees upon the Sussex Downs.

Surely it is true, Holmes.

Not entirely, my old friend, for I have been less than forthcoming with you about the Moriarty affair.

Until but a short time ago, you were not forthcoming with me at all. The murder of Roger Adair forced your reluctant hand.

Forgive me, Watson. My charade at the Reichenbach Falls and subsequent three year absence were necessary to prevent my death, arrange for the destruction of the fiendish Colonel Sebastian Moran, and protect you.

Protect me from what, Holmes? Clearly, Moran had no designs on my life.

"Not from Moran, Watson. From them."

"Them. What theatrics are you engaging in now to bedevil me, Holmes? Surely the past three years have earned me some respite from your quirks."

"Good old Watson! You are the one fixed point in a changing age. Believe me when I say the them of whom I speak is not my customary indulgence of my overly dramatic nature. Like Moriarty, they are our greatest problem."

Explain yourself, Holmes.

I said something to you at the start of the denouement of my battle with the Napoleon of Crime. I told you that for years past, I have continually been conscious of some power behind the malefactor, some deep organizing power which forever stands in the way of the law, and throws its shield over the wrong-doer.

That power was James Moriarty, Watson noted.

Not entirely, Watson. And it is here that I have misled you. Moriarty was indeed as I described. A genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker. He had a brain of the first order. He did little himself. He only planned. As did another, who was Moriarty’s equal.

A second Napoleon of crime? Hardly, Holmes.

Not of crime, Watson. Of business and commerce. And one who, in a sense, is an immortal.

You confound me, Holmes. Business? Commerce? Immortality? I trust you haven’t been indulging yourself again with a seven percent solution.

Ennui has not set upon me during the past three years, though I fear it will soon descend to work its mischief, now that I have returned to my old haunts and habits. But we digress. As I penetrated the veil about Moriarty, I deduced the presence of another master, similar yet quite different.

How can this be so, Holmes? Similar yet different. Surely an oxymoron.

"This other to whom I refer is, as Moriarty was, a genius, an abstract thinker, a planner. But where Moriarty confined himself to tactics -- ensuring the success of a robbery or arranging an assassination -- the other was a compleat strategic planner."

I do not understand the distinction you make, Holmes. How does strategic planning differ from tactics?

"In timeline spanned and mutability of factors, thereby in overall uncertainty. The other deals with things that may or may not come to pass, develops long-range plans for every contingency, and puts in place the resources required to implement each plan. But rather than de jure criminal enterprises, as was Moriarty’s wont, the other favors a grander stage. International business. Endeavors that span nations and governments, and survive when nations and governments topple. Like Moriarty, the goal is financial profit, although the payoffs for the other dwarf even the largest of Moriarty’s capers. And also like the late lamented Professor Moriarty, the other does not eschew violence to reach his goals. Violence is part of the other’s planning, just one more line item cost. It was Moriarty’s organization that served as the gloved fist for the other."

"Who is this other, Holmes, and what is the name of his organization?"

"I have no idea as to the identity of the other, Holmes replied. As to his organization, all I have uncovered is that it manifests some link with Freemasonry."

"You said the other was immortal, Holmes. Surely this is an impossibility."

"I have been able to deduce that the other has existed for over a hundred and fifty years."

No human can live and function for such a time span.

"The Achilles heel in Moriarty’s kingdom was that when he died, it died. That is why the Professor’s creation, save the lingering aftershock of the good Colonel Sebastian Moran, is smashed forever. This is not true for the organization led by the other."

Why not? Watson pressed.

"There is not a single other. Rather, there is a lineage, with a successor already in place as the elder enters his dotage."

Do you intend to unmask and thwart this nefarious organization?

I do, Watson. The game’s afoot. Which is why I depart tomorrow on a new case, one that may keep me away from Baker Street for perhaps two months. I will not ask you to join me because I perceive your practice is thriving after my prolonged absence.

It keeps me rather busy, so I could not possibly take leave of my patients on such short notice. But not joining you distresses me greatly. … How could you possibly know my practice is thriving? It had been barely above water when you left.

