Review: Murder in the Vatican, The Church Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes

I recently discovered that this blog post disappeared from the blog.

It needs to come back.

When I was thirteen, I started reading through the collected stories of Sherlock Holmes. I made it about halfway through. I had been stopped dead by "The Adventure of the Gloria Scott"—one of two times that Holmes was the narrator.  I wasn't the only one who had a problem with that story. Another author of the day, G.K. Chesterton, said that the Gloria Scott showed why Watson was relevant: because Holmes was an awful storyteller.

Since then, I have been critical of anything about Sherlock Holmes written after the death of Arthur Conan Doyle. Some stories went wildly off track. Others were riddled with so many anachronisms it was painful. Of the vast quantity of Holmes-related material published, my family of readers owns only a fraction.

When Robert Downey Jr. starred in Sherlock Holmes, I crossed my fingers and hoped it didn't suck … instead, I got a checklist of what they did right.

When Doctor Who scribe and show runner Steven Moffat created a show called Sherlock, I also crossed my fingers. It was surprisingly awesome.

Then I heard about Murder in the Vatican. The Church Mysteries of Sherlock Holmes on the newsletter for the Catholic Writers Organization. It had an interesting premise: author Ann Margaret Lewis takes Watson's offhand references of Holmes working on cases for the Pope, or involving religious figures, and turns them into entire stories.

I experienced the same feeling of dread. How off would the narration be? Would someone try converting Holmes? How lost would a detective from Victorian, Anglican England be in Catholic Rome? How many different ways were there to screw this up?


I stopped worrying when I read the first sentence.  And, oh my God, this book is awesome!  I loved this book....

Lewis caught the voice of Dr. John Watson as though she had taken it, trapped in a bottle, and used it to refill her pen into as she wrote. I liked the voice. I liked Watson, the doctor, trying to diagnose an ailing Leo XIII (85 at the time of the events of the first story). I like the brief sketch of the political situation between the Vatican and Italy. I even enjoy Watson's discomfort at the Pope slipping into “The Royal We” when he speaks of himself as The Pope.  Even the artwork was as though it had been lifted from issues of The Strand magazine.

Someone had fun here, and it shows.

Thankfully, there is no overt attempt to convert Holmes, evangelize or proselytize him. There is only enough theology in the entire novel that explains to the casual reader exactly what the heck the Pope is doing. The closest the book comes to exposing Holmes to theology is a page-long sequence that ends with Leo saying, “Perhaps you should spend some of your inactive time pondering that conundrum [of Jesus] instead of indulging in whatever narcotic it is with which you choose to entertain yourself.”  That is the best zinger I've ever seen a character use on Holmes regarding his drug use.  Even the most secular person I know can appreciate a page of theology for one of the better one-liners I've ever seen.

Also, the little things were entertaining for a nerd like me. For example, the casual mention of John Cardinal Newman, referred to as “a recent convert.” The political situation at the time is given just enough of a sketch to explain what's going on, but nothing obtrusive; history nerds like me can be satisfied, but you don't have to have a degree in it to comprehend what's going on.

There are truly parts where the novel seems to merge all the best qualities of Sherlock Holmes with those of G.K. Chesterton's Fr. Brown short stories ...

At this point, I must make a small confession. I write these reviews as I read the book. There is plenty of backtracking, to fill the blanks, and rewrite it as the book goes. I wrote the above line when I finished the first tale. In fact, the interview questions I sent to Ann Margaret Lewis were written before I even received a review copy of the book.  I then read “The Vatican Cameos,” and discover a Deacon, named Brown …

I swear I didn't see that coming.

The first story in this collection is "The Death of Cardinal Tosca."

In this memorable year '95 a curious and incongruous succession of cases had engaged his attention, ranging from his famous investigation of the sudden death of Cardinal Tosca -- an inquiry which was carried out by him at the express desire of His Holiness the Pope  . . . .

—Dr. John H. Watson, “The Adventure of Black Peter”

Imagine Sherlock Holmes on vacation … if you see that vacation turning out like an episode of Murder, She Wrote, with a body hitting the floor at some point, you pretty much have the setup. It has a poison pen letter, with real poison, some Masons, references to two different cases in the space of two paragraphs, and a Papal commando raid with a real pontiff. This story is so delightfully odd and over-the-top, but still preserves as much reality as any other Holmes tale. I enjoyed every moment of it. And I can't argue with any story where the pope gets most of the amusing one-liners.

Heck, even the murderer gets in a good line.  When confronted, our first killer sneers.  “Let me guess. You're going to explain, to the amazement of your friends, how I did the deed?”  Holmes replies, “I've already told them that. It would be old news. They already know you blundered badly.”

I think the story concludes on a nice, solid note.  As Holmes tells Watson, “[Leo XIII] is genuinely pious. He is also imperious, but in a most endearing way.”

Watson merely replies, “Yes, well. I'm used to that.”

The second tale, "The Vatican Cameos," is a bit of a flashback episode to when Holmes first met the Pope. Leo XIII has sent a collection of cameos to Queen Victoria. The cameos are secured tightly in the box they're delivered in, but upon their arrival in London, the box is empty. The Queen has a simple solution: send Sherlock Holmes. Watson is busy with a medical emergency, so he wasn't around.

When Watson asks Sherlock about the incident, Holmes says, quite clearly “Watson, I am incapable of spinning a tale in the way you do. The narrative would read like a scientific treatise.”

Madam Lewis certainly read "The Adventure of the Gloria Scott."

So, there is only one person left who can narrate this tale … the Pope himself. This was the story that truly showed that the author did her research, assembling little details of Leo XIII's interests and hobbies and putting them together into a rich, vibrant character. He is shown here as witty, humorous, and bright.

The byplay between Leo XIII and Holmes in this story was marvelously entertaining. The Pope is shown to be about as smart as Watson … maybe a little smarter. When Holmes first meets the Pontiff, and rattles off conclusions in his usual rapid-fire manner, the Pope takes a minute, and deduces how Holmes came to most of them. Not all, but most. This is a wonderful inversion of what is so typical of early Sherlock Holmes films—in the Basil Rathbone movies, whenever Holmes walked onto the screen, the IQ of everyone in the room dropped about ten points. Making Leo this smart only serves to make Holmes as impressive as he should be—yes, everyone else may be smart, but Holmes is smarter.

