Nelson Demille - The Quest

The man scanned a sheet of paper on his clipboard, said something in Italian, and waved him through.

He’d been there once before and easily found the press office on a narrow street lined with bare trees. The windows of the buildings cast squares of yellow light on the cold ground.

He was fifteen minutes late, which in Italy meant he was a bit early, but maybe not in Vatican City. The male receptionist asked him to be seated.

The offices of L’Osservatore Romano were housed in a building that may have preceded the printing press, but the interior was modern, or had been when the paper was founded a hundred years before. Electricity and telephones had been added, and the result was a modern newspaper that published in six languages and was a mixture of real news and propaganda. And not surprisingly, the pope made every issue.

A lot of articles focused on the persecution of Catholics in various countries, especially Communist Poland. Occasionally the paper covered the plight of non-Catholic Christians, and Purcell recalled that Henry Mercado had been in Ethiopia to write about the state of the Coptic Church in the newly Marxist country, as well as Ethiopia’s small Catholic population. Now Henry was writing press releases about the Holy Year. Purcell was sure that Mercado would like to return to Ethiopia to continue his important coverage. And hadn’t Henry promised General Getachu a few puff pieces about the general’s military prowess?

Mercado came into the waiting room wearing a cardigan over his shirt and tie. They shook hands and Mercado showed Purcell into his windowless office, a small room piled high with books and papers, giving it the look of a storage closet. He could see why Henry was in Harry’s Bar at 4 P.M.

Mercado shut off his IBM electric typewriter and said, “Throw your coat anywhere.” He spun his desk chair around and faced his guest who sat in the only other chair. Purcell asked, “Mind if I smoke?”

Mercado waved his arm around the paper-strewn room and replied, “You’ll set the whole Vatican on fire.”

But he did have a bottle of Boodles in his desk drawer and he poured into two water glasses.

Mercado held up his glass and said, “Benvenuto.”

“Cheers.”

They drank and Mercado asked, “Are you here to tell me you’ve come to your senses?”

“No.”

“All right.” He informed Purcell, “Then I’ve decided to go to Ethiopia.”

Purcell was not completely surprised that Mercado had changed his mind. In fact, he hadn’t. Whatever it was that had taken hold of him that night at the mineral spa still had him, and Henry, like Vivian, had been transformed by Father Armano and by that admittedly strange experience that Henry and Vivian took as a sign.

Mercado continued, “But I can’t promise you that I will go any farther than Addis. I am not keen on going back into Getachu territory.”

“I thought you wanted to write a nice piece about him.”

“I do. His obituary.” He tapped a stack of papers on his desk and said, “I am calling in favors and pulling some strings to get you and Vivian accredited with L’Osservatore Romano.”

“Good. I just lost my AP job.”

“How did you do that?”

“Easy.”

“All right, we will be covering the religious beat, of course, and your starting salary is zero, but all expenses are paid to and in Ethiopia.”

“And back.”

“Your optimism amazes me.” He asked, “Should I finalize this?”

“Where do I sign?”

Mercado finished his gin and contemplated another, then reminded Purcell, “This will all be moot if we can’t get visas.”

“It’s a good first step.”

“And L’Osservatore Romano will look good on our visa applications.”

“Si.”

Mercado smiled, then asked, “Are you sure Vivian wants to go?”

“She said so in her letter.”

“Have you heard from her?”

“I have not.”

“Can you contact her?”

“I’ll try her last known address. A P.O. box in Geneva.”

Mercado nodded and said, “Tell her to come to Rome.”

Purcell replied, “Tutte le strade conducono a Roma.”

“Did you practice that?”

“I did.” Purcell asked, “Are you all right with this?”

“I told you, old man, I’m over it.”

Purcell didn’t think so, and he had issues of his own with Vivian.

Mercado, in fact, asked, “Are you all right with Vivian coming along?”

“No problem.”

“I’m not sure I’m understanding your relationship.”

“That makes two of us. Probably three.”

“All right… By the way, how did you make out with that lady? Jean?”

“She had to go back to England.” Purcell added, “She did nothing but talk about you.”

Mercado smiled.

Purcell asked, “What do you think our chances are of actually getting a visa?”

“I think you were right about the regime change. They seem to want to smooth things over with the West.”

“They’re just playing the third world game-flirting with the West while they’re in bed with the Russians.”

“Of course. But that could work for us.”

Purcell asked, “Would you be suspicious if those visas were granted?”

“ ‘Will you walk into my parlor? said the spider to the fly.’ ”

“Precisely.”

“Well, if you want my opinion, old man, this whole idea is insane. But I think we’ve decided, so save your paranoia for Ethiopia.”

“Right.”

“And have you thought about why you are going back into the jaws of death?”

“I already told you.”

“Again, please.”

“To find the Holy Grail, Henry, to heal my troubled soul. Same as you.”

“Well, we should save this discussion for when Vivian joins us.”

Purcell did not reply.

Mercado poured two more gins and said, “I’m going to ask Colonel Gann to join us in Rome.”

“Why?”

“I think he’d be a good resource before we set out. Also, I’d like to see him and thank him.”

“Me too.”

“I want you to buy him a spectacular dinner at the Hassler.”

“Don’t you have an expense account, Henry?”

“Yes, a rather good one, which is why they’re putting me up at the Excelsior until I find an appartamento.”

It seemed to Purcell that Henry Mercado had more influence at L’Osservatore Romano than his office or his job would indicate. The thought occurred to him that Henry had spoken to someone here about their Ethiopian adventure, including-contrary to what Mercado had told him-the appearance and death of Father Giuseppe Armano. If that were true, then someone here had probably gotten excited about pursuing this story. And maybe Henry had been stringing his bosses along, like the old trickster he was, sucking silver out of the Vatican treasury. And he’d been at it for a few months, and the time had come to put up or get out.

Purcell asked, “Will you do a piece on Father Armano for your paper?”

“Of course. But not until we get back, obviously. And you?”

“I work here, Henry. Remember?”

“That’s right.” He drained his glass. “We’ll do a series of stunning articles together-yours in English and mine in Italian, and they will be translated into every world language, and you will achieve the fame and respect that has always eluded you, and I will add to my global reputation.”

Purcell smiled.

“We’ll do the talk show circuit. Who carries the Grail?”

“Vivian.”

“Yes, the pretty girl. And we’ll do a slideshow with her photography.”

Neither man spoke, and Purcell thought about what would actually happen if they did find the black monastery and somehow got possession of the Coptic monks’ Holy Grail. He said to Mercado, “Be careful what you wish for.”