The Quest: A Novel

by Nelson DeMille

  “My room.”

  “Second most.”

  “I’ll show you.”

  They walked around the Vittorio Emanuele monument, then up the steps of the Campidoglio to the piazza at the top of the ancient Capitoline Hill where dozens of hand-holding couples strolled past the museums and around the equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius.

  Purcell led her to a spot at the edge of the hill that looked out over the floodlit Forum below and at the Palatine Hill rising above the Forum ruins, with the Colosseum in the distance.

  Vivian said, “Breathtaking.”

  “We’ll come back here after Ethiopia.”

  “We will come back.”

  They descended the long flight of steps down the hill and walked back to the hotel.

  Chapter 21

  Purcell picked up his room phone and called Henry at his office to inform him that Vivian was in Rome, though he didn’t say when she’d arrived, or where she was staying, and Henry didn’t ask. Had he asked, Purcell would have told him that Vivian was in the shower.

  Henry suggested lunch at a restaurant called Etiopia, which he thought would be a fitting place for their reunion. Purcell didn’t think so, but he took down the address, which Henry said was near the Termini. Henry further suggested that he, Henry, meet Vivian there at 12:30, and that Purcell join them at one—or even later.

  Purcell wasn’t sure he liked that arrangement, but he’d leave it up to Vivian.

  Later, as he and Vivian began a morning walk, he told her about his call to Mercado, and about lunch.

  He thought she might want to return to the hotel to change out of her jeans, sweatshirt, and hiking boots for lunch with her old boyfriend, but she said, “I’m all right with that. If you are.”

  “I’m okay.” He informed her, “It’s an Ethiopian restaurant.”

  “That’s Henry.”

  It was a warm and sunny morning, and it was the Saturday before Christmas, so traffic was light and the city seemed to be in a holiday mood.

  They walked through the Campo de’ Fiori, which made Purcell think of his advice to Jean, which in turn made him think of Henry sending Jean to his table under false pretenses. Henry Mercado, Purcell understood, was a manipulator and a man who knew how to compromise other people. But Henry was also a gentleman of the old school, and Henry would not mention Jean to Vivian. Unless it suited his purpose.

  They then walked to the Trevi Fountain, made their secret wishes, and tossed their coins over their shoulders into the water, which according to tradition guaranteed that they’d return to Rome someday.

  At 11:30, Purcell suggested they head toward Etiopia—the restaurant, not the country.

  Their route took them past the Termini, Rome’s central rail station, around which was Rome’s only sizeable black neighborhood, whose residents were mostly from the former Italian colonies of Ethiopia, Eritrea, and Somalia. The area around the Termini was crowded with African street vendors whose native wares were spread out on blankets.

  As they walked, Purcell asked Vivian, “Are you still all right with this meeting?”

  She nodded, but he could see she was apprehensive. The last time Vivian had seen Henry was when they’d gotten off Getachu’s helicopter in Addis Ababa. The flight from Getachu’s camp to Addis had been made mostly in silence, except for Gann telling them that as foreigners and journalists, the worst they could expect was a show trial, a conviction, and expulsion from the country.

  Purcell had realized at the time that Colonel Gann was not speaking about himself—he fully expected to be hanged or shot—and yet he’d put his own fears aside to boost the morale of three people he hardly knew. A true officer and gentleman. And now, according to Mercado, Gann was willing to return to Ethiopia, where he was under a death sentence. Fearless was one thing, but foolhardy was something else. He wondered what was motivating Colonel Gann.

  From the helicopter, they had been made to run barefoot across the tarmac, wearing leg shackles, to four waiting police cars. Before they were separated, Vivian had called out to Henry, “I love you!”

  But Henry had not replied—or maybe he hadn’t heard her.

  Then Vivian had turned toward him, and they made eye contact. She gave him a sort of sad smile before the policeman pushed her into the car.

  And that was the last he saw of her until the Hilton, and the last Henry would see of her until about fifteen minutes from now.

  He said to her, “If you’re having second thoughts, I’ll go with you.”

