The Quest

Chapter 14

Hello, Henry.”

Henry Mercado didn’t turn toward the voice behind him, but he did glance into the bar mirror.

Frank Purcell took the empty stool beside Mercado and ordered a Jack Daniel’s on the rocks. He said, “You look well.”

“Is this an accident?”

“I heard you were in Rome.”

Mercado did not reply.

“Can I buy you a drink?”

“I was just leaving.”

The bartender poured Purcell’s drink and he raised his glass. “Centanni.”

Mercado called for his tab.

Purcell stirred his drink and said, “I left you a note at the Addis Hilton.”

“I was taken directly from the prison to the airport.”

“Vivian left you a note, too.”

He didn’t reply.

Mercado’s bill came and he put a twenty-thousand-lire note on the bar, which Purcell reckoned was about three drinks at Harry’s Bar prices.

It was four in the afternoon, and the quiet, elegant bar was not yet in full swing. A few perfunctory but tasteful Christmas decorations were placed here and there.

Outside, the Via Veneto was crowded with cars and people as always, but maybe more so, thought Purcell, because of the Christmas season. The sky was low and gray, and the air was damp, so he wore a trench coat, but he noticed that Mercado was wearing only a tweed sports jacket, which seemed too big for him. In fact, Henry did not look well and there was a lot of space between his neck and his collar and tie. They’d both lost their Ethiopian tans, and Mercado’s skin looked as gray as the winter sky.

Mercado slid off his stool and said, “I’m living at the Excelsior, and usually at the bar there.”

“I know.”

“Then you also know not to run into me there.”

Purcell nodded and said, “Merry Christmas, Henry.”

Mercado turned toward the door, then turned back and said, “All right, I will ask you. How is she?”

“Where is she might be a better question.”

“All right, where is she?”

“Don’t know. She left me in Cairo, end of October. Said she had business in Geneva, and she’d be back in two weeks. What’s today?”

Mercado stood there awhile, then asked, “How long have you been here?”

“Two days. Let me buy you a drink. I came to Rome to see you.”

“Why?”

Purcell slid off his stool and took Mercado by the arm. “I need ten minutes of your time. I have some good news about Colonel Gann.”

Mercado hesitated, then let Purcell steer him to a table by the window. Purcell called out to the bartender, “Another round, please.”

They sat across from each other, and Mercado glanced at his watch. “I’m meeting someone at five.”

“Okay. Well, I just heard from a guy named Willis at the AP office in Addis. You know him? He says that Gann has been released from jail and will be flying to London in time for Christmas.”

Mercado nodded. “I’m glad to hear that.”

“Me, too. Only in a place like Ethiopia can you be condemned to death, then released on bail and allowed to leave the country.”

“I’m sure the British government paid dearly for their knight errant.”

“Right. Money talks, and the Revolutionary government needs money, so they sold Gann. Works for everyone.” He also informed Mercado, “The bad news is that Gann has to return to Addis after the holidays for a hearing on his appeal or he forfeits his bail.” He smiled. “I don’t think he’ll be making that trip.”

Mercado smiled in return. “If he does, he deserves a firing squad.”

“Two firing squads.”

Mercado said, “It’s important for these people to save face. Before they kicked me out, I got handed a five-year sentence for my association with counterrevolutionaries.”

“Only five? When are you supposed to report back?”

“I’m not clear about that.” He asked Purcell, “How about you?”

“I just did that week in the slammer.”

“Then a week of house arrest in the Hilton.”

“Correct.”

“With Vivian.”

“Correct.”

“You both got off easy.”

“Right.” He reminded Mercado, “You’re the one who got caught sleeping with Gann. Vivian and I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Well, I’m sure you did in the Hilton.”

Purcell changed the subject. “We should go see Gann in London.”

Mercado kept to the subject, “I didn’t do anything wrong and I spent a month in the foulest prison I’ve ever seen, while you and Vivian—”

“Was it that long? Well, we’ve both been in worse places.”

“Where did you go after you left Addis?”

“I went to Cairo.”

“Alone?”

“No.” Purcell explained, “It wasn’t our choice to go there… or to go together,” which was partly a lie. He said, “Cairo seems to be the dumping ground for people expelled from Ethiopia.” He asked, “Where did they send you?”

“Cairo.”

“I wish I’d known you were there.”

“I was there two hours and took the first flight to London.” Mercado asked, “Why did you stay?”

“I needed a job. So I contacted the AP office, and the bureau chief, Gibson, was looking for a freelancer.” He added, “He’s expecting another war with Israel, and I am a very good war correspondent.”

Mercado didn’t respond to that, nor did he ask why Vivian stayed in Cairo. In fact, she had told Purcell she was excited about photographing the pyramids and all that, plus she wanted to be his photographer if another war broke out. Also, they were in love.

The waiter brought their drinks and Purcell saw that Henry was still drinking gin and Schweppes. Purcell raised his glass and Mercado hesitated, then did the same. Purcell said, “To freedom.”

“And life.”

They touched glasses and sat back in their chairs and watched Rome go by.

Rome, Purcell had noticed, wasn’t as garishly decorated for Christmas as, say, London or New York. He’d like to be in one city or another for the holiday, and he had thought he’d be with Vivian, but that didn’t look likely. Christmas in Cairo would not be festive.

He thought back to Addis. The whole two weeks had a surreal feeling. They’d all been taken from the helicopter in separate vehicles, still in chains, to the grim central prison and kept in separate cells, unable to communicate. Some prosecutor with a loose grasp of English had interrogated him every day and told him that his friends had all confessed to their crimes, whatever they were, and had implicated him.

The prison had an enclosed courtyard, with a gallows, and one or two men were hanged each day. He asked Mercado, “Did you have a room with a view of the hangings?”

“I did. Hoped I’d see you.”

They both smiled.

Purcell lit a cigarette and stirred his drink.

After a week in prison, with no bath or shower, rancid food, and putrid water, a nice lady from the American embassy arrived and escorted him, still barefoot and wearing his shamma, to a waiting car and took him to the Hilton a few blocks away.

The lady, Anne, had instructed him to stay in his room, which the hotel had held for him and were billing him for. She didn’t suggest a bath, but she did suggest he call a doctor to his room for a checkup. In answer to his questions about Vivian, Gann, and Henry Mercado, she replied, “Miss Smith is here. The others remain in custody.”

She offered to walk him to the front desk, but he declined, and she handed him his passport and wished him luck.

He walked barefoot in his shamma to the front desk, where the clerk said, “Welcome back, Mr. Purcell,” and gave him his key.

His room had been searched and most of his possessions had been taken, including his notebooks, but that was the least of his problems.

He had waited a full day before calling Vivian, and they met in her room for drinks because they were both confined to quarters, and in any case neither of them wanted to run into their colleagues in the bar, or the security police in the lobby.

Vivian, too, had had her room ransacked and all her film had been taken, which made her angry, but she, too, understood that their real problem was getting out of Ethiopia.

As he’d finished his drink, she’d reminded him, “As I said, nothing is going to happen between us here.”

“I understand.”

Later, in bed, she told him, “When they release Henry…”

“I understand.”

“Sorry.”

“Me too.”

But they didn’t release Henry, and a week later Purcell and Vivian were officially expelled from Ethiopia and found themselves on an EgyptAir flight to Cairo.

Purcell said to Mercado now, “Vivian and I made daily inquiries to the British embassy about you and Gann, and they assured us you were both well, and they were working on your release.” He added, “We were worried about you.”

“And you didn’t want me showing up unexpectedly.”

Which was true, but Purcell stuck to the subject and said, “I was sure they were going to shoot Gann. Or hang him.”

“All’s well that ends well.”

“Right.” Purcell looked out at the Roman wall that surrounded the city. He realized that the bricks of the ancient city wall looked exactly like the bricks of the Italian-built prison in Addis. He pointed this out to Mercado and said, “The Italians know how to build.”

Mercado did not respond.

“Those mineral baths were impressive.”

“Don’t get nostalgic on me, Frank.”

“Henry… have you thought about going back?”

Mercado stayed silent for a moment, then replied, “I have, actually. But it’s obviously too risky.”

“Well, if you decide to go back, let me know.”

“You’ll be the last to know.”

The waiter came by and Purcell ordered two more. He asked Mercado, “Did you hear the news out of Ethiopia today?”

“I did not.”

“Well, a guy named General Banti took over the military council and announced a new government. Same group of thugs in the Derg, but with different leaders, and I’m thinking it may be possible now to go back if these new guys are not as crazy as the last bunch.”

“Speaking of crazy.”

“Just a thought.” He informed Mercado, “The big story is the Mideast. The canal is still closed and Sadat is saying things like, ‘Mideast time bomb.’ He’s pissed off at all the Russian Jews immigrating to Israel. It really looks like there could be another war.”

“If there is, cover this one from Cairo.”

“Right. Those safe-conduct passes to the front don’t work that well.” He smiled, then said, “I hear you’re working for L’Osservatore Romano.”

“Yes. I’m doing some English-language stuff for them on the coming Holy Year. Mostly press releases.”

“Bored?”

“I like Rome.”

“Cairo sucks.” He asked, “Are you working on anything else?”

“You mean like our Ethiopian adventure?”

“That’s what I mean.”

“No, I’m not. But I expected to see something from you about that.”

“I’m holding off,” Purcell replied. “I wanted to speak to you first.”

“You don’t need my permission or my collaboration.”

“I thought we’d do something together.”

“I’m not interested.”

“Really?”

Mercado thought a moment, then said, “If you — we — wrote about this, then not only Getachu but a lot of other bastards and idiots would be smashing through the jungle looking for the black monastery.”

Purcell nodded. He’d certainly thought about that. He said to Mercado, “Getachu may have already found it.”

“Perhaps. But if he did, I think we’d have heard that an important religious object was for sale.”

“A lot of that stuff is sold privately,” Purcell reminded him.

“True. And this one goes to the Vatican.” He added, “Or perhaps the monks have spirited it away.”

“Well, we could go check.”

“Not interested.”

“All right.” He asked Mercado, “Did you report Father Armano’s death to the Vatican?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I… there doesn’t seem to be any urgency. I’ll get around to it.”

“Your offices are in Vatican City, Henry.”

“I’ll get around to it.”

“Good. Maybe we should go to Berini and look up his family.”

“Why?”

“He asked us to do that. He also asked us to tell his story to someone in the Vatican. Or you can tell your people at L’Osservatore Romano.”

“All right. I’ll do that.”

“I’m not quite understanding, Henry, why you’re sitting on this.”

“Why have you sat on it?”

“I told you. I wanted to speak to you first.” He reminded Mercado, “We made sort of a pact.”

Mercado asked, “What does Vivian think?”

“She wants to go back and find the Holy Grail. That’s what she thinks.”

“Insane.”

“I’m sorry you’ve lost your enthusiasm for this, Henry.”

“I’m sorry you’ve found it.”

“I’ve been thinking.”

“Try not to do that.”

“It’s a great story, Henry.”

“It seemed so at the time.”

Purcell looked at him and asked, “Have you been snooping around the Vatican archives? Like, on your lunch hour?”

“Yes… to satisfy my curiosity about a few things.”

“Find anything?”

“I’ll get you a pass and you can do your own research.”

“May be a language problem.”

“You can hire translators there.”

“I need to get back to Cairo in a few days.”

“Forgive my curiosity, Frank, but I don’t understand why you’re not going to Geneva.”

Purcell ordered another round, and Mercado did not object.

Neither man spoke for a while, then Purcell said, “I received one letter from Geneva telling me… well, telling me that she felt awful about leaving you in Addis, and that she was feeling guilty because of what happened and how it happened.”

“And well she should.”

“Right. Me too.”

Mercado stared into his drink, then said, “I’ve gotten over this, Frank. Except for the anger. You both behaved badly.”

“We know that.”

“And I did too… that moment in Getachu’s tent… when he asked me—”

“You are forgiven.”

Mercado looked at him. “Thank you for that.”

“Vivian never once mentioned it.”

“I’m sure she thought about it.”

“We all need to move on.” He smiled and said, “Avanti.”

“I need to go.”

“Some news, too, about Prince Joshua. They executed him in Addis.”

“That was a mercy.”

“It was.” He asked Mercado, “Did you read about the mass executions at the end of November?”

“I’m not really following Ethiopia.”

“You should.”

