Purcell reminded Gann, “They might know the location of the monastery.”
Gann replied, “They know where they meet the monks. But they’re not going to take us along for company.”
They again looked at the maps, trying to transfer what little they knew to what was spread out in front of them.
Gann pointed out, “The Italian aerial cartographers saw this unknown structure, and noted it, but they apparently didn’t see what we are looking for or they’d have noted that as well.”
Mercado informed him, “Our friend said it was in a deep jungle valley, with trees that went right up to the walls.”
“I see… Well, it could have been missed from the air.”
Purcell added, “He said the area within the walls had trees, gardens, and I think a pond.”
Gann nodded. “This whole area was photographed and transferred to a map, and the thing we are looking for was on one of those photographs, but the cartographers missed it when they made these maps.” He further informed them, “Most aerial photography was done in black and white, so things—man-made and natural—are missed in black, white, and shades of gray that would be more apparent in color.” He added, “What we’re seeing here is what the cartographer thought he saw in black-and-white photographs, and there was little field checking. We can also assume the cartographers were a bit sloppy and perhaps overworked and under pressure to get these military maps to Il Duce’s army.”
Purcell said, “Maybe we’ll have better luck when we fly over this area ourselves.”
Gann agreed, but advised, “Don’t do too much flying, old boy, or you’ll attract attention.” He asked, “Do I understand that you have an aircraft and pilot?”
Purcell replied, “We’re working on that.” He confessed, “I’m the pilot.”
“I see. Well, good luck.”
“I thought you were coming with us.”
“I will try my best.”
Purcell said to Gann, “We are going to do this, Colonel. And we will find what we are looking for.”
“I believe you will.” He added, “That may be the easy part.”
Henry stood and moved to the antique maps, and Purcell said, “Henry, you will not find what we’re looking for there.”
Gann agreed. “Those maps are more fantasy than accurate representations of reality, old boy. Dragons and all that.”
Mercado ignored them and unrolled a few parchments on which were hand-colored maps of sorts, showing lakes, mountains, and hand-drawn churches. Mercado said, “This is written in Geez.”
No one replied.
He said, “I think this one is showing Axum. I see a crown, and here is a drawing of what looks like the stone tablets of the Ten Commandments.”
Purcell said, “Well, that proves it.”
“And here, to the southeast of this lake that looks like Tana… with the Blue Nile… is a drawing…” He slid the map toward them and they saw a nice drawing of a golden cup, next to which was a black cross, surrounded by well-drawn palm trees that Gann said would be about a half kilometer tall if they were drawn to scale.
Purcell said, “We should have started with this map, Henry.”
Gann suggested, “Offer this monk fellow ten pounds for it.”
Mercado was not enjoying the jokes, and he said, “Well, this may not be very detailed or accurate, but it is significant that it shows… or possibly shows what we are looking for.” He added, “Cross and cup. Monastery and Grail.”
“We get it.”
Gann said, “But it does show it southeast of Lake Tana… so that may actually be a clue on a real map, and on the ground.”
The monk said something in Italian, and Mercado said, “Our hour is fini.”
Chapter 29
They found Vivian sitting on a bench outside the Ethiopian College, and she informed them, “I was asked to leave the reading room.”
Mercado seemed surprised. “Why?”
“No explanation except that the archive materials had been out too long, and the reading room was needed by others.”
Purcell said to Mercado, “You have been abusing your library privileges, Henry.”
“This is not funny.”
Purcell pointed out, “You said we were done.”
“We were, but…” He looked at Vivian. “Where is my notebook?”
“In my bag.” She gave it to him.
Purcell said to Mercado, “If I were paranoid, I’d say you should not leave that notebook in your office.”
Mercado nodded.
It was late afternoon, the sky was overcast, and Henry said he had a bottle of Strega in his office to lift their spirits.
On the way, Vivian asked, “How did you make out?”
Mercado replied, “We’ve narrowed it down.”
Gann asked Mercado, “Is it possible to get back in there?”
“Another request is one too many.”
Gann suggested, “If you contact the Ministry of War, they will have a complete set of army survey maps of Ethiopia.” He also informed them, “If you know Father Armano’s military unit, you should ask to see his unit logs to see where his battalion made camp on the shore of Lake Tana.”
Mercado thought about that, then replied, “I will inquire about the maps. But we don’t know Father Armano’s army unit, and the War Ministry doesn’t know Father Armano.”
Vivian said, “Someone in Berini may have letters from him with a return military address.”
“Good thinking,” said Mercado.
Gann said, “There is a possibility, however, that these unit logs never made it back to Italy.”
Purcell pointed out, “Even if they did, the Ministry of War’s archives may not be open to us—or what we’re looking for may no longer be there.”
No one responded to that.
They continued their walk across the parkland of Vatican City. Purcell looked at Saint Peter’s, rarely seen from the rear, and he realized it was much bigger than it appeared from its well-known façade. The basilica and the square with its encompassing colonnades was the public face of the Vatican. But there was more to this place. There were offices and archives, and there were people whose job it was to manage the money, to support charities, to stamp out heresy, to propagate the faith, and to put out the word of God and the word of the pope and the Sacred College of Cardinals—as Henry did at L’Osservatore Romano.