Elementary, my dear Watson. The lines under your eyes are etched more deeply than could likely be attributed to the three years that have passed since we last met. You are a fastidious man, yet the length of your hair and the faint beginnings of tatters at the bottom of your trousers suggest a man who has not found time to visit either a barber or a tailor. You carry a late edition of a newspaper whose morning edition you habitually devour, indicating your traditional relaxed morning routine has been hurried, forcing you to catch up on happenings by reading a gazette in the evening. You carry a stain on your right cuff that appears to be coal tar. Since you do not clean chimneys yourself, this indicates you have recently treated a chimney sweep. Chimney sweeps work largely during the day, which would suggest you saw this patient in the evening, further suggesting a lengthening of your normal practice hours. With these apparent observations noted, I deduce your practice is thriving.

Amazing, Holmes.

Only to those who cannot see or reason. But let me promise you something to lighten your distress about not joining me. An adventure that will surely live up to the hyperbole of your past fanciful narratives.

"I am struggling as we speak with conceiving The Adventure Of The Empty House."

"That tale will pale to insignificance, Watson, if compared to what begins tomorrow when I visit Matilda Briggs."

I am unfamiliar with a woman of that name, Holmes. I trust she is not another actress-adventuress who will entice you to retract your vow of misogyny.

"Matilda Briggs is not the name of a young woman, Watson. It is a ship. And if my methods are successful, you will have a story for which the world is not yet prepared, one that might even rival The Hound Of The Baskervilles."

Surely not, Holmes.

As a physician, Watson, you are well acquainted with Yersinia pestis.

Of course. A bacterium that brought about a major scourge in the world. Bubonic Plague. The bacteria are commonly spread by the infected bite of fleas or rodents, and less frequently by the likes of chipmunks, lice, or even prairie dogs.

Bravo, Watson. I have often said that I never get your limits. You have proven me correct once more.

But Holmes, what has this to do with a story for which the world is not yet prepared?

That story will soon unfold, Watson, and its onset will involve this caged fellow whom I have hidden from view, lest Mrs. Hudson encounter it and immediately expire from fright.

Holmes went to a corner of the room, and pulled away a small blanket covering a cage perhaps eight times the size of the enclosure that customarily held a canary. Watson walked to the cage, peered inside, then leapt back, his face ashen, when the creature inside hissed.

Holmes, this is monstrous. I have never seen a rodent of such gigantic proportions.

"It is not monstrous, old friend, at least not as it exists in this cage. But it can readily become a monster of epic proportions if infected with Yersinia pestis, then loosed upon an unsuspecting world. And I have deduced this is precisely what the other wishes to do."

"Will England be the target of the other’s nefarious scheme?"

Not England, Watson. Mexico.

But why Mexico?

"I have my suspicions, given the long-range time frames for which the other hatches his plots. But I lack sufficient data, and it is dangerous to reason and draw conclusions without data. That is why I am sailing to New York, then on to Mexico City. Unlike my brother, Mycroft, I am willing to expend time and energy securing data. Mycroft would never leave The Diogenes Club or his favorite chair."

Just what is this creature, Holmes?

A member of the Mallomys woolly rat family. It can grow to five times the size of Rattus Norvegicus, with an appetite to match Stapleton’s hound. It is a rather aggressive breed, and has no fear of people.

Why is it here?

"I’m taking it with me when I sail on the Matilda Briggs."

Why, Holmes?

It is best that you remain in the dark about that.

So once more you leave me languishing outside as you keep your own counsel.

Don’t take it so hard, old fellow. I promise to make amends when I return. As you are fully aware, Watson, I rarely encourage your outlandish fables about my gifts of observation and deduction, but will do so in this singular instance. In fact, if I may be rather presumptuous, let me suggest a title.

Please do so, Holmes.

"The Giant Rat Of Sumatra."

