Nelson Demille - The Quest

They drove back to Rome on New Year’s Day and returned to the Hotel Forum in midafternoon.

There was a handwritten message at the desk from Henry that said, “Col. Gann will arrive at Fiumicino Jan. 4. Staying at Excelsior. Dinner at Hassler Roof 8 P.M. Call me when you’ve returned. Can you go to Berini next week? Good news about our visas.” It was signed, “Love, Henry.”

Purcell said, “Well, it seems that we are going to Ethiopia.”

Vivian nodded.

They returned to their room and Purcell called Henry at the office. “Happy New Year,” Purcell said.

“And to you. Are you in Rome?”

“We are. Got your message.”

“Good, come join me for cocktails and we’ll catch up. Excelsior, say five.”

“Six. See you then.” He hung up and said to Vivian, “I can go alone.”

“I’ll come. Lots to talk about.”

“There always is with Henry.”

“Now that it’s becoming real… I’m getting a little apprehensive.”

He looked at her. “I always feel that way before an assignment into a hostile area.” He assured her, “It’s normal.”

“Ethiopia was my first time in a war zone.” She smiled. “I was excited and clueless.”

“Now you’re an experienced veteran.”

“God will watch over us. He did last time.”

Purcell thought that God’s patience with them might be wearing thin, and he didn’t reply.

The Excelsior bar and lounge, Purcell guessed, was probably Old World when it was brand-new, and Henry was at home here, and everyone seemed to know him. Someday they’d name a drink after him.

They were escorted to a good table by the window, and they gave their orders to a waiter, Giancarlo, who had greeted Signore Mercado by name, of course, and knew what he was drinking.

Purcell thought back to Harry’s Bar when Signore Mercado had told him never to darken his doorstep at the Excelsior. They’d come a long way. Purcell noted that Henry was wearing a sharp blue suit with a white silk shirt, and what looked like an Italian silk tie. Apparently Henry had gone shopping. Vivian, too, had gone shopping, in Florence, and she looked good in a white winter silk dress, which Henry complimented.

Purcell was feeling a bit underdressed in the only sport jacket he’d brought from Cairo. He would have gone shopping, too, but they weren’t going to be here long.

It was New Year’s Day evening, a quiet night back in the States, Purcell recalled, but the Excelsior bar and lounge was full, and Mercado informed them, “The Italians will take the rest of the week off.”

Purcell inquired, “And you?”

“The printing presses never stop, as you well know.” He added, “I’ll do half days.”

Vivian asked, “Will Jean be joining us?”

Mercado replied, “She had to go to London.”

Purcell lit a cigarette.

Vivian asked him, “So do we have our visas?”

Mercado pulled two passports from his inside pocket and handed the blue one to Purcell, then opened Vivian’s red Swiss passport and said, “This photo never did you justice.”

Vivian reached across the table and Mercado gave her her passport.

By this time, Purcell thought, he’d have clocked the guy, who was pissing him off, but he decided to see if Henry continued to be an asshole, then take it from there.

Henry said, all businesslike now, “Same as last time, the visas are stamped inside.” He drew two sheets of paper from his pocket. “And these are copies of your visa applications, signed and stamped by the consul general.” He handed a visa to each of them.

Purcell glanced inside his passport and saw that the new visa stamp, unlike his last one, had been altered by someone, who’d scratched out the Lion of Judah in red ink. His visa application had the same rubber stamp, similarly altered to show that things had changed in Ethiopia.

Their drinks came and Henry informed them, “Tonight is on L’Osservatore Romano.”

They touched glasses and Purcell asked, “Do you have our press credentials?”

“I do.” He handed each of them a press card, and also a larger document written in several languages, including Amharic, Arabic, and Tigrena, which he said was sort of a journalist’s safe-conduct pass. He smiled.

Neither Purcell nor Vivian returned the smile.

The waiter brought over an assortment of nuts, olives, and cheese, which Purcell suspected was Henry’s dinner on most nights.

Purcell asked, “Any good news about the Ethiopian College?”

“Not yet.” Mercado explained, “The college is closed until the Epiphany.”

“Good time to break in.”

Mercado looked at him, but did not respond.

Vivian, too, had nothing to say about that, but she asked, “Will I be allowed in?”

“No.”

Purcell inquired, “What do you make of this refusal to let us see their library?”

Mercado pondered that, then replied, “That depends on your level of paranoia.” He informed them, “The Ethiopian College is a very cloistered place. I’m sure there is nothing strange or secretive going on there, but they like their privacy.”

“We all do, Henry, but this place is not a monastery on a mountain-or in the jungle. It’s on Vatican City property, under the authority of the papal state. Who makes the rules? Them or the Vatican?”

“They are semi-autonomous.” He let them know, “I’m pushing our cover story that we want to do some research for our Ethiopian assignment-which is actually true. But I’m not pushing so hard that someone would think there is more to my interest.”

“All right.” He asked, “Is this library worth the trouble?”

“I think the maps will be invaluable. But I may be wrong.”

Purcell nodded. Henry’s time in the Vatican Library and his request for access to the Ethiopian College were well within his needs as a reporter for L’Osservatore Romano . On the other hand, if someone in the Vatican hierarchy was putting the pieces together-including Henry asking to go back to hell with the same reporter and photographer he’d been with in prison-then a picture was taking shape. Actually, two pictures: one that looked like a reporter doing his job, and one that looked like a reporter who was getting nosy about something he wasn’t supposed to know. The thing that would put the picture in focus would be Henry’s notifying the Vatican of Father Armano’s death, saying in effect that he’d heard the dying words of Father Giuseppe Armano, who once had a papal letter in his pocket telling the good father to grab the Holy Grail from a Coptic monastery.

Mercado asked, “What’s on your mind, Frank?”

“Our cover story.”

“The beauty of our cover story is that it is real.”

“Right.” Up until the point where they went off into the jungle. And even then, they were on assignment, though not necessarily for L’Osservatore Romano .

Also, Purcell thought, Henry was driving this bus with a lot more enthusiasm than he’d shown at Harry’s Bar. He’d been touched by the Holy Spirit, or he just smelled a good story-the Holy Grail of stories. Plus, of course, Henry wanted to make up for his past poor performance in Ethiopia. It was important to him that neither Vivian nor Frank Purcell thought he had lost his nerve. Henry should take his own advice about going to Ethiopia for the right reasons.

Henry seemed to be done with business, and he inquired about their trip to Tuscany, and Vivian provided most of the answers. Henry said it sounded like a wonderful trip, and added, “If you are still here in the spring, or the fall, Tuscany is at its best.” He further advised, “But stay away in the summer. It’s overrun with Brits.” He smiled and said, “The Italians call it Tuscanshire.”