Also, having Leo XIII using Thomas Aquinas to talk with Holmes of reason and science … it works for me.

And the scene with Holmes, the Pope, and the gunman was fun, too.

"You know that I am preoccupied with this case of the two Coptic Patriarchs, which should come to a head to-day."

Sherlock Holmes, “The Retired Colourman”

"The Second Coptic Patriarch": The third and final tale is from yet another throwaway line of Arthur Conan Doyle's.

In this case, a former criminal comes to Holmes to solicit his services; the priest who converted him away from his life of crime is in jail for murder. A bookstore owner has been murdered with a book (“The Rule of Oliver Cromwell--weighty subject, no doubt,” Holmes quips), and the priest will only say that the victim was dead when he arrived.  It's almost Sherlock Holmes meets Alfred Hitchcock ... I didn't know someone could do I Confess like this. It's a fun little read, and possibly the most traditional of the Holmes stories -- it's a good tale.  From the perspective of the overall book, it's a perfect cap to the character arc.

Now, after reading Murder in the Vatican, I think I'm going to go back and finish the Sherlock Holmes series -- and keep Murder in the Vatican handy, so I can read them all in chronological order.

Ann Lewis said that the book was "meant to be fun and lift your heart for a short time. I had a blast writing it, and I hope you have a blast reading it."

Mission accomplished.

At the time I read this book, I had been reading another recent work of Sherlock Holmes-related fiction called The Sherlockian.  It was written by a Graham Moore, and it was about a Sherlock Holmes nerd who was sucked into a murder mystery.

Between the two of them, read Murder in the Vatican.


And, now, a surprise .... a sneak peek of the novel.


Enjoy.

An Excerpt

From “The Case of Cardinal Tosca”

“Good Lord.” Harden’s face grew pale. “Rosalinda—!”

Pope Leo blanched as well. Tapping his right fist in his opposite hand, he turned to look out the window behind him. The rain clouds had now blotted the sun, making it seem as dusk in the early afternoon sky.


The pope turned back to us, his dark eyes flashing with decision. “Giocomo!” He commanded suddenly. “Come here.”

Father Dionisio came quickly to his master’s side.

“Remove your cassock.”

“Holiness?”

“Subito!” As Leo spoke, he lifted the pectoral cross over his head and set it on the table. He then unwrapped the sash from around his waist and tossed it on his chair. “Presto! Presto! We have no time to waste.”

Hurriedly, the young man unbuttoned his cassock even as Leo unbuttoned his own. Holmes came around the table and knelt to help Leo with the lower buttons.

“What on earth —?” I asked.

“You’ll see,” said Holmes.

Dionisio removed his cassock and stood in simple black shirt, clerical collar and black trousers. Holmes helped Leo slip out of his white cassock and into the black gown provided by Dionisio. The black was almost the right size, though fuller through the midsection due to Dionisio’s thicker frame.

“You’re not serious, Holiness,” said Harden. “You’re not actually leaving the Vatican. Someone may recognise you—”


“‘If the highest aim of a captain were to preserve his ship,’” Leo replied, quoting what I later learned was Aquinas. “‘He would keep it in port forever.’” He buttoned the top of the cassock while Dionisio crouched to fasten the bottom. “We must go. An innocent child is in danger for my sake.”

“Signore Harden is right, Holiness,” said Dionisio from floor. “This is madness.”

“Basta.” Leo pulled the young man from the ground by the elbow. He gestured emphatically with an open hand to the top of his head. “Portami un cappello. Presto!” Dionisio dashed into the next room. “And black stockings and shoes—ah, never mind I’ll find something.” The pontiff marched with remarkable energy into a side room that I guessed to be his sleeping area and returned promptly with black calf-length boots. His gentleman servant now trailed him protesting in rapid Italian as His Holiness moved. While the pontiff sat on a small bench to kick off his red slippers and pull on the boots, the agitated servant knelt beside him rambling so quickly that neither Harden nor I could decipher any meaning from him.

Apparently the meaning didn’t register to Leo either. “Basta, basta, BASTA!” He barked, stomping his boot-covered foot. He pointed a thumb to his chest. “Ego sum Petros!” He made sweeping gesture to drive the man from in front of him. “Vai!” Struck with terror, the butler dodged from the old man’s path as Leo charged to a baroque style cherry wood cabinet. From it he removed a worn, black leather case that he tucked under his arm. He finished buttoning his cuffs and Dionisio returned with a small, wide-brimmed black hat, which Leo snatched from him. He then plucked off his white zucchetto and slapped it into the bewildered priest’s hands.

“Allora, Signori,” Leo said to us, dropping the black hat on his head. “Andiamo.”

“You’ve forgotten one detail, Padre,” said Holmes, in reference to the pope’s new attire.

“Che?”

“L’anello.” Holmes held up his right hand and pointed to his fourth finger.

“Ah.” Leo pulled the fisherman’s ring from his finger and dropped it into the left pocket of the black cassock. The young priest then handed him a tall black umbrella, and Leo set its end to the floor with authoritative thud.

It is amazing how clothes can change the appearance of a man. Where once stood the proverbial Vicar of Christ on Earth, now stood a simple, venerable Italian priest. Strangely, he resembled the aged Italian cleric persona Holmes once adopted to avoid the notice of Professor Moriarty.

I glanced at Holmes and saw him giving me a knowing grin. “Very well then,” he said. “As the man says—let’s go.”

Sabaton - The Last Stand

On 6 May 1527 a leaderless mercenary army, consisting of German Landsknechts as well as Spanish and Italian mercenaries, invaded the city of Rome.

As soon as possible, they advanced on the Vatican Hill.

On St. Peter's Square 147 (of 189) men of the Swiss Guard stood in position to protect Pope Clement VII.

The remaining 42 Swiss escorted the Pope to the Castel Sant'Angelo (using a secret escape passageway, the Passetto di Borgo) where he finally had to capitulate after a month of siege.

None of the 147 Swiss survived.

Even today the Swiss Guards have their swearing-in ceremony of new recruits on 6 May, in tribute of the fallen.

A History of Vatican Ninjas

When I bounced the concept of Vatican Ninjas off of a Catholic group, I think my response was "Well, who else would be better equipped for such a position? It's a long standing institution that deals with the supernatural on a routine basis. The Church would feel obligated to fight back Satan's forces, of course."

