The Quest: A Novel

by Nelson DeMille

  Purcell smiled despite the fact that little Mikael had grown up fucked up and was looking for payback. And he didn’t have to look too far.

  Vivian admitted, “I was very frightened.”

  Purcell wanted to tell her she did fine, but that was Henry’s job, though Henry wasn’t speaking to her. Mercado, in fact, was glancing nervously up at the soldiers with the automatic rifles.

  Gann noticed Mercado’s anxiety and assured him, “We’re not getting off that easily, Mr. Mercado.”

  Mercado did not reply.

  Vivian looked at Purcell and said, “You gave me courage, Frank.”

  He didn’t reply.

  Vivian said to Gann, “You’re very brave.”

  “Thank you, but you were seeing more anger than bravery.” He added, “Men like that are taking over the world.”

  That might be true, Purcell thought. He’d seen the Getachus of Southeast Asia, and they seemed to be springing up everywhere. Or maybe they’d been around since the beginning of time. He’d written about these men and about their so-called ideologies without comment or judgment. He reported. Maybe, he thought, if he got out of here, he should start being more judgmental. But then he’d sound like Henry Mercado.

  Purcell looked at Mercado, who was sitting on a pile of fresh earth, staring off into space, unaware that there was probably a rotting corpse under his ass. No one had told Henry how brave he’d been. Maybe because he hadn’t been. But he had lied, boldly and recklessly, to Getachu about Father Armano. And Vivian had loyally backed him up on that lie. It was a good lie and the right lie, but Purcell knew that Mercado had lied for the wrong reason. So, this being the private moment that Getachu had offered them, he said to Mercado, “You put us in some jeopardy, Henry, by lying about the priest.”

  Clearly, Henry Mercado had nothing to say to Frank Purcell, but he replied for everyone’s benefit, “Getachu has no way to discover the truth.”

  “Well, he does if he hangs us all from a post for a few days.”

  Mercado said impatiently, “It may have occurred to you that even if I told him what little we knew, he wouldn’t have released us.”

  “Right. In fact we’d be here forever. But you’re not answering my question, Henry. Why did you risk lying to him about Father Armano and the black monastery?”

  Mercado replied sharply, “You know damned well why.”

  “I do, but if we do get out of here, none of us should be coming back to find the black monastery.”

  Mercado glanced at Gann and said to Purcell, “I don’t know if we’re getting out of here or if I’m ever coming back, but I don’t want them to find it.”

  Henry Mercado, Purcell knew, was comforted by thinking he was protecting the Holy Grail from the Antichrist, or whatever, and he could go to his martyrdom happy in the knowledge that when he met Jesus he could say, “I saved your cup.”

  Colonel Gann could feel the tension between the two men, and he knew the cause of it, which was a very old story; one chap had cuckolded the other, and to make matters worse, the lady in question was not declaring herself for one or the other. Awkward, he thought, and though he was sure he had far greater issues to worry about, it made him uncomfortable nonetheless.

  To clear the air on at least one thing, however, Gann said, “As I’ve acknowledged to Mr. Purcell, I know about the black monastery, and though it’s well hidden in the jungle, Getachu will eventually find it. You can be sure of that.”

  No one responded, and Gann continued, “As you may also have heard, perhaps from this Father Armano, there is a legend that this monastery is the resting place of the Holy Grail.”

  Again, no one responded, and Gann went on, “Can’t say I believe in all that, but I can assure you that whenever the revolutionary bastards here show up at a church or monastery, the priests and monks make off with their earthly treasures.”

  Purcell figured as much. There were two things the churches were good at: acquiring gold and keeping gold. Half the world’s priceless religious objects had been on the lam at one time or another. And there was no reason to think that this would be any different when the Ethiopian revolutionaries got close to the black monastery. Same if Henry Mercado or Vivian got close. Poof! The Grail disappears again.

  Purcell said to Mercado, “We are getting out of here, and I can guarantee you I’m never coming back. My advice to you and to Vivian is to forget you ever met Father Armano or ever heard of the black monastery. This is not a good thing to know about.”