  “No. I just need to put it to rest, Frank. Then get on with what we have to do.”

  “All right.” There was no script for this sort of thing—the eternal triangle in the Eternal City—and he supposed that Henry’s request for half an hour alone with his former lover was not unreasonable, and that Vivian’s acquiescence was meant, as she said, to put it to rest and move on. Henry, on the other hand, had many agendas, and Purcell didn’t know which one was on the schedule today.

  Vivian was looking at the blankets spread over the open spaces around the Termini, and the street vendors were calling out to her in Italian as she passed. She said something to one of them in Amharic and the man seemed surprised, then delighted.

  She stopped and looked at the crafts on his blanket, and the man was speaking rapidly to her in Amharic, then switched to Italian.

  Purcell looked at the items. There were a few objects carved out of what looked like teak and ebony, some beadwork, and a few sculptures carved from jet black obsidian, polished to a high gloss, including a model of the distinctive octagon-shaped Saint George Cathedral in Addis Ababa. He smiled. “We’ve found the black monastery.”

  “Frank, that’s Saint George in Addis.”

  “Looks smaller than I remember.”

  A lady was selling embroidered shammas and Purcell suggested, “Let’s wear these to lunch.”

  Vivian surprised him by saying, “The last time Henry saw us in shammas, he didn’t like what he saw.”

  Purcell had no comment on that. He walked over to another blanket covered with bronze ware, and he spotted a wine goblet that reminded him of the goblets in Prince Joshua’s tent. The vendor wanted fifty thousand lire, Purcell offered ten, and they settled on twenty.

  Purcell moved back to Vivian, who was negotiating the price of Saint George’s, and held up the goblet. “I have found the Holy Grail.”

  She laughed.

  “Here. Give it to Henry and tell him mission accomplished.”

  She examined the goblet of hammered bronze, which looked ancient, but was probably made last week, and asked, “How will we know?”

  “The thing will speak for itself.”

  She nodded, then handed it back to him, saying, “You give it to him.”

  The polizia were doing a scheduled sweep through the Termini area, chasing off the street vendors, who rolled up their blankets and wares and moved a few meters behind the sweep, then set up again on the pavement. No one seemed to take things too seriously here, he noticed, and maybe Henry had found the right place to live and die, if he didn’t die in Ethiopia. Same for him and Vivian.

  Purcell asked a policeman for directions to Via Gaeta, and he walked Vivian part of the way. They stopped and he said, “See you in half an hour.”

  “Don’t be late.”

  “I might be early.”

  She smiled, then said seriously, “If he’s willing to forget the past, and get over his anger, and be with us under these… I guess, awkward circumstances, then you—”

  “I get it.”

  “All right…” She gave him a quick kiss, turned, and walked off.

  Purcell checked his watch, then wandered the streets around the Termini. He found a taverna and went inside. The clientele was mostly black, though the taverna itself seemed to be traditional Roman.

  He sat at the small bar and ordered an espresso, then changed his mind and asked for a vino rosso.

  Henry Mercado had a flair for drama and stage setting.
He was, in fact, a performer. An illusionist. Purcell could see it in some of Henry’s writing. There were never any hard facts—just suggestions of fact, mixed with his profound insights. Henry manipulated words the way he manipulated people. Purcell had no doubt that Henry’s epiphany in the Gulag was real, but Henry’s inner pagan had remained the same. If Henry Mercado wasn’t a Catholic journalist, he’d probably be a magician or a wizard. Purcell didn’t think that Vivian would again fall under his spell, but Henry would use her guilt to his advantage.

  He had a second wine and looked at the patrons in the bar mirror. Ethiopia was disgorging large chunks of its population, especially the entrepreneurs and the professional class, and also the old aristocracy who had escaped hanging and shooting, as well as the Coptic and Catholic clergy who felt threatened by the godless revolutionaries. Ethiopia was, in fact, a replay of the French and Russian revolutions; an isolated ruling elite had lost touch with the people, and with reality, so the people had brought reality to the palaces and churches. The three-thousand-year-old established order was crumbling, and for this reason, the Holy Grail was up for grabs.