Matilda Briggs And Mexico

Matilda Briggs

Somewhere In The Atlantic Ocean

THE STEAMSHIP JUST A WEEK earlier christened Matilda Briggs was on her maiden voyage from Liverpool to New York City. The ship enjoyed a 25,000 tons register, was about 725 feet long, and its width was just over 75 feet. It boasted a lounge where Bridge was played, an opulent smoking room, a spacious verandah café, even a small library.

An elderly Lascar left the first class public restroom, then made his way to a cabin whose occupant, Philip Warrenton, he knew to be eating supper in the main dining saloon. The old Indian sailor was carrying a large case under one arm and a covered container on his shoulder. When he reached the cabin, he set down the container and case, removed a picklock from his trousers, then opened the cabin’s door. Once inside, he dragged the case and container into the opulently furnished room, which featured a double bed and large mirrored dresser. He immediately spied a large trunk situated in a corner, then noted several air holes punched in the trunk. The locked trunk also quickly yielded to the picklock.

Carefully, the Lascar opened the trunk’s lid, looked in, and saw what he’d hoped to see. He opened the case he’d brought, removed and assembled its contents, then returned to the trunk. He pointed the assembled object at its captive, pressed a trigger, there was a faint whoosh followed by a single muted cry, then silence.

The Lascar removed the dead contents after donning gloves and placing a mask over his mouth, then opened a porthole and tossed the corpse into the sea. The old sailor dragged the container next to the trunk, opened it, removed its heavily sedated occupant, placed it in the trunk, then locked it.

The Lascar disassembled the object he’d fired, placed it back in its case, then closed the container and, carrying everything, left and locked the cabin. The old man returned to the public restroom, removed his disguise, then, leaving the empty container behind, returned to his own first class stateroom.

Thirty minutes later, Sir Reginald Duncan walked into the dining saloon, made his way to his table, and sat down to enjoy a gourmet meal. After dinner, he strolled the decks, then, on a whim, joined the band and played for a while on the violin.

*     *     *     *     *

A Catholic Church

Mexico City, Mexico

Felipe Vasquez, a wealthy businessman and land owner, entered the confessional with an unaccustomed feeling -- dread. Father Torres was a stern priest, and not above scolding confessors as he received their litany of sins. Vasquez had felt the lash of the priest’s tongue on several occasions after confessing his role in swindles and dubious land deals. So Vasquez took a deep breath, then cringed and began his confession.

Father, I have been a sinner in so many ways -- drinking, brawling, women, unfair business deals. But I recently did something that makes me believe I have offended Mother Church, and perhaps even God.

Take your time, my son. Gather your thoughts, then reveal what troubles you.

Vasquez silently thanked the blessed Virgin Mary for his good fortune. The priest hearing his confession was not Father Torres.

I have released an animal to roam free in Mexico City.

And you fear this animal may bite people, perhaps even children.

That would not trouble me.

What then, my son?

I was told the animal was supposed to frighten people, and its presence would be taken as a sign that God did not want peasants to revolt against the status quo. But I came to fear the animal is diseased, and its bite would spread disease to many. The animal is a giant rat, and rats can spread the plague.

That is mortal sin, the priest said. Why would you commit such an horrific act?

I was given orders by my patron. I must always obey his orders.

Does your patron live in this parish?

No.

Elsewhere, then. Perhaps in another part of Mexico City.

No. He does not even live in Mexico.

Where, then?

In London, England.

You take orders from someone in England. Why?

He may live in England, but his reach is everywhere. To disobey is a death sentence.

Why did you decide to confess this terrible deed to me, my son?

Last night, in a cantina, I met a man. A Lascar. He told me he worked for my patron, and had secretly helped guard the animal’s passage across the Atlantic, then likewise during its journey to Mexico. He asked me if I had released the creature, I told him I had. Then he asked me an odd question. He wanted to know if I regretted loosing an animal whose bite might kill thousands of people.

How did you answer, my son?

I told him I had no regrets at all. That this was in the service of my patron.

How did this Lascar respond?

