The Quest: A Novel

by Nelson DeMille

  Mercado slowed his pace and continued his story. “There is another report from a Jesuit priest named Father Lopes to the next pope, Paul III, which tells of the Jesuit missionary influence in Ethiopia, and of all the good works that they had done in spreading the Catholic faith. But this report also says that the Jesuits are being expelled again because the Ethiopian emperor and the Coptic pope have accused them of excessive prying into the affairs of the Coptic Church and for making inquiries about the monastery of obsidian.” He added, “This is the first reference to the black monastery and to the Grail possibly being there.”

  “Where it remains.”

  “Yes. Also, it would seem that a succession of Catholic popes had an interest in Ethiopia, and in the black monastery, and therefore the Grail.” Mercado continued, “I guess you could make the case that this is a secret passed on from pope to pope, and that’s why Father Armano got the sealed envelope from Pius XI. And it also appears, from other oblique references I’ve read, that the Jesuits, who are the shock troops of the papacy, have been tasked with the mission to find the Holy Grail.”

  “If that’s true, they haven’t done a good job of it.”

  “They are patient.” He thought a moment, then said, “Or, more likely, they and the recent popes have lost interest in this because they no longer believe in the existence of the Holy Grail.”

  “It’s a hard thing to believe in, Henry.”

  “It is. But—”

  “You believe it because it is impossible.”

  “I do.”

  They reached the Ethiopian College, a Romanesque-style structure that Mercado said was built in the 1920s when the college was moved from the five-hundred-year-old monastery of Saint Stephen. Purcell saw a number of black-robed, dark-skinned monks going in and out of the main entrance, and he couldn’t help but recall Father Armano’s story of the monks in the black monastery who’d greeted him and the Italian soldiers with clubs. “Is this place safe, Henry?”

  Mercado smiled. “They’re good Catholics, old man. Not Copts with clubs.”

  “Good.”

  But he saw that Mercado crossed himself as he entered, so he did the same.

  Mercado confessed, “I haven’t been here before, but we have permission and we have an appointment and we are on time.”

  They stood in the large antechamber and waited.

  A tall, black, and bald monk came toward them and Mercado greeted him in Italian. They exchanged a few words, and Purcell could tell that there seemed to be some problem, notwithstanding their appointment.

  Purcell suggested, “Tell him all we want to do is see the map that shows the black monastery.”

  Two more monks appeared from somewhere and the discussion continued. Finally, Mercado turned and said to Purcell, “They are refusing entry. So I’ll need to go through channels again.”

  “Try a different channel.”

  “All right, let’s go. I’ll work this out.”

  They exited the Ethiopian College and walked down the path through the gardens.

  Purcell asked, “What was that all about?”

  “Not sure.”

  “When you asked permission, to whom did you speak?”

  “I spoke to a papal representative.” He explained, “The pope is considered the special protector of the college.”

  “Doesn’t look like that place needs any outside protection.”

  Mercado didn’t respond.

  “So what did you tell this papal representative?”

  “The truth, of course.” He added, “That I had just returned from Ethiopia and I wanted to do some research on a series of articles I was writing for our newspaper about the Coptic and Catholic churches in post-revolutionary Ethiopia.”

  “Which is the truth, but not the whole truth.”

  Mercado did not reply and they continued to walk back toward the Vatican Library, or, Purcell hoped, the offices of L’Osservatore Romano, or, better yet, lunch. He said, “I assume you didn’t mention the black monastery.”

  “It didn’t come up.”

  Purcell thought about this. If Henry were actually in league with someone or some group here in the Vatican who wanted him to look for the Holy Grail, then there must be another group here who didn’t want him to do that. Or the only people here whom Henry Mercado was working for were his editors at L’Osservatore Romano, and he, Purcell, was seeing conspiracies where there were only bureaucratic screwups or miscommunication. He wasn’t sure, but at some point, here or in Ethiopia, he’d know what, if anything, Henry was up to.

