Nelson Demille - The Quest

Mercado glanced at his companions, then said to the prince, “I see… but… that puts us in a rather tight situation…”

“Well, I am sorry for that, Mr. Mercado.”

Purcell said, “We certainly understand that your situation is worse than ours. But we would like to be able to tell your story and tell of the bravery of the Royal forces. So if you could spare a few armed men-”

The prince interrupted, “I will see what I can do to get you into the army forces. From there, perhaps, you can get a helicopter or a resupply convoy to the capital. I have no wish to see you die here with me.” He spoke the words simply, but they were strained. He asked, “Any news of the emperor?”

Mercado replied, “He is still well. The army moves him from one palace to another in and near the capital, but he is reported in good health. A fellow journalist saw him last week.”

“Good.” He sipped his scotch. “I have here another Englishman. A Colonel Sir Edmund Gann. Do you know him?”

Mercado nodded. “Heard of him, yes.”

“He is my military advisor. He is out inspecting the positions. I told him there were no positions left to inspect, but he insisted.” The prince shook his head at the lunacy. “The English are sometimes strange.”

Purcell lifted his glass. “I’ll drink to that.”

“He is overdue now. But when he comes, I will try to make plans to get you all to safety if I can.”

“Thank you, Ras.” Mercado felt the old sadness return. It was the Spanish Civil War again; Mount Aradam, 1936; the trapped men at Dunkirk; fleeing Tibet with the Dalai Lama. All the losing causes met here on this hilltop. And always, he, Henry Mercado, had slipped away at the last moment while brave and doomed men waved at him and wished him bon voyage. But he had gotten his. Berlin, 1946. With a lousy U.S. Army surplus Kodak camera. He no longer felt any guilt at slipping away. He felt relief. “Yes. That would be fine.”

“And if you should get away from here, write a good story about the emperor and his army-as you did when the Italians invaded.”

“I will do that.”

“Good.” The prince rose. “I must see to my duty.”

Purcell, Mercado, and Vivian stood and bowed. As the prince was turning to leave, Vivian called to him, “Prince Joshua?”

“Yes?”

“You must know of a Prince Theodore. He fought the Italians when they invaded and he had a fortress in the jungle a few days’ march from here.”

The prince nodded. “Theodore was my uncle. He was killed fighting the Italians with a band of partisans in 1937. My cousin, also Theodore, still keeps the garrison in the jungle. It is a fine fortress. Cement and stone. Why do you ask?”

“I heard there was fighting there. I just wondered if you knew of it.”

“No. I have heard nothing. I would not even know which side controlled the fortress or who attacked it. Why are you asking?”

“Oh, I just thought that if perhaps the fighting were over, we could find sanctuary there.”

“I think not. Excuse me.”

“Prince Joshua?”

The prince turned and breathed a sigh of impatience. “Yes, madam?”

“There is also a monastery in the area. We thought, perhaps, we could reach that. A monastery of black stone, I think.”

“There is no such place. You will be joined by Sir Edmund shortly and you can ask him your questions. Excuse me.” He turned and left.

Purcell wiped the sweat from his neck. “You are a pushy bitch, Vivian. But good questions.”

Mercado sat down on a cushion and said to Vivian, “The man is contemplating a Galla massacre or an army firing squad and you have to annoy him. Really, you are insensitive.”

Vivian sat also and poured another scotch. “We aren’t exactly at the Hilton in Addis, you know, Henry. His fate could very well be ours.”

“Yes. You’re right, of course. But we have a chance.”

Purcell sat on the low table and helped himself to the scotch. He said, “Well, at least we know that the garrison in the jungle is real.”

They could hear excited noises outside the tent and the unmistakable sounds of military deterioration. Arguments broke out, and at least one disagreement was settled with a gun. Tents around them were being plundered by the fleeing soldiers, but the flag of the Lion of Judah kept their tent inviolate for the time being, though they felt their perimeter of safety shrinking as they sat sipping scotch in the hot, fetid enclosure.

Purcell said to Mercado, “You were right, Henry. This is where the story is. And I think we’re about to be part of it.”

Mercado did not reply.

Vivian said, “I’d like to get some photographs.”

Purcell motioned toward a row of ceremonial shields and spears leaning against the tent wall. “Henry, dress up a bit.”

Again, Mercado did not reply, but he said to Vivian, “You will not leave this tent.”

Purcell suggested they look around to see if there were any other weapons in the tent aside from the spears.

Mercado said firmly, “We cannot be found carrying a firearm. We are journalists.”

“Everyone else has one.”

“That’s the point, Frank. We can’t shoot our way out of here.” He added, “This is not an American cowboys and Indians movie.”

Purcell stayed silent for a moment, then said, “I was thinking more along the lines of avoiding a fate worse than death.”

No one replied, then Mercado said, “You’re being a bit fatalistic, Frank.” He asked, “What would you like to do?”

Purcell thought a moment, then replied, “There’s only one option left.”

“What is that?”

“Another round.” He emptied the remaining scotch into the three bronze goblets and said, “I hope those lances can drip more scotch into our cups.”

“Don’t be blasphemous.”

Purcell took one of the spears and stuck it in the ground next to the table. They all sat on the tabletop, facing the closed tent flap.

Purcell had no idea who would come through that flap-mutinous soldiers, Colonel Gann, the prince, or Gallas. With luck, the cavalry in the form of the government soldiers would arrive and Henry would wave his press credentials and safe-conduct pass and remember how to say in Amharic, “Thank you for rescuing us from the prince.”

Meanwhile, the sounds of desertion and disintegration outside the tent were growing quieter. In fact, ominously quiet.

Vivian said, “I think we’re alone.”

The tent flap opened and Purcell said, “Not anymore.” He reached for the spear.

A tall, thin man wearing a sweat-stained khaki uniform stooped and entered. He glanced at the spear in Purcell’s hands, then said in a British accent, “Hello. I think we’ve lost the war.”

Purcell noted that Colonel Sir Edmund Gann wore a reddish mustache and carried a riding crop. He was hatless, but there was a tan line on his forehead, so he’d lost his hat somewhere, though not his service revolver, which he wore on his hip. He also had a pair of field glasses hanging around his neck. Purcell stuck the spear back in the ground and stood.

Mercado introduced himself, and Colonel Gann said, “Yes, I’ve read your stuff.”

“Thank you.” Mercado introduced his companions, and Vivian said to Colonel Gann, “If you’ve read Henry’s stuff, I like you already.”

Colonel Gann forced a smile and told them, “We have to move quickly.” He informed everyone, “There are several hundred nasty-looking Gallas less than a thousand yards from here.”

No one replied, but Purcell saw that Mercado had gone pale.

Colonel Gann added, “But they are dismounted and moving slowly.” He explained, “Stripping corpses, finishing off the wounded, and looking for booty.”