Mercado asked, “What happened?”

“Well, they shot another bunch of guys from the old regime. The former premier, Makonnen, a general named Aman who was former chief of staff or something, another former premier named Wolde, and Rear Admiral Alexander Desta, a grandson of the emperor.”

Mercado nodded and observed, “The revolution lives on blood.”

“Right. And they shot fifty-six other guys, including Prince Joshua.”

“Let me know when they shoot Getachu and Andom.”

“I’ll keep an eye on the wire.”

Mercado stood and walked unsteadily to the bagno.

Purcell lit another cigarette and watched the Romans. It was almost dark now, and the cafés along the Via Veneto would be getting full.

Inside Harry’s, the bar and the tables were filling up with what looked like mostly American tourists who needed to have a drink with the ghost of Ernest Hemingway, or to experience a little of la dolce vita.

Purcell had not expected to find Henry Mercado in a place like Harry’s, but the bartender at the Excelsior said he might be here, and here he was, drinking with the tourists. But, Purcell thought, Henry was a pre-war character and he’d probably started coming here when it was the thing to do, and when it was a hangout for journalists and expat writers. Henry didn’t seem to notice that the world was changing, and Purcell pictured himself at Henry’s age — if he lived that long — staying at the wrong hotels, eating in the wrong restaurants, and getting drunk in the wrong bars with the wrong people.

He half understood Vivian’s attraction to Henry Mercado in Ethiopia, but he didn’t understand why she remained emotionally attached to him in absentia. Or why she hadn’t tried to find him. It occurred to him, though, that she wanted Frank Purcell to find Henry Mercado. In fact, her letter hinted at that. She wanted the three of them to go back to Ethiopia to find the black monastery and the Holy Grail. Well, that sounded like a trip to hell on several levels. And yet… it made him think about it. And maybe that’s why he had asked around about Henry Mercado.

Mercado returned but did not sit, and said, “I have to go. Let’s split the bill.”

Purcell stood. “You buy tomorrow night.”

“I think we’ve said what we had to say.”

“I’m staying at the Forum. Rooftop bar. Six P.M.” He put out his hand, and Mercado hesitated, then took it. Purcell said, “I’m sorry about what happened.”

“If you’re looking for forgiveness, there are nine hundred churches in Rome.”

“Let’s be happy we’re alive. We survived the camps and we survived Ethiopia. We’ll survive cocktails. See you tomorrow night.”

Mercado turned and walked out into the cold night.

Purcell watched him disappear into the crowd, then sat and finished his drink. He understood, as did Vivian, that they were not all through with each other yet. And Henry understood that, too.

Chapter 15

Frank Purcell sat at the bar of the glass-enclosed Hotel Forum restaurant. The real Forum lay five stories below, its marble ruins bathed in floodlights. A crescent moon hung above the Colosseum, and three thousand years of history hung over the city.

He’d spent the morning writing in his room — a piece about Egyptian president Anwar Sadat, whom he’d characterized as a Jew-hater with a pro-Nazi past, and not the moderate peacemaker and reformer that the rest of the news media were making him out to be.

His editors in the States would cut that, of course, or kill the whole story, and the Cairo bureau chief would remind him that he wasn’t hired to write an opinion column. But he’d written it because he — and thus his writing — had been transformed.

In the afternoon, he’d taken a long walk, first to the Piazza Venezia where Mussolini used to stand on the balcony of the Palazzo, making a fool of himself Urbi et Orbi—to the city and the world. But the city and the world should have taken him more seriously, as Father Armano had at the blessing of the guns.

Next, he walked through the baths of Caracalla, the mother of all Roman spas, then over to the Fascist-built Foreign Ministry where the looted stone steles from Axum sat out front, a monument to European imperialism and good taste in stolen art. Rome, in fact, was filled with looted treasures going back over two thousand years, and, he admitted, they all looked good in their extrinsic settings. And in return for what they’d taken, the Romans had built roads and bridges all over their empire, amphitheaters and baths, temples and forums. So what Mussolini had done in Ethiopia was just a continuation of a long and venerable tradition of imperial stealing and giving. The Vatican, however, had planned a snatch of the Holy Grail without so much as an IOU.

The point of his walk, aside from physical exercise, was to get his head into the right mindset regarding the story — which was turning into a book — that he was writing about Father Armano, the black monastery, and the Holy Grail.

That story, however, would never see the light of day unless or until he went back to Ethiopia to discover the ending. Or, he supposed, it could be published posthumously, with an editor’s epilogue regarding the fate of the author.

Now, Jean, the attractive lady next to him at the bar, was looking through her guidebook and said, “It says here that the Piazza Navona is all decorated for Christmas.”

“I actually walked through there last night. Worth seeing.”

“All right. Campo de’ Fiori?”

“Produce market by day, meat market by night.”

“All right…” She went back to her Roman guidebook, and Purcell went back to his Ethiopian book. The questions raised in his story, and in his mind, were: Who owns a two-thousand-year-old relic? Obviously, whoever has it owns it. But how did the present owner get the object? And does the object, if it is priceless, actually belong to the world?

The other question, of course, had to do with the authenticity of the object. Purcell had no doubt that whatever it was that now sat in the black monastery had no mystical powers, despite Father Armano’s claim that it healed his wound and his soul, whatever that was. But the cup could be authentic in the sense that it was the actual chalice used by Christ at the Last Supper. Or it could be an object of faith, like most religious relics he’d seen in Rome and elsewhere.

He recalled what he’d once seen in the small chapel of Quo Vadis on the Appian Way, outside the gate of the city wall: a piece of black basalt paving stone, in which was a footprint. Specifically, the footprint of Jesus Christ who had appeared to Peter on the Appian road as the saint was fleeing for his life from Rome. Peter, stunned at seeing his risen Lord, blurted, “Domine, quo vadis?” Where are you going, Lord? And Christ had replied, “To Rome, Peter, to be crucified for a second time.” And Peter, feeling guilt at fleeing, and understanding what Christ was saying to him, returned to Rome to meet his fate and was crucified.

The story, Purcell understood, was apocryphal, and the outline of a foot in the paving stone was not actually made by Jesus’s size nine sandal. But an Italian friend once said to him about the stone of Quo Vadis, “What is real? What is true? What do you believe?” Quo Vadis?

Well, he thought, maybe he was going back to Ethiopia to be crucified a second time. And that depended on Henry Mercado, who was half an hour late for his date with destiny. Purcell knew he was coming; Mercado had no choice, just as Peter had no choice.

Purcell ordered another Jack Daniel’s and another red wine for the lady. The bar was full — best view in Rome — but the dining tables were almost empty — not the best food in Rome.

Jean, aged about forty, was a blonde Brit, and looked nothing like Vivian, but she made him think of Vivian because she was a woman. She was interesting and interested, and they were both staying at the Forum, alone, and what the hell, it was Christmas in Rome. Coffee and cornetti in bed. A wonderful memory.

She observed, “Your friend is late.”

“He’s always late.”

“He must be Italian.”

“No. But when in Rome.”

She laughed, then informed him, “Did you know that this hotel was once a convent?”

“I’m checking out tomorrow.”

She laughed again and returned to her guidebook.

His mind went back to Addis Ababa. The week at the Hilton after their release from prison had been intense and tense as they waited for news of Henry and Gann, and also waited for a midnight knock on their door, or a call or visit from their respective embassies telling them they were free to leave Ethiopia. That was the tense part. The intense part was their lovemaking, knowing or believing that this was all coming to an end, one way or the other.

He thought that if they’d left it there — if they’d separated at the airport in Cairo, as they said they would — then that would have been the end of it. She’d be with Mercado now, and they’d all be going to London to see Gann. But they had decided to spend a last night together in Cairo at the Grand Nile. Then they found a furnished sublet together.

Cairo, as he knew from previous experience, was not Paris, or London, or Rome; Cairo was a challenge, and whatever romance it had in its streets and its stones was overshadowed by its repressive atmosphere.

Despite that, and despite the rumors of war, and the unpleasant memories of Ethiopia, he and Vivian had had a very good month in Cairo before she announced her departure for Geneva, where she had, she said, business and family.

In retrospect, he should have asked her to be more specific about her plans to return to Cairo, but it never occurred to him that she wasn’t coming back. He had no phone number for her, and the return address on her single letter was a post office box. His reply letter, as he recalled, had been short and not filled with love or longing, or understanding. In fact, he was angry, though that didn’t come through either. This was not the kind of writing he was good at, and his note may have sounded terse and distant. And that was the end of the letters, and presumably the end of the affair. And that was what he’d implied to Mercado, and that was the truth — or the truth as it stood at this time.

Also, in retrospect, he realized that the good news they’d gotten from the British embassy in Cairo — that Henry Mercado was about to be released — had something to do with her departure. He’d had a brief thought that she had left to find Henry, but if that were the case, she’d have told him to his face in Cairo. Vivian was forthright and honest, and brave enough to say, “It’s over. I’m going back to Henry.”

But Vivian knew that despite Henry’s forgiving her for her one-night indiscretion when they thought they were about to be shot, he would not forgive her for her week with Frank Purcell in Addis or for their month together in Cairo. Yet for some reason, she couldn’t stay in Cairo with him after Henry was free. He sort of understood that, but he also understood that she wanted the three of them to be together again, in some fashion or another, and to go back to Ethiopia together.

Jean asked, “Is that your dinner date?”

He looked at the entrance, where Mercado was standing, scanning the bar. Purcell caught his attention, and Mercado headed toward him. Henry still didn’t have a topcoat, and he was wearing what he’d worn last evening, except he’d added a scarf.

They didn’t shake, and Purcell introduced him to Jean, whose last name Purcell didn’t know, along with not knowing her room number. They made small talk for a minute, and Purcell noted that Henry seemed to be in a better mood, and also that Henry could be charming to an attractive lady. He pictured him in the Addis Hilton bar, chatting up Vivian for the first time.

Under normal circumstance Purcell might have asked Jean to join them for dinner, but tonight he needed Henry to himself, without Jean, and without the absent presence of Vivian. He said to Jean, “Try the Piazza Navona tonight.”

Henry suggested, “Trastevere would be better.” He gave her the name of a restaurant.

Jean thanked them and went back to her guidebook.

Purcell led Mercado to a reserved table near the window and they sat.

Mercado said, “I’m not actually staying for dinner. But let’s have a bottle of good wine.”

“Whatever is your pleasure.”

Mercado scanned the wine list, summoned a waiter, and they discussed vino in Italian.

Purcell lit a cigarette and looked out at the city. He never quite understood why Peter, and then Paul, had traveled all the way from their world to Rome, the belly of the beast. Surely they knew that was suicidal.

Mercado said, “You got off easy with a 150,000-lire bottle of amarone.”

“I thought you were buying tonight.”

“Let’s first see what you’re selling.”

“Right.” Purcell pointed to the Forum. “What’s that building?”

“That’s where the Roman senate sat and debated the affairs of the empire.”

“Amazing.”

“Truly the Eternal City. I think this is where I will end my days.”

“Could do worse. Which is what I want to talk to you about.”

“I am not going to Ethiopia.”

“Okay. But hypothetically… if we could get back in, legally, as accredited reporters, would you consider it?”

“No.”

“Let’s say you said yes. Would you feel comfortable with the three of us going?”

“I do not want to see her — or you — again.”

“We’re making progress.”

“Frank, none of us will ever be allowed back. So even if I said yes, it’s moot.”

“Right. But if we could swing it—”

“I’m facing a five-year prison sentence the moment I set foot on Ethiopian soil.”

“Okay. Maybe we should sneak in.”

“Maybe you should just step out into Roman traffic and save yourself some time and effort.”

The waiter brought the wine, Mercado tasted it and pronounced it meraviglioso, and the waiter poured.

Purcell held up his glass and said, “To Father Armano, and to God’s plan, whatever it is.”

“I’m sure you’re going to tell me what it is.”

“It’s coming to me.” Purcell informed him, “I actually have a private pilot’s license. Single-engine. Did I ever mention that?”

Mercado swirled his wine.

“If we could rent a bush plane in Sudan—”

“You’re not making God’s plan sound attractive.” He asked, “What do you think of the wine?”

“Great. So let’s think about false IDs. I have several sources in Cairo.”

Mercado pointed out, “You don’t actually need me along. It would be easier for you to just apply for a visa and see what happens. The new regime may let you in.”

