Nelson Demille - The Quest

“They can’t even help themselves. They’re finished. Hunted down like dogs.” He said, “You need to stay here. To help us all here.”

“I’ll leave you here in God’s hands.”

Vivian returned and embraced Mercado, saying to Purcell, “We need to get them some water, Frank.”

“All right. Stay here.”

He headed up the slope of the amphitheater, got his bearings, and walked west toward the hospital tent-the only oasis of humanity in this desert of death. Though to be less cynical, probably any man here would offer water, as the soldiers did at the outpost. These were not bad people, but war, as he’d seen too many times, in too many places, changes people.

Whenever he started to believe in humanity, he thought of the Khmer Rouge who murdered millions of their own people. And now he’d made the acquaintance of the Gallas, who were a barbaric throwback to the dark side of humanity. In fact, he admitted, his chances of making it to Gondar and Addis were nil.

Faith , said Henry Mercado. A higher power is watching over us. There is a reason for all this . Well, he thought, it better be a very good reason. And, he supposed, Henry, and also Vivian, thought the reason had to do with them coming upon Father Armano, which Purcell thought was pure chance, but which Henry and Vivian believed was divinely ordained. In any case, they’d see in the morning who was right.

He reached the hospital tent and helped himself to two canteens of water that he found among what was called the muddied and bloodied-the discarded uniforms and field gear of the dead and wounded.

He looked, too, for a knife or bayonet, or anything else that could be useful, but the pile had been picked over.

Purcell wrapped the canteens in a fatigue shirt and made his way back.

He wasn’t quite sure why Getachu had allowed him and Vivian to wander around freely, but his experience with sadistic despots had always had an element of inconsistency-random acts of cruelty, tempered with expansive acts of kindness. The despot wants to be feared, but also loved for his mercy. The despot wants to be like God.

Purcell got back to the parade ground and handed a canteen to Vivian, who held it to Mercado’s lips.

Purcell moved to the Ethiopian, but it appeared that the man was dead. Purcell put his hand on the man’s chest, then put his ear to his still heart.

Gann, on the next pole, called out, “Saw him go through his death throes.”

Purcell moved to Gann and held the canteen to his lips while he drank.

Gann said, “Save some of that.”

Purcell assured him, “This will all be over in the morning.”

“Indeed.”

There wasn’t much else to say, so Purcell moved toward Vivian, who was washing Mercado’s face with the water.

Purcell stood there, watching this display of womanly compassion and grief. Pietà . Which he knew in Italian meant both pity and piety. The dying son or husband, the warrior or father, comforted in the hour of death by the mother or wife, the pious woman, filled with love and pity. We should all be so fortunate, Purcell thought, to die like that.

He said to Vivian and to Mercado, “I’m going to go up on that platform and get some sleep.” He assured Mercado, “I’m here if you need anything.” He gave Gann the same assurance, then climbed the three steps onto the crudely built platform. The moon was overhead now and illuminated the large, empty field.

He counted ten poles running in front of the platform. Gann was to his left, standing straight, and the Ethiopian was also to his left, hanging dead by his wrists. He wondered what the man had done to suffer a death like that. Probably not much. To his immediate front was Henry Mercado, barely ten feet away, and he could hear Vivian speaking softly to him as she stroked his face. Mercado said something now and then, but Purcell couldn’t hear the words, and in any case he didn’t want to eavesdrop on their private moment-if one could call this place of public punishment and death private. He did hope, however, that Mercado was man enough, like Gann, to suffer in dignity, and that his words to his lover were as comforting as hers to him.

Purcell spread the shirt from the hospital on the logs that made up the floor of the platform and lay down. He was fatigued beyond sleep and found he couldn’t put his mind to rest.

At some point, maybe fifteen minutes later, Vivian joined him and without a word lay down beside him, though the platform was large.

He shifted to his left and said to her, “Lie on this shirt.”

She moved onto the shirt and lay on her back, staring at the sky.

A wind came down from the surrounding mountains, and she said, “I’m cold. Move closer to me.”

He moved closer to her, and she rolled on her side, facing him, and he did the same, and they wrapped their bare legs and arms around each other and drew closer for warmth.

He could feel her heart beating, and her breathing, and her breasts pressing against him. Their shammas had ridden up to their thighs, and she rubbed her legs and feet over his, then rolled on her back with him on top.

He hesitated, then kissed her, and she threw her arms around his neck and held her lips against his.

He pulled both their shammas up to their waists and entered her without resistance. She raised her legs, then crossed them over his buttocks and pulled him down farther as he thrust deeper into her.

Her body began to tremble, then stiffened, and suddenly went loose as she let out a long moan. He came inside her and they lay still, breathing heavily into the cool night air.

“My God…” Tears ran down her cheeks.

They lay on their backs, side by side, holding hands, staring up at the starry sky.

They hadn’t spoken a word, and Purcell thought there was nothing to say, but finally he said, “Try to get some sleep.”

“I need to check on Henry. And Colonel Gann.”

He sat up. “I can do that.”

She stood, took the canteen, and said, “Be right back.”

Purcell stood as she descended the steps, and he watched her as she moved first toward Gann.

The moon was in the west now and it cast moonshadows down the line of poles. Purcell realized that Mercado had walked himself around his pole and was now facing the platform.

Vivian checked on Gann, then moved slowly toward Mercado, who was not looking at her but looking up at him.

Was it possible, he wondered, that Mercado had seen-or heard-what happened?

Vivian approached Mercado and he seemed to notice her for the first time.

As she lifted the canteen to his lips and touched his face, he said in a surprisingly strong voice, “Get away from me.”

She spoke to him softly, but he shook his head and wouldn’t drink from the canteen. She tried again, but again he said, “Get away from me.”

Finally, she turned and moved back to the platform, and Purcell noticed that she was walking slowly, with her head down.

He glanced at Mercado, who was looking at him again, and they made eye contact in the bright moonlight.

Purcell turned and watched Vivian come up the steps. She threw the canteen on the floor, then lay down on the shirt and stared up at the sky.

Purcell knelt a few feet from her and said, “Sorry.”

She didn’t reply.

He put ten feet between them and lay on his back.

He heard her say, “Not your fault.”

No, he thought, it certainly was not. He said, “Get some sleep. We’re going to have a long day.”

“We’ll all be dead tomorrow. Then none of this matters.”

“We will be in Addis tomorrow.”

“I think not.” She asked him, “Will you make love to me again?”

“No… not here. In Addis.”

“If we get out of here, this won’t happen again.”