  Mercado said, “Just as well. When Gann gets here, we’ll have this all straightened out, and I’m sure Colonel Gann can read a map far better than you or I.”

  “Good point.”

  “Would you like to go back to the library? There’s more.”

  “The monk locked the door.”

  “He’ll open it.”

  “Let me buy you lunch.”

  “All right…”

  “The Forum.” Purcell explained his restaurant choice: “I’m waiting for a telex.”

  Mercado looked at him and nodded.

  They exited the Vatican through Saint Peter’s Square and hailed a taxi on the Borgo Santo Spirito, which took them to the Hotel Forum.

  Purcell said, “Go on up and get us a table by the window, and a good bottle of wine.”

  Mercado hesitated, then walked to the elevators.

  Purcell went to the front desk and asked for messages. The clerk riffled through a stack of phone messages and telexes and handed him a sealed envelope.

  He opened it and read the telex: ARRIVING FIUMICINO TONIGHT. WILL TAXI TO CITY. HOTEL UNDECIDED. WILL MEET YOU AT FORUM BAR, 6 P.M. I MISS YOU, V.

  He put the telex in his pocket and walked to the elevator.

  Well… no mention of Henry. Hotel undecided. Don’t meet me at the airport. See you at six. I miss you.

  And, Purcell thought, I miss you too.

  He rode up to the Forum restaurant and found Henry speaking on the maître d’s phone. Henry motioned to a table by the window, and Purcell sat.

  Mercado joined him and asked, “Any messages?”

  “No.”

  Mercado looked at him and said, “It’s all right.”

  He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he nodded.

  “I ordered the same amarone.”

  “I thought we drank it all.”

  “Do you feel that you are intellectually and spiritually prepared to go on this quest?”

  “I do, actually.”

  “And do you think Vivian will come with us?”

  Purcell reminded Mercado, “You seem to think that the Holy Spirit has told her to go. So ask him. Or her.”

  Mercado smiled.

  Purcell suggested, “Let’s talk about something else.”

  “All right. I just spoke to my office. Colonel Gann telexed. He can come to Rome right after the New Year and may be able to go to Berini with us.”

  “Good. Did he mention Ethiopia?”

  “He said he would go if he could get in.”

  “Getting in is easy. Getting out, not so easy.”

  “I assume he meant getting in without being rearrested.”

  The wine came, and Henry poured it himself. He raised his glass and said, “Amicitia sine fraude—to friendship without deceit.”

  “Cheers.”

  Chapter 20

  The Forum bar was crowded when Purcell arrived at 5:30, so he took a table by the window and sat facing the entrance, nursing a glass of red wine.

  This wasn’t the first time in his life that an ex-lover or estranged girlfriend had wanted to meet in a public place, and sometimes he’d suggested it himself. And maybe with Henry still in the picture, this was a good idea. In fact, he wasn’t sure himself what he wanted to happen tonight, except that he wanted Vivian to go with him—and Henry—to Ethiopia. And that, apparently, was what she wanted, though it had to be worked out if she was with him, or with Henry,
or with neither.

  In any case, despite Henry’s toast, Purcell had no guilt about deceiving Henry regarding Vivian’s arrival. In fact, Henry probably knew he’d heard from Vivian, and Henry understood that a three-person reunion would not be a good first step toward a return trip to Ethiopia. Purcell had made his separate peace with Henry Mercado, and now he’d do the same with Vivian. Eventually they’d all have a drink together and be civilized—even if Vivian decided to be with Henry. Actually, he was sure Henry would not take her back, even if she wanted that. Henry, like his Italian friends, had a monumental ego—and if he didn’t have an inferiority complex before, he’d acquired one in Ethiopia.

  It was past 6 P.M., but Purcell knew she’d be late, though he had no idea what time her plane had arrived from Geneva. But the traffic from Fiumicino was always bad, and it was rush hour in Rome, and Christmas, and maybe she was looking for a hotel, which was difficult during the holy season.