“I want you with us.”

“By us, I assume you mean Vivian as well.”

“Right.”

“But she’s left you, old boy. Or at least that’s what you seemed to have told me last night.”

“Right. But I also told you she wants us to go back to look for the black monastery.”

Mercado mulled that over, then said, with good insight, “There are easier ways for you to regain her affection.”

Purcell did not reply.

“If you, Mr. Purcell, want to go back, you need to go for the right reason. Your reason is not the right reason.”

Purcell thought a moment, then replied, “I’m not going to tell you that I believe in the Holy Grail. But I do believe there is a hell of a story there.”

“But Vivian, dear boy, believes in the Grail. You need to believe in it as well if you’re going to drag her back there — or if she’s dragging you back.”

Purcell asked, “What do you believe?”

“I believe what Father Armano told us.”

“All of it?”

“All of it.”

“Then how can you not go back?”

He reminded Purcell, “Father Armano seemed to think that the Grail should be left where it was in a Coptic monastery — and he’s a Catholic priest who was under papal orders to find it and take it for the Vatican.”

“I’m not suggesting we should steal it. Just… look at it. Touch it.”

“That would probably end in life imprisonment. Or death.”

“But if you really believe, Henry, that we’re going back to find the actual Holy Grail, what difference does death make?”

Mercado looked closely at Purcell.

“Father Armano risked death by going on that patrol to find the black monastery. Because he believed in the Grail, and he believed in eternal life.”

“I understand that. But…”

“The Knights of the Round Table risked their lives to look for the Grail—”

“Myth and legend.”

“Right. But there’s a moral to that myth.”

“Which is that the Grail will never be found.”

“Which is that we should never stop looking for what we believe in. Death is not the issue.”

Mercado did not reply.

“Why did Peter come to Rome?”

Mercado smiled. “To annoy the Romans with his arguments, as you are annoying me with yours.”

“And to bring them the word of God. And why did Peter return to Rome?”

“To die.”

“I rest my case.”

Mercado seemed lost in thought, then said, “Look, old man, get a good night’s sleep”—he nodded toward Jean who was still at the bar but settling her bill—“and if you’re still suicidal in the morning, give me a call.” He put his business card on the table and stood.

Purcell stood and said, “Henry, this is what we have to do. We think we have a choice, but we don’t.”

“I understand that. And I also understand that you’re not as cynical as you think you are or pretend to be. You are not going to risk your life for a good story — or for a woman. You’re not that much of a reporter or that romantic. But if you believe in love, then you believe in God. There may or may not be a Holy Grail at the end of your journey, but the journey and the quest is itself an act of faith and belief. And as we Romans say, ‘Credo quia impossibile.’ I believe it because it is impossible.”

Purcell did not reply.

They shook hands and Mercado went to the bar, spoke to Jean, then left.

Jean walked toward his table, smiling tentatively. Purcell stood, and thought: Good old Henry, up to his old tricks again, sticking me with the bill, the lady, and the next move.

Chapter 16

Rome was always crowded at Christmas with visiting clergy, pilgrims, and tourists, and even more so this year in anticipation of the pope’s Christmas Eve announcement of the coming Holy Year. The taxi driver was swearing at the holiday traffic and at the foreign idioti who didn’t know how to cross a street.

Purcell had decided to stay in Rome for Christmas and he’d sent a short telex to Charlie Gibson in Cairo telling him that. The return telex, even shorter, had said, YOU’RE FIRED. HAVE A GOOD CHRISTMAS.

He’d hoped that would be Charlie’s response, and he dreaded a second telex rescinding the first. But if war broke out, as it might after all the Christian tourists left Jerusalem, Bethlehem, and Nazareth, then the Cairo office would want him back. In the meantime, he was free to pursue other matters. Also, as it turned out, Jean needed to get back to England for Christmas, which further freed him to write, and to think about what he wanted to do about the rest of his life.

He hadn’t called Henry the morning after as Henry had suggested, and Henry hadn’t called him, nor would he ever. So now, three days later, Purcell had made the call to L’Osservatore Romano that morning and he had a 4 P.M. meeting with Signore Mercado. It was 3:45 and the traffic was slower than the pedestrians, so Purcell asked the driver to drop him off at the foot of the Ponte Vittorio Emanuele, and he walked across the Tiber bridge.

It was windy, and the sky was dark and threatening with black clouds scudding across the gray sky, and the Tiber, too, looked black and angry.

Saint Peter’s Square was packed with tourists and with the faithful who were praying in large and small groups. In the center of the square stood the three-thousand-year-old Egyptian obelisk, and at the end of the square rose the marble mountain of Saint Peter’s Basilica, beneath which, according to belief, lay the bones of the martyred saint, and Purcell wondered if Peter, dying on the cross, had regretted his decision on the Via Appia.

Purcell did not enter the square, but walked along the Vatican City wall to the Porta Santa Rosa where two Swiss Guards with halberds stood guarding the gates of the sovereign city-state. He showed his passport and press credentials to a papal gendarme who was better armed than the Swiss Guards, and said, “Buona sera. L’Osservatore Romano, Signore Mercado.”

The man scanned a sheet of paper on his clipboard, said something in Italian, and waved him through.

He’d been there once before and easily found the press office on a narrow street lined with bare trees. The windows of the buildings cast squares of yellow light on the cold ground.

He was fifteen minutes late, which in Italy meant he was a bit early, but maybe not in Vatican City. The male receptionist asked him to be seated.

The offices of L’Osservatore Romano were housed in a building that may have preceded the printing press, but the interior was modern, or had been when the paper was founded a hundred years before. Electricity and telephones had been added, and the result was a modern newspaper that published in six languages and was a mixture of real news and propaganda. And not surprisingly, the pope made every issue.

A lot of articles focused on the persecution of Catholics in various countries, especially Communist Poland. Occasionally the paper covered the plight of non-Catholic Christians, and Purcell recalled that Henry Mercado had been in Ethiopia to write about the state of the Coptic Church in the newly Marxist country, as well as Ethiopia’s small Catholic population. Now Henry was writing press releases about the Holy Year. Purcell was sure that Mercado would like to return to Ethiopia to continue his important coverage. And hadn’t Henry promised General Getachu a few puff pieces about the general’s military prowess?

Mercado came into the waiting room wearing a cardigan over his shirt and tie. They shook hands and Mercado showed Purcell into his windowless office, a small room piled high with books and papers, giving it the look of a storage closet. He could see why Henry was in Harry’s Bar at 4 P.M.

Mercado shut off his IBM electric typewriter and said, “Throw your coat anywhere.” He spun his desk chair around and faced his guest who sat in the only other chair. Purcell asked, “Mind if I smoke?”

Mercado waved his arm around the paper-strewn room and replied, “You’ll set the whole Vatican on fire.”

But he did have a bottle of Boodles in his desk drawer and he poured into two water glasses.

Mercado held up his glass and said, “Benvenuto.”

“Cheers.”

They drank and Mercado asked, “Are you here to tell me you’ve come to your senses?”

“No.”

“All right.” He informed Purcell, “Then I’ve decided to go to Ethiopia.”

Purcell was not completely surprised that Mercado had changed his mind. In fact, he hadn’t. Whatever it was that had taken hold of him that night at the mineral spa still had him, and Henry, like Vivian, had been transformed by Father Armano and by that admittedly strange experience that Henry and Vivian took as a sign.

Mercado continued, “But I can’t promise you that I will go any farther than Addis. I am not keen on going back into Getachu territory.”

“I thought you wanted to write a nice piece about him.”

“I do. His obituary.” He tapped a stack of papers on his desk and said, “I am calling in favors and pulling some strings to get you and Vivian accredited with L’Osservatore Romano.”

“Good. I just lost my AP job.”

“How did you do that?”

“Easy.”

“All right, we will be covering the religious beat, of course, and your starting salary is zero, but all expenses are paid to and in Ethiopia.”

“And back.”

“Your optimism amazes me.” He asked, “Should I finalize this?”

“Where do I sign?”

Mercado finished his gin and contemplated another, then reminded Purcell, “This will all be moot if we can’t get visas.”

“It’s a good first step.”

“And L’Osservatore Romano will look good on our visa applications.”

“Si.”

Mercado smiled, then asked, “Are you sure Vivian wants to go?”

“She said so in her letter.”

“Have you heard from her?”

“I have not.”

“Can you contact her?”

“I’ll try her last known address. A P.O. box in Geneva.”

Mercado nodded and said, “Tell her to come to Rome.”

Purcell replied, “Tutte le strade conducono a Roma.”

“Did you practice that?”

“I did.” Purcell asked, “Are you all right with this?”

“I told you, old man, I’m over it.”

Purcell didn’t think so, and he had issues of his own with Vivian.

Mercado, in fact, asked, “Are you all right with Vivian coming along?”

“No problem.”

“I’m not sure I’m understanding your relationship.”

“That makes two of us. Probably three.”

“All right… By the way, how did you make out with that lady? Jean?”

“She had to go back to England.” Purcell added, “She did nothing but talk about you.”

Mercado smiled.

Purcell asked, “What do you think our chances are of actually getting a visa?”

“I think you were right about the regime change. They seem to want to smooth things over with the West.”

“They’re just playing the third world game — flirting with the West while they’re in bed with the Russians.”

“Of course. But that could work for us.”

Purcell asked, “Would you be suspicious if those visas were granted?”

“ ‘Will you walk into my parlor? said the spider to the fly.’ ”

“Precisely.”

“Well, if you want my opinion, old man, this whole idea is insane. But I think we’ve decided, so save your paranoia for Ethiopia.”

“Right.”

“And have you thought about why you are going back into the jaws of death?”

“I already told you.”

“Again, please.”

“To find the Holy Grail, Henry, to heal my troubled soul. Same as you.”

“Well, we should save this discussion for when Vivian joins us.”

Purcell did not reply.

Mercado poured two more gins and said, “I’m going to ask Colonel Gann to join us in Rome.”

“Why?”

“I think he’d be a good resource before we set out. Also, I’d like to see him and thank him.”

“Me too.”

“I want you to buy him a spectacular dinner at the Hassler.”

“Don’t you have an expense account, Henry?”

“Yes, a rather good one, which is why they’re putting me up at the Excelsior until I find an appartamento.”

It seemed to Purcell that Henry Mercado had more influence at L’Osservatore Romano than his office or his job would indicate. The thought occurred to him that Henry had spoken to someone here about their Ethiopian adventure, including — contrary to what Mercado had told him — the appearance and death of Father Giuseppe Armano. If that were true, then someone here had probably gotten excited about pursuing this story. And maybe Henry had been stringing his bosses along, like the old trickster he was, sucking silver out of the Vatican treasury. And he’d been at it for a few months, and the time had come to put up or get out.

Purcell asked, “Will you do a piece on Father Armano for your paper?”

“Of course. But not until we get back, obviously. And you?”

“I work here, Henry. Remember?”

“That’s right.” He drained his glass. “We’ll do a series of stunning articles together — yours in English and mine in Italian, and they will be translated into every world language, and you will achieve the fame and respect that has always eluded you, and I will add to my global reputation.”

Purcell smiled.

“We’ll do the talk show circuit. Who carries the Grail?”

“Vivian.”

“Yes, the pretty girl. And we’ll do a slideshow with her photography.”

Neither man spoke, and Purcell thought about what would actually happen if they did find the black monastery and somehow got possession of the Coptic monks’ Holy Grail. He said to Mercado, “Be careful what you wish for.”

Mercado changed the subject. “It would be very good if Colonel Gann could come along.”

“The Ethiopian government would love to see him.”

“I mean, if he could be pardoned or cleared of all charges.”

“That’s not going to happen.”

“Perhaps he could offer his services as a military advisor.”

“That’s a long shot, Henry. And I’m sure he’s not interested.”

“We’ll find out at our reunion. I’ll get Gann’s contact information in the UK, and call or write him. I’ll suggest early January for our reunion.”

“I’ll be here.”

“And Vivian, too, I hope.”

“I’ll let you know.”

“And we’ll go to Sicily where it’s warmer, and visit Father Armano’s village and find his people.”

“That would be a good first step on our journey.”

“It is the right thing to do,” Mercado agreed. “Meanwhile, if you are not too busy, I will meet you day after tomorrow at eight A.M., at the Vatican archives, and show you what I’ve found.”