Ahem.... yes, my argument was "With Great Power, comes great responsibility."

Though my first thought is really: Who else is gonna do it?

Of course, the Vatican has its own army. It's not a very big one, granted, but if anyone is going to be able to give shooters training to fight the abyss, it's going to be a few thousand priests. There will be battle meditative prayers, that can hide them from the enhanced senses of vampires. Basically, if a vampire has the senses of a Sith lord, going through this silent, prayerful meditation would make them invisible. In fact, if it's a saint versus a vampire, a vampire would have to directly lock eyes on them -- assuming, of course, the saint doesn't have the power to cloud vampire's minds...

Sadly, I now have a Simon Templar / The Shadow crossover in my head. But that's another story.

The Vatican Ninjas would probably start to become a serious institution somewhere around the Protestant Revolt of the 1500s. It's when Europe started to really go dark. How dark? Look up the Anabaptists sometime: these guys were so nasty, Lutherans and Catholics stopped fighting each other, looked at the Anabaptists, and promptly jobs forces to wipe them off the face of the Earth.

The crucifix fell out of fashion in Protestant areas, and traditional Vampire lore stress a crucifix, not a cross, being a problem for a vampire -- otherwise lowercase t in block lettering will do it. This would require forces that are specialized in battling creatures that are stronger, faster, and nigh indestructible.

After two hundred years. and the "Enlightenment" hit, superstition increased. Ouja boards became common. Isaac Newton dabbled in the occult, and had volumes of horoscopes that he forecast. The mystical age of intellectual brightness really had a five to one ratio of occultist crap emerge.

Of course, in a world where vampires exist, the obvious reason for it is simple: the Catholic church used to have local teams to deal with Supernatural crap. When the Church left, so did said teams. With the suppression teams being removed, demonic activity spiked. Occult belief was a "rational" response ... at least to people who abandoned faith for whatever nonsense they came up with along the way.

So, going to clean up the mess? That's right. The only organized game in town, who covers ... well, the planet. They'd probably be called something like "tegumento daemonium interfectores," which is what I get when I load "covert demon killers" into Google translate, so I expect this to be hysterically inaccurate.

The load out for the ninjas would, over time, have to evolve, but it would still be a wide ranging arsenal. Fifty-caliber sniper rifles would be mandatory for removing the heads off of vampires at a distance. There would be silver ammunition components (holly points with silver balls instead of stems-- silver is too hard, and doesn't have the right spiral of regular bullets). They could carry crosses, and holy water, and squirt guns. Their traps would include bouncing Bettys filled with holy water. Incendiary grenades and high explosives would have to be mandatory, I'd figure.

And, even though I have them dealing with a lot of vampires, they will, of course, be trained to deal with other supernatural threats. I figure that demons, elves and werewolves would be in the top five threats in their inventory.

The Ninjas will of course, have a mandatory retirement age of 65. Why 65? Because that's the retirement age for priests. Why not sooner? Because the ones who survive the field long enough become trainers ... if they can be dragged out of the field. Outside of someone who is a careerist, name me one average beat cop or soldier who wants to be transferred too far away from the street / the action / their men.

But as noted, they have to survive the job long enough.

See who lives and who dies in Good to the Last Drop.

Illegitimi non carborundum

A Pius Man, Chapter 5: A Pious Death

A Pius Man is out and ready, everyone.

If you haven't bought it already, maybe this will intrigue you into buying it.

Also, I will just ask that you recall what I'm trying to do with this chapter. I want everyone to look at this and suspect everybody. Almost everybody at least. There are a handful I couldn't make look sinister enough.

Oh well, maybe next time.

...So, let me know if I make everyone look suspicious enough.

Enjoy.

If you like, you can order from Amazon.

And now, the final chapter to be released on the blog.

UNLEASH... THE FREEBIES.

Heh.

Chapter V:

A Pious Death

Maureen McGrail crouched over the dead priest in Dublin. Father Harrington’s arms had been spread out at his sides, deliberately posed as though he’d been crucified. The old man had been shot first in both knees, and finally in the heart. On his forehead was a precisely carved swastika. His silver hair was spotted with black, crusted blood, and his pale blue eyes were frozen open, staring at the ceiling.

McGrail sighed into her face mask before rising. She always hated wearing the bright white spacesuits at homicide scenes—meant for the protection of the evidence—but then, except for the occasional public-service murder, she just didn’t like homicides. Her green eyes scanned the room, and the luggage on the bed.

“And where were you going, Father?” she asked in a soft brogue. “And why?”

McGrail looked to the police officer in the hallway. For some reason, she could clearly hear him humming, “Come Out Ye Black and Tans.” “How old was he?” she asked. “Where was he going?”

Her assistant, Peter Boyle, looked up at her. “Almost ninety. He had booked a plane ticket to Rome to give an affidavit in the canonization thing.”

McGrail smiled. “Which one? Is it one of the local boys? One of the Belfast Martyrs?”

“Pius XII, Pope from 1939 to 1958.”

McGrail furrowed her milky white brow. As a police officer, McGrail had never needed to know much about history. The most she learned about history she read in what she dubbed “Catholic Paranoid novels.” They were stories about the Knights of Malta, Knights Templar, or the Church suppressing the truth about everything that happened before the Enlightenment.

As if the Church were ever that organized.

They were fun reads, but rubbish history.

“What about the Pope?” she asked.

Peter smiled. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”

She rolled her eyes and patiently shook her head as she walked out of the room. It was true that her fellow citizens might read ten times the per-capita average for Europe. And yes, Dublin might have had one bookstore per block. And she could get a fellow Irishman to argue about anything from microcircuits to “the year of the French.” But the average Garda precinct would never have enough people to keep up with omnivorous Irish readers.

Boyle cleared his throat like a professor beginning a lecture. “Pius XII, born Eugenio Pacelli. Died 1958. There are books that blamed him as emissary from the Vatican, as papal Secretary of State, and as Pope, for aiding and assisting Hitler’s rise to power. Still another tries to make a case that the Pope did nothing to save Jews in Rome, and the only reason so many survived was due only to the rank-and-file Catholic priests.”

McGrail raised an eyebrow at him. “You’ve specialized in the subject?”

