Nelson Demille - The Quest

Getachu lit another cigarette and took a drink from a canteen cup. He looked at them and asked with a slight British accent, “Why are you here?”

Purcell replied, “To report on the war.”

“To spy for the Royalists.”

“To report on the war.”

“Spies are shot. If they are lucky.”

“We are reporters, certified by the Provisional Revolutionary government, and we have a safe-conduct pass issued by the Derg and signed by General-”

“You have no such thing.”

Vivian said, “We do.” She asked, “Why have you arrested our colleague?”

He looked at her and said, “Shut up.”

Again, Getachu let the silence go on, then he said, “You two and your colleague were in the Royalist camp.”

Purcell replied, “We got lost. On our way here.”

“You met your colleague Colonel Gann.”

“He is not our colleague.”

“You fled with him to escape the Revolutionary Army that you say you were trying to find.”

“We fled to escape the Gallas.” Purcell also pointed out, “We climbed this mountain to find you.”

Getachu did not reply.

Purcell didn’t think he should bother to explain the actual circumstances of what had happened. General Getachu had drawn his own conclusions, and though he probably knew they were not completely accurate conclusions, they suited his paranoia.

Purcell said, “We are here to report on the war. We take no sides-”

“You have a romantic notion of the emperor and his family, and of the rasses and the ruling class.”

Purcell thought that might be true of Mercado and maybe Vivian, and certainly of Colonel Gann, but not of him. He said, “I’m an American. We don’t like royalty.”

“So do you like Marxists?”

“No.”

Getachu stared at him, then nodded. He said, “Colonel Gann has caused the death of many of my men. He has been condemned to death.”

Purcell already guessed that, but he said, “If you spare his life and expel him, I and my colleagues promise we will write-”

“You will write nothing. You are all guilty by association. And you are spies for the Royalists. And you will be court-martialed in the morning.”

Purcell saw that coming, and apparently so did Vivian, because she said in a firm, even voice, “My colleague, Mr. Mercado, is an internationally known journalist who has met frequently with members of the Derg and who has interviewed General Andom who is your superior. It was General Andom who signed the safe-conduct pass-”

“General Andom did not give Mercado-or you-permission to spy for the counterrevolutionaries.”

Purcell tried another tack. “Look, General, you won the battle, and you’ve probably won the war. The Provisional government has invited journalists to-”

“I have not invited you.”

“Then we’ll leave.”

Getachu did not reply, and Purcell had the feeling that he might be wavering. Getachu had to weigh his desire and his instinct to kill anyone he wanted to kill against the possibility that the new government did not want him to kill the three Western reporters. In any case, Colonel Gann was as good as dead.

Purcell had found himself in similar situations, each with a happy ending, or he wouldn’t be here in this situation. He recalled Mercado’s advice not to look arrestable, but he was far beyond that tipping point. He wasn’t quite sure what to say or do next, so he asked, “May I have a cigarette?”

Getachu seemed a bit taken aback, but then he slid his pack of Egyptian cigarettes toward Purcell along with a box of matches.

Purcell lit up, then said, “If you allow me access to a typewriter, I will write an article for the International Herald Tribune and the English-language newspaper in Addis, describing your victory over Prince Joshua and the Royalist forces. You may, of course, read the article, and have it delivered to my press office in Addis Ababa along with a personal note from me saying that I am traveling with General Getachu’s army at the front.”

Getachu looked at him for a long time, then looked at Vivian, then at her camera. He asked her, “And if I have this film developed in Addis, what will I see?”

Vivian replied, “Mostly our journey from the capital to an old Italian spa… then a few photos of Prince Joshua’s camp.”

“Those photographs will be good to show at your court-martial, Miss”-he glanced inside her Swiss passport-“Miss Smith.”

Vivian replied, “I am a photojournalist. I photograph-”

“Shut up.” He leaned forward and stared at her, then said, “On the far side of this camp is a tent. In this tent are ten, perhaps twelve women-those with Royalist sympathies, including a princess-and they are there for the entertainment of my soldiers.” He pushed Vivian’s camera across the desk. “Would you like to photograph what goes on inside that tent?”

Purcell stood. “General, your conduct-”

Getachu pulled his pistol and aimed it at Purcell. “Sit down.”

Purcell sat.

Getachu holstered his pistol and said, as if nothing had happened, “And you, Miss Smith, can also photograph the Royalists that you saw hanging. And also photograph Colonel Gann’s execution. And your friend Mr. Mercado’s execution as well. Would you like that?”

Vivian did not reply.

Getachu stared at her, then turned his attention to Purcell and said, “Or perhaps, as Mr. Purcell suggested, he can write very good articles about the people’s struggle against their historic oppressors. And then, perhaps, there will be no court-martial and no executions.”

Neither Purcell nor Vivian replied.

Getachu continued, “The enemies of the people must either be liquidated or made to serve the revolution.” He added, “You could be more useful alive.”

Vivian asked, “And Mr. Mercado?”

“He was once a friend of the oppressed people, but he has strayed. He needs to be reeducated.”

Purcell asked, “And Colonel Gann?”

“A difficult case. But I respect him as a soldier. And I have a certain fondness for the British.” He explained, “I attended a British missionary school.”

And apparently missed the class on good sportsmanship and fair play, Purcell thought.

Getachu added, “The headmaster was fond of the switch, but perhaps I deserved it.”

No doubt.

Getachu said, “Perhaps Colonel Gann can be persuaded to share his military knowledge with my colonels.”

Purcell said, “I will speak to him.”

Getachu ignored this and said, “Shooting a man-or a woman-is easy. I would rather see men broken.”

Purcell had no doubt that Getachu was sincere.

Getachu said, “You may go.”

Vivian said, “We want to see Mr. Mercado. And Colonel Gann.”

“You will find them in the hospital tent.”

Purcell took Vivian’s arm and turned to leave, but Getachu said, “Before you go, something that may interest you.”

They looked at him and saw he was retrieving something from the shadow beside his chair. Getachu held up a gold crown, encrusted with jewels. Purcell and Vivian recognized it as the crown of Prince Joshua.

Getachu said, “I allowed the Gallas free rein to hunt down the Royalists. All I asked in return was that they bring me the prince, dead or alive, along with his crown. And here is his crown.”

Again, Purcell and Vivian said nothing.

Getachu examined the crown under the hanging lantern as though he were considering buying it. He set it down on his desk, then said, “Let me show you something else.” He moved to the far side of the tent, and a soldier in the shadows lit a Coleman lamp.

Lying facedown on the dirt floor of the tent were three men, each naked. Getachu motioned for Purcell and Vivian to come near and they took a few steps toward the circle of light. They could see that the men’s backs and buttocks were streaked with blood as though they’d been whipped.