“It doesn’t really matter, Henry. We are going forward on faith.”

“Indeed, we are. But you might find this interesting, and even informative and useful. Good background for your story.”

“Our story.”

“Our story.” He asked Purcell, “Have you written anything not for immediate publication?”

“I have.”

“Good. Saves us some work. Leave out the illicit sex for L’Osservatore Romano.”

Purcell did not smile.

Mercado asked, “Will you be in Rome for Christmas?”

“I’m undecided.”

“Where is home?”

“A little town in upstate New York.”

“Friends? Family? Old girlfriends?”

“All of the above.”

“Then go home.”

“How about you?”

“Christmas in Rome.”

“Could do worse.”

“If you’re around, I’ll get us in the back door for Christmas Eve Mass at Saint Peter’s. You need a papal blessing.”

“I’ll let you know.”

Mercado stood. “I’ll see you day after tomorrow. Your name will be at the library door.”

Purcell stood and put on his trench coat. On their way out, he said, “It doesn’t matter if we never even get into Ethiopia, or if we do, it doesn’t matter what happens there. It matters that we try.”

“I’ve lived my life that way, Frank.” He reminded Purcell, “This will be my third trip to Ethiopia, and I nearly got killed the first two times.” He added, “As they say, boats are safe in the harbor, but that’s not what boats are made for.”

Purcell left the offices of L’Osservatore Romano and walked along the lane lined with bare trees. It was dark now, but the narrow streets were lit, and with no place to go, he walked farther into the papal enclave until he reached the open spaces of fields and gardens behind the basilica.

He found a bench by a fountain — the Fountain of the Eagle — and sat. He lit a cigarette and watched the tumbling water.

The troubling thought came to him that Henry Mercado might be right about Frank Purcell’s motives. That somewhere, deep in his mind or his soul, he believed what Henry and Vivian believed. And what Father Armano believed. And he believed it because it was impossible.

Chapter 17

Frank Purcell and Henry Mercado sat at a long table in a private reading room within the large Vatican Library. The windowless room was nondescript except for a few obligatory religious portraits hanging on the yellowed plaster walls. Three ornate lamps hung from the high ceiling, and Jesus Christ hung from a wooden cross at the end of the room.

On the long mahogany table, neatly arranged documents were enfolded in green felt, and Mercado informed Purcell, “I assembled all of this over the last month or so. Some of these parchments and papyri are almost two thousand years old.”

“Can I smoke?”

“The library monks will execute you.”

Purcell took that as a no. Also, it was interesting that Henry had spent so much time here.

Mercado had a briefcase with him that he emptied onto the table, and Purcell could see pages of handwritten notes.

Mercado gave him a notebook to use, then motioned toward the documents and said, “I employed the services of the library translators — classical Greek and Latin, Church Latin, Hebrew—”

“I get it.”

“We will begin at the Last Supper.”

“Coffee?”

“After the Last Supper.” He explained to Purcell, “I’m not only trying to prove the existence of the Grail, but also to plot its long journey from Jerusalem to Ethiopia.”

“Why?”

“This will be useful information when we write our series of articles. And perhaps a book. Have you thought about a book?”

“I have.”

He also informed Purcell, “When we’re finished here, we will go to the Ethiopian College, which is here in Vatican City.”

“Why is it here?”

“Good question. The answer is, the Italians and the Vatican have had a long interest in Ethiopia, going back to the arrival in Rome of Ethiopian pilgrims in the fifteenth century. Interest was renewed when the Italians colonized Eritrea in 1869, then tried to conquer neighboring Ethiopia in 1896, then invaded again in 1935.”

“Did you also cover the 1896 war?”

Mercado ignored that and continued, “The Ethiopian College is also a seminary where the Vatican trains and ordains Catholic priests, and instructs lay people, mostly Ethiopian, to go to Ethiopia and spread the Catholic faith.”

“And maybe to look for the Holy Grail.”

Mercado did not respond to that but informed Purcell, “The Ethiopian College has a good library and a cartography room with some rare ancient maps of Ethiopia and some hard-to-find modern ones, made in the 1930s by the Italian Army. We can use those maps to narrow down the location of the black monastery, based on what we know from Father Armano.”

“Good idea. Let’s go.”

“We need to start at the beginning.” Mercado slid a large English-language Bible toward him and thumbed through the pages. “Here — Matthew, at the Last Supper.” He read, “And he took the cup, and gave thanks, and gave it to them, saying, ‘Drink ye all of it; For this is my blood of the new testament for the remission of sins.’ ”

Mercado looked at Purcell and said, “Mark and Luke make similar brief references to what has become the central sacrament of Christianity — the Holy Communion, the transubstantiation of the bread into the body of Christ, and the wine into his blood.” He added, “But John does not mention this at all.”

Purcell had had similar reporting lapses — missing or downplaying something that later turned out to be very important. “John may have been out of the room.”

Mercado responded, “The fact that the gospels differ actually give them credibility. These are men recording from memory what they saw and experienced, and the differences show they were not colluding to make up a story.”

“That’s what I tell my editors.”

Mercado continued, “Notice that the cup — the Grail — has no special significance in the telling of this story of the Last Supper. But later, in myth and legend, the cup grows large.”

“It gets magical.”

“Indeed it does. As does the lance of the Roman soldier Longinus, and the robe of Christ, and the thirty pieces of silver that Judas took to betray Christ, and everything else that has to do with the death of Jesus Christ.”

Purcell observed, “You’re making a good case for why Christ’s cup at the Last Supper is just a cup.”

“Perhaps… but of all the artifacts associated with the New Testament, the cup — the Grail — has persisted for two thousand years as a thing of special significance.” He continued, “And I think one of the reasons is that the chalice is used in the sacrament of Holy Communion. The priest literally — or figuratively — turns the wine into the blood of Christ, and that miracle — or mystery — has taken hold in every Christian who ever went to church on Sunday.”

“I guess… I never thought much about it.”

“Then you should be taking notes, Mr. Purcell. You have a story to write.”

“More importantly, we have a Grail that needs to be found.”

“We are finding it — first in our heads, then in our hearts.” He reminded Purcell, “This is a spiritual journey before it becomes a physical journey.”

Purcell picked up his pen and said, “I will make a note of that.”

Mercado continued, “The chalices used by priests and ministers are often very elaborate. Gold and precious stones. But the cup used by Christ was a simple kiddush cup — probably a bronze goblet used at the Passover. So the kiddush cup, like the story itself, has been embellished over the years, and now looks very different at the altar. It gleams. But that is not what we are looking for. We are looking for a two-thousand-year-old bronze cup — something that would have disappointed many of those who have searched for it, if they’d found it.”

Purcell nodded, trying to recall what, if anything, Father Armano had said about the cup that he claimed he saw.

Mercado went on, “But there is an essential truth to this story — Jesus saying, in effect, ‘I have turned this wine into my blood for the remission of your sins.’ ”

“But that has more to do with Jesus than it has to do with the wine or the cup.”

“You make a good point.”

“Also,” Purcell pointed out, “there is a lot of allegory and symbolism in the Old and New Testaments.”

“That is where some Christians, Jews, atheists, and agnostics disagree.”

“Right.”

“You either believe or you don’t believe. Evidence is in short supply. Miracles happen, but not often, and not without other explanations.”

“We should have mentioned that to Father Armano.”

“I completely understand your skepticism, Frank. I have some of my own.”

That wasn’t what he’d said on previous occasions, but Purcell left it alone.

Mercado had his Bible open again, and he said, “We move on from the Last Supper, and through the crucifixion, and we come to Joseph of Arimathea, who plays a central role in subsequent Grail legends.” He looked at the open Bible. “From Mark 15:42–47.” Mercado read, “And now when the even was come, because it was the preparation, that is, the day before the Sabbath, Joseph of Arimathea, an honorable counselor, who also waited for the kingdom of God, came, and went in boldly unto Pilate, and craved the body of Jesus. And Pilate marveled if he were already dead: and calling unto him the centurion, he asked him whether he had been any while dead. And when he knew it of the centurion, he gave the body to Joseph. And he bought fine linen, and took him down, and wrapped him in the linen, and laid him in a sepulcher which was hewn out of a rock, and rolled a stone unto the door of the sepulcher.”

Mercado looked up from the Bible and said, “This is the last we hear of Joseph of Arimathea in the New Testament, but not the last we hear of him from other sources.”

“Are these sources credible, Henry?”

Mercado pulled a notebook toward him and said, “I’ve read several accounts of the journey of the Holy Grail. You can call them legends or myths, or quasi-historical accounts. I’ve had access here to some primary source material, written on parchment and papyrus”—he motioned toward the green felt folders—“and the earliest date I was able to determine is from a papyrus, written in classical Greek, about forty or fifty years after the death of Christ.” He informed Purcell, “I’ve written a summation of all these stories, based on the parts that seem to agree.”

Purcell agreed with Mercado that it would be useful to get some backstory, but he was here mostly to… well, to humor Henry. To bond with him. Or maybe he was here in the musty Vatican Library, on what turned out to be a gloriously sunny morning, because he felt guilty that he’d taken Vivian from Henry. That was it. This was atonement. Punishment, actually. And he deserved it.

Henry was looking at his notebook and said, “Here’s what I’ve written, combining most of what I’ve read. It begins as a continuation of the New Testament account of the crucifixion.” He began, “And Joseph of Arimathea, believing in Christ, wished to possess something belonging to him. He therefore carried off the chalice of the Last Supper—”

“Was he there to clean up?”

Mercado ignored the interruption and continued, “And having begged Pilate for the Lord’s body, Joseph used the chalice to collect the blood flowing from Jesus’s wounds. And it came to pass that Joseph of Arimathea was imprisoned for his good deed by Pilate, at the urging of the same angry crowd that had demanded Christ’s death. And Joseph lay forty years in a hidden dungeon, but he was sustained by the Holy Grail, which was still in his possession.”

Mercado stopped reading and looked at Purcell.

Purcell nodded. Indeed, this ancient tale had a little of Father Armano’s story in it. And Father Armano probably knew the story.

Mercado continued, “And in the fortieth year of Joseph’s imprisonment, the Roman emperor, Vespasian, was cured of his leprosy by the veil of Saint Veronica, and believing now in Christ, the emperor took himself to Jerusalem to avenge the death of Christ, but all who had been responsible for his death were now themselves dead. But through a vision, Vespasian learned that Joseph, who was believed dead, was still imprisoned in the hidden dungeon. Vespasian had himself lowered into the dungeon and freed Joseph. The emperor Vespasian and Joseph of Arimathea were then baptized together by Saint Clement.”

Mercado put his notebook aside and said, “There are a number of historical inaccuracies — or stretches — in that story. But the story has persisted for two thousand years, and is believed by millions of Catholics and others.”

“And what does the Church of Rome think?”

“The Church of Rome neither confirms nor denies. The Church of Rome likes these stories, but understands, intellectually, that they are a stretch. But stories like this are good press, and they circulate among the faithful and reinforce their beliefs.”

“That’s what good propaganda does.”

“So we’ve heard that Joseph took Christ’s cup after the Passover meal, and we’ve heard that Joseph had it with him in the dungeon, and that the Grail sustained him for forty years.”

Purcell made a note to show he was listening.

Mercado flipped a page in his notebook and read, “Joseph journeyed with a flock of new Christians through the Holy Land and in time came into Sarras in Egypt. In Sarras, Joseph was instructed by the Lord to set out a table in memory of Christ’s Last Supper, and the sacrament of Communion was performed with the Grail for the new converts. After a time, Joseph was instructed by the Lord to journey to Britain, and there the Grail was kept in the Grail Castle, which was located, some say, near Glastonbury. The Grail was kept there by a succession of Grail Keepers, who were all descendants of Joseph of Arimathea, and after four hundred years, the last in the line of the Grail Keepers of the castle lay sick and dying.”

Mercado stopped reading and said, “So now we have the Grail in Britain, which also seems a stretch, but Britain was a Roman province, part of Joseph’s Roman world, so this is possible.”

“Henry, I don’t mean to be cynical, but this whole thing is a stretch.”

“If you had read all that I have read here—”

“You started with a belief, and you cherry-picked your facts and gave credence to unconfirmed sources. The worst kind of reporting.” He added, “You know better than that.” Or maybe, Purcell thought, Henry had been working at L’Osservatore Romano too long.

