Nelson Demille - The Quest

“Are you all right?” she asked.

“I see things more clearly now. And I am feeling sorry for myself, and for these people.”

“You’re a good man, Henry.”

“I was.”

“We will find that good, happy, and optimistic man. That’s why we’re here.”

He nodded. This was the last quest. He hoped for salvation, but was prepared for the final disillusionment.

He looked down into the square dominated by the city’s only beautiful building, the octagonal Cathedral of Saint George. The square was filled with beggars by day and prostitutes by night. To further desecrate the great Coptic cathedral, it had been built by Italian prisoners of war captured at Adowa during the first Italian invasion of 1896. He found that an irony of sorts, or maybe a great cosmic joke.

Vivian said, “Here he comes.” She pointed.

The black aircraft was coming in from the east so that the pilot’s side would be facing the hotel as it passed by. Mercado noticed the aircraft was flying dangerously low and slow as it approached the hotel. If he stalled, he had no altitude to recover.

Vivian seemed not to understand the danger, and she was smiling and waving.

Mercado could not take his eyes off the aircraft, expecting it to nosedive any second. What was Purcell thinking? That’s what happens when you show off for a woman, Mercado thought. You die. And if Frank Purcell died… He looked at Vivian.

She was standing on her toes now, waving wildly. “Frank! Over here!” She jumped up and down.

The aircraft dipped its wings about a hundred yards from the balcony, indicating he’d seen them. Mercado gave a half wave, and as the plane passed by he could see Purcell’s face, looking at them.

Vivian shouted, “He saw us! Did you see him, Henry?”

He didn’t reply. Mercado watched the aircraft as it gained speed and continued west. He expected that Purcell would come around for another flyby, but he continued on and disappeared against the background of the tall western mountains.

Vivian remained standing at the rail, looking at the fog-shrouded hills.

Mercado was going to ask her to leave now, but he didn’t. Finally he said, “I trust this will not cause a problem.”

She turned her head toward him. “We had coffee. Waiting for Frank.”

He nodded.

She turned and put her back against the rail. “You were not the jealous type.”

“No.”

“We all bathed together.”

“Yes… well, bathing together and sleeping together are different things.”

“One is a prelude to the other. And you knew that.”

“Don’t try that argument on me, Vivian.”

She walked past him into his bedroom.

He stood on the balcony for a few seconds, then went through the sliding door.

She was lying on his unmade bed, her shamma still on, but pulled back, revealing her jet black pubic hair.

He looked at her, but said nothing.

She said to him, “This will make everything right between us.”

He understood what she meant. This was her way of saying, I’m sorry. I’m giving you back your pride. I’m taking away your anger.

He dropped his robe to the floor, then slipped off his shorts and got into the bed. He knelt between her wide-spread legs, bent forward, and started to pull off her shamma , but she said, “No. Like this.”

He looked at her.

“Like this, Henry. You understand.”

He nodded.

She reached out and took his hard penis in her hand and pulled him toward her. He lay down on top of her and she guided him in, then wrapped her legs around his buttocks and pulled him in tighter.

He began thrusting against her tight grip, and within a minute she climaxed and let out a long moan-the same moan he’d heard that night hanging from the pole. He kept thrusting inside her and she climaxed again, then he felt himself coming into her.

They lay side by side, holding hands, gazing at the paddle fan spinning slowly on the ceiling.

She asked him, “Do you understand this?”

“I do.”

“And you understand that this is between two friends.”

He didn’t reply.

“I hurt you, and now I feel better, and I want you to feel better. About me. And about… all of us.”

“I understand.”

“I hope you do. If not right now, then later.”

He knew that she meant when he next saw Purcell. When the three of them sat together having a drink, the score was even, even if Purcell did not know that. But Henry Mercado did.

And actually he did feel better already. The anger wasn’t there any longer, or if it was, it was not helpless anger. But what remained was a sense of loss. He wanted to be with her.

He said to her, “At least tell me you enjoyed it.”

“I always did.”

“Encore?”

She glanced at the clock. “I’d better get moving.”

“Rain check?”

“No. This will not happen again.” She sat up and started to swing her legs out of the bed, but he put his hand on the back of her head and gently pulled her toward him.

She hesitated, then let him bring her head and face down on his wet penis, which she took into her mouth.

She knelt between his legs and her long, raven black hair fell across his thighs as her head bobbed up and down.

He came and his body arched up, and she stayed with him until there was nothing left inside him.

Vivian sat back on her haunches, and he looked at her, his semen running down her chin. Their eyes met and she smiled, then pulled off her shamma and stood on the bed. She turned completely around for him, and he watched her but said nothing.

Vivian jumped off the bed, wiped her face with a tissue, slipped on her shamma , and moved toward the door. “Thank you for coffee.”

“Anytime.”

She left, and he stared up at the rotating fan. “I love you.”

Purcell took a taxi from the airstrip to the hotel and called Mercado in his room to meet him for coffee. The two men sat in the Hilton cocktail lounge, which doubled as the breakfast room.

Mercado had hoped Vivian would be there so he could have that post-coital moment that she suggested would make him feel better. It wasn’t the same, somehow, with only the two cuckolded men having coffee. He asked, “Where is Vivian?”

“I called both rooms, but she’s not answering.”

Mercado wanted to say, “Well, she’s not still in my room.” Instead he said, “Probably napping. She was up early.” He suggested, “Try her again.”

“She’ll be down.”

A waiter came by with breakfast menus and Mercado said, “Every time I eat, I think about the famine.”

“Order light.”

“That’s very insensitive, Frank.” He added, “You wouldn’t say that if Vivian was here.”

Purcell looked up from his menu, but didn’t respond.

Purcell ordered a full breakfast, saying, “Flying makes me hungry.”

Mercado ordered orange juice and a cornetto with his coffee. He asked Purcell, “How did it fly?”

“Not very agile. But it seems safe enough.” He asked, “How did it look to you?”

“Well, I can’t tell, of course, but you seem to know what you’re doing.”

“What did Vivian think?”

“She was excited when you did your flyby.” He added, “You saw her.”

“I did.”

“Yes. And we could see you in the cockpit.”

“And how did I look, Henry?”

“Sorry?”

“Did I look happily surprised to see Vivian on your bedroom balcony?”

Mercado did not answer the question, but said, “Hold on, old man. We had coffee, waiting to see you. I hope you don’t take that as anything other than what it was.”

Purcell stared at him, but didn’t reply.