Nelson Demille - The Quest

No one responded to that and they fell into a thoughtful silence. The engine droned, and the Navion bounced and yawed in the highland updrafts. Purcell scanned his instruments. This aircraft burned or leaked oil. The engine probably had a couple thousand hours on it, and the maintenance was probably performed by bicycle mechanics.

He glanced up at the Saint Christopher medal, which may have been the only thing that worked right in Signore Bocaccio’s aircraft.

He tried to figure out if he’d taken leave of his senses, or if this search for the black monastery and the so-called Holy Grail was within the normal range of mental health. A lot of this, he admitted, had to do with Vivian. Cherchez la femme . His libido had gotten him into trouble before, but never to this extent.

And then there was Henry. He not only liked Henry, but he respected the old warhorse. Henry Mercado was a legend, and Frank Purcell was happy that circumstances-or fate-had brought them together.

And, he realized, the sum was more than the parts. He wouldn’t be here risking his life for something he didn’t believe in with any other two people. Also, they all had the same taste in members of the opposite sex. That ménage, however, was more of a problem than a strength.

Vivian was sleeping, and so was Henry, curled up on the remaining two coffee bean bags.

Within three hours of leaving Gondar, he spotted the hills around Addis Ababa, then saw the airstrip. The southern African sky was a pastel blue, and streaks of pink sat on the distant horizon.

Vivian was awake now, and she glanced in the rear to see Mercado still asleep. She said to Purcell, “I had a dream…”

He didn’t respond.

“You and I were in Rome, and I was the happiest I’ve ever been.”

“Did we have the Grail with us?”

“We had each other.”

“That’s good enough.”

He throttled back and began his descent.

Vivian came out of the Reuters news office carrying three thick manila envelopes in her canvas tote, which contained a total of ninety-two eight-by-ten photographs.

Purcell and Mercado met her outside and they walked toward Ristorante Vesuvio, which claimed to be the best Italian restaurant in Africa, and probably the only one named after an Italian volcano.

To add to the surreal and almost comic quality of Addis Ababa, the street was lined with Swiss Alpine structures, which seemed to fit the mountainous terrain, but which Mercado thought were grotesque parodies of the real thing. He explained, “The Emperor Menelik II, who founded Addis, commissioned a Swiss architect to design the city, and I think the Swiss chap had a bit of fun with the emperor.”

“You get what you pay for,” Purcell said.

They went into Vesuvio and took a table in the back. Mercado said, “This place has been here since the Italian Army conquered the city.”

Purcell observed, “The décor has not changed.”

“They took down the portrait of Mussolini. It used to be right above your head.”

“Where was the portrait of the emperor?”

“Also above your head.”

“What’s above my head now?”

“Nothing. The proprietor is waiting to see who survives the Derg purges.”

“The Italians are very practical.”

Vivian gave an envelope to Purcell and one to Mercado, and they slid out the enlarged photographs. They all sat silently, flipping through the matte-finish color prints.

A few of the photos showed part of the wing, and some were almost straight-down shots, showing only a green carpet of jungle without wing or horizon, and these were not easy to orient, but they did penetrate into the jungle. All in all, Vivian had done a good job, and Purcell said, “You could work for the Italian cartography office.”

“And you could work for the Italian Air Force.”

Purcell looked closely at a few photos, studying the sizes, shapes, tones, and shadows of the terrain features. He said, “We’ll look at these with a magnifier and good light in one of our rooms.”

Mercado looked up from his photos and said, “We did not see anything that could be a man-made structure when we were in the air, and I don’t think we will see anything more in these photographs than the Italian cartographers did forty years ago.” He pointed out, “The monastery is hidden . By overhanging trees.”

Purcell reminded him, “Father Armano said that sunlight came through the opaque substance used in the roof of the church. If sunlight came through, then the roof can be seen from the air.”

Mercado nodded reluctantly, but then said, “That was forty years ago. Those trees have grown.”

“Or died.”

Vivian was looking closely at the photos in her hands. “Father Armano also mentioned green gardens, and gardens do not grow well under a triple-canopy jungle. So what I think is that the monastery is hidden by palms-palm fronds move in the breeze and block the sun, but they also let in some sunlight.”

Purcell observed, “We’re back to palms.”

“Makes sense.”

“All right. But I don’t remember Father Armano saying anything about palms.”

Vivian reminded him, “He did say that on the doors of the church were the symbols of the early Christians-fish, lambs, palms.”

“That’s not actually the same as palm trees overhead.”

“I know that, Frank, but…” She studied a photo in her hand.

Purcell thought, then said, “All right… in Southeast Asia, from the air, or in aerial photographs, palm fronds were a good camouflage. They create a sort of illusion because of their shape, movement, and the shadows they cast. They break up the image on the ground and fool the eye. Photographs, though, capture and freeze the image, and if you’re a good aerial photo analyst, you might be able to separate the reality from the optical illusion.”

Vivian looked at him. “Did you make that up?”

“Some of it.” He said. “Okay, let’s concentrate on clusters of palms. Also, there is something called glint.”

Vivian asked, “What is glint?”

“If you buy me lunch, I’ll tell you.”

“I’ll buy you two lunches.”

The waiter came by, an authentic Italian who, like Signore Bocaccio, hadn’t bought his ticket to Italy yet. Most of what his customers wanted on the menu was no longer available, but pasta was still plentiful, he assured them, though the only sauce today was olive oil. There was also a small and diminishing selection of wine, and Mercado chose a Chianti that had tripled in price. He said to his luncheon companions, “I miss Rome.”

Purcell asked, “What makes you say that?”

Vivian reminded them, “There is a famine out there. Get some perspective, please.”

Purcell admitted, “I hate eating in restaurants when there’s a famine.”

Mercado admonished, “That is insensitive.”

“Sorry.” He reminded Mercado, “I almost starved to death in that Khmer Rouge prison camp. So I can make famine jokes.” He asked, “What do you call an Ethiopian having a bowel movement? A show-off.”

“Frank. Really,” said Vivian. “That is not funny.”

“Sorry.” He said to Mercado, “You can use that as a Gulag joke.”

Purcell lit a cigarette and said, “This famine is mostly man-made by a stupid, corrupt government that has instituted stupid policies.” He continued, “Half the famine relief food coming in is stolen by the government and sold on the black market. The birr is worthless and you can’t buy food at any price unless you have hard currency. The UN relief workers are being harassed, and the military uses all the available transportation to move soldiers around instead of food.” He told Mercado, “That’s my next article for L’Osservatore Romano.”