“I’m not the first one to do this scholarship and come up with the same conclusions.”

“There’s a guy now writing books based on his scholarship saying that extraterrestrials visited the earth and built the pyramids.”

Mercado did not reply for a few seconds, then said, “We are all searching for answers to who we are, what our place is in this world and this universe. We hope there is more than we know and see. We hope there is a God.”

“Me too, Henry, but… okay. The Holy Grail is in Glastonbury.”

Mercado referred to his notes and continued, “This brings us to the time when the Roman legions withdrew from Britain. The Roman world is disintegrating and Britain has been invaded by various Germanic tribes. The legendary — or historical — Arthur is king of the Britons and we begin the well-known legend of Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table.”

Purcell had seen the movie, but he let Henry continue.

Mercado read from his notebook, “The magician Merlin told King Arthur of the presence of the Holy Grail in Britain and bid him form the Round Table of virtuous knights to seek out the Holy Grail. The table was formed, with an empty place to represent Judas, in the tradition of the Last Supper and the table of Joseph of Arimathea. After many adventures and dangers during their quest for the Grail, one of Arthur’s knights, Sir Perceval, who was unknowingly a descendant of Joseph of Arimathea, discovered the Grail Castle and there found the Holy Grail, and also the lance of the Roman soldier, Longinus, that had pierced the side of Christ on the Cross. The lance hung suspended in thin air and dripped blood into the Grail cup.”

Purcell looked at Mercado, who had stopped reading. It must have occurred to Mercado that this was a story known by all, but believed by virtually no one in the modern world. Except maybe Henry Mercado, Father Armano, maybe Vivian, and a few select others. But Purcell understood that even if the legends were untrue, that didn’t mean that the Grail did not exist. The paving stone with Christ’s footprint existed in the physical world, as did the Shroud of Turin and a thousand other religious relics. The Grail, however, was always associated with the power to heal. So if they found the black monastery and the Grail, then they would know if it was real. Especially if there was a lance hanging above it in thin air, dripping blood. He’d believe that if he saw it.

Mercado continued, “Sir Perceval was told by the old Grail Keeper of their kinship, and when the Grail Keeper died, Sir Perceval and Sir Gauvain, perceiving that the times had grown evil, knew that the Grail must again be hidden from sinful men. The Lord came to them and told them of a ship anchored nearby the castle, and bid them take the Grail and the Lance back to the Holy Land. The two knights set off in a fog and were never seen or heard from again.”

Mercado closed his notebook.

After a few seconds, Purcell inquired, “Is that it?”

Mercado replied, “No. The Grail, and sometimes the Lance, appear again in other references throughout the Dark Ages, Middle Ages, and into modern times.”

Right, Purcell thought. Like a few months ago.

Mercado asked, “Did you find any of that interesting or useful?”

“Interesting, but not useful.”

“Do you believe any of it?”

“You lost me after Mark.”

“Why even believe in the New Testament?”

“You’re asking questions I can’t answer, Henry.”

“That’s why we’re here. To find answers.”

“The answers are not here. Half of the archives in the great Vatican Library are myths and legends. The answer is in Ethiopia.”

“The answer is in our hearts.”

“Let’s start with Ethiopia.” Purcell reminded him, “And we have less than a fifty-fifty chance of being allowed back there.”

“We are going to Ethiopia.”

“You have our visas?”

“No. But I will.” He looked at Purcell. “You don’t understand, Frank. We — you, me, Vivian, and also Colonel Gann — have been chosen to go back to Ethiopia to find the Holy Grail.”

Purcell didn’t bother to ask who had chosen them.

Mercado agreed it was time for a coffee break, and they walked out into the sunshine.

Purcell easily understood how early humans believed in the sun as God; it acted in mysterious ways, it rose and set in the heavens, and it gave life and light. The religion of the Jews, Christians, and Muslims, however, was more complex. They asked people to believe in things that could not be seen or felt like the sun on his face. They asked for faith. They asked that you believe it because it was impossible.

And on this basis, he was going back to Ethiopia.

Chapter 18

They walked the short distance to the commissary, where they got coffee and biscotti that they took outside to a bench. The barracks of the Swiss Guard was across the lane, and Purcell watched them forming up for some occasion. The Vatican post office, too, was run by the Swiss, and he said to Henry, “Swiss efficiency and Italian biscotti. Truly a blessed place.”

Mercado responded, “The Italians are the only people on earth who have monumental egos and an inferiority complex.” He added, “I find it charming.”

“So you’re staying here?”

“I will die here or in Ethiopia.”

“Can I ask… do you have a lady here?”

He hesitated before replying, “I… have a lady of my own age whom I see whenever I’m in Rome.”

Purcell didn’t pursue that. He lit a cigarette and watched the people.

There were no tourists in this part of Vatican City, and everyone on the streets here was employed by the Vatican in one way or another or they were official visitors like himself. There were, he knew, about a thousand actual residents of this sovereign city-state, mostly clergy, including the pope’s staff or retinue, or whatever they were called. The art and the architecture here were without parallel in the world, and he understood, sitting there, why the popes and the cardinals and the hierarchy believed that this was the one true church of Jesus Christ. This was where the bones of Peter, the first pope, were buried somewhere beneath the basilica that bore his name, and Peter had taken the cup from Jesus’s hand and drunk his Lord’s blood. And so, the argument would go, this was where that same Holy Grail, if it existed, belonged. Case closed.

But even Father Armano had second thoughts about that. And so did Frank Purcell.

Mercado asked, “Are you thinking about what you’ve just learned?”

“No. I’m thinking about Father Armano and the black monastery.”

“We will get to the black monastery.”

Purcell didn’t know if Henry meant get to it in the next library seminar or get to it in Ethiopia. Hopefully the latter. He said, “Good coffee.”

“Made from holy water.”

Purcell smiled.

“And Ethiopian coffee beans.”

“Really?”

“The Italians still own and run some coffee plantations in Ethiopia. Though they’ve probably been seized by the bloody stupid Marxists.”

“Right.”

“There’s a chap lives in Addis. Signore Bocaccio. Owns coffee plantations around the country. Visits them with his airplane.”

Purcell nodded.

“They may have kicked him out, of course, or put him in jail, but if he’s still in Addis, we may want to look him up when we get there.”

“What’s he fly?”

“I don’t know. Never been up with him, but a few journalists have.”

“Would he rent the plane without him in it?”

“Ask.”

Purcell nodded. His piloting skills were not great, but he thought he could fly nearly any single-engine aircraft if someone gave him an hour or so of dual flying instructions.

Also, he realized that Henry had already thought some of this out. They couldn’t just head off into the jungle and expect to run into the black monastery. Few people had been so lucky, and those who had, like Father Armano and his army patrol, had discovered that their luck had run out at the monastery — or before then, when they met the Gallas. And now General Getachu was also interested in the monastery.

So, yes, they should do aerial recon to see if they spotted anything that looked like a black monastery — or like something they didn’t want to run into on the ground.

Mercado glanced at his watch and said, “We’ll go back to the library, then over to the Ethiopian College.”

“Are you taking the day off?”

“No. I’m working. And so are you.”

“Right. I work here.” Purcell asked, “When do I get my creds?”

“In a week or two. Or three.” He smiled. “This is not Switzerland.” He said, “After you left my office the other night, I sent a telex to the British Foreign Office, who have taken responsibility for the repatriation of Colonel Sir Edmund Gann. I asked them to have Gann call or telex me at my office.”

“Good.”

“Have you written to Vivian?”

In fact, he had after he’d left Mercado’s office that night and returned to the Hotel Forum. The letter had said, simply, “I am in Rome, staying at the Forum. Henry is here, working for L’Osservatore Romano, and we have met and spoken. We would like you to join us in Rome, before Christmas if possible. We are discussing the possibility of returning to Ethiopia, and we would like to include you in those discussions if you are still interested. Please telex me at the Forum either way. Hope you are well. Frank.”

He’d felt that the letter, like his last, was a bit distant, and he wanted her to respond, so he’d added a P.S.: “I have been very lonely without you.”

“Frank?”

“Yes… I wrote to her. Posted it yesterday morning.”

“Hopefully the Italian postal service is not on strike this week.” He joked, “Half of Paul’s letters to the Romans are still sitting in the Rome post office.”

Purcell smiled. “I actually sent it from the Swiss post office here.”

“Excellent thinking. It should be in Geneva today.” He stood. “Ready?”

Purcell stood and they walked back to the library.

Mercado informed Purcell, “There are over half a million printed volumes in this library, and over fifty thousand rare manuscripts, including many in the hand of Cicero, Virgil, and Tacitus.”

“So no coffee allowed.”

Mercado continued, “It would take a lifetime to read just the handwritten manuscripts, let alone the printed volumes.”

“At least.”

“In any case, after a month of research, I have no documentary evidence of how the Grail, which was bound for the Holy Land, wound up in Ethiopia. But I have a theory.” He said to Purcell, “If you know your history, you will know that the Council of Chalcedon was called in A.D. 451 to try to resolve some of the theological differences that existed in the early Christian Church.”

“Right.”

Mercado continued, “The pope, Leo I, and the Christian emperor of the Eastern Roman Empire, Marcian, had a disagreement with the Egyptian and Ethiopian emissaries to this meeting because these emissaries refused to accept the complex doctrine of the Trinity and insisted that Christ was one and that he was wholly divine. These emissaries were expelled, and the dissenting churches came to be called Egyptic, and later Coptic, and this was the beginning of Ethiopia’s isolation from the larger Christian world, which persists to this day.”

“I noticed.”

“In any case, the missing piece of the journey of the Grail could be this — Perceval and Gauvain—”

“Who we last saw sailing off in a fog.”

“Reached the Holy Land, which was part of the Eastern Roman Empire, ruled by the emperor in Constantinople.” He continued, “Perceval and Gauvain would have given the Grail to the Christian bishop in Jerusalem, who was at that time a powerful figure in the church.” He informed Purcell, “There is some documentary evidence here in the archives that the Grail was circulated among the important Christian churches in Jerusalem over the next few centuries.”

Mercado continued, “But in A.D. 636, Jerusalem was conquered by the armies of Islam, and many important Christian religious objects were lost or were spirited away to Rome, Constantinople, and Alexandria, Egypt, which was still part of the Eastern Roman Empire.”

“How’d it wind up in Ethiopia, Henry?”

“I’m speculating that the Grail wound up in Alexandria, or someplace else in Egypt, and six years later, in 642, Christian Egypt fell to Islam. I’m further speculating that the Grail, now in the possession of Coptic priests or monks in Egypt, was taken by Nile riverboat to Ethiopia for safekeeping in Axum.” He explained, “That would make sense, historically, geographically, and in terms of theology — the Egyptians were Copts, and they came into possession of the Grail from Christian refugees from Jerusalem who were fleeing Islam. Six years later, they themselves were conquered by Islam, and they needed to safeguard the Grail, so they took it by a safe route on the Nile to their co-religionists in Ethiopia.”

“That’s an exciting story.”

“And based on known historical events. Also, after this time, there are historical references to the Holy Grail in Ethiopia — and no references to it being anywhere else.”

Purcell did not respond.

“I’m not asking you to suspend belief. I’m trying to fill in the blanks between when the Grail left Glastonbury and when it is mentioned in primary source documents as being in Ethiopia.”

A far simpler explanation, Purcell thought, was that the cup used by Christ at the Last Supper had never left Jerusalem. But the Brits liked their story of King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table and the Holy Grail, and people like Mercado worked it into the legend. In the end, it didn’t matter how it got to Ethiopia, assuming it did, and assuming it existed.

Purcell said, “You understand, Henry, that we are not trying to locate the Holy Grail or even figure out how it got to Ethiopia. We have been told by a credible source — Father Armano — that it’s sitting in the black monastery. Now all we have to do is go find this place.”

“And I’ve explained to you that our journey — spiritual and intellectual — begins here.”

“I’m not arguing with you, Henry. I just want this part of the journey to end before lunch.”

“If we do find the Grail, it would be important if we could establish its provenance, as you would do with any ancient object — to establish its authenticity.”

“If we find the Grail, Henry, we will know it is authentic. Especially if it has a lance dripping blood into it. And even if it doesn’t, we will know it when we see it. We will feel it. That much I believe. And that’s what you should believe. So it doesn’t matter how it got there, and we don’t have to prove anything to anyone.” He said, “Res ipsa loquitur. The thing speaks for itself.”

