Nelson Demille - The Quest

Henry continued with his travel advice, and it occurred to Purcell that he might be lonely. He obviously knew people in Rome, including his colleagues at the newspaper as well as every bartender and waiter on the Via Veneto. And there was also the mysterious lady whose name was not Jean. But Purcell could detect the loneliness-he’d experienced it himself. In a rare moment of empathy, Purcell understood that Henry had lost more than a lover in Ethiopia-he’d lost a friend. Or, considering the age difference, he’d lost a young protégée-someone he could teach. Or was it manipulate?

He looked at Vivian as Henry was going on about Perugia or something, and it seemed to Purcell that Vivian had lost the stars in her eyes for Henry. In fact, Vivian, like himself, had been transformed by her experience in Ethiopia. She had seemed then, to him, a bit… immature, almost childish in Addis and on the road to the front lines, not to mention the mineral baths or Prince Joshua’s tent. But she’d grown up fast, as people do who’ve been traumatized by war. He knew, too, that the encounter with Father Armano had affected her deeply, as had her recent romantic complications. It was a mature decision to get herself to a nunnery, and though he loved the woman who’d left him in Cairo, he liked the woman who’d met him in Rome.

Henry, on the other hand, seemed to be regressing. But Purcell was not going to underestimate the old fox.

Henry had moved on to Milan, and Vivian was nodding attentively, though her eyes were glazing over.

It occurred to Purcell, too, that Henry must hear time’s wingèd chariot gaining on him. So for Henry, a return to Ethiopia was a no-lose situation; if he died there, he wasn’t missing much more of life. But if he returned-with or without the Holy Grail-he would have stories to tell for the rest of his life. Hopefully to a nice woman, but anyone would do.

For Vivian and Purcell, however, the timeline was different. Especially for Vivian. Henry Mercado was at the end of that timeline, while he, Purcell, was somewhere in the middle, and Vivian was just beginning her life and her career as a photojournalist. By now, she’d figured out that it wasn’t easy or glamorous, but it was exciting and interesting. Unfortunately, the exciting parts were dangerous and the interesting parts had nothing to do with the job. And it was often lonely.

He didn’t know if Henry had ever had this conversation with Vivian, and he would advise against it in any case. Frank Purcell was not going to give her The Lecture. She’d figure it out on her own. Meanwhile, Vivian thought they had something together, and they did, but the future was something else. He’d had a few Vivians in his life, and the odds were that Vivian would have a few more Frank Purcells in her life, and maybe one or two more Henry Mercados.

Or Ethiopia would join them together forever, one way or the other.

“Frank?”

He looked at Henry.

“Are you mentally attending?”

“No.”

Mercado laughed. “Learn to lie a bit, old man. You’re offensive when you don’t.”

“I’m learning from a master, Henry.”

“That you are.” He said to Purcell, “I was just telling Vivian the terms of her employment. All expenses paid, but no pay.”

“Right. Money is tight at the Vatican.”

Henry laughed, then informed him, “We try to keep the newspaper self-sufficient.”

“Sell tobacco ads.”

“The assignment is for one month.” He looked at both of them and said, “That should be enough time… one way or the other.”

Neither Purcell nor Vivian replied.

Mercado said, “I have a contract for each of you to sign.”

Purcell informed him, “I stopped signing contracts in bars years ago.”

Mercado laughed. “They’re in my office, old man. Not here.” He let them know, “Anything you write-or photograph-becomes the exclusive property of L’Osservatore Romano.”

“Who gets to keep the Holy Grail?”

“We will see.”

The waiter brought another round along with a plate of canapés. Main course.

Mercado announced, “By the way, I’ve informed the Vatican, by letter, of the death of Father Giuseppe Armano of Berini, Sicily, with copies of my letter to several Vatican offices, which is what one does in a bureaucracy, and a copy to the Ministry of War because the deceased was in the army serving the fatherland in Ethiopia.”

Purcell asked, “Have you had a response?”

“No.”

Vivian asked, “Did you relate the circumstances of his death?”

“Yes, of course, but I neglected to mention the black monastery or the Holy Grail.”

Purcell asked, “Did you use our names in the letter?”

“I did.” He explained, “I didn’t want them thinking I was hallucinating at the sulphur baths.”

Purcell said, “We’d like to see a copy of the letter.”

Mercado took a photostated page out of his pocket and handed it to Purcell. Purcell read it and saw it was a fairly straightforward account of what had happened that evening, though Father Armano’s tale had been condensed to a few lines about his capture by Ethiopian forces-though he’d actually been captured by Coptic monks-and his forty-year imprisonment in a Royal Army fortress. Purcell noticed, too, that Henry had not mentioned the nude bathing.

He passed the letter to Vivian and said to Mercado, “I would think someone would have replied to this.”

“Communication with the Vatican is usually one-way. Same with government ministries.”

“Yes, but they’d want more information.”

“Not necessarily.”

“How about a thank-you?”

“A good deed is its own reward.” He popped a canapé in his mouth, then said, “I wasn’t actually sure whom to notify, so I copied six Vatican offices, and I admit I am a bit surprised myself that no one from the Vatican has gotten back to me-though someone else did.”

“Who?”

“The order of Saint Francis. And they have no one in their files or records by the name of Giuseppe Armano of Berini, Sicily.”

Vivian looked up from Mercado’s letter.

Purcell asked him, “What do you make of that?”

“I’m not sure. Certainly Father Armano existed. We saw him. Or we saw someone.”

Vivian said, “A man lying on his deathbed does not make up a lie about who he is.”

Mercado agreed and said, “It gets curiouser.” He continued, “I called the Franciscans in Assisi to follow up and someone there said they’d get back to me, though they haven’t. Then I tried the Ministry of War, and some maggiore informed me that the 1935 war in Ethiopia was not his most pressing problem. He did say, however, that he’d make internal inquiries.”

Purcell thought about all this, then said to Mercado, “Things, I’m sure, move slowly in the Vatican bureaucracy, but you may hear back soon.”

“What is the date of my letter?”

Vivian looked at it and said, “Ten November.”

“Which,” Mercado said, “is less than a week after I arrived in Rome from London, and which is why, as you’ll see in the letter, I didn’t apologize for any delay in reporting this death to whomever I thought were the proper authorities.”

Purcell reminded him, “You told me you didn’t notify the Vatican.”

“I lied.” He smiled. “I didn’t like you then.” He added, “Now we are friends and partners in this great adventure and we have sealed our covenant with blood. Well… cheap wine. And we are, as they say, putting all our cards on the table.”

Purcell thought Henry was still holding a card or two. He asked, “What do you think is actually going on?”

Mercado drained his gin and tonic and replied, “Well, obviously, something is going on. Someone, perhaps in the Vatican, instructed the Franciscans to post a reply, and further instructed them to say there is no Father Armano.”