  He lit a cigarette and looked out at the Colosseum. Or maybe she’d changed her mind. And that was okay, too. Less complicated.

  “Hello, Frank.”

  He stood and they looked at each other. She hesitated, then put her hand on his arm. He leaned forward and they kissed briefly, and he said, “You’re looking very good.”

  “You too.”

  She was wearing a green silky dress that matched her eyes, and her long black hair framed her alabaster skin, and he remembered her as he’d seen her that night at the mineral spa when he realized he was taken with her.

  “Frank?”

  “Oh… would you like to sit?”

  A hovering waiter pulled a chair out for her, she sat, and Purcell sat across from her. She said to the waiter, “Un bicchiere di vino rosso, per favore.”

  They looked at each other across the table, then finally she said, “I’m sorry.”

  “You don’t need to apologize or explain.”

  “But I’d better do that.”

  He smiled.

  “I just needed to sort things out.”

  “How did that work out?”

  “Well, I’m here.”

  That didn’t answer the question, but Purcell said, “Thank you for coming.”

  “Did you throw my stuff out?”

  “Tempted.”

  The waiter brought her glass of wine and Purcell held up his glass. “Sono adirato.”

  “Why are you angry?”

  “I thought that meant, ‘I adore you.’ ”

  She laughed and they touched glasses. She said, “Ti amo.”

  “Me too.”

  She put her hand on the table and he took it. They didn’t speak for a while, then she asked, “Did you come to Rome to see Henry?”

  “I did.”

  She nodded, then asked, “Does he know I’m here?”

  “No.”

  She nodded again and asked, “How is he?”

  “Adirato.”

  “Well… I don’t blame him… but… at least you two are talking.”

  “I think he’s ready to talk to you.”

  “That’s good. So he’s working for L’Osservatore Romano?”

  “He is. Seems to enjoy it. Loves Rome.”

  “I’m happy for him.”

  “Any other feelings for him that I should know about?”

  She shook her head.

  “All right… but when you see him, you can work that out with him.”

  “I will.” She added, “I’m sure he’s over it.”

  “He said he was.”

  She changed the subject and asked, “How long are you staying in Rome?”

  “That depends. How long are you staying in Rome?”

  “As long as you are.”

  “All right.” He informed her, “I’ve resigned from the AP office in Cairo.”

  “Why?”

  “Because Charlie Gibson fired me.”

  “Good. You hated the job and you hated Cairo.”

  “I wasn’t fond of either,” he admitted, “but it was tolerable with you there.”

  She smiled. “I can make any place tolerable, Frank.”

  “Even Ethiopia.”

  “That may be overstating my powers.” She asked him, “What about our apartment in Cairo?”

  “That’s the only home I have at the moment.”

  “Me too.”

  “We’ll keep it awhile.” He asked, “Where did you stay in Geneva?”

  “My old boarding school.” She explained, “We’re always welcome back. Twenty francs a night in the guesthouse. Best deal in Geneva.” She added, “No men allowed.”

  “Can you at least drink?”

  “Yes. You must drink to stay sane there.”

  He smiled.

  She told him, “I’m not a writer, but I did write a sort of diary about what happened in Ethiopia.” She told him, “I also wrote about us in Cairo.”

  “Can I see it?”

  “Someday.” She added, “I’m still angry about losing all my photographs.”

  “You can ask Getachu for them when we go back.”

  She looked at him for a few seconds. “Are we actually doing that?”

  “Well… that’s the plan.” He asked, “Are you still interested?”

  “I am.” She added, “I’m surprised that Henry wants to go back.”

  “I’m not, and neither are you.” He reminded her, “He believes he has been chosen by God to find… it.”

  She nodded.

  “And you?”

  Again, she nodded, and asked, “And you?”

  “My motives, according to Henry, are confused at best.”