He seemed to look inside me, and I became very uncomfortable. He told me to set things right with God, then he suddenly left. After he’d gone, I thought about his question. I’d lied to him about having no regrets. To admit that would make me untrustworthy in my patron’s eyes. So I was sure it was a test. But by the time I arrived at my home, I was feeling guilty. Thousands of people may die. God will not look favorably upon me for such an act, even if my patron approves. So today, burdened by my guilt, I came here to confess.

And you were right to do so, my son. I can sense your remorse, and the Holy Father in Rome, the Son, the Holy Ghost, and the Eternal Father all offer you remission of sin, now that you have come before me and freely admitted your actions.

Thank you, Father.

There is one more thing you must do, the priest added, in order to complete your atonement.

Anything, Father.

Reveal the name of your patron. This is necessary to show that your remorse exceeds your fear of death at his hands, and will earn you eternal salvation.

Felipe Vasquez gave the priest the name of his master.

Two final words of advice, the priest said. In the future, do not blindly obey the orders of your patron.

And the second word of advice, Father?

Be leery of Lascars whom you think can see into your soul.

Vasquez was confused by what the priest had just advised. He started to ask the priest a question, then suddenly realized the priest had spoken to him in the Lascar’s voice. Alarmed, Vasquez left the confessional, and walked around to the other side of the room where the priest had been sitting. The area was empty.

*     *     *     *     *

Upscale Hotel,

Mexico City, Mexico

Philip Warrenton didn’t like Mexico, didn’t care for the hotel at which he was staying, didn’t enjoy the local cuisine, and he certainly wasn’t partial to traversing the Atlantic Ocean on the Matilda Briggs, despite its opulent accommodations. Warrenton, an aristocrat and city boy to his bones, was only content in his native environ of London.

But The Leader had ordered him to Mexico City to release that hellish rat, though Warrenton had no inkling why The Leader wished him to do so. One did not question an order from The Leader -- ever.

Warrenton arranged for Felipe Vasquez -- a member of The Leader’s fold who knew the city and could move around without suspicion -- to release the creature at a location of Vasquez’s choosing. Warrenton, as directed, had stayed on to monitor all the local gazettes and news sources. The Leader had not told him what type of major news story he was to be alert for, but assured him that Warrenton would know when he heard it. The Leader also insisted on a nightly transatlantic cable recounting what had transpired that day.

Warrenton had cabled The Leader some two hours earlier, stating that nothing unusual had happened in Mexico City. As an afterthought, Warrenton noted that the famous Sherlock Holmes would be honored with a banquet in his honor at the Presidential Palace the following evening. Warrenton explained that Holmes was being feted for performing some spectacular but undefined service for Mexico.

*     *     *     *     *

Presidential Palace

Mexico City, Mexico

It is a pleasure to meet you, Señor Holmes, Mexican President Porfirio Díaz said. Mexico is in your debt.

My respects, Holmes replied, in fluent Castilian Spanish. He was unwilling to use the word pleasure while greeting a man he deemed a dictator.

Holmes was standing in a receiving area outside a large banquet hall where he would soon be honored. Although he moved comfortably among the European aristocracy, and had taken on cases at their behest, Holmes abhorred their ritualistic pomposity and birthright mentality, although Watson, a traditionalist to his core, would disagree with him. Díaz, Holmes suspected, though a titular president, was not far removed politically from the mentality of the former Hapsburg Mexican monarchy.

After a time, Holmes spied a man staring at him, although he unsuccessfully tried to hide it. Holmes nodded at the man, who immediately approached him.

I am José Guadalupe Posada, the man began. I am a ...

Cartoonist and illustrator, Holmes interrupted. And a man who works at being immaculate, but is not overly compulsive about doing so.

You know my name and are familiar with my work.

Not at all.

But you correctly identified me as a cartoonist and illustrator. How could you possibly know this if you were not already aware of who I am? And what would lead you to believe I try to be immaculate, yet often fail?

"Every profession or craft leaves a mark of some sort upon its practitioner. You have a callous on your right index finger that is typical of a man who routinely