Boyle grinned. “No, but it’s amazing what you can fake just by reading the backs of books.”

McGrail sighed. “So, our dead man was to testify on the matter? He was summoned?”

“No, volunteered. We talked to the maids about how he’s been the last week. Agitated beyond all hell; he was annoying everyone, muttering that ‘the truth must come out’.”

She grinned. Boyle had a near-perfect memory, so everything he had just said was a near-quote. “He was going to talk about death camps and such?”

“Not quite. You see, Father Harrington was with Father Carroll-Abbing down in Rome when Harrington was still in the seminary.”

McGrail cocked her head to one side. “Father Carroll-Abbing?”

He nodded. “Ever read Susan Zuccolti’s Under His Very Windows?”

“Aren’t I happy to let someone else fight out the whole thing and wake me when the last man is standing?” she said with a smile. Boyle tried not to roll his eyes at the way she asked questions for almost every sentence. It was almost a regional dialect – if “Ireland” could be considered a region. It wasn't a particularly urban way of speaking, but she didn't quite sound like she was in county Kerry, as those folks tended to not speak to people, but sing to them, their accents were so lyrical. “She was a Catholic basher, ya?” McGrail asked.

“Not quite. Priests and nuns were the heroes in her book; her main argument was that while the rest of the Roman Catholic Church acted, Pius was asleep at the switch, through either timidity or malice aforethought.” He smirked. “Google is your friend, ya?”

McGrail nodded, stepped out in the hall, and then stripped off the hood of the suit, letting her raven black hair fall over her shoulder blades. She breathed in fresh air. “So this Carroll-Abbing is?”

“One of the hero priests—Irish. He died in 2001, in Rome. Father Harrington here—on the floor—was a seminarian in Rome in the forties—in his mid-teens, if my math is right. Who knows, Harrington might have been a footnote.”

McGrail sighed. “Well, he is now, isn’t he?” She peeled the suit off her body. By the time she was done, she wore only her black suit pants and loose white blouse; throw in the running shoes and she was five-six. “Any sense to this being a neo-Nazi thing?”

He cocked his head.

“Thought not. I was called in because I’m Interpol, and someone wants me to fly to Rome, wasn’t I?”

“Father Harrington was killed late yesterday, early today, don’cha know? We left the body in situ so you could see everything before it was disturbed. We called Rome. They’d be happy to help with our inquiries. Rome is expecting you soon enough, about six o’clock their time.”

“Doesn’t that mean I’ll—”

“Be leaving almost immediately? Definitely.”

McGrail headed for the door. “If you need me, won’t I be home, packing?”

McGrail stepped out onto the solid foundation of a Dublin street. She looked out over the early morning emptiness of the sidewalks deeply, enjoying the quiet. All of the doors on the buildings around her—in good old-fashioned tradition—were bright, vivid colors, each different from the other, in an assortment of greens and blues, purples and even the occasional…was that brown?

She looked behind her at the ugliest door on the block, which belonged to the Markist seminary she had just left, a garish color that looked like it wanted to be either brown or black, and only resulted in the color of mud.

“Aren’t they all barbarians?” she muttered.

McGrail was about to go about her business when she stopped a moment. She turned and leapt up the seminary stairs, taking them two at a time. “Boyle!”

Peter’s head peeked into view over the top of the stairs. “What?”

“Did Father Harrington live here?”

“No, he’s diocesan, over in Kerry. He was invited. The Markists were having a symposium on the Pius thing, and this guy was going to give a lecture tomorrow, then be on a plane to Rome not long after.”

“Can I go to his place, then? Or will the Captain not allow that?”

Peter Boyle shrugged. “Only if you can be three places at once.”

She groaned. “Are the Kerry boys at least searching it?”

He smiled. “Leave it to us to worry about that. I’ll let you know when they get around to finishing a report. Okay? Enjoy Italy.”

“Maybe.” She turned to leave, and then stopped, looking at the Markist brochures for the order and the seminary. She picked one up before heading out the door. The cover read, “Markist Brothers, Founded Berlin, 1958.”

The year Pius XII died. Hmm. Anyway, we’re off to see the Pontiff, the wonderful Pontiff of Rome …

*

Giovanni Figlia took both Hashim Abasi and Wilhelmina Goldberg into the basement of the Office of the Swiss Guard, a building next to the colonnade around St. Peter’s Square. The subterranean level looked somewhat new in comparison with the rest of the city, with metal security doors that Goldberg would have sworn she had seen on the vault containing the Crown Jewels of England.

Commander Figlia used a hand print, iris and retinal scan, as well as a nine-digit alphanumeric readout combination panel.

“What is this place?” Goldberg asked. “Where you keep old Nazi war criminals the Church is protecting?”

Figlia cringed, remembering the scolding he had received for joking about something similar once.

The metal vault began to swing open, very slowly. “Here, in fact, is our weapons vault.”

The wall of the vault was lined with bullet-resistant glass cases of futuristic weapons, as well as some old-fashioned guns, in addition to the obvious gas canisters, rubber bullets, and beanbags launched from muzzles the size of baseballs. And there were a few normal fragmentation grenades and flash-bangs. The entire weapons collection consisted of chrome and Plexiglas. Figlia stepped inside, and presented it like Tony Stark in the first Iron Man film. His black suit and polo shirt meshed so well with the chrome and glass finish, it was almost as though he had dressed to match the décor.

Goldberg gaped and took several steps inside. She tried to see directly into some of the cases, but eventually gave in, and grabbed a step ladder so she could see inside.

Abasi stayed at the door and looked around at the equipment. “I didn’t know you could afford weapons like this,” he began.

“We can’t, really.” Figlia stepped into the vault, leaning up against the wall opposite Godlberg. “The older guns, the lethal ones, all … come se dice? Ah, yes, they ‘fell off the back of a CIA truck’ during the 1980s. After the Pope was shot, and because il Papa was working with the CIA on the Solidarity crisis in Poland, the head of the CIA then, Bill Casey, delivered these. The latest assault rifles we have are all M16A2s—though I would prefer the M8, or more M4s. The rest are non-lethal weaponry we test for the companies that make them. As a result of testing their product, we are given free samples.”

Hashim Abasi laughed. “I almost thought you had paid for all of this yourself, like the Saudis’ Wahhabi mutaw’een – religious police. The ones that drive American SUVs.”