  It was only a matter of time, he thought, before the revolutionaries located the black monastery; it was well hidden, but nothing can be hidden forever, though he knew that the lost cities of the Mayans had remained undiscovered for hundreds of years in jungles far smaller than those of Ethiopia.

  But no matter who found the monastery, he was sure that the Holy Grail, or whatever else was there, would be spirited away before the first intruders got over the walls. And yet…

  He took the bronze goblet out of his trench coat and looked at it.

  The proprietor, an Italian, looked at it also, then nodded toward his clientele and said in English, “Ethiopian junk.”

  Not wanting the man to think he was a gullible tourist, Purcell informed him, “This is the Holy Grail.”

  The proprietor laughed. “What you pay for that?”

  “Twenty thousand.”

  “Too much. Ten.”

  “This can turn wine into the blood of Christ.”

  The proprietor laughed again, then said, “Okay, for twenty is good.”

  Purcell left a ten on the bar, walked out into the sunshine, and headed for Etiopia.

  Chapter 22

  Purcell spotted Vivian and Mercado sitting in the rear of the dark restaurant. They weren’t tête-à-tête, but they did seem at ease, talking and smiling.

  He brushed past the hostess, walked to the table, and said, “Sorry I’m late.”

  Mercado replied, “You’re a bit early, actually.”

  Purcell did not shake hands with Mercado or kiss Vivian; he sat, still wearing his trench coat. Henry, he noticed, was looking a bit more trendy in a black leather jacket and black silk shirt.

  Vivian said, “Henry has brought me up to date.”

  “Good.”

  There was a bottle of wine on the table, and Henry poured into an empty glass for Purcell, then raised his glass and said, “Ad astra per aspera. Through adversity to the stars.”

  Purcell wondered how many Latin toasts Mercado had in him.

  They touched glasses, and Vivian proposed, “To peace and friendship.”

  Purcell lit a cigarette and scanned the room. The place looked as if it had been decorated with the stuff from the blankets, including the blankets themselves that hung on the walls. The tables were half empty, and the clientele seemed to be mostly African and well dressed, probably, Purcell thought, the cream of Ethiopian society who’d washed up on the banks of the Tiber.

  Vivian, trying to keep the conversation going, said, “Henry told me about the research he’s done in the Vatican archives.”

  Purcell didn’t respond.

  Mercado said to her, “Frank was unimpressed.”

  Vivian waited for Purcell to respond, then said, “Odd that they wouldn’t let you into the Ethiopian College.”

  Mercado assured her, “I’ll work that out.” He added, “That is the type of practical research that would appeal to Frank’s practical mind.”

  Mercado and Vivian continued their two-way conversation, the way they had before Purcell arrived, and Purcell knew he was not being civilized or sophisticated, and this probably pleased Mercado to no end. So to avoid a scene later with Vivian and to avoid giving Mercado the satisfaction of seeing him uncomfortable in this situation, Purcell said, “Henry and I have agreed to disagree about some things, but we agree that the three of us are going back to Ethiopia—if we can get in—and we are going to pick up where we left off when we buried Father Armano.”

  Vivian nodded, then reminded Purcell, “You have something for Henry.”

  “I do? Oh…” He reached into his coat pocket and set the bronze goblet on the table.

  Mercado picked it up and looked at it.

  Purcell announced, “We have found the Holy Grail.”

  Vivian added, “At a street stall near the Termini.”

  Mercado laughed, then turned the goblet upside down and said, “Indeed you have. Made in Jerusalem, 10 B.C., property of J. Arimathea.”

  Vivian laughed.

  Mercado said, “Well done, you two. Now Frank and I can get working on this story, then go our separate ways.”

  Purcell thought that would be nice, but to keep the ice from refreezing, he said, “You need to research this grail, Henry.”

  They all laughed, then Mercado picked up the wine bottle and poured into the bronze goblet. He said solemnly, “We will drink of this and this will be our covenant.” He passed the goblet to Vivian, who put it to her lips and drank, then passed it to Purcell. He drank and passed it to Mercado, who finished the wine and said, “May God bless our journey.”

