Nelson Demille - The Quest

The priest stayed silent for some time, then said, “So… so they brought me to it, and I saw it… and it was the thing that was written in the letter… and I fell to my knees and prayed, and the monks prayed with me… and the pain of the blow to my head vanished… and my soul was at peace.”

Father Armano smiled and closed his eyes, as though reliving the peace that had filled him then. His body shook, then he lay motionless.

Mercado felt for a heartbeat and Purcell felt for a pulse. They looked at each other, and Mercado said, “Dead.”

They waited for more light so they could bury him.

Vivian remained at the priest’s side, holding his hand, which was still warm. She felt something-his fingers tightening the grip on her hand. “Henry.”

“Yes?”

“He’s… squeezing my hand.”

“Rigor mortis. Let go, Vivian.”

She tried to pull her hand out of the priest’s grip, but he held tightly. She pressed her cheek on his forehead which was still burning with fever. “Henry… he’s alive.”

“No-”

The priest suddenly opened his eyes and stared up at the sunlight coming through the open ceiling.

Purcell quickly gave him water and they knelt beside him. Mercado said, “Father-can you speak?”

He nodded, then said in a weak voice, “I have seen it… it was very bright. It was the sun in Berini. I went home… it was so beautiful…”

No one responded.

“My sister, Anna… you must go to her and tell her. She wishes to hear from you.”

Mercado said, “We will go to her.”

He nodded, then seemed to remember what he needed them to know. He licked his cracked lips and spoke. “So then… I was taken into the jungle and given over to some soldiers of the emperor’s army. I thought I was being released… being exchanged, perhaps, for Ethiopian prisoners who were held by our army… but I was taken to a local ras, a prince named Theodore who kept a small garrison in the jungle…” He paused in thought, then continued, “That was almost forty years ago. And last night I walked out of that fortress.” Father Armano looked at Mercado, Purcell, and Vivian and said, “So now you know it, and I can rest in peace. You must go to Berini and tell them what happened to Giuseppe Armano. And go also to the Vatican. Tell them I found the black monastery… and saw the relic.”

Purcell felt that he had missed something in the story or the translation. He looked at Vivian, but she only shrugged.

Mercado asked, “Father, what was in the monastery?”

Father Armano looked up. “You will never find it. And you should not look for it.”

“What was it that you saw?”

Father Armano did not reply directly, but said, “My head was bleeding from the blow of the club. The iron helmet took the blow, but still I cut my head somehow. They touched some of it to my head and the pain was gone and the wound healed immediately… and the monks said I was one of the blessed. One who believed…”

Purcell listened to the translation and said, “Maybe he didn’t understand the question, Henry.”

Mercado let out a breath of exasperation. “Frank-” He turned to the priest. “Please tell us what it was, Father.”

The priest smiled. “Of course you want to know what it was. But it has caused so much suffering already. It is blessed and cursed at the same time. Cursed, not of itself, but cursed because of the greed and treachery of men. It should stay where it is. It is meant to stay hidden until men become less evil… The monks said this to me.”

“What was it?” asked Mercado firmly.

He asked for water. Vivian gave him all he wanted, and he drank too much of it, but no one stopped him. The priest closed his eyes, then said in a soft voice, “The Holy Grail… the sacred vessel which Christ himself used at the Last Supper… It is filled with his most precious blood. It can heal mortal wounds and calm troubled souls. If you believe. And the lance that the Roman soldier, Longinus, used to pierce the side of our Lord… it hangs above the Grail, and the lance drips a never-ending flow of blood into the Grail. I have seen this, and I have experienced this miracle.” He looked at Mercado. “Do you believe this, Henry?”

Mercado did not reply.

The priest said, in a surprisingly clear voice, “If you find it, you will believe in it. But I would advise you to leave here. Go to Rome, to the Vatican, and tell them I found it, and that it is safe where it was. And then forget all that I have said.” He asked, “Will you do this?”

No one replied.

“And go to Berini.” Father Armano blessed them, then recited the Lord’s Prayer in Latin and closed his eyes.

The sun was yellow now and small birds, nesting in the cavernous lobby ceiling, flew around the ruined vaults overhead and made morning noises at the new sun.

They knelt around the old priest and spoke to him, but he did not answer, and within the next quarter hour he died peacefully.

Vivian bent over and kissed the old priest’s cold forehead.

Henry Mercado retrieved a short spade from the Jeep, and Frank Purcell carried the body of the dead priest, wrapped in the blanket, into the courtyard of the spa.

Vivian chose a spot in the overgrown garden near the dry fountain, and Purcell dug a grave deep enough to keep the jackals from the body.

Purcell, Mercado, and Vivian lowered the body into the grave and took turns filling it with the red African earth. When they were done, Mercado said a short prayer over the grave.

Vivian wiped her sweating face, then picked up her camera and took photographs of the unmarked grave and the surrounding ruins. They had agreed not to make notes of this encounter, in case they or their notebooks fell into the wrong hands, and Purcell wasn’t sure Vivian should be taking pictures, but he said nothing. She said, “We can show these to his family.” She added, “They may want to bring the body home.”

Purcell didn’t think that after forty years there was anyone in Berini who would want to do that. But it was possible, and nice of Vivian to think of it.

Mercado looked at the grave, then said to his companions, “I somehow feel that we killed him with our prodding… and all that water…”

Purcell replied, “He was a dead man when we found him, Henry.” He added, “We did what he wanted us to do. We listened to him.” He reminded Mercado, “He wanted us to let his people know what happened to him. And we’ll do that.”

Vivian sat on a stone garden bench and stared at the grave. She said, “He also wanted us to know about the black monastery… and the Grail. He wanted us to go to Rome… the Vatican, and tell them that Father Giuseppe Armano had found what they sent him to find.”

Purcell glanced at Mercado and he was sure they were both thinking the same thing: They weren’t going to break this story to the Vatican. At least not now. In fact, Father Armano himself had suggested that the Grail was safe where it was, meaning leave it there.

Mercado sat beside Vivian, looked around at the crumbling faux-Roman spa, and said, “This is a fitting place to bury him.” He asked, “Well, what do we think about what Father Armano said?”

No one replied, and Mercado prompted, “About the black monastery… and the Holy Grail?”

Purcell lit a cigarette. “Well… I think his story was basically true… I mean about the cardinal, the pope, his war experiences, and the monastery. But he sort of lost me with the Lance of Longinus dripping blood into the Holy Grail.”

Mercado thought a moment, then nodded and said, “I’m supposed to be the believer, but… you know, in the Gulag, there was a prisoner who said he’d been sent there for trying to kill Stalin. But he was actually there for pilfering state property-twenty years. But you see, he needed a crime big enough to fit the sentence, instead of the other way around.”