Figlia shook his head. “Our budget is … nonexistent, since we are given this for free, which is odd, because I think we should be the second-biggest market for nonlethal weapons.”

Figlia quickly opened a case, picking out a boxy, rectangular weapon that looked like an art-deco version of a Stinger missile launcher. “This is from the Air Force Research Laboratory, a directed energy cannon … a microwave gun. It doesn’t burn flesh. It only feels like it, very painful.”

Figlia gently placed it on his shoulder to demonstrate how to hold it, then placed it gently back in its case. He removed another weapon, which looked like a glorified water rifle.

“Anti-traction gel gun—anyone who tries to drive or walk on this will not be able to. Nontoxic, biodegradable, and dries up in twelve ore … hours, depending on conditions. We’ve also malodorants, stink bombs so bad they are limited by chemical-weapons treaties… which Vatican City never signed, so it doesn’t matter.”

Abasi chuckled. “You haven’t thought of the U.N.’s ways of doing things, have you?”

Figlia shrugged, putting away the weapon. “They are useful third parties, but in terms of making international law, they think they’re God, but without the sense. Some say John Paul II was unable to deal with the West because they gave his homeland to the Soviets. I think this pope cannot tolerate the U.N. because they put Sudan on the Human Rights Commission, which is like putting Hitler in charge of the committee on Zionism.” Figlia shook his head. “Anyway, we’ve also the new soft bullets, as well as the WebShot Kevlar nets from Falls Church. This is the one I’m particularly fond of …”

He pulled out what looked like a flashlight. “It basically uses ultraviolet laser light to transmit an electric current—a Taser beam that works at a range of two kilometers.”

At this point, Goldberg coughed firmly so she could get his attention – and she stayed on the stepladder so she could see eye-to-eye with him. “Excuse me, but before you even tell me what your tactics are, what are you doing with all this weaponry? The range of an MP5 is about the length of Vatican City. Right now, you got more than enough artillery to tangle with a small army. Is the Pope expecting an invasion of the Vatican?”

Figlia’s eyes went flat and his voice serious. “No. Why?”

“Where I come from, you need enough firepower to keep the shooter’s head down. With the MP5s, you got that. With the M16s, you got that squared. I guess you got sniper rifles too. But you can get the same effect by attaching the beam thingy to a telescopic sight. Hell, it could be made into a medium-sized handgun and you can call it a phaser. What am I missing?”

“Nothing,” he said flatly. “We’re just cautious.”

Goldberg looked at Abasi. “You don’t believe him? Do you?”

Abasi held up both hands before him, and took a step back. “It would be rude to say so.”

“That’s what I thought.” To Figlia: “For God’s sake, you expect me to believe that a Church as anti-science as this one will suddenly turn to devices like this? I mean, come on, you only just cleared Galileo two decades ago, and you threatened to cook him.”

A soft, polite cough sounded behind them. Goldberg looked over her shoulder, and spotted the priest from the bomb site, evident from the silver hair, young face, and bright violet eyes. “If I may answer,” he said in a soft, gentle voice. “There are a few problems with your statements. The Church is not anti-Science For example, Nicholas Orsme penned the concept of impetus and inertia over 300 years before Isaac Newton made it his first law of physics. St. Augustine invented psychology in the confessional 1500 years before Freud was conceived and is so listed in the better history-of-psychiatry texts.

“Galileo formed his heliocentric theory using the astronomical devices in his cathedral, and partially plagiarized a theory from Polish Archbishop Kupernick, generally known as Copernicus.. Galileo’s theories wouldn’t be proven until two hundred years after he died, and he was told to teach his theories as if they were theories, instead of fact. At the time, there was no evidence that it was true, so even by today’s standards, Galileo would have been laughed out of the scientific community.”

The priest shrugged. “Thus ends the sermon.”

Abasi looked down at the priest from his six-foot height.

“You go by Father… doesn’t that mean you walk around in a suit and tie?”

Father Frank laughed. “You’ve been to America! How nice. First, this is as much my uniform as a police officer’s; besides, women simply go crazy over the collar.” He laughed and waved it away. “They used to say back in the seminary that if a broomstick wore a Roman collar, women would chase after it.”

Abasi grinned broadly. “You’re very odd for an American priest.”

“That’s because I’m a Roman Catholic American, not an American Catholic.”

Abasi laughed. “Thank you. When I went to America last, I visited Georgetown, run by your Jesuits. They had taken down crucifixes because they accepted money from the government. I do not worship Jesus as you do, but even I have more respect than to take down his image for money.” He said the last with disdain.

Father Frank smiled. “I used to be a Jesuit. I and many Jesuits of the old school have gone over to the Opus Dei … unofficially.”

Agent Goldberg looked on curiously. “Funny, you don’t seem to be a right-wing fascist.”

Abasi and Father Frank glanced at her. Then, suddenly, Goldberg laughed. “That was a joke, fellas.” She rolled her eyes. “So, you routinely go around lecturing random VIPs?” she asked Father Frank.

“Not as a rule, no.”

“Whew, good to know…” She frowned. “I’m going to regret this, but what was Galileo jailed for, anyway? Being an arrogant prick?”

Father Frank hesitated. “He had started as being friends with the Pope. Maybe frenemies. That, and malpractice as a science professor. But, he kept all of his church pensions and kept up all his communications with other scientists around Europe. Was it smart to disobey a direct order from the Church, and make fun of the Pope during the Protestant Revolutions? No. But, because the Church sentenced him to house arrest for teaching a theory like it was the Truth, it has been labeled as ‘anti-progress’; nowadays it’s just good science. Some have even charged that Newton was prosecuted by the Church—which is difficult, as he was Anglican. Contrary to the claims of some best-selling novels, the church has never suppressed a scientist. Although I can think of a few novelists who’d fit the stake better…”

The priest smiled. “The fact is the Church has been a fan of science, especially with the development of the anthropic principle in 1974, which states that, scientifically, the universe seems to be made for mankind. As a cardinal contemporary of Galileo said: ‘the Bible tells us how to go to Heaven, not how the heavens go.’ The Jesuits even run the Vatican observatory out in the American desert. No other religion has one.”

She glanced at Father Frank. “Can we help you, Father?”