  Vivian reached out and took both men’s hands, though Purcell and Mercado did not join hands. Vivian lowered her head and said, “God rest Father Armano and all those who suffer and die in his name, in Ethiopia and around the world.”

  “Amen,” said Mercado.

  The waiter, a tall thin black man wearing a colorful shamma, saw that they had completed their prayers and came by with menus, but Mercado stood and said, “I will leave you to enjoy this wonderful food and enjoy each other’s company—after your long separation.”

  Purcell forced himself to say, “Please stay.”

  “Yes, please stay, Henry.”

  “I’ve let some work pile up at the office.”

  Purcell stood and they shook hands, then Mercado came around and gave Vivian a peck on the cheek and left.

  Purcell sat and the waiter left two menus.

  Vivian said to Purcell, “Thank you.”

  Purcell perused the menu.

  Vivian informed him, “We’ve worked everything out.”

  “Good. I hope you like lamb. Here’s a fish called Saint Peter’s fish.”

  “He understands what happened and how it happened, and he understands that we are in love.”

  “Good.”

  “Did you tell him we were in love?”

  Purcell put down the menu. “At the time I spoke to him, I didn’t know if we were.”

  “Well, you know now.”

  “I do.” He looked at her and said, “A piece of advice, Vivian. Henry Mercado is a charming rogue. He is also a manipulator and a con artist.” He added, “Don’t get me wrong—I like him. But we need to keep an eye on him.”

  She thought about that, then replied, “He’s not trying to… reseduce me.”

  “He would if he could. But what I’m talking about is our partnership with him.” He nodded toward the goblet. “Our new covenant.”

  She stayed quiet for a few seconds, then said, with some insight, “I was easy for him. But I think he knows he’s met his match with you.”

  Purcell couldn’t have said it better, and he smiled at Vivian. “I have met my match with you.”

  “You never stood a chance, Frank.”

  “No, I never did.”

  She filled the goblet with wine and passed it to
him. He drank and passed it back to her. She said, “If you believe in love, you believe in God.”

  Where had he heard that before?

  Chapter 23

  They didn’t see Henry again for several days, but he, or a messenger, dropped off an envelope in which were their visa applications partly filled out, awaiting only their passport information and their signatures. A note from Henry said, “Bring these in person to the Ethiopian embassy, ASAP. Cross your fingers.”

  Purcell and Vivian visited the Ethiopian embassy the next morning and spent a half hour waiting for a consulate officer who seemed to be a relative of General Getachu. The former regime’s diplomatic staff had been dismissed, of course, and had undoubtedly chosen not to go back to Ethiopia and face a possible firing squad, so they’d probably stayed in Rome and were hanging out with the other expats at Etiopia. The colonial ties between Italy and Ethiopia had been brief and not strong, but they persisted, as Purcell saw around the Termini, and he imagined that Italy would see even more upscale refugees as the revolution got uglier. Meanwhile, he had to deal with the unpleasant consulate officer, who didn’t speak English but spoke bad Italian to Vivian, who maintained her composure and smiled. The man didn’t seem to believe that anyone wanted to travel to the People’s Republic for legitimate purposes, and he was right. The officer took their passports, which he said would be returned to them in a week or so at their place of business, which was L’Osservatore Romano, with or without their visas. He also took 100,000 lire from each of them for expedited processing.

  The consulate officer’s parting advice, which Vivian translated, was, “If you are denied visas, do not apply again. If you are accepted as journalists, you must refrain from all other activities in Ethiopia.”

  Vivian assured him they understood and wished him, “Buongiorno.”

  They spent the next few days before Christmas exploring the city. Vivian said she’d been to Rome twice on school trips, but she didn’t know the city as an adult, so Purcell showed her Rome by night, including Trastevere and the fading Via Veneto, where he pointed out the Excelsior where Henry was living and presumably drinking. They didn’t go into the hotel bar, but he did take her to Harry’s, and after they’d had a drink at the bar, he told her about finding Henry there.