  “But you do want to go?”

  “I do.” He informed her, “Henry is working on getting us press credentials with L’Osservatore Romano, then we need to get visas. If none of that works, we may consider jumping the border from Sudan.”

  “That could be dangerous.”

  “No more dangerous than trekking through Getachu territory to find the black monastery.”

  She nodded.

  He told her, “Good news. Colonel Gann has been released from prison.”

  “Thank God. I thought… they’d kill him.”

  “They would have, but they sold him instead.” He added, “I don’t know where he is now, but Henry got a telex from him and Gann says he’s willing to accompany us to Ethiopia.”

  “That is insane.”

  “He probably had the same thought about us.”

  “But he’s… an enemy—”

  “Maybe he’ll rethink that trip. In the meantime, he’s coming to Rome after the New Year, and if you’re up for it, all four of us will go to sunny Sicily for holiday. Berini.”

  She smiled. “I would like that.”

  He informed her, “There was a piece in the news… they shot Prince Joshua.”

  “I saw that… that poor man… and all those other members of the royal family, and all the former government people…” She looked at him. “How can people do that to other people?”

  “It’s been going on awhile.”

  “I know… but… there’s such evil in the world…” She asked him, “Doesn’t it test your faith in God?”

  “Father Armano—and Henry—would tell you it’s all part of God’s plan.”

  “It can’t be.”

  “The devil, then.”

  She nodded, then looked at him and said, “I always meant to ask you… that night… when we were driving, why did you suddenly turn off the road?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You went right through a wall of bushes. Right where the spa was.”

  He’d thought about that himself, and he couldn’t recall what had made him suddenly crash the Jeep through those bushes. He smiled. “A voice said, ‘Turn right.’ ”

  “Be serious.”

  “I don’t know, Vivian.”

  “But don’t you think it was beyond strange that you turned off the road exactly where the spa was?”

  “Let me think a
bout it.” He changed the subject. “Henry and I discussed the possibility that Getachu or someone else has already found the black monastery.”

  “They haven’t.”

  “All right…” He wanted their first night to be more romantic, so he asked, “Would you like dinner?”

  “No. I want to take a walk.”

  “Good idea.” He signaled the waiter for the bill, then asked her, “Where are you staying?”

  “There is not a room to be had in Rome.”

  “Sorry to hear that.” He inquired, “Where is your luggage?”

  “In your room.”

  He smiled. “How did you manage that?”

  “Really, Frank. We’re in Italy.”

  He asked, seriously, “How did you know this would go well?”

  “It didn’t matter how it went. We’re sleeping together tonight.”

  He didn’t argue with that, and he suggested, “Let’s get you unpacked.”

  “I need a walk. It’s a beautiful night.”

  “Okay.” He paid the bill while she got her coat, and they went down to the lobby and outside into the cool night.

  The Roman rush hour had ended, and the streets were becoming more quiet, and pedestrians were strolling on the broad Via dei Fori Imperiali. The Christmas decorations, such as they were, were mostly of the religious type, and there was no sign of Santa or his reindeer.

  They held hands and didn’t speak much as they took in the city and its people. Vivian said, “This is what I pictured when I received your romantic letter.”

  “I didn’t know what tone to use.”

  “So you wrote it as a news release. If it wasn’t for your P.S., I’d still be in Geneva.”

  “I know.”

  “Well, I don’t blame you for being angry.”

  “Why should you?”

  “I know I shouldn’t have left under false pretenses. And I’m sorry for that. But I couldn’t face you… and say…”

  “Drop it.”

  She squeezed his hand and said, “I kept thinking to myself, ‘Get thee to a nunnery, Vivian. Go think this out.’ ”

  “Good. Let’s move on. Avanti.”

  “I feel cleansed now, and pure.”

  “We’ll take care of that later.”

  She laughed and they continued on. She asked him, “What is the most romantic spot in the city?”