“Yes,” he said, as soft as ever. “I was sent to assist Commandatore Figlia in showing you around. He knows the technology, but I know the history.” He tapped his collar and smiled. “Besides, a collar can open many a door here. You might say I could even get away with murder.”

So, have enough fun yet? Just click here, and you can order it.

Or buy it from Amazon.

And, if you've done that....

The Dragon Awards are open and ready for nominations, and I have a list of suggestions you might want to take a look at. If you already  have a good idea of what you want, just click here to go and vote for them. The instructions are right there.

Or: sign up for my mailing list in order to get free stuff.

A Pius Man, Chapter 4: A Pious Mission

Sorry everyone, but I'm not actually going to be able to host a radio show tonight. I will, in all likelihood, be driving all through the night with my merry band of con goers, coming back from LibertyCon. It'll be seven hours before I drop off some of the people I'm with, and I crash at his place, before getting up the next morning and starting all over again.

Yay.

Anyway, today, in place of a radio show, I have to give you this special warning:  A Pius Man: A Holy Thriller has launched. It is live. It's alive. A-LIVE I TELL YOU! AHAHAHAAHAHAHAAH.

Ahem.

So, in the immortal words of Jack Bauer....

THERE'S NO TIME.

By now, you're probably well aware my yanking this from the shelves when I signed with Silver Empire Publishing.

But right now, it's back, and up for preorder, here, direct from the publisher, currently being sold with deep discounts. You can buy them cheap when you can. Because this deal will only last until July 1. So, hurry.  Or you can order from Amazon now.

And if you're new here, and have no idea what A Pius Man is ... It ate up ten years of my life, and the best use I have ever gotten out of my Masters in History outside of writing biographies of older vampires.

But here you go, here's the next chapter. When you're hooked, order it. 

Or preorder it. Or something.

You'll note this one is a little shorter than usual. Sorry about that. But a little Sean goes a long way.

Anyway, there will be more to come on A Pius Man. You have been warned.

Chapter IV:

A Pious Mission

The summoning had been easy. After all, it was merely, “We lost a target in Rome,” on a cell phone. He was then given information about the contact, and his travel information.

Scott “Mossad” Murphy allowed his mind to drift over the information he had been given. According to German Intelligence, a terrorist on the Mossad hit list had been found in Rome with two bullets in him. It looked like a professional killing, and Mossad didn’t kill him.

And, since it’s Rome, they decided to send in their golden goy, he thought. He looked around the Roman landscape and wondered, Gee, it’s not like a blue-eyed, dark blond Irish Catholic from Boston will stand out in Rome! What have my superiors been smoking?

Murphy couldn’t argue. As a Catholic, he had strong Goyim Brigade contacts in the area, so it sort of made sense. But still, if bullets were already flying, King Saul Boulevard should’ve known better than to send him.

Now all he needed was to meet his German contact at the alfresco restaurant. Murphy had only been given a contact phrase, and nothing else. At least he would get some fresh air while he waited.

Murphy caught his reflection in the restaurant window. His mix of brown-blond hair had effected profound confusion among his enemies, and the various dyes he employed made him excellent for work around the world. His skin was pale, and his eyes were dark enough blue to be considered a dark brown with improper lighting, which he always managed to find in the West Bank. He wasn’t that tall, almost like he had suffered from slight malnutrition in his youth. His build was due to habits formed during his previous existence as an accountant. He was very thin, which his family had always thought to be a genetic aberration, given that both of his parents and all of his five siblings—older and younger—had been tall basketball players.

He sighed. I’ll make do. There’s gotta be some tourists somewhere.

“Is this seat taken, or do you have a wife?” asked a rich, female voice. The voice was young, but over twenty, and had notes out of Barber’s Adagio.

She also said the magic words. Murphy turned in his seat.

The woman standing next to him was about 5’7”, and wore a charcoal-black turtleneck over deep gray slacks—dress so professional she could have been on her way to see the Pope. Her light pink lips were curled into a smile, which made her glittering amber eyes light up. Her eyes were slightly almond-shaped, set above gently sloped, obviously Slavic cheekbones. Her hair was a deep brown laced with flecks of dark gold, and the ringlets stopped about the middle of her well-endowed breasts—full enough to be noticeable, but not intrusive.

Scott Murphy felt his jaw begin to slacken, and automatically regained his composure. “I’m not sure if you want the chair, it looks a little dirty to me,” he replied. The chair was as shiny as polished silver.

She smiled, eyes glittering. “I know it does. I’m used to dirty, I come from Germany.”

Really? Can’t hear the accent. “How is the weather this time of year?”

“It’s snowing,” she said as she slid into the chair with grace. It was May.

Murphy opened his mouth and moved his lips, but no sound came out. He paused, rubbed his lips as though entering into deep thought, and slid his fingers up his face to rest on his cheek. He mouthed one more time.

She scanned his mouth, reading, “Do you read lips?”

“Yes,” she answered.

“Do we need to exchange names?” he mouthed.

“We’ll be working together,” she replied, mouthing the same way. “So I’d guess so.”

He offered his hand. “Scott Murphy.”

“Manana Shushurin. Call me Mani.” She squeezed his hand lightly. “What have you been told?”

“Someone died, and we’re supposed to keep watch on someone… I hope you’re not the spy. You’re too dazzling. You’ll attract attention like you have flares attached to you.”

“That’s the point. I’m considered the perfect spy.”

Scott Murphy blinked. “The perfect spy is a gray colorless little man whom no one would notice if you tripped over him … which is sort of why they call me that around the office.”

She beamed. “Exactly. What were your thoughts on first contact?”

“That you’re too pretty to be a spy …” He stopped and chuckled. “Point taken.”

She nodded. “We were also told you attract no attention; I can be a diversion.”

No kidding; you’re a weapon of mass distraction. “Can you be inconspicuous for, I don’t know, the majority of the mission?”

She took out a cap, one usually seen on muggers in old “Foggy London” movies, and set it so the sweatband stopped just over her eyebrows. No one could see her face unless she was looking right at them.

“Not a bad adjustment,” he admitted. And it would be hard for someone to report what she looked like, even if they stared right at her … and they will be.

She nodded. “Thank you.” She studied him for a moment with those brilliant brown eyes. She looked over his hands, his arms, his face. She took him in, and then took him in again. “May I ask, why did they send you? Sorry, but—”

“I don’t look Jewish?” he joked. “I’m Irish Catholic.”