Mercado looked at him and said, “I didn’t know you spoke Latin.”

“Neither did I.”

Both men stayed silent. Then Mercado asked, “But did I make my case?”

“You did an excellent job.” He asked Mercado, “Did you do all this on company time? Or are you doing it for the company?”

Mercado did not reply.

Purcell closed his notebook and said, “Well, I have enough to write the story. Now let’s find the black monastery so I can write the end.”

Purcell stood, and Mercado said to him, “For a writer, a journey of a thousand miles begins in a library and ends at the typewriter.”

“We should be so lucky as to end this journey at a typewriter.”

They left the room and Mercado said something in Italian to a monk, who walked toward the reading room with a large key in his hand.

They walked out into the December sunshine, then headed into the Vatican gardens toward the Ethiopian College, where Purcell hoped they’d find a map with a notation saying, Black monastery — home of the Holy Grail.

They should be that lucky. Or not.

Chapter 19

Priests and nuns strolled the garden paths, and Purcell thought that wherever they had come from, they had arrived here at the center of their world and their faith. Their spiritual journey would never end, until they were called home, but their physical journey had ended and they seemed at peace with themselves.

He and Henry, on the other hand, had a ways to go to find whatever they were looking for. And Vivian, too, who had seemed happy just to be out of Ethiopia and to be with him, had not gotten Ethiopia, Henry, or Father Armano out of her head. But if everything went right, three troubled souls would come together in Rome and make their peace and begin their journey.

Mercado spoke as they walked. “The next significant mention of the Grail in Ethiopia is dated 1527.”

“Are we back in the library?”

“Yes. I found a report, written in Latin by a Portuguese Jesuit named Alvarez, written for Pope Clement VII. Father Alvarez says to Pope Clement that he has just returned from Ethiopia and while there he met another Portuguese gentleman, an explorer named Juscelino Alancar, who had reached the Ethiopian emperor’s court at Axum with his expedition forty years earlier. Father Alvarez further states that Alancar had been treated well, but he and his men had been put under house arrest by the Coptic pope for the remainder of their lives.”

“That seems to be a recurring theme in Ethiopia.”

“I also learned that as a result of Alancar’s visit to Axum, a number of Ethiopians, most of them Coptic monks, made a pilgrimage to Rome to see the Holy City and were welcomed by Pope Sixtus IV, who granted them the use of the Church of Saint Stephen, near Saint Peter’s Basilica, and this was the founding of the Ethiopian College that we are about to visit.”

“Very generous of the pope. What did he want in return?”

“Perhaps some information.” Mercado returned to the story of Father Alvarez. “Father Alvarez with some other Jesuit priests had been looking for Axum because its name appeared in many ancient writings that were being circulated during the Renaissance. Also, Father Alvarez believed that Axum was the legendary lost Christian kingdom of Prester John.”

“Did he find that?”

“No, what Father Alvarez actually found was the capital of Ethiopia and the seat of the Ethiopian Coptic Church. He also found the last surviving member of the Alancar expedition, who was Alancar himself.” Mercado added, “Father Alvarez says in this report to Pope Clement VII, that, quote, ‘Juscelino Alancar told me that he found and saw the cup — the gradale—that his Holiness Sixtus had sent him to find.’ ”

“Which got Senhor Alancar life in Ethiopia.”

“Apparently. And because Alancar told Father Alvarez what it was that he had found and seen, Father Alvarez was also kept in Axum under house arrest.”

“But he got out and wrote to the pope.”

“Yes, what happened was that Ethiopia was being attacked by the Turks, so the Ethiopian emperor, Claudius, let Father Alvarez go so he could tell King John III of Portugal about the lost Christian empire of Ethiopia, and to ask the Portuguese king for military aid. Alancar himself was dead by this time, so Father Alvarez and his fellow Jesuits left Axum and made their way back to Portugal. King John actually sent an expeditionary force to Ethiopia, and in 1527 a combined Ethiopian and Portuguese force defeated the Turks, and the Ethiopian emperor Claudius pledged everlasting thanks to King John III and to the Jesuits, who, Father Alvarez says in his report to the pope, are now welcomed back into Ethiopia by the emperor Claudius.”

They continued through the acres of gardens, and Purcell could see a building ahead that Mercado identified as the Ethiopian College.

Mercado slowed his pace and continued his story. “There is another report from a Jesuit priest named Father Lopes to the next pope, Paul III, which tells of the Jesuit missionary influence in Ethiopia, and of all the good works that they had done in spreading the Catholic faith. But this report also says that the Jesuits are being expelled again because the Ethiopian emperor and the Coptic pope have accused them of excessive prying into the affairs of the Coptic Church and for making inquiries about the monastery of obsidian.” He added, “This is the first reference to the black monastery and to the Grail possibly being there.”

“Where it remains.”

“Yes. Also, it would seem that a succession of Catholic popes had an interest in Ethiopia, and in the black monastery, and therefore the Grail.” Mercado continued, “I guess you could make the case that this is a secret passed on from pope to pope, and that’s why Father Armano got the sealed envelope from Pius XI. And it also appears, from other oblique references I’ve read, that the Jesuits, who are the shock troops of the papacy, have been tasked with the mission to find the Holy Grail.”

“If that’s true, they haven’t done a good job of it.”

“They are patient.” He thought a moment, then said, “Or, more likely, they and the recent popes have lost interest in this because they no longer believe in the existence of the Holy Grail.”

“It’s a hard thing to believe in, Henry.”

“It is. But—”

“You believe it because it is impossible.”

“I do.”

They reached the Ethiopian College, a Romanesque-style structure that Mercado said was built in the 1920s when the college was moved from the five-hundred-year-old monastery of Saint Stephen. Purcell saw a number of black-robed, dark-skinned monks going in and out of the main entrance, and he couldn’t help but recall Father Armano’s story of the monks in the black monastery who’d greeted him and the Italian soldiers with clubs. “Is this place safe, Henry?”

Mercado smiled. “They’re good Catholics, old man. Not Copts with clubs.”

“Good.”

But he saw that Mercado crossed himself as he entered, so he did the same.

Mercado confessed, “I haven’t been here before, but we have permission and we have an appointment and we are on time.”

They stood in the large antechamber and waited.

A tall, black, and bald monk came toward them and Mercado greeted him in Italian. They exchanged a few words, and Purcell could tell that there seemed to be some problem, notwithstanding their appointment.

Purcell suggested, “Tell him all we want to do is see the map that shows the black monastery.”

Two more monks appeared from somewhere and the discussion continued. Finally, Mercado turned and said to Purcell, “They are refusing entry. So I’ll need to go through channels again.”

“Try a different channel.”

“All right, let’s go. I’ll work this out.”

They exited the Ethiopian College and walked down the path through the gardens.

Purcell asked, “What was that all about?”

“Not sure.”

“When you asked permission, to whom did you speak?”

“I spoke to a papal representative.” He explained, “The pope is considered the special protector of the college.”

“Doesn’t look like that place needs any outside protection.”

Mercado didn’t respond.

“So what did you tell this papal representative?”

“The truth, of course.” He added, “That I had just returned from Ethiopia and I wanted to do some research on a series of articles I was writing for our newspaper about the Coptic and Catholic churches in post-revolutionary Ethiopia.”

“Which is the truth, but not the whole truth.”

Mercado did not reply and they continued to walk back toward the Vatican Library, or, Purcell hoped, the offices of L’Osservatore Romano, or, better yet, lunch. He said, “I assume you didn’t mention the black monastery.”

“It didn’t come up.”

Purcell thought about this. If Henry were actually in league with someone or some group here in the Vatican who wanted him to look for the Holy Grail, then there must be another group here who didn’t want him to do that. Or the only people here whom Henry Mercado was working for were his editors at L’Osservatore Romano, and he, Purcell, was seeing conspiracies where there were only bureaucratic screwups or miscommunication. He wasn’t sure, but at some point, here or in Ethiopia, he’d know what, if anything, Henry was up to.

Mercado said, “Just as well. When Gann gets here, we’ll have this all straightened out, and I’m sure Colonel Gann can read a map far better than you or I.”

“Good point.”

“Would you like to go back to the library? There’s more.”

“The monk locked the door.”

“He’ll open it.”

“Let me buy you lunch.”

“All right…”

“The Forum.” Purcell explained his restaurant choice: “I’m waiting for a telex.”

Mercado looked at him and nodded.

They exited the Vatican through Saint Peter’s Square and hailed a taxi on the Borgo Santo Spirito, which took them to the Hotel Forum.

Purcell said, “Go on up and get us a table by the window, and a good bottle of wine.”

Mercado hesitated, then walked to the elevators.

Purcell went to the front desk and asked for messages. The clerk riffled through a stack of phone messages and telexes and handed him a sealed envelope.

He opened it and read the telex: ARRIVING FIUMICINO TONIGHT. WILL TAXI TO CITY. HOTEL UNDECIDED. WILL MEET YOU AT FORUM BAR, 6 P.M. I MISS YOU, V.

He put the telex in his pocket and walked to the elevator.

Well… no mention of Henry. Hotel undecided. Don’t meet me at the airport. See you at six. I miss you.

And, Purcell thought, I miss you too.

He rode up to the Forum restaurant and found Henry speaking on the maître d’s phone. Henry motioned to a table by the window, and Purcell sat.

Mercado joined him and asked, “Any messages?”

“No.”

Mercado looked at him and said, “It’s all right.”

He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he nodded.

“I ordered the same amarone.”

“I thought we drank it all.”

“Do you feel that you are intellectually and spiritually prepared to go on this quest?”

“I do, actually.”

“And do you think Vivian will come with us?”

Purcell reminded Mercado, “You seem to think that the Holy Spirit has told her to go. So ask him. Or her.”

Mercado smiled.

Purcell suggested, “Let’s talk about something else.”

“All right. I just spoke to my office. Colonel Gann telexed. He can come to Rome right after the New Year and may be able to go to Berini with us.”

“Good. Did he mention Ethiopia?”

“He said he would go if he could get in.”

“Getting in is easy. Getting out, not so easy.”

“I assume he meant getting in without being rearrested.”

The wine came, and Henry poured it himself. He raised his glass and said, “Amicitia sine fraude — to friendship without deceit.”

“Cheers.”

Chapter 20

The Forum bar was crowded when Purcell arrived at 5:30, so he took a table by the window and sat facing the entrance, nursing a glass of red wine.

This wasn’t the first time in his life that an ex-lover or estranged girlfriend had wanted to meet in a public place, and sometimes he’d suggested it himself. And maybe with Henry still in the picture, this was a good idea. In fact, he wasn’t sure himself what he wanted to happen tonight, except that he wanted Vivian to go with him — and Henry — to Ethiopia. And that, apparently, was what she wanted, though it had to be worked out if she was with him, or with Henry, or with neither.

In any case, despite Henry’s toast, Purcell had no guilt about deceiving Henry regarding Vivian’s arrival. In fact, Henry probably knew he’d heard from Vivian, and Henry understood that a three-person reunion would not be a good first step toward a return trip to Ethiopia. Purcell had made his separate peace with Henry Mercado, and now he’d do the same with Vivian. Eventually they’d all have a drink together and be civilized — even if Vivian decided to be with Henry. Actually, he was sure Henry would not take her back, even if she wanted that. Henry, like his Italian friends, had a monumental ego — and if he didn’t have an inferiority complex before, he’d acquired one in Ethiopia.

It was past 6 P.M., but Purcell knew she’d be late, though he had no idea what time her plane had arrived from Geneva. But the traffic from Fiumicino was always bad, and it was rush hour in Rome, and Christmas, and maybe she was looking for a hotel, which was difficult during the holy season.

He lit a cigarette and looked out at the Colosseum. Or maybe she’d changed her mind. And that was okay, too. Less complicated.

“Hello, Frank.”

He stood and they looked at each other. She hesitated, then put her hand on his arm. He leaned forward and they kissed briefly, and he said, “You’re looking very good.”

“You too.”

She was wearing a green silky dress that matched her eyes, and her long black hair framed her alabaster skin, and he remembered her as he’d seen her that night at the mineral spa when he realized he was taken with her.

“Frank?”

“Oh… would you like to sit?”

