Nelson Demille - The Quest

She nodded, then glanced at her watch. She said, “I’ll go to the front desk to see if he’s checked in. Or see if the flight is late.”

“All right.”

She got up and left the lounge.

Purcell sipped his drink. He had an after-hours emergency number for the British, American, and Swiss embassies.

It occurred to him that without Mercado and without Gann, the quest for the Holy Grail was going nowhere. He and Vivian could, of course, press on, but that would be crossing the line from brave to crazy. And yet… now that he was here, something was telling him that it was going to be all right-that what they’d felt and believed was correct; they had been chosen to do this.

He understood, too, that they had not necessarily been chosen to succeed, or even to live. But they’d been chosen to find the Holy Grail that was within themselves. And that was what this was always about; the Grail was a phantom and the journey was inward, into their hearts and souls.

Vivian and Henry walked into the lounge, smiling, arm in arm, and Purcell stood, smiled, and said, “Henry, have you met my photographer?”

“I have, old man. She’s going to buy me a drink. And buy one for yourself.”

Purcell walked across the windy airstrip. The rising sun began to burn off the highland mist that still shrouded the valley floor. In the distance, along the same mountain chain, Addis Ababa was becoming visible as the ground fog dropped back into the valley.

Purcell noticed the condition of the concrete as he walked. Like much of the civil and military engineering in this country, this old airfield was an Italian legacy. The Italians were good builders, but forty years was a long time. The concrete runways were patched with low-grade blacktop and the hangar roofs were mended with woven thatch. A platoon of soldiers was forming up near the hangar. The Royalists may have been beaten, but the Eritreans, who were now trying to win independence from the new Ethiopian government, were winning, and the whole country was on a war footing.

The Ethiopian Air Force kept a wing of American-made C-47 transports here, and Signore Bocaccio, the Italian coffee dealer, whom Henry had found, also kept his American-made Navion here. He told Mr. Purcell, however, that he used to hangar it at the Addis Ababa International Airport, but the Ethiopian Air Force made him keep the ancient Navion within their grabbing distance in the event they should need it. It had in fact already been used as a spotter for jet fighters in the Eritrean conflict, and as a consequence of that, the Navion sported a rocket pod under its fuselage that Signore Bocaccio pointed out to Mr. Purcell. The rocket pod was used to fire smoke markers at the Eritrean rebels, the Royalist forces, or anyone else they didn’t care for. The few French Mirage jets that the Ethiopians possessed would then try to place their bombs and rockets on the smoke markers, with varying degrees of success.

Purcell walked up to the stoutly built, low-wing craft and did a quick walk-around. Its black paint was not holding up well, and bare spots of aluminum were everywhere, except for the red-painted name of the plane- Mia . The nose wheel of the tricycle gear needed air and the plane pitched forward. Purcell noticed that the sliding canopy was pushed halfway back on its tracks, and a bullet hole was visible in one of the rear panes. He asked Signore Bocaccio, “Am I paying extra for the rocket pod?”

Signore Bocaccio made a classic Italian shrug. “What am I to do about it? You think this is America? Italy? Here, they do what they want. There is no war today, so you can have the plane. If you fly her well, perhaps they will make you a colonel in the air force. This is Ethiopia.”

“Yes, I know.”

“If you were not a journalist, they would not let me rent her to you at all. There was trouble as it was. I had to pay them to allow this.”

“That’s why they make trouble.” He walked around the craft again. There were at least six bullet holes in it. “Do you file a flight plan?”

“Yes. You must. Before the trouble they did not care. But now they insist. They think everyone is a spy for the emperor. So they want a flight plan. There are ten airstrips in the whole country. They want a flight plan. Hah!” He assured Purcell, however, “Today we are doing only the check out. So we need no flight plan, but when you go to Gondar, you must file for Gondar.”

The flight plan was an unforeseen problem. This morning he was just logging in some flight time with Signore Bocaccio, to see if the Navion was airworthy. But when he was with Vivian, Mercado, and Gann-if he showed up-they’d be doing aerial recon, and he did not want to land in Gondar, which was Getachu’s Northern Army headquarters. He could, however, file a flight plan for Khartoum, where they could conceivably have business. He asked Signore Bocaccio, “Can I fly to Khartoum?”

“You can if you want to get arrested.”

“They’re not getting along with the Sudanese, I take it.”

“They are not. Anyway, I would not want you to take Mia that far.” He tapped the fuselage where the name appeared. “Khartoum is the limit of her cruising range. But if you come upon headwinds or bad weather, you will run out of fuel.” He smiled as his hand did a nosedive.

“All right…” Purcell informed Signore Bocaccio, “Tomorrow, or the next day, I’ll have one passenger. Perhaps two or three.” He asked, “Are the rear seats in place?”

“Unfortunately, no.” Bocaccio explained, “I took them out for the beans.”

“Right, but-”

“I sometimes take samples from the plantations. I carry items to trade. And things to eat. You cannot find Italian food outside of Addis.” He added, “In fact, with the famine, sometimes you cannot find any food at all.”

“Sorry about that. Can you replace the seat?”

“It was stolen.”

“Of course. Well, my passengers can sit on your bean bags.” He asked, “How does Mia handle with four?”

“How would you handle with four people on your back?” He inquired, “Who are the others?”

“Giornalisti.”

“They are friendly with the government, I hope.”

“Of course.” Purcell could see that Signore Bocaccio was having second thoughts, so he distracted him with technical questions. “When was she built?”

“Twenty years ago. She is a young girl, but an old aircraft.” He smiled. “She is American made, as you know, and all measurements are in feet, miles, and gallons.”

“What is her stall speed?”

“She stalls at any speed. So go as slow as you please. She will stall when she wants. Just give yourself enough altitude to recover.”

“What speed, Signore Bocaccio?”

He shrugged. “The airspeed indicator is inaccurate. And the needle jumps. The airplane is, how you say in English, out of trim. The leading edge is banged up.”

“I noticed.”

“Well, so, the stall speed is perhaps sixty. But when she was young, she could go forty-five. But what difference does that make? You must just give yourself the altitude to recover-and why would you want to approach stall speed?”

“I want to go low and slow. I want to make steep banks and turns. Will she do that?”

Signore Bocaccio looked at him closely. “That is not the way to Gondar, my friend. Gondar is three hundred miles due north. There are no steep banks or turns to be made.”

“We are looking for the war, Signore.”

“This is not a plane for that. She knows the way to Gondar as a straight line. She does not like to be fired at.” He put his finger into a bullet hole, then patted his plane and dusted off his hands. He also informed Purcell, “The government does not want you looking for the war from the air. That is their job. If you do that, they will think you are spying for the Royalists. Or the Eritreans. Or the British or the Americans-”