Purcell didn’t think there were any great conspiracies being hatched behind the closed doors of all those offices—but he did think there was two thousand years of institutional memory that defined the Vatican and the papacy; there was an unspoken and unwritten understanding regarding what needed to be done.
Most times, he suspected, everyone was on the same page—the clergy, the hierarchy, and the bureaucracy who toiled here. But now and then there were quiet differences of opinion. And maybe that was what he was seeing now—assuming, of course, that the people here were on the same quest that he and his three companions were on.
Gann was saying, “If we can’t get access to the military maps here, I know that the Italian Library in Addis has a collection of wartime maps.” He added, “Problem is, the Provisional Revolutionary government may have confiscated all the maps as a security measure, or to issue to their fighting units in the field.”
Purcell interjected, “One of the first places we need to find is the village of Shoan.” He asked Gann, “Do you know how to get there?”
“I have been there.” He continued before anyone could ask him about that. “As I said, finding the monastery may not be as difficult as we think, given what we know. The problem, as with any military objective, is to get inside the place, get what we want, then get out.”
Purcell liked the way Gann thought. Military minds were generally clear, and geared to practical matters and problem solving. Lives depended on it. Vivian and Henry, on the other hand, were focused on the righteousness of their mission, with only passing thoughts about the logistics and the battl
e plan—like medieval Crusaders off to free the Holy Land. But, he supposed, the world needed those people too.
As for himself, he’d had enough of maps, archives, and religious experiences. He was ready to move.
They reached Mercado’s office, and Henry produced the bottle of Strega, which he shared with his guests to warm them up. Regarding their trip to Sicily, he consulted his calendar and said, “The Italians have the most vacation days in Europe. Forty-two, I believe. The fourteenth looks good for me.” He asked, “Is that good for everyone?”
Purcell and Vivian said it was, and Mercado asked Gann, “Are you sure you don’t want to go to sunny Sicily?”
“I’m afraid I can’t.”
Mercado said, “I won’t use the Vatican travel office, and I suggest we all use different travel agencies to book a flight to Palermo. We’ll hire a car there and drive to Berini.”
Purcell and Vivian agreed, and Henry poured more of the yellow liqueur into their water glasses.
Purcell said, “While we’re making travel plans, I suggest we pick a date now to fly to Addis Ababa.”
No one responded, and Purcell said, “As Colonel Gann would agree, we need to stop planning the invasion and we need to have a jump-off date.”
Gann said, “I’m actually fixed to go on January twenty-fourth—or thereabouts.”
“Good.” Purcell suggested, “The L’Osservatore Romano team needs to go separately, in case there is a problem at the other end. I will go first—let’s say January eighteenth. If I telex all is well, Vivian will follow on January twentieth—”
“We’re going together, Frank.”
He ignored her and continued, “If you don’t hear from me, take that as a sign that I may be indisposed.” He said to Mercado, “You may have the most risk considering your prior conviction for consorting with an enemy of the Ethiopian people. But if I and Vivian are okay, you bring up the rear.”
Gann agreed, “That is a safe insertion plan.”
Purcell said, “Unless they’re waiting for all of us to get there.”
Mercado said, “If your paranoia has substance, Frank, then I should go first to see if there is a problem.”
“Your offer is noted for the record.” He added, “I leave on the eighteenth.”
Gann informed them, “I have a number of safe houses in Addis. Where will you be staying?”
Purcell replied, “With all the other reporters at the Addis Hilton.”
“Safety in numbers,” said Gann.
“With the journalistic community, Colonel, it’s more like dog eat dog.”
Mercado reminded Purcell and Vivian, “Alitalia still has daily flights to Addis, and seats are not hard to come by. Same with rooms at the Addis Ababa Hilton. I will notify the newspaper and the travel office of our plans next week.” He added, “Gives us time to think about this.”
Purcell said, “There is nothing to think about.”
Mercado nodded.
They discussed a few other operational details, and in regard to their Berini trip on the fourteenth, Mercado consulted an Alitalia flight schedule and said to Purcell and Vivian, “Book the nine-sixteen A.M. Alitalia to Palermo. I’ll meet you at the airport.”
Mercado said he had work to do, and his three visitors left.
Gann said he wanted to wander around the seat of the papacy, and he wished them good day.
Purcell and Vivian exited Vatican City and walked along the Tiber.
Vivian said, “This has just become real.”
“It gets even more real in Ethiopia.”
Chapter 30
They landed in Palermo, rented a Fiat, and bought a road map of Sicily.
There were a few routes to Berini, which was in the mountains near the town of Corleone, and they decided to reverse the route that Father Armano had taken in 1935 from Alcamo to Palermo, though instead of a train, they drove the new highway to Alcamo. There, they took an increasingly bad road into the hills—the same road that the priest had undoubtedly walked forty years before with the other army conscripts who, like himself, were bound for Palermo, then Ethiopia. Father Armano, however, had taken a detour to Rome, and to the Vatican, before his fateful and fatal journey to Africa.
