Nelson Demille - The Quest

Gann noticed Mercado’s anxiety and assured him, “We’re not getting off that easily, Mr. Mercado.”

Mercado did not reply.

Vivian looked at Purcell and said, “You gave me courage, Frank.”

He didn’t reply.

Vivian said to Gann, “You’re very brave.”

“Thank you, but you were seeing more anger than bravery.” He added, “Men like that are taking over the world.”

That might be true, Purcell thought. He’d seen the Getachus of Southeast Asia, and they seemed to be springing up everywhere. Or maybe they’d been around since the beginning of time. He’d written about these men and about their so-called ideologies without comment or judgment. He reported. Maybe, he thought, if he got out of here, he should start being more judgmental. But then he’d sound like Henry Mercado.

Purcell looked at Mercado, who was sitting on a pile of fresh earth, staring off into space, unaware that there was probably a rotting corpse under his ass. No one had told Henry how brave he’d been. Maybe because he hadn’t been. But he had lied, boldly and recklessly, to Getachu about Father Armano. And Vivian had loyally backed him up on that lie. It was a good lie and the right lie, but Purcell knew that Mercado had lied for the wrong reason. So, this being the private moment that Getachu had offered them, he said to Mercado, “You put us in some jeopardy, Henry, by lying about the priest.”

Clearly, Henry Mercado had nothing to say to Frank Purcell, but he replied for everyone’s benefit, “Getachu has no way to discover the truth.”

“Well, he does if he hangs us all from a post for a few days.”

Mercado said impatiently, “It may have occurred to you that even if I told him what little we knew, he wouldn’t have released us.”

“Right. In fact we’d be here forever. But you’re not answering my question, Henry. Why did you risk lying to him about Father Armano and the black monastery?”

Mercado replied sharply, “You know damned well why.”

“I do, but if we do get out of here, none of us should be coming back to find the black monastery.”

Mercado glanced at Gann and said to Purcell, “I don’t know if we’re getting out of here or if I’m ever coming back, but I don’t want them to find it.”

Henry Mercado, Purcell knew, was comforted by thinking he was protecting the Holy Grail from the Antichrist, or whatever, and he could go to his martyrdom happy in the knowledge that when he met Jesus he could say, “I saved your cup.”

Colonel Gann could feel the tension between the two men, and he knew the cause of it, which was a very old story; one chap had cuckolded the other, and to make matters worse, the lady in question was not declaring herself for one or the other. Awkward, he thought, and though he was sure he had far greater issues to worry about, it made him uncomfortable nonetheless.

To clear the air on at least one thing, however, Gann said, “As I’ve acknowledged to Mr. Purcell, I know about the black monastery, and though it’s well hidden in the jungle, Getachu will eventually find it. You can be sure of that.”

No one responded, and Gann continued, “As you may also have heard, perhaps from this Father Armano, there is a legend that this monastery is the resting place of the Holy Grail.”

Again, no one responded, and Gann went on, “Can’t say I believe in all that, but I can assure you that whenever the revolutionary bastards here show up at a church or monastery, the priests and monks make off with their earthly treasures.”

Purcell figured as much. There were two things the churches were good at: acquiring gold and keeping gold. Half the world’s priceless religious objects had been on the lam at one time or another. And there was no reason to think that this would be any different when the Ethiopian revolutionaries got close to the black monastery. Same if Henry Mercado or Vivian got close. Poof! The Grail disappears again.

Purcell said to Mercado, “We are getting out of here, and I can guarantee you I’m never coming back. My advice to you and to Vivian is to forget you ever met Father Armano or ever heard of the black monastery. This is not a good thing to know about.”

Mercado did not reply.

Purcell added, “God is not telling you to find the Holy Grail, Henry. He is telling you to go home.”

“And I’m telling you to mind your own business.”

Purcell changed the subject to something more immediate and asked Gann, “Do you think Getachu is at all concerned about overstepping his authority?”

“That’s the question, isn’t it? Well, I can tell you that he can’t overstep his power, which is absolute here, as you see. But he can overstep his authority and get on the wrong side of the Derg and his rival, General Andom. Not that those two care about us, or about international law, but Andom has to decide if it would be good for him or bad for him if Getachu kills us.”

Vivian asked, “Do we think anyone outside of the Revolutionary government even knows we’re here?”

Mercado reminded everyone, “Our press offices know we were heading this way, and we mentioned to some of our colleagues that we had a safe-conduct pass to make contact with General Getachu.”

Which, Purcell thought, meant very little. Basically, they were all freelancers, which worked well except when they got in trouble or went missing. Possibly, if they didn’t show up in the Hilton bar in a week or so, someone might think to contact their respective embassies if they could remember their drinking buddies’ nationalities.

As for himself, Purcell was aware that the American embassy in Addis was barely open, and not on good terms with the new government. If he wasn’t wearing leg shackles, he’d have kicked himself in the ass for making this trip.

And as for Mercado with his UK passport, and Vivian with her Swiss passport, any requests for information made by their respective embassies to the Ethiopian government would be met by indifference on a good day, and hostility and lies on most days.

Bottom line here, Purcell thought, there was no outside help on the way. Mercado should know that, but maybe Vivian should not.

The sun was higher and hotter now, and the temperature at the bottom of the ravine had to be over a hundred degrees. Purcell noticed that most of Vivian’s white ointment was gone, and her face and arms were getting redder. He called up to the soldiers at the top of the ravine, “ Weha! ”

They looked down at him, then one of them unhooked a canteen from his belt and threw it to him.

He gave the canteen to Vivian, and she drank, but then seemed uncertain who to pass it to. Old lover? New lover? She gave it to Gann. He drank and passed it to Mercado, who drank and held it out for Purcell to take.

Purcell finished the last few ounces, then suggested to Mercado, “Give Vivian your shirt for her head.”

Mercado seemed angry at being told by Purcell to be a gentleman, and he snapped, “Give her your own shirt.”

Purcell would have, if he’d had a shirt, but he had a shamma , and no underwear, and he didn’t want to bring that up. He stared at Mercado, who started to unbutton his khaki shirt.

But Gann had already taken off his uniform shirt and handed it to Vivian, who said, “Thank you,” and draped it over her head.

Purcell understood Mercado’s anger, but it amazed him that the man could hold on to it while he was contemplating a firing squad or worse. But on second thought, men are men. He thought, too, that if he had a chance to do last night over, he’d do the same thing, but twice. No regrets. He wondered if he could convince Mercado that what happened last night was God’s will.

He looked at Vivian sitting at the side of the ravine, closer to Mercado than to him. They made eye contact, and she held it, then looked away.