A hovering waiter pulled a chair out for her, she sat, and Purcell sat across from her. She said to the waiter, “Un bicchiere di vino rosso, per favore.”

They looked at each other across the table, then finally she said, “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to apologize or explain.”

“But I’d better do that.”

He smiled.

“I just needed to sort things out.”

“How did that work out?”

“Well, I’m here.”

That didn’t answer the question, but Purcell said, “Thank you for coming.”

“Did you throw my stuff out?”

“Tempted.”

The waiter brought her glass of wine and Purcell held up his glass. “Sono adirato.”

“Why are you angry?”

“I thought that meant, ‘I adore you.’ ”

She laughed and they touched glasses. She said, “Ti amo.”

“Me too.”

She put her hand on the table and he took it. They didn’t speak for a while, then she asked, “Did you come to Rome to see Henry?”

“I did.”

She nodded, then asked, “Does he know I’m here?”

“No.”

She nodded again and asked, “How is he?”

“Adirato.”

“Well… I don’t blame him… but… at least you two are talking.”

“I think he’s ready to talk to you.”

“That’s good. So he’s working for L’Osservatore Romano?”

“He is. Seems to enjoy it. Loves Rome.”

“I’m happy for him.”

“Any other feelings for him that I should know about?”

She shook her head.

“All right… but when you see him, you can work that out with him.”

“I will.” She added, “I’m sure he’s over it.”

“He said he was.”

She changed the subject and asked, “How long are you staying in Rome?”

“That depends. How long are you staying in Rome?”

“As long as you are.”

“All right.” He informed her, “I’ve resigned from the AP office in Cairo.”

“Why?”

“Because Charlie Gibson fired me.”

“Good. You hated the job and you hated Cairo.”

“I wasn’t fond of either,” he admitted, “but it was tolerable with you there.”

She smiled. “I can make any place tolerable, Frank.”

“Even Ethiopia.”

“That may be overstating my powers.” She asked him, “What about our apartment in Cairo?”

“That’s the only home I have at the moment.”

“Me too.”

“We’ll keep it awhile.” He asked, “Where did you stay in Geneva?”

“My old boarding school.” She explained, “We’re always welcome back. Twenty francs a night in the guesthouse. Best deal in Geneva.” She added, “No men allowed.”

“Can you at least drink?”

“Yes. You must drink to stay sane there.”

He smiled.

She told him, “I’m not a writer, but I did write a sort of diary about what happened in Ethiopia.” She told him, “I also wrote about us in Cairo.”

“Can I see it?”

“Someday.” She added, “I’m still angry about losing all my photographs.”

“You can ask Getachu for them when we go back.”

She looked at him for a few seconds. “Are we actually doing that?”

“Well… that’s the plan.” He asked, “Are you still interested?”

“I am.” She added, “I’m surprised that Henry wants to go back.”

“I’m not, and neither are you.” He reminded her, “He believes he has been chosen by God to find… it.”

She nodded.

“And you?”

Again, she nodded, and asked, “And you?”

“My motives, according to Henry, are confused at best.”

“But you do want to go?”

“I do.” He informed her, “Henry is working on getting us press credentials with L’Osservatore Romano, then we need to get visas. If none of that works, we may consider jumping the border from Sudan.”

“That could be dangerous.”

“No more dangerous than trekking through Getachu territory to find the black monastery.”

She nodded.

He told her, “Good news. Colonel Gann has been released from prison.”

“Thank God. I thought… they’d kill him.”

“They would have, but they sold him instead.” He added, “I don’t know where he is now, but Henry got a telex from him and Gann says he’s willing to accompany us to Ethiopia.”

“That is insane.”

“He probably had the same thought about us.”

“But he’s… an enemy—”

“Maybe he’ll rethink that trip. In the meantime, he’s coming to Rome after the New Year, and if you’re up for it, all four of us will go to sunny Sicily for holiday. Berini.”

She smiled. “I would like that.”

He informed her, “There was a piece in the news… they shot Prince Joshua.”

“I saw that… that poor man… and all those other members of the royal family, and all the former government people…” She looked at him. “How can people do that to other people?”

“It’s been going on awhile.”

“I know… but… there’s such evil in the world…” She asked him, “Doesn’t it test your faith in God?”

“Father Armano — and Henry — would tell you it’s all part of God’s plan.”

“It can’t be.”

“The devil, then.”

She nodded, then looked at him and said, “I always meant to ask you… that night… when we were driving, why did you suddenly turn off the road?”

“I don’t know.”

“You went right through a wall of bushes. Right where the spa was.”

He’d thought about that himself, and he couldn’t recall what had made him suddenly crash the Jeep through those bushes. He smiled. “A voice said, ‘Turn right.’ ”

“Be serious.”

“I don’t know, Vivian.”

“But don’t you think it was beyond strange that you turned off the road exactly where the spa was?”

“Let me think about it.” He changed the subject. “Henry and I discussed the possibility that Getachu or someone else has already found the black monastery.”

“They haven’t.”

“All right…” He wanted their first night to be more romantic, so he asked, “Would you like dinner?”

“No. I want to take a walk.”

“Good idea.” He signaled the waiter for the bill, then asked her, “Where are you staying?”

“There is not a room to be had in Rome.”

“Sorry to hear that.” He inquired, “Where is your luggage?”

“In your room.”

He smiled. “How did you manage that?”

“Really, Frank. We’re in Italy.”

He asked, seriously, “How did you know this would go well?”

“It didn’t matter how it went. We’re sleeping together tonight.”

He didn’t argue with that, and he suggested, “Let’s get you unpacked.”

“I need a walk. It’s a beautiful night.”

“Okay.” He paid the bill while she got her coat, and they went down to the lobby and outside into the cool night.

The Roman rush hour had ended, and the streets were becoming more quiet, and pedestrians were strolling on the broad Via dei Fori Imperiali. The Christmas decorations, such as they were, were mostly of the religious type, and there was no sign of Santa or his reindeer.

They held hands and didn’t speak much as they took in the city and its people. Vivian said, “This is what I pictured when I received your romantic letter.”

“I didn’t know what tone to use.”

“So you wrote it as a news release. If it wasn’t for your P.S., I’d still be in Geneva.”

“I know.”

“Well, I don’t blame you for being angry.”

“Why should you?”

“I know I shouldn’t have left under false pretenses. And I’m sorry for that. But I couldn’t face you… and say…”

“Drop it.”

She squeezed his hand and said, “I kept thinking to myself, ‘Get thee to a nunnery, Vivian. Go think this out.’ ”

“Good. Let’s move on. Avanti.”

“I feel cleansed now, and pure.”

“We’ll take care of that later.”

She laughed and they continued on. She asked him, “What is the most romantic spot in the city?”

“My room.”

“Second most.”

“I’ll show you.”

They walked around the Vittorio Emanuele monument, then up the steps of the Campidoglio to the piazza at the top of the ancient Capitoline Hill where dozens of hand-holding couples strolled past the museums and around the equestrian statue of Marcus Aurelius.

Purcell led her to a spot at the edge of the hill that looked out over the floodlit Forum below and at the Palatine Hill rising above the Forum ruins, with the Colosseum in the distance.

Vivian said, “Breathtaking.”

“We’ll come back here after Ethiopia.”

“We will come back.”

They descended the long flight of steps down the hill and walked back to the hotel.

Chapter 21

Purcell picked up his room phone and called Henry at his office to inform him that Vivian was in Rome, though he didn’t say when she’d arrived, or where she was staying, and Henry didn’t ask. Had he asked, Purcell would have told him that Vivian was in the shower.

Henry suggested lunch at a restaurant called Etiopia, which he thought would be a fitting place for their reunion. Purcell didn’t think so, but he took down the address, which Henry said was near the Termini. Henry further suggested that he, Henry, meet Vivian there at 12:30, and that Purcell join them at one — or even later.

Purcell wasn’t sure he liked that arrangement, but he’d leave it up to Vivian.

Later, as he and Vivian began a morning walk, he told her about his call to Mercado, and about lunch.

He thought she might want to return to the hotel to change out of her jeans, sweatshirt, and hiking boots for lunch with her old boyfriend, but she said, “I’m all right with that. If you are.”

“I’m okay.” He informed her, “It’s an Ethiopian restaurant.”

“That’s Henry.”

It was a warm and sunny morning, and it was the Saturday before Christmas, so traffic was light and the city seemed to be in a holiday mood.

They walked through the Campo de’ Fiori, which made Purcell think of his advice to Jean, which in turn made him think of Henry sending Jean to his table under false pretenses. Henry Mercado, Purcell understood, was a manipulator and a man who knew how to compromise other people. But Henry was also a gentleman of the old school, and Henry would not mention Jean to Vivian. Unless it suited his purpose.

They then walked to the Trevi Fountain, made their secret wishes, and tossed their coins over their shoulders into the water, which according to tradition guaranteed that they’d return to Rome someday.

At 11:30, Purcell suggested they head toward Etiopia — the restaurant, not the country.

Their route took them past the Termini, Rome’s central rail station, around which was Rome’s only sizeable black neighborhood, whose residents were mostly from the former Italian colonies of Ethiopia, Eritrea, and Somalia. The area around the Termini was crowded with African street vendors whose native wares were spread out on blankets.

As they walked, Purcell asked Vivian, “Are you still all right with this meeting?”

She nodded, but he could see she was apprehensive. The last time Vivian had seen Henry was when they’d gotten off Getachu’s helicopter in Addis Ababa. The flight from Getachu’s camp to Addis had been made mostly in silence, except for Gann telling them that as foreigners and journalists, the worst they could expect was a show trial, a conviction, and expulsion from the country.

Purcell had realized at the time that Colonel Gann was not speaking about himself — he fully expected to be hanged or shot — and yet he’d put his own fears aside to boost the morale of three people he hardly knew. A true officer and gentleman. And now, according to Mercado, Gann was willing to return to Ethiopia, where he was under a death sentence. Fearless was one thing, but foolhardy was something else. He wondered what was motivating Colonel Gann.

From the helicopter, they had been made to run barefoot across the tarmac, wearing leg shackles, to four waiting police cars. Before they were separated, Vivian had called out to Henry, “I love you!”

But Henry had not replied — or maybe he hadn’t heard her.

Then Vivian had turned toward him, and they made eye contact. She gave him a sort of sad smile before the policeman pushed her into the car.

And that was the last he saw of her until the Hilton, and the last Henry would see of her until about fifteen minutes from now.

He said to her, “If you’re having second thoughts, I’ll go with you.”

“No. I just need to put it to rest, Frank. Then get on with what we have to do.”

“All right.” There was no script for this sort of thing — the eternal triangle in the Eternal City — and he supposed that Henry’s request for half an hour alone with his former lover was not unreasonable, and that Vivian’s acquiescence was meant, as she said, to put it to rest and move on. Henry, on the other hand, had many agendas, and Purcell didn’t know which one was on the schedule today.

Vivian was looking at the blankets spread over the open spaces around the Termini, and the street vendors were calling out to her in Italian as she passed. She said something to one of them in Amharic and the man seemed surprised, then delighted.

She stopped and looked at the crafts on his blanket, and the man was speaking rapidly to her in Amharic, then switched to Italian.

Purcell looked at the items. There were a few objects carved out of what looked like teak and ebony, some beadwork, and a few sculptures carved from jet black obsidian, polished to a high gloss, including a model of the distinctive octagon-shaped Saint George Cathedral in Addis Ababa. He smiled. “We’ve found the black monastery.”

“Frank, that’s Saint George in Addis.”

“Looks smaller than I remember.”

A lady was selling embroidered shammas and Purcell suggested, “Let’s wear these to lunch.”

Vivian surprised him by saying, “The last time Henry saw us in shammas, he didn’t like what he saw.”

Purcell had no comment on that. He walked over to another blanket covered with bronze ware, and he spotted a wine goblet that reminded him of the goblets in Prince Joshua’s tent. The vendor wanted fifty thousand lire, Purcell offered ten, and they settled on twenty.

Purcell moved back to Vivian, who was negotiating the price of Saint George’s, and held up the goblet. “I have found the Holy Grail.”

She laughed.

“Here. Give it to Henry and tell him mission accomplished.”

She examined the goblet of hammered bronze, which looked ancient, but was probably made last week, and asked, “How will we know?”

“The thing will speak for itself.”

