Nelson Demille - The Quest

They thanked Father Rulli for his hospitality and assistance and promised to return to Berini after their assignment in Ethiopia. The priest blessed them and their work and wished them a safe journey.

Outside, on the way to the car, Vivian said, “That was a very moving and wonderful experience.”

Mercado agreed, and so did Purcell, though he’d had to rely on translations for the experience.

In the car, Vivian announced, “I got Father Armano’s military address from Anna. She knew it by heart.”

They drove to Corleone and spent the night in a small hotel, then caught a noon flight from Palermo back to Rome.

Mercado wrote to the Ministry of War on L’Osservatore Romano letterhead, saying he was doing an article on the Ethiopian war and requesting information such as unit logs on the battalion or regiment whose military designation he specified in his letter.

The response, unusually fast, informed him that all records of this regiment had been lost in Ethiopia.

And that was that.

As for Italian Army maps, which would be critical for their mission, Colonel Gann had informed them that he had a source in London for captured Italian maps. He also advised them not to visit the Italian Library in Addis Ababa, which he’d discovered was under some sort of state surveillance. So now they needed Colonel Gann and his maps before they could begin their journey, and Gann was scheduled to arrive on the twenty-fourth. He said he’d contact them at the Hilton, but if they didn’t hear from him by the twenty-eighth, they were on their own.

Purcell looked at the telephone on the bar. He’d checked for telexes twice already, to see if Vivian-or Mercado-had tried to contact him. He picked up the phone, called the front desk, and asked again. The clerk informed him, “We will deliver any telex to you in the lounge, Mr. Purcell.”

“And forward my phone calls here.”

“Yes, sir.”

He knew he should have gone to the airport to meet her, but they’d all agreed in Rome not to do that. Sounded good in Rome.

He ordered another drink and lit another cigarette. It was now 5:24, long past the time when she’d be through airport security. But probably the Alitalia flight from Rome was late.

He turned and looked at the patrons at the cocktail tables. People gravitated toward the hotel bars in times of stress. They came to get news, or hear rumors, or because there actually is safety in numbers. Some of the patrons were quiet and withdrawn, and some were hyper. A feeling of unreality always permeated these softly lit islands of comfort, and sometimes a feeling of guilt; there was death and famine out there.

He looked up at the stained glass window again. The mid-January sun was almost gone, and when the light struck the huge window at this angle, Purcell could make out in the modern scene of the panorama, as well as in the ancient scene, a church or monastery. The artist chose to use black glass for the depiction of the church, and around it were dark green palms. Purcell wondered if the church was black by design or by the random choice of the artist. The dark green glass of the palms made the black church almost impossible to see except in a certain light, yet the remainder of the panorama was a contrast in light and dark. He stared at the glass as the sun sank lower and both the modern and ancient depictions of the same church-or monastery-disappeared, and the soft glow of the lounge lighting gave the stained glass an altogether different appearance.

The phone rang and the bartender answered it, then gave it to him.

“Purcell.”

A woman with an Italian accent said, “This an Alitalia customer servizio.”

“Yes?”

“I hava deliver to your room a young a lady.”

He smiled and asked, “Is she naked?”

“Due minuto.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Purcell and Vivian spent the next two days re-familiarizing themselves with the city, and reestablishing some press contacts and local contacts.

L’Osservatore Romano had no office in Addis, but the paper shared space in the old Imperial Hotel with other transient reporters and freelancers who paid a small fee for a place to hang their hats and use the typewriters and telexes.

They also visited the American embassy to register their presence, and to see Anne, the consulate officer who’d come for Purcell in prison, and also for Vivian. Vivian gave Anne a pot of black African violets she’d picked up from a street vendor, and Anne gave them some advice: “You should not have returned.”

Purcell assured her, “We’ll try not to get arrested this time.”

Purcell also wrote and filed a story about Ethiopian Catholic refugees from the fighting on the Eritrean border. He knew nothing about this, so in Mercado style, he made up most of it. But to give it a little twist, he mentioned his visit to the Ethiopian College in the Vatican, and praised the Catholic brothers there for their hospitality and their blessing of his journey to Ethiopia.

Vivian read his piece and asked, “How much of this is true?”

He reminded her, “The first casualty of war is the truth.” He added, “We need to earn our keep. Take a picture of a beggar and caption it ‘Catholic Refugee.’ ”

They checked for telexes twice a day to see if Henry Mercado had decided that Rome was a better place to be. But Mercado’s only telex, that morning, said: ARRIVING ALITALIA, 4:23. CONFIRM.

Purcell sent him a telex confirming they were still alive and well, and looking forward to his arrival.

Purcell left a note for Mercado at the front desk saying he’d be in the bar at six, and now he and Vivian sat at a cocktail table waiting to see if Henry had made it past the security people at the airport. It was 6:35.

Vivian looked up at the stained glass window and asked him, “Where are they keeping the emperor these days?”

“They’re not saying.”

“Do you think he’s still alive?”

“If he was dead, they’d announce he died of natural causes.” He reminded her, “He’s the reason the rasses are still fighting.”

“Who is the successor to the throne?”

“Crown Prince Afsa Wossen. He escaped to London. Probably a pal of Gann.”

She nodded.

Purcell glanced at his watch: 6:46. Henry was very late.

He said to Vivian, “Do you know that the Rastafarians in Jamaica consider Haile Selassie to be divine?”

“No, I didn’t.”

“We need to fly to Jamaica next and do a story on that.”

She forced a smile.

Clearly she was worried about Henry, but she was reluctant to say that in case he misinterpreted her concern.

He pointed to the long bar and said, “Right over there. That’s where I was sitting, minding my own business, when you and Henry came up to me.”

She again forced a smile.

He mimicked Henry’s slight British accent, “Hello, old man. Have you met my photographer?”

Her smile got wider. “I was immediately taken with you.”

“You wanted my Jeep.”

“I didn’t even know you had a Jeep.”

“Well, I don’t anymore. The Gallas probably have it now. Pulling it around with their horses.” He added, “I have to find the guy I rented it from and get my three-thousand-dollar security deposit back.”

“Why should he give it back? You lost his Jeep.”

“Wasn’t my fault.”

“It wasn’t his fault either. Where did you get the Jeep? We need another one.”

“An Italian resident of Addis. Probably gone by now.”

“You need to find him.”

“I think he’s out of Jeeps.” He informed her, “There’s another guy here, Signore Bocaccio, who owns or owned a small plane. I’ve asked around, but no one seems to know if he’s still here.”