  Mercado did not reply.

  Purcell added, “God is not telling you to find the Holy Grail, Henry. He is telling you to go home.”

  “And I’m telling you to mind your own business.”

  Purcell changed the subject to something more immediate and asked Gann, “Do you think Getachu is at all concerned about overstepping his authority?”

  “That’s the question, isn’t it? Well, I can tell you that he can’t overstep his power, which is absolute here, as you see. But he can overstep his authority and get on the wrong side of the Derg and his rival, General Andom. Not that those two care about us, or about international law, but Andom has to decide if it would be good for him or bad for him if Getachu kills us.”

  Vivian asked, “Do we think anyone outside of the Revolutionary government even knows we’re here?”

  Mercado reminded everyone, “Our press offices know we were heading this way, and we mentioned to some of our colleagues that we had a safe-conduct pass to make contact with General Getachu.”

  Which, Purcell thought, meant very little. Basically, they were all freelancers, which worked well except when they got in trouble or went missing. Possibly, if they didn’t show up in the Hilton bar in a week or so, someone might think to contact their respective embassies if they could remember their drinking buddies’ nationalities.

  As for himself, Purcell was aware that the American embassy in Addis was barely open, and not on good terms with the new government. If he wasn’t wearing leg shackles, he’d have kicked himself in the ass for making this trip.

  And as for Mercado with his UK passport, and Vivian with her Swiss passport, any requests for information made by their respective embassies to the Ethiopian government would be met by indifference on a good day, and hostility and lies on most days.

  Bottom line here, Purcell thought, there was no outside help on the way. Mercado should know that, but maybe Vivian should not.

  The sun was higher and hotter now, and the temperature at the bottom of the ravine had to be over a hundred degrees. Purcell noticed that most of Vivian’s white ointment was gone, and her face and arms were getting redder. He called up to the soldiers at the top of the ravine, “Weha!”

  They looked down at him, then one of them unhooked a canteen from his belt and threw it to him.

  He gave the canteen to Vivian, and she drank, but then seemed uncertain who to pass it to. Old lover? New lover? She gave it to Gann. He drank and passed it to Mercado, who drank and held it out for Purcell to take.

  Purcell finished the last few ounces, then suggested to Mercado, “Give Vivian your shirt for her head.”

  Mercado seemed angry at being told by Purcell to be a gentleman, and he snapped, “Give her your own shirt.”

  Purcell would have, if he’d had a shirt, but he had a shamma, and no underwear, and he didn’t want to bring that up. He stared at Mercado, who started to unbutton his khaki shirt.

  But Gann had already taken off his uniform shirt and handed it to Vivian, who said, “Thank you,” and draped it over her head.

  Purcell understood Mercado’s anger, but it amazed him that the man could hold on to it while he was contemplating a firing squad or worse. But on second thought, men are men. He thought, too, that if he had a chance to do last night over, he’d do the same thing, but twice. No regrets. He wondered if he could convince Mercado that what happened last night was God’s will.

  He looked at Vivian sitting at the side of the ravine, closer to Mercado t
han to him. They made eye contact, and she held it, then looked away.

  He wondered what she was thinking or feeling. Probably he’d never know, and that was just as well.

  Another group of soldiers appeared at the top of the ravine, and it was obvious that something was going to happen, and probably not anything good.

  Vivian suddenly moved closer to Mercado and grabbed his arm. “Henry…”

  Mercado appeared more aware of the soldiers, thought Purcell, than of Vivian’s hold on him. Purcell could hear her say softly, “I love you… please forgive me.”

  Mercado seemed to notice her for the first time, and he hesitated, then asked, “Are you truly sorry?”

  “I am.”

  “Then I will forgive you.”

  She put her arms around him and buried her face in his chest.

