Nelson Demille - The Quest

Purcell changed the subject. “We should go see Gann in London.”

Mercado kept to the subject, “I didn’t do anything wrong and I spent a month in the foulest prison I’ve ever seen, while you and Vivian-”

“Was it that long? Well, we’ve both been in worse places.”

“Where did you go after you left Addis?”

“I went to Cairo.”

“Alone?”

“No.” Purcell explained, “It wasn’t our choice to go there… or to go together,” which was partly a lie. He said, “Cairo seems to be the dumping ground for people expelled from Ethiopia.” He asked, “Where did they send you?”

“Cairo.”

“I wish I’d known you were there.”

“I was there two hours and took the first flight to London.” Mercado asked, “Why did you stay?”

“I needed a job. So I contacted the AP office, and the bureau chief, Gibson, was looking for a freelancer.” He added, “He’s expecting another war with Israel, and I am a very good war correspondent.”

Mercado didn’t respond to that, nor did he ask why Vivian stayed in Cairo. In fact, she had told Purcell she was excited about photographing the pyramids and all that, plus she wanted to be his photographer if another war broke out. Also, they were in love.

The waiter brought their drinks and Purcell saw that Henry was still drinking gin and Schweppes. Purcell raised his glass and Mercado hesitated, then did the same. Purcell said, “To freedom.”

“And life.”

They touched glasses and sat back in their chairs and watched Rome go by.

Rome, Purcell had noticed, wasn’t as garishly decorated for Christmas as, say, London or New York. He’d like to be in one city or another for the holiday, and he had thought he’d be with Vivian, but that didn’t look likely. Christmas in Cairo would not be festive.

He thought back to Addis. The whole two weeks had a surreal feeling. They’d all been taken from the helicopter in separate vehicles, still in chains, to the grim central prison and kept in separate cells, unable to communicate. Some prosecutor with a loose grasp of English had interrogated him every day and told him that his friends had all confessed to their crimes, whatever they were, and had implicated him.

The prison had an enclosed courtyard, with a gallows, and one or two men were hanged each day. He asked Mercado, “Did you have a room with a view of the hangings?”

“I did. Hoped I’d see you.”

They both smiled.

Purcell lit a cigarette and stirred his drink.

After a week in prison, with no bath or shower, rancid food, and putrid water, a nice lady from the American embassy arrived and escorted him, still barefoot and wearing his shamma , to a waiting car and took him to the Hilton a few blocks away.

The lady, Anne, had instructed him to stay in his room, which the hotel had held for him and were billing him for. She didn’t suggest a bath, but she did suggest he call a doctor to his room for a checkup. In answer to his questions about Vivian, Gann, and Henry Mercado, she replied, “Miss Smith is here. The others remain in custody.”

She offered to walk him to the front desk, but he declined, and she handed him his passport and wished him luck.

He walked barefoot in his shamma to the front desk, where the clerk said, “Welcome back, Mr. Purcell,” and gave him his key.

His room had been searched and most of his possessions had been taken, including his notebooks, but that was the least of his problems.

He had waited a full day before calling Vivian, and they met in her room for drinks because they were both confined to quarters, and in any case neither of them wanted to run into their colleagues in the bar, or the security police in the lobby.

Vivian, too, had had her room ransacked and all her film had been taken, which made her angry, but she, too, understood that their real problem was getting out of Ethiopia.

As he’d finished his drink, she’d reminded him, “As I said, nothing is going to happen between us here.”

“I understand.”

Later, in bed, she told him, “When they release Henry…”

“I understand.”

“Sorry.”

“Me too.”

But they didn’t release Henry, and a week later Purcell and Vivian were officially expelled from Ethiopia and found themselves on an EgyptAir flight to Cairo.

Purcell said to Mercado now, “Vivian and I made daily inquiries to the British embassy about you and Gann, and they assured us you were both well, and they were working on your release.” He added, “We were worried about you.”

“And you didn’t want me showing up unexpectedly.”

Which was true, but Purcell stuck to the subject and said, “I was sure they were going to shoot Gann. Or hang him.”

“All’s well that ends well.”

“Right.” Purcell looked out at the Roman wall that surrounded the city. He realized that the bricks of the ancient city wall looked exactly like the bricks of the Italian-built prison in Addis. He pointed this out to Mercado and said, “The Italians know how to build.”

Mercado did not respond.

“Those mineral baths were impressive.”

“Don’t get nostalgic on me, Frank.”

“Henry… have you thought about going back?”

Mercado stayed silent for a moment, then replied, “I have, actually. But it’s obviously too risky.”

“Well, if you decide to go back, let me know.”

“You’ll be the last to know.”

The waiter came by and Purcell ordered two more. He asked Mercado, “Did you hear the news out of Ethiopia today?”

“I did not.”

“Well, a guy named General Banti took over the military council and announced a new government. Same group of thugs in the Derg, but with different leaders, and I’m thinking it may be possible now to go back if these new guys are not as crazy as the last bunch.”

“Speaking of crazy.”

“Just a thought.” He informed Mercado, “The big story is the Mideast. The canal is still closed and Sadat is saying things like, ‘Mideast time bomb.’ He’s pissed off at all the Russian Jews immigrating to Israel. It really looks like there could be another war.”

“If there is, cover this one from Cairo.”

“Right. Those safe-conduct passes to the front don’t work that well.” He smiled, then said, “I hear you’re working for L’Osservatore Romano.”

“Yes. I’m doing some English-language stuff for them on the coming Holy Year. Mostly press releases.”

“Bored?”

“I like Rome.”

“Cairo sucks.” He asked, “Are you working on anything else?”

“You mean like our Ethiopian adventure?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“No, I’m not. But I expected to see something from you about that.”

“I’m holding off,” Purcell replied. “I wanted to speak to you first.”

“You don’t need my permission or my collaboration.”

“I thought we’d do something together.”

“I’m not interested.”

“Really?”

Mercado thought a moment, then said, “If you-we-wrote about this, then not only Getachu but a lot of other bastards and idiots would be smashing through the jungle looking for the black monastery.”

Purcell nodded. He’d certainly thought about that. He said to Mercado, “Getachu may have already found it.”

“Perhaps. But if he did, I think we’d have heard that an important religious object was for sale.”

“A lot of that stuff is sold privately,” Purcell reminded him.

“True. And this one goes to the Vatican.” He added, “Or perhaps the monks have spirited it away.”

“Well, we could go check.”

“Not interested.”

“All right.” He asked Mercado, “Did you report Father Armano’s death to the Vatican?”