She cocked her head to one side with curiosity. “And yet you’re in Mossad…?”

Murphy shook his head. “First of all, we just call it ‘the Office.’ We never call it … by that name. As for me … Well, you heard about John ‘Taliban’ Walker Lindh? An American who went to Jihad University in Yemen? Well, I decided that we needed one for our side—” he started talking again, “—and I joined up.”

The waiter set down his cappuccino and walked away. Without even looking to see if he was out of earshot—which he was—Murphy continued. “Let’s just say,” he mouthed, “that I had a good view of the World Trade Center on an unfortunate day.”

Shushurin cocked her head, admiring what seemed to be Murphy’s own built-in radar.

A pipe appeared in his hand, and he held it up, waiting for her approval. She nodded. He lit up and let the smoke drift up, briefly letting his mind flit back to the morning of September 11, 2001. “Anyway, what about you? Shushurin sounds odd for a German.”

“East German,” she answered, as though it sufficed for an explanation.

“Ah, Russian father?” He thought a moment, considering the history of the area, and the border shifts over time. “Or is it Polish?”

“It’s from Lvov. It used to be part of Poland, then Russia. Do you carry a weapon?”

Murphy shook his head. “I’ve always been better at just spycraft. I can improvise.” He stopped mouthing his words as the waiter drifted closer to them—“I can make use of almost anything they have here for all sorts of”—as the waiter drifted away behind them, he started mouthing as soon as the waiter was out of earshot—“weaponry.”

Manana cocked her head. “I have to ask, how did you know he was out of range?”

“It’s a gift,” he mouthed to her. As he talked, he continued making hand gestures like an Italian Jack Benny, always able to hide his mouth from possible lip readers in the room, but making it seem natural. “As I said, I don’t do guns—as soon as you use, you lose. I’m never violent.” He emphasized that with a sharp cutting gesture. He leaned forward. “So, what’s the mission? Who, exactly, has died?”

“Ashid Raqman Yousef.”

“I hope he wasn’t related to Ramzi Yousef,” he joked.

She moved forward, allowing the world to imagine that she was merely about to kiss him across the table. “He was.”

Murphy didn’t show his visceral, gut-jerking reaction. This could be bad.

In the early 1990s, Ramzi Yousef had taken the first major swipe at the New York City World Trade Center. Before there had been Osama bin Laden, there was Ramzi Yousef. Even though that bin Laden had already started his career, next to Yousef, bin Laden had looked like a rich playboy who wanted a play at jihad, a mere Gucci terrorist. Yousef had made grand plans for terror across the planet, even making detailed plans for killing Pope John Paul II.

“What was Ashid Yousef doing here? I know his brother wanted to kill the Pope, they found the plans on him when they caught him, but—”

She smiled, almost reading his thoughts, and squeezed his hand to cut him off. “Yousef was doing research. The BND kept an eye on Yousef. He spent weeks going back and forth from his hotel to the Vatican Library. Then he died. Two shots, very professional. One day, Ashid made a phone call to Iran, and woke up dead.”

Murphy blinked. “Odd. That sounds more like an Office hit than anything al Qaeda would’ve done.” Murphy continued. “Could friends of his have hired someone to kill him? It’s unlikely, but a well-disciplined terrorist takedown of one of their own? They’d sooner steal a page from The Godfather, invite him back home, and work him over there. It’s either that or it was a CIA hit, but even that makes no sense; the CIA would kidnap him, or follow him around until he led them to someone higher up in the chain of command.”

Shushurin nodded, reached out and touched his arm to complete the illusion of intimacy. His eyes brightened in response. “Is there another possibility?”

Murphy took her hand in his. “It was a rush job. It needed to be handled immediately. Which means he was either going to run and talk to someone, or about to compromise an attack.”

“Could they have spotted our tail?” she asked.

He squeezed her hand right back, hoping that they would both go unnoticed as they continued with the charade. “This is Rome, not Moscow rules. They don’t have counteragents trailing our tails, which means that Yousef would have had to have spotted and reported your people. Unlikely if he was sent here to do research; I mean, if he knew how to empty an assault rifle into the Mall of America, he’d be out in the field, doing it, not locked up in some vault.”

“Vault?”

“The Vatican Archives—a large, fully stocked, fully furnished vault. My only question is, what was he doing?”

*

Wilhelmina Goldberg blinked at the priests and nuns in the Vatican gardens. The short Secret Service Agent didn’t even look away from the bizarre sight in front of her. “Tell me they’re not doing what I think they’re doing.”

Giovanni Figlia grinned broadly, looking like a male Italian fashion model as he kept one hand in his black slacks, and gestured with the other. “Tai chi. His Holiness wanted them to do this, if only to keep in shape. It’s only twenty minutes a day, as voluntary as the rest of the hour.”

Goldberg raised a brow. “Rest of?”

Figlia nodded. “We’ve hired someone to train our ‘citizens’ for self-defense. His Holiness wants to be certain that if someone shoots at him, anyone who feels compelled to attack the shooter could do so safely.”

Hashim Abasi frowned in thought at the idea. The Egyptian cop looked at the elderly nuns, the pudgy and middle aged priests, and shook his head. “Surely, you’re joking. The odds of such a thing happening—”

“Oh?” Figlia asked. “You mean an apprehension by one of our fine, upstanding nuns?”

Abasi bowed his head. “Of course.”

“The first person on John Paul II’s would-be assassin was a nun, right before a Swiss Guard. Luckily, the shooter didn’t mind being taken without a fight. Should it ever happen again, only with a suicide bomber, the Pope wants our people to have a chance.”

Goldberg nodded her obviously dyed blonde head. “Not bad. They’re a replacement for CATs – a Counter Assault Team, what we use to support a detail when it comes under fire.” She frowned, revealing worry lines all over her mouth, as well as her forehead. “Given the size of Vatican City, there isn’t much need for a mobile CAT. Training civilians isn’t a bad idea, if your trainer is smart enough to teach them when to approach and when to run.”

He nodded. “Si, Signore Ryan is very good about that.”

Abasi unbuttoned his tan jacket and slipped his hands in the pocket as he watched the Vatican residents continue to go through the motions. The Egyptian counted them and tried to decide how effective they would be. “And where, may I ask, is your trainer from? American Special Forces?”