  Purcell assumed that Mercado’s absolution didn’t include him, even if he asked for it, but he didn’t think he needed forgiveness, so he didn’t ask. He did, however, want to say something to Vivian, in case this was the last time they’d see each other. But what he wanted to say, he couldn’t say, so he turned away and looked at the soldiers, who were speaking rapidly and glancing down at the prisoners at the bottom of the ravine.

  Mercado spoke some Amharic, but he seemed preoccupied, so Purcell asked Gann, “Can you understand what they’re saying?”

  “A bit… I think you three are going to be taken somewhere else.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “The leg shackles are for traveling, old boy. When they tie your hands behind your back, you know you’re not going far.”

  Purcell knew this made sense, but he pointed out, “Your legs are also shackled, Colonel.”

  “Yes, I noticed. Can’t say why, though.”

  Henry and Vivian seemed oblivious to what was going on, but then one of the soldiers shouted to them, “Come! Come!” He motioned for all of them to climb out of the ravine.

  They all looked at one another, then stood and began climbing up the slope, dragging their chains with them as the soldier kept shouting, “Come! Come!”

  They reached the top of the ravine and stood among the soldiers, who seemed indifferent to them. Purcell noticed that in the distance, where he’d spotted the helipad, an American-made Huey sat with its rotor spinning.

  The soldier in charge pointed to the helicopter and shouted, “Go! Go!”

  Purcell looked at Gann, expecting that he’d be pulled aside, but one of the soldiers gave Gann a push and shouted, “Go!”

  Vivian and Mercado joined hands and began running as fast as their chains allowed. Purcell and Gann followed. Four soldiers accompanied them, urging them to move faster. Vivian stumbled and Mercado helped her up, and they continued toward the helicopter.

  Vivian and Mercado reached the open door of the aircraft and were pulled aboard. As Purcell got closer, he could see a large red star painted on the olive drab fuselage—the red star of the revolution, which he knew covered the old emblem of the Lion of Judah.

  Gann scrambled aboard without help, and Purcell followed.

  Vivian called out over the noise of the engine and rotors, “Pilot says we’re going to Addis!” She flashed a big smile and shouted, “Avanti!”

  The helicopter lifted, pivoted, and headed south toward Addis Ababa.

  PART II

  Rome, December 1974

  Tutte le strade conducono a Roma.

  All roads lead to Rome.

  Chapter 14

  Hello, Henry.”

  Henry Mercado didn’t turn toward the voice behind him, but he did glance into the bar mirror.

  Frank Purcell took the empty stool beside Mercado and ordered a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. He said, “You look well.”

  “Is this an accident?”

  “I heard you were in Rome.”

  Mercado did not reply.

  “Can I buy you a drink?”

  “I was just leaving.”

  The bartender poured Purcell’s drink and he raised his glass. “Centanni.”

  Mercado called for his tab.

  Purcell stirred his drink and said, “I left you a note at the Addis Hilton.”

  “I was taken directly from the prison to the airport.”

  “Vivian left you a note, too.”

  He didn’t reply.

  Mercado’s bill came and he put a twenty-thousand-lire note on the bar, which Purcell reckoned was about three drinks at Harry’s Bar prices.

  It was four in the afternoon, and the quiet, elegant bar was not yet in full swing. A few perfunctory but tasteful Christmas decorations were placed here and there.

  Outside, the Via Veneto was crowded with cars and people as always, but maybe more so, thought Purcell, because of the Christmas season. The sky was low and gray, and the air was damp, so he wore a trench coat, but he noticed that Mercado was wearing only a tweed sports jacket, which seemed too big for him. In fact, Henry did not look well and there was a lot of space between his neck and his collar and tie. They’d both lost their Ethiopian tans, and Mercado’s skin looked as gray as the winter sky.

  Mercado slid off his stool and said, “I’m living at the Excelsior, and usually at the bar there.”

  “I know.”

  “Then you also know not to run into me there.”

  Purcell nodded and said, “Merry Christmas, Henry.”

  Mercado turned toward the door, then turned back and said, “All right, I will ask you. How is she?”

  “Where is she might be a better question.”

  “All right, where is she?”

