Nelson Demille - The Quest

“I’m not the first one to do this scholarship and come up with the same conclusions.”

“There’s a guy now writing books based on his scholarship saying that extraterrestrials visited the earth and built the pyramids.”

Mercado did not reply for a few seconds, then said, “We are all searching for answers to who we are, what our place is in this world and this universe. We hope there is more than we know and see. We hope there is a God.”

“Me too, Henry, but… okay. The Holy Grail is in Glastonbury.”

Mercado referred to his notes and continued, “This brings us to the time when the Roman legions withdrew from Britain. The Roman world is disintegrating and Britain has been invaded by various Germanic tribes. The legendary-or historical-Arthur is king of the Britons and we begin the well-known legend of Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.”

Purcell had seen the movie, but he let Henry continue.

Mercado read from his notebook, “The magician Merlin told King Arthur of the presence of the Holy Grail in Britain and bid him form the Round Table of virtuous knights to seek out the Holy Grail. The table was formed, with an empty place to represent Judas, in the tradition of the Last Supper and the table of Joseph of Arimathea. After many adventures and dangers during their quest for the Grail, one of Arthur’s knights, Sir Perceval, who was unknowingly a descendant of Joseph of Arimathea, discovered the Grail Castle and there found the Holy Grail, and also the lance of the Roman soldier, Longinus, that had pierced the side of Christ on the Cross. The lance hung suspended in thin air and dripped blood into the Grail cup.”

Purcell looked at Mercado, who had stopped reading. It must have occurred to Mercado that this was a story known by all, but believed by virtually no one in the modern world. Except maybe Henry Mercado, Father Armano, maybe Vivian, and a few select others. But Purcell understood that even if the legends were untrue, that didn’t mean that the Grail did not exist. The paving stone with Christ’s footprint existed in the physical world, as did the Shroud of Turin and a thousand other religious relics. The Grail, however, was always associated with the power to heal. So if they found the black monastery and the Grail, then they would know if it was real. Especially if there was a lance hanging above it in thin air, dripping blood. He’d believe that if he saw it.

Mercado continued, “Sir Perceval was told by the old Grail Keeper of their kinship, and when the Grail Keeper died, Sir Perceval and Sir Gauvain, perceiving that the times had grown evil, knew that the Grail must again be hidden from sinful men. The Lord came to them and told them of a ship anchored nearby the castle, and bid them take the Grail and the Lance back to the Holy Land. The two knights set off in a fog and were never seen or heard from again.”

Mercado closed his notebook.

After a few seconds, Purcell inquired, “Is that it?”

Mercado replied, “No. The Grail, and sometimes the Lance, appear again in other references throughout the Dark Ages, Middle Ages, and into modern times.”

Right, Purcell thought. Like a few months ago.

Mercado asked, “Did you find any of that interesting or useful?”

“Interesting, but not useful.”

“Do you believe any of it?”

“You lost me after Mark.”

“Why even believe in the New Testament?”

“You’re asking questions I can’t answer, Henry.”

“That’s why we’re here. To find answers.”

“The answers are not here. Half of the archives in the great Vatican Library are myths and legends. The answer is in Ethiopia.”

“The answer is in our hearts.”

“Let’s start with Ethiopia.” Purcell reminded him, “And we have less than a fifty-fifty chance of being allowed back there.”

“We are going to Ethiopia.”

“You have our visas?”

“No. But I will.” He looked at Purcell. “You don’t understand, Frank. We-you, me, Vivian, and also Colonel Gann-have been chosen to go back to Ethiopia to find the Holy Grail.”

Purcell didn’t bother to ask who had chosen them.

Mercado agreed it was time for a coffee break, and they walked out into the sunshine.

Purcell easily understood how early humans believed in the sun as God; it acted in mysterious ways, it rose and set in the heavens, and it gave life and light. The religion of the Jews, Christians, and Muslims, however, was more complex. They asked people to believe in things that could not be seen or felt like the sun on his face. They asked for faith. They asked that you believe it because it was impossible.

And on this basis, he was going back to Ethiopia.

They walked the short distance to the commissary, where they got coffee and biscotti that they took outside to a bench. The barracks of the Swiss Guard was across the lane, and Purcell watched them forming up for some occasion. The Vatican post office, too, was run by the Swiss, and he said to Henry, “Swiss efficiency and Italian biscotti. Truly a blessed place.”

Mercado responded, “The Italians are the only people on earth who have monumental egos and an inferiority complex.” He added, “I find it charming.”

“So you’re staying here?”

“I will die here or in Ethiopia.”

“Can I ask… do you have a lady here?”

He hesitated before replying, “I… have a lady of my own age whom I see whenever I’m in Rome.”

Purcell didn’t pursue that. He lit a cigarette and watched the people.

There were no tourists in this part of Vatican City, and everyone on the streets here was employed by the Vatican in one way or another or they were official visitors like himself. There were, he knew, about a thousand actual residents of this sovereign city-state, mostly clergy, including the pope’s staff or retinue, or whatever they were called. The art and the architecture here were without parallel in the world, and he understood, sitting there, why the popes and the cardinals and the hierarchy believed that this was the one true church of Jesus Christ. This was where the bones of Peter, the first pope, were buried somewhere beneath the basilica that bore his name, and Peter had taken the cup from Jesus’s hand and drunk his Lord’s blood. And so, the argument would go, this was where that same Holy Grail, if it existed, belonged. Case closed.

But even Father Armano had second thoughts about that. And so did Frank Purcell.

Mercado asked, “Are you thinking about what you’ve just learned?”

“No. I’m thinking about Father Armano and the black monastery.”

“We will get to the black monastery.”

Purcell didn’t know if Henry meant get to it in the next library seminar or get to it in Ethiopia. Hopefully the latter. He said, “Good coffee.”

“Made from holy water.”

Purcell smiled.

“And Ethiopian coffee beans.”

“Really?”

“The Italians still own and run some coffee plantations in Ethiopia. Though they’ve probably been seized by the bloody stupid Marxists.”

“Right.”

“There’s a chap lives in Addis. Signore Bocaccio. Owns coffee plantations around the country. Visits them with his airplane.”

Purcell nodded.

“They may have kicked him out, of course, or put him in jail, but if he’s still in Addis, we may want to look him up when we get there.”

“What’s he fly?”

“I don’t know. Never been up with him, but a few journalists have.”

“Would he rent the plane without him in it?”

“Ask.”

Purcell nodded. His piloting skills were not great, but he thought he could fly nearly any single-engine aircraft if someone gave him an hour or so of dual flying instructions.