“No. While loro sono molto bene—” Figlia paused, and began again, remembering to stay with English. “These are ordained priests and nuns. We will not have them carry guns. Our objectives needed them to learn how to disarm and disable someone. Special Forces do not have the luxury of taking prisoners. This man teaches mostly Krav Maga, but uses other techniques as well.”

Goldberg was intrigued. Protection that avoids killing? “Who’d you get?”

Another big grin. “I’ll introduce you.”

They approached as the final tai chi position was taken. The trainer saw them coming and said “Tempo finita. Take cinque.”

The trainer took a step off of a box and shrank a foot. While he moved with the lazy grace of an egotistical cat, and beamed with a charming grin, something was … off. He was in his late twenties, but he gave the impression of being younger, just in the way he walked, and how he looked at them with his electric-blue eyes—Goldberg had only seen that color once, in the middle of a particularly bad lightning storm. They stood out even against his pale skin and stark black hair.

“Hey, Johnny, come stai, mio amico?” he said grandly.

Figlia tried not to smile. Rusty phrases like that were as far as this man’s Italian went, and calling him “Johnny” instead of “Gianni” was typical of how he handled Italian. “I wanted to show you off. Meet Hashim Abasi , Egyptian police, and Villie Goldberg, U.S. Secret Service.”

The shorter man nodded and shook hands with each. “Charmed. Sean Ryan, of Sean A.P. Ryan & Associates.”

Goldberg cocked her head. “Aren’t you a security company? American?”

He nodded with a big grin, the bright eyes nearly glowing. “Yes, ma’am. Have you heard of me?”

She cocked her head and closed one hazel eye, studying him a moment. He was basically neat – professional haircut, clean cut, business casual dress … Her eyes shot open as it occurred to her.

“Oh, crap!” she blurted.

Sean Aloysius Patricus Ryan barked a laugh. “Yup, you’ve heard of me. Normally, I would say don’t believe anything you hear, but one of my employees is ex-Secret Service, so in your case, I would think you can pretty much believe everything.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the priests and nuns. “Don’t worry, though. I’m just teaching the civvies how to hold their own without killing or being killed. You can have Gianni’s boys and girls, I don’t deal in such things. Heck, I barely deal in this.”

Abasi glanced at him askew, still lost about the conversation. “Odd to hear you say that. If I may ask, what were you before you did … this?”

“Hollywood stuntman.” Abasi’s deep brown eyes almost popped out of his head. Sean Ryan laughed. “Now you know why they got me—I was trained how to hurt people without really hurting them, something the Fathers and Sisters need to learn.”

Abasi laughed. “With their bare hands, I suppose?”

Sean paused, turned, and walked back to the box he’d been standing on. He opened it and came back with a small black cylinder in each hand. He flicked both wrists, snapping the cylinders outward—they telescoped into tactical batons. He touched the butt of each baton together and twisted, locking them in place to form a seven-foot staff.

“I figured it would just be easier to teach them previously approved methods. I mean, if a medieval monk could use a staff without being excommunicated, it shouldn’t be a problem now.”

Goldberg raised her hand. “’Scuse me, isn’t this a little much?” She looked at Commander Figlia. “Your Pope seems to take a great interest in security. What is he, paranoid?”

For the first time, Figlia scowled. “Let us take a walk.”

They walked for a minute, making certain that they were far enough away from Abasi and Sean to be out of earshot. The head of Vatican security slipped his hands in his pockets, and made certain to keep his movements careful and controlled. “Tell me, Special Agent Goldberg, what do you know about the Sudan? Before the North-South split of 2011.”

She shrugged. “Arab Muslims killing or enslaving black Christians.”

“Si. You know the nearest, strongest, non-Muslim government? Uganda. The strongest religion? Catholicism. Archbishop Kutjok was the most hated clergyman in the Sudan. They tried to kill him twice, and that was before he became Pope. He’s terrified of a suicide bomber in the middle of Saint Peter’s Square killing dozens in an attempted assassination. He wants me to make sure that doesn’t happen, and you to double-check me, and Sean Ryan to make sure that innocent civilians aren’t helpless civilians. In the Pope’s world, all life is sacred, a gift from God, and no one is exempt from that. Trust me, he’s less worried about his death than the deaths of those around him. He knows the risk he takes every time he steps outside, and he finds it an acceptable price to pay for doing the work of God. But he doesn’t believe it’s acceptable that people should die just because they gathered to see him.”

*

Sean Aloysius Patricus Ryan watched Figlia and Goldberg walking away, and once they stopped, he started reading their lips.

“Hollywood?”

Sean sidestepped to square himself with Abasi, still reading lips around the larger man. “Yes, it was a family business. Now it’s security.”

Abasi leaned over, blocking Sean’s view of the other two—but Sean had already gotten enough details.

“What made you qualified for this sort of work?”

Sean looked at the Egyptian straight on, and quickly analyzed him. Abasi was big and bulky, without moving awkwardly. He certainly lifted, but he would probably take a second or two if Sean needed to drop him. Abasi’s tan suit was well tailored, and probably new—which was unsurprising, given the nature of his assignment would include making a good impression to a foreign country. Abasi looked 35, but was probably older, though Sean would have usually laid money on the reverse being true.

Sean gave him a broad grin. “I’m a mick. I beat people up for fun, doncha know?”

Abasi smiled. “I am sure my wife would have liked that.” Too bad she’s dead, Abasi thought.

Sean chuckled. “I always knew the Irish would marry anybody.” He hesitated a moment. “Or is it that anybody will marry the Irish?” He gave a casual shrug. “To tell the truth, I have a few connections here and there that keep me just one step ahead of everybody else. That and a Kevlar suit’s all I need.”

Abasi looked at the young man, studying his form and how he held himself. He was relaxed, almost languid, but in the way that a panther was lazy. The grace of a well-fed predator. “I somehow doubt it is that simple.”

Sean grinned. “Is it ever?”

So, have enough fun yet? Just click here, and you can order it.

Or buy it from Amazon.

And, if you've done that....

The Dragon Awards are open and ready for nominations, and I have a list of suggestions you might want to take a look at. If you already  have a good idea of what you want, just click here to go and vote for them. The instructions are right there.

Or: sign up for my mailing list in order to get free stuff.