  “Don’t know. She left me in Cairo, end of October. Said she had business in Geneva, and she’d be back in two weeks. What’s today?”

  Mercado stood there awhile, then asked, “How long have you been here?”

  “Two days. Let me buy you a drink. I came to Rome to see you.”

  “Why?”

  Purcell slid off his stool and took Mercado by the arm. “I need ten minutes of your time. I have some good news about Colonel Gann.”

  Mercado hesitated, then let Purcell steer him to a table by the window. Purcell called out to the bartender, “Another round, please.”

  They sat across from each other, and Mercado glanced at his watch. “I’m meeting someone at five.”

  “Okay. Well, I just heard from a guy named Willis at the AP office in Addis. You know him? He says that Gann has been released from jail and will be flying to London in time for Christmas.”

  Mercado nodded. “I’m glad to hear that.”

  “Me, too. Only in a place like Ethiopia can you be condemned to death, then released on bail and allowed to leave the country.”

  “I’m sure the British government paid dearly for their knight errant.”

  “Right. Money talks, and the Revolutionary government needs money, so they sold Gann. Works for everyone.” He also informed Mercado, “The bad news is that Gann has to return to Addis after the holidays for a hearing on his appeal or he forfeits his bail.” He smiled. “I don’t think he’ll be making that trip.”

  Mercado smiled in return. “If he does, he deserves a firing squad.”

  “Two firing squads.”

  Mercado said, “It’s important for these people to save face. Before they kicked me out, I got handed a five-year sentence for my association with counterrevolutionaries.”

  “Only five? When are you supposed to report back?”

  “I’m not clear about that.” He asked Purcell, “How about you?”

  “I just did that week in the slammer.”

  “Then a week of house arrest in the Hilton.”

  “Correct.”

  “With Vivian.”

  “Correct.”

  “You both got off easy.”

  “Right.” He reminded Mercado, “You’re the one who got caught sleeping with Gann. Vivian and I didn’t do anything wrong.”

  “Well, I’m sure you did in the Hilton.”

  Purcell changed the sub
ject. “We should go see Gann in London.”

  Mercado kept to the subject, “I didn’t do anything wrong and I spent a month in the foulest prison I’ve ever seen, while you and Vivian—”

  “Was it that long? Well, we’ve both been in worse places.”

  “Where did you go after you left Addis?”

  “I went to Cairo.”

  “Alone?”

  “No.” Purcell explained, “It wasn’t our choice to go there… or to go together,” which was partly a lie. He said, “Cairo seems to be the dumping ground for people expelled from Ethiopia.” He asked, “Where did they send you?”

  “Cairo.”

  “I wish I’d known you were there.”

  “I was there two hours and took the first flight to London.” Mercado asked, “Why did you stay?”

  “I needed a job. So I contacted the AP office, and the bureau chief, Gibson, was looking for a freelancer.” He added, “He’s expecting another war with Israel, and I am a very good war correspondent.”

  Mercado didn’t respond to that, nor did he ask why Vivian stayed in Cairo. In fact, she had told Purcell she was excited about photographing the pyramids and all that, plus she wanted to be his photographer if another war broke out. Also, they were in love.

  The waiter brought their drinks and Purcell saw that Henry was still drinking gin and Schweppes. Purcell raised his glass and Mercado hesitated, then did the same. Purcell said, “To freedom.”

  “And life.”

  They touched glasses and sat back in their chairs and watched Rome go by.

  Rome, Purcell had noticed, wasn’t as garishly decorated for Christmas as, say, London or New York. He’d like to be in one city or another for the holiday, and he had thought he’d be with Vivian, but that didn’t look likely. Christmas in Cairo would not be festive.

  He thought back to Addis. The whole two weeks had a surreal feeling. They’d all been taken from the helicopter in separate vehicles, still in chains, to the grim central prison and kept in separate cells, unable to communicate. Some prosecutor with a loose grasp of English had interrogated him every day and told him that his friends had all confessed to their crimes, whatever they were, and had implicated him.