Nelson Demille: The Quest

“Lizards and centipedes kept me alive in Cambodia.” Purcell pulled on his pants and stood. “Let’s get moving.” He walked away from Henry Mercado.

Vivian had been awakened by their conversation, and she moved past Purcell in the darkness. He could hear the soft sounds of whispering as she spoke to Mercado. The words were lost, but the tone was soothing. Poor Henry, Purcell thought, the grizzled old newsman having a teary moment in front of a woman half his age.

They dressed and headed back toward the hotel lobby in the darkness. Mercado, who seemed to be feeling better, said, “I’ll give this place three stars.”

Suddenly the northern sky was illuminated so brightly that all three stopped in their tracks and crouched.

They looked up and could see star shells bursting in the night sky. An infantry attack had begun somewhere in the hills to the north and one side or the other had sent up these artificial suns to light the way. Automatic weapons fire could be heard now and green and red tracer rounds crisscrossed the hills. The deep, throaty sounds of muffled artillery rolled down into the spa complex, and explosions lit up the low mountain range like a thousand campfires.

Purcell stared at the close-by hills. He could see illumination flares pop and float to earth on their parachutes. Even after all the years in Indochina, the sights and sounds of battle awed him. He stood mesmerized as the hills lit up and sent a crescendo of sound through the night air. It was as though it were a light and sound show, a mixed-media symphony played only for him.

Mercado asked, “Who is killing whom tonight?”

“Does it matter?”

“No, I suppose not. As long as it isn’t us.” Mercado suggested, “We should stay here tonight.”

Vivian agreed, and Purcell said, “All right. We’ve found the armies. In the morning we’ll go see who won the battle.”

They continued on and entered the main building. The Jeep stood in the middle of the lobby looking very exposed. Purcell glanced around for a place to move the vehicle and spend the night. He noticed that one corner of the roofless lobby remained dark when the illumination flares burst. Between the Jeep and the dark corner was some rubble from the ceiling, but it was not an impossible task to get the Jeep through it. He stepped up to the vehicle and began pushing, not wanting to start the engine and create noise. Vivian jumped behind the wheel and Mercado helped Purcell push.

As their Jeep approached the patch of blackness in the far corner, an illumination flare lit up the lobby, and they saw standing in front of them a man holding a skull.

They laid him on a sleeping bag between the Jeep and the dark corner, and Vivian fed him cold soup out of a can. Purcell threw the skull out a window.

The man’s shamma was in tatters, so they covered his shaking body with their only blanket. In the dark corner, they did not see the dried blood on the shamma .

They could not make out what or who he was. So many Ethiopians were light-skinned, with straight noses and Semitic-Hamitic features, and many wore beards like this man.

Mercado leaned over and asked in Amharic, “Who are you?”

He responded in Amharic, “Weha.” Water.

Mercado gave him water from a canteen, then took a flashlight from the Jeep and shined it in the man’s face. “He’s not an Ethiopian. Not an Amhara, anyway. Maybe an Arab from Eritrea. I know a little-”

“Italiano,” said the old man.

There was a long silence.

Mercado crouched next to him and spoke slowly in Italian. “Who are you? Where do you come from? Are you ill?”

The old man closed his eyes and did not respond.

Purcell took the flashlight from Mercado, knelt beside the old man, and stared down at him. The man’s beard was unkempt and his skin hadn’t seen sunlight in years. Purcell took the old man’s hand from under the blanket. The hand was filthy, but the skin was soft. “I think he’s been locked away for a while.”

Mercado nodded in the darkness.

The old man opened his eyes again, and Vivian spooned more soup into his toothless mouth. “He’s in terrible shape, poor old man.”

The old man was trying to speak, but his lips trembled and only small sounds came out. Finally, he spoke in slow Italian. Vivian sat close to Purcell and whispered the translation into his ear as she continued to spoon-feed him. “He says he is wounded in the stomach.”

Purcell took the can and spoon from Vivian and laid them down. The old man protested. “Tell him he can’t eat until we’ve seen the wound.”

Mercado pulled down the blanket and tore aside the shamma . He turned on the flashlight again. A large mass of coagulated gore covered the man’s stomach. He spoke to the old man. “How did this happen? What made this wound?”

The man made a small shrug. “A bullet, perhaps. Maybe the artillery.”

Mercado said to Vivian and Purcell, “We’ll have a look at it in the morning. There’s nothing we can do now. Let him sleep.”

Purcell thought a moment. “He may be dead in the morning, Henry. Then we’ll never know. Talk to him.”

“I can see why you were put up for a Pulitzer, Frank. Let the old duffer rest.”

“There’s all eternity for him to rest.”

“Don’t write him off like that,” said Vivian.

The old man moved his head from side to side as if trying to follow the conversation.

Mercado looked at him. “He seems alert enough, doesn’t he? Let’s get his name and all that-just in case.”

“Proceed,” said Purcell.

Vivian moved next to Purcell again and put her head beside his.

Mercado began in Italian, “We cannot give you more to eat because of the stomach wound. Now you must rest and sleep. But first, tell us your name.”

The old man nodded. A thin smile played across his lips. “You are good people.” He asked, “Who are you?”

Mercado replied, “Journalists.”

“Yes? You are here for the war?”

“Yes,” Mercado replied, “for the war.”

The old man asked, “Americano? Inglese?”

Mercado replied, “Both.”

The old man smiled and said, “Good people.”

Mercado laid his hand on the old man’s arm and asked, “What is your name, please?”

“I am-I am Giuseppe Armano. I am a priest.”

A long silence hung in the darkness. Outside, the sounds of battle died slowly, indicating that everyone was satisfied with the night’s carnage. Occasionally a flare burst overhead and gently floated to earth, and as it fell, the crisscrossed steel reinforcing rods of the collapsed concrete ceiling cast their peculiar grid shadows over the floor, and the room was bathed in blue-white luminescence. But the small corner of the big chamber remained in shadow.

Mercado took the old priest’s hand and squeezed it. “Father. What has happened to you?”

The old priest winced in pain and did not respond.

Mercado gripped the priest’s hand tighter. “Father. Can you talk?”

“Yes… yes, I can. I must talk. I think I am dying.”

“No. No. You’re fine. You’ll be-”

“Be still and let me speak.” The old priestly authority came through his weak voice. “Put my head up.” Mercado slid a piece of stone under the sleeping bag. “There. Good.” The old priest knew when he was in the presence of a believer and again became the leader of the flock-a flock of one. Vivian moistened his lips with a wet handkerchief.

He drew a deep breath and began, “My name is Father Giuseppe Armano and I am a priest of the order of Saint Francis. My parish is in the village of Berini in Sicily. I have spent the last… I think, forty years, since 1936… what year is this?”