It was a sunny day and much warmer than Rome. The sky was deep blue and white clouds hung over the distant mountains. Lemon and orange groves covered the narrow valleys, and olive trees and vineyards rose up the terraced slopes. Clusters of umbrella pines shaded white stucco houses, and tall cedars stood sentry at the bases of the hills.
This, Purcell thought, was the last that Father Armano had seen of his native land, and he must have realized as he was walking to Alcamo with the other young men that he might never see it again.
Vivian said, “This is beautiful. Completely unspoiled.”
Purcell noticed there was very little vehicular traffic, but there were a good number of donkeys and carts on the road, and a lot of people walking and biking. The villages, as expected, were picturesque—white stuccoed houses with red tile roofs, and church bell towers in even the smallest town. “They must pray a lot.”
Mercado said, “I’m sure they’re all in church every Sunday and holy day. And, of course, for weddings, funerals, baptisms, and such, not to mention Saturday confessions.” He added, “They are a very simple, religious people and there are not many like them in Europe anymore.”
Purcell suggested, “You should move here, Henry.”
“After you, Frank.”
Vivian said, “I can see having a summer place in Sicily.”
Mercado reminded her, “You don’t speak the dialect.”
Purcell pointed out, “You both spoke to Father Armano.”
Mercado explained, “He spoke standard Italian, a result I’m sure of his seminary training and his time in the army.”
“Are we going to have trouble speaking to the citizens of Berini?”
“Sicilians understand standard Italian when they want to.” He added, “The priest will understand my Italian. And the younger people as well, because of television and cinema.”
“Then maybe we’ll get some answers.”
Mercado informed them, “Sicilians don’t like to answer questions, especially from strangers.”
“We’re doing a nice story for L’Osservatore Romano on their native son.”
“Doesn’t matter. They are suspicious of the outside world.”
“And with good reason.”
Vivian suggested, “Use your charm, Henry.”
Purcell said, “We may as well turn around now.”
Mercado ignored that and said, “The key is the village priest.”
They reached Corleone, consulted the road map and the signs, and headed southwest into the higher hills.
It would not have been too difficult, Purcell thought, to walk downhill to Alcamo. But it would not have been an easy journey home to Berini, on foot, though a soldier returning home would not think about that.
They had spotted a few classical Roman and Greek ruins along the way, and Mercado informed them, “The Carthaginians were also here, as well as the Normans, the armies of Islam, and a dozen other invaders.” He further informed his audience, “Sicily was a prize in the ancient world, and now it is the land that time forgot—like Ethiopia.”
“The world changes,” Purcell agreed. “Wars have consequences.”
“I have an English cousin who served with Montgomery, and he may have passed through here in ’43.”
“We’ll keep an eye out for anyone with a family resemblance.”
The village of Berini was strategically located at the top of a hill that rose above the valley, and the one-lane road hugged the side of the slope and wrapped around it like a corkscrew until it abruptly ended at a stone arch, which marked the entrance to the village.
Purcell drove through the arch and followed a narrow lane between whitewashed houses. The few pedestrians stood aside and eyed them curiously as they passed by.
A minute late
r they entered a small, sunlit piazza, and at its far end was a good-sized stone church, which according to the Vatican directory was San Anselmo. The parish priest, if the information was up to date, was Father Giorgio Rulli. There were no other priests listed.
On the right side of the square was a row of two-story stucco buildings, one of which had an orange awning and a sign that said, simply, “Taverna.” On the other side of the piazza was a place called “Caffe,” and next to that was a tabaccheria, a sort of corner candy store. That seemed to be the extent of the commercial establishments, and the other structures appeared to be residences and a village hall. A few miniature Fiats were parked around the perimeter of the piazza, but the main form of transportation seemed to be bicycles. Purcell noticed there were no donkeys.
The outdoor seating under the awning and umbrellas of the taverna and caffe was filled with people, and Purcell noted they were all male. He could also see that their full-sized Fiat had attracted some attention. It was a little past three o’clock and Mercado said, “This is the riposo—the traditional four-hour afternoon break.”
Purcell inquired, “Break from what?”
Vivian suggested, “Park someplace.”
“I’m looking for a parking meter.”
“Wherever you stop the car is a parking place, Frank.”
“Right.”
He moved the Fiat slowly over the cobblestoned piazza and stopped a respectable distance from the church. They all got out and stretched. It was cooler here at the higher elevation, and the air smelled of woodsmoke.
They had been advised by one of Mercado’s colleagues to dress modestly and in muted colors. The rural Sicilians, the colleague said, literally laugh at brightly colored clothing, the way most people would laugh at someone coming down the street in a clown outfit. Purcell and Mercado wore black trousers, white shirts, and dark sports jackets, and Vivian wore a black dress, a loose-fitting black sweater, and sensible shoes. She also had a black scarf to cover her head if they entered the church.
The Quest: A Novel Page 25