She nodded, then handed it back to him, saying, “You give it to him.”

The polizia were doing a scheduled sweep through the Termini area, chasing off the street vendors, who rolled up their blankets and wares and moved a few meters behind the sweep, then set up again on the pavement. No one seemed to take things too seriously here, he noticed, and maybe Henry had found the right place to live and die, if he didn’t die in Ethiopia. Same for him and Vivian.

Purcell asked a policeman for directions to Via Gaeta, and he walked Vivian part of the way. They stopped and he said, “See you in half an hour.”

“Don’t be late.”

“I might be early.”

She smiled, then said seriously, “If he’s willing to forget the past, and get over his anger, and be with us under these… I guess, awkward circumstances, then you—”

“I get it.”

“All right…” She gave him a quick kiss, turned, and walked off.

Purcell checked his watch, then wandered the streets around the Termini. He found a taverna and went inside. The clientele was mostly black, though the taverna itself seemed to be traditional Roman.

He sat at the small bar and ordered an espresso, then changed his mind and asked for a vino rosso.

Henry Mercado had a flair for drama and stage setting. He was, in fact, a performer. An illusionist. Purcell could see it in some of Henry’s writing. There were never any hard facts — just suggestions of fact, mixed with his profound insights. Henry manipulated words the way he manipulated people. Purcell had no doubt that Henry’s epiphany in the Gulag was real, but Henry’s inner pagan had remained the same. If Henry Mercado wasn’t a Catholic journalist, he’d probably be a magician or a wizard. Purcell didn’t think that Vivian would again fall under his spell, but Henry would use her guilt to his advantage.

He had a second wine and looked at the patrons in the bar mirror. Ethiopia was disgorging large chunks of its population, especially the entrepreneurs and the professional class, and also the old aristocracy who had escaped hanging and shooting, as well as the Coptic and Catholic clergy who felt threatened by the godless revolutionaries. Ethiopia was, in fact, a replay of the French and Russian revolutions; an isolated ruling elite had lost touch with the people, and with reality, so the people had brought reality to the palaces and churches. The three-thousand-year-old established order was crumbling, and for this reason, the Holy Grail was up for grabs.

It was only a matter of time, he thought, before the revolutionaries located the black monastery; it was well hidden, but nothing can be hidden forever, though he knew that the lost cities of the Mayans had remained undiscovered for hundreds of years in jungles far smaller than those of Ethiopia.

But no matter who found the monastery, he was sure that the Holy Grail, or whatever else was there, would be spirited away before the first intruders got over the walls. And yet…

He took the bronze goblet out of his trench coat and looked at it.

The proprietor, an Italian, looked at it also, then nodded toward his clientele and said in English, “Ethiopian junk.”

Not wanting the man to think he was a gullible tourist, Purcell informed him, “This is the Holy Grail.”

The proprietor laughed. “What you pay for that?”

“Twenty thousand.”

“Too much. Ten.”

“This can turn wine into the blood of Christ.”

The proprietor laughed again, then said, “Okay, for twenty is good.”

Purcell left a ten on the bar, walked out into the sunshine, and headed for Etiopia.

Chapter 22

Purcell spotted Vivian and Mercado sitting in the rear of the dark restaurant. They weren’t tête-à-tête, but they did seem at ease, talking and smiling.

He brushed past the hostess, walked to the table, and said, “Sorry I’m late.”

Mercado replied, “You’re a bit early, actually.”

Purcell did not shake hands with Mercado or kiss Vivian; he sat, still wearing his trench coat. Henry, he noticed, was looking a bit more trendy in a black leather jacket and black silk shirt.

Vivian said, “Henry has brought me up to date.”

“Good.”

There was a bottle of wine on the table, and Henry poured into an empty glass for Purcell, then raised his glass and said, “Ad astra per aspera. Through adversity to the stars.”

Purcell wondered how many Latin toasts Mercado had in him.

They touched glasses, and Vivian proposed, “To peace and friendship.”

Purcell lit a cigarette and scanned the room. The place looked as if it had been decorated with the stuff from the blankets, including the blankets themselves that hung on the walls. The tables were half empty, and the clientele seemed to be mostly African and well dressed, probably, Purcell thought, the cream of Ethiopian society who’d washed up on the banks of the Tiber.

Vivian, trying to keep the conversation going, said, “Henry told me about the research he’s done in the Vatican archives.”

Purcell didn’t respond.

Mercado said to her, “Frank was unimpressed.”

Vivian waited for Purcell to respond, then said, “Odd that they wouldn’t let you into the Ethiopian College.”

Mercado assured her, “I’ll work that out.” He added, “That is the type of practical research that would appeal to Frank’s practical mind.”

Mercado and Vivian continued their two-way conversation, the way they had before Purcell arrived, and Purcell knew he was not being civilized or sophisticated, and this probably pleased Mercado to no end. So to avoid a scene later with Vivian and to avoid giving Mercado the satisfaction of seeing him uncomfortable in this situation, Purcell said, “Henry and I have agreed to disagree about some things, but we agree that the three of us are going back to Ethiopia — if we can get in — and we are going to pick up where we left off when we buried Father Armano.”

Vivian nodded, then reminded Purcell, “You have something for Henry.”

“I do? Oh…” He reached into his coat pocket and set the bronze goblet on the table.

Mercado picked it up and looked at it.

Purcell announced, “We have found the Holy Grail.”

Vivian added, “At a street stall near the Termini.”

Mercado laughed, then turned the goblet upside down and said, “Indeed you have. Made in Jerusalem, 10 B.C., property of J. Arimathea.”

Vivian laughed.

Mercado said, “Well done, you two. Now Frank and I can get working on this story, then go our separate ways.”

Purcell thought that would be nice, but to keep the ice from refreezing, he said, “You need to research this grail, Henry.”

They all laughed, then Mercado picked up the wine bottle and poured into the bronze goblet. He said solemnly, “We will drink of this and this will be our covenant.” He passed the goblet to Vivian, who put it to her lips and drank, then passed it to Purcell. He drank and passed it to Mercado, who finished the wine and said, “May God bless our journey.”

Vivian reached out and took both men’s hands, though Purcell and Mercado did not join hands. Vivian lowered her head and said, “God rest Father Armano and all those who suffer and die in his name, in Ethiopia and around the world.”

“Amen,” said Mercado.

The waiter, a tall thin black man wearing a colorful shamma, saw that they had completed their prayers and came by with menus, but Mercado stood and said, “I will leave you to enjoy this wonderful food and enjoy each other’s company — after your long separation.”

Purcell forced himself to say, “Please stay.”

“Yes, please stay, Henry.”

“I’ve let some work pile up at the office.”

Purcell stood and they shook hands, then Mercado came around and gave Vivian a peck on the cheek and left.

Purcell sat and the waiter left two menus.

Vivian said to Purcell, “Thank you.”

Purcell perused the menu.

Vivian informed him, “We’ve worked everything out.”

“Good. I hope you like lamb. Here’s a fish called Saint Peter’s fish.”

“He understands what happened and how it happened, and he understands that we are in love.”

“Good.”

“Did you tell him we were in love?”

Purcell put down the menu. “At the time I spoke to him, I didn’t know if we were.”

“Well, you know now.”

“I do.” He looked at her and said, “A piece of advice, Vivian. Henry Mercado is a charming rogue. He is also a manipulator and a con artist.” He added, “Don’t get me wrong — I like him. But we need to keep an eye on him.”

She thought about that, then replied, “He’s not trying to… reseduce me.”

“He would if he could. But what I’m talking about is our partnership with him.” He nodded toward the goblet. “Our new covenant.”

She stayed quiet for a few seconds, then said, with some insight, “I was easy for him. But I think he knows he’s met his match with you.”

Purcell couldn’t have said it better, and he smiled at Vivian. “I have met my match with you.”

“You never stood a chance, Frank.”

“No, I never did.”

She filled the goblet with wine and passed it to him. He drank and passed it back to her. She said, “If you believe in love, you believe in God.”

Where had he heard that before?

Chapter 23

They didn’t see Henry again for several days, but he, or a messenger, dropped off an envelope in which were their visa applications partly filled out, awaiting only their passport information and their signatures. A note from Henry said, “Bring these in person to the Ethiopian embassy, ASAP. Cross your fingers.”

Purcell and Vivian visited the Ethiopian embassy the next morning and spent a half hour waiting for a consulate officer who seemed to be a relative of General Getachu. The former regime’s diplomatic staff had been dismissed, of course, and had undoubtedly chosen not to go back to Ethiopia and face a possible firing squad, so they’d probably stayed in Rome and were hanging out with the other expats at Etiopia. The colonial ties between Italy and Ethiopia had been brief and not strong, but they persisted, as Purcell saw around the Termini, and he imagined that Italy would see even more upscale refugees as the revolution got uglier. Meanwhile, he had to deal with the unpleasant consulate officer, who didn’t speak English but spoke bad Italian to Vivian, who maintained her composure and smiled. The man didn’t seem to believe that anyone wanted to travel to the People’s Republic for legitimate purposes, and he was right. The officer took their passports, which he said would be returned to them in a week or so at their place of business, which was L’Osservatore Romano, with or without their visas. He also took 100,000 lire from each of them for expedited processing.

The consulate officer’s parting advice, which Vivian translated, was, “If you are denied visas, do not apply again. If you are accepted as journalists, you must refrain from all other activities in Ethiopia.”

Vivian assured him they understood and wished him, “Buongiorno.”

They spent the next few days before Christmas exploring the city. Vivian said she’d been to Rome twice on school trips, but she didn’t know the city as an adult, so Purcell showed her Rome by night, including Trastevere and the fading Via Veneto, where he pointed out the Excelsior where Henry was living and presumably drinking. They didn’t go into the hotel bar, but he did take her to Harry’s, and after they’d had a drink at the bar, he told her about finding Henry there.

She said to him, “Thank you for doing that.”

“That’s what you wanted.”

“Was it… awkward?”

“It was, but we moved on to bigger issues.”

“I knew you would both be mature.”

“I didn’t say that.”

She smiled, then leaned over and kissed him at the bar, and the slick bartender said, “Bellissimo.”

During the day they walked the city and he took her to out-of-the-way places, including the Chapel of Quo Vadis, where Vivian was intrigued by Christ’s footprint in the paving stone, and she said, “This could be real.”

“You never know.”

A call to Henry had gotten them put on the visitor’s list at Porta Santa Rosa, and they walked the hundred acres of Vatican City, and Purcell showed her Henry’s office building, and also the Ethiopian College where black-robed monks and seminarians entered and exited. Vivian asked, “Will I be allowed in there?”

“Good question. I don’t think it’s coed. But we’ll try.”

“I’ll wear your trench coat.”

“They’re celibate, Vivian, not blind.”

Henry had gotten them passes to Saint Peter’s for Midnight Mass on Christmas Eve, and they met Henry at Porta Santa Rosa at eleven and walked to the basilica without having to go through the throngs in Saint Peter’s Square.

The Mass looked to Purcell as it had looked on television when he’d seen it sitting in a New York bar one Christmas Eve.

Vivian, as expected, was moved by the pageantry and the papal address, and the pope’s announcement that 1975 would be a Holy Year. Purcell, though he spoke neither Italian nor Latin, was also impressed by the history and the grandeur of the Roman Mass. He wondered if they’d keep the Holy Grail at the altar of the basilica or in the Vatican Museums. He’d suggest the altar, and maybe he would make that part of the deal. He smiled at his own absurd thoughts and Vivian whispered to him, “It’s good to see you happy.”

Henry had secured late supper reservations in the Jewish ghetto, explaining, “There is nothing else open in Rome tonight.”

And there were no taxis or public transportation either, so they walked along the Tiber to the ghetto and entered Vecchia Roma on the Piazza di Campitelli.

The restaurant was standing room only, but the hostess seated them immediately, and Henry confessed, “I promised them a four-star review in L’Osservatore Romano.”

Vivian asked, “Do you do restaurant reviews?”

“No, and neither does the paper.”

Vivian and Purcell exchanged glances.

Henry asked, “Red or white?”

“Both,” Purcell replied. He looked around at the fresco walls, seeing nothing that looked particularly Jewish. In fact, the restaurant was decorated for Christmas.

Mercado commented, “The Jews have been in this ghetto since before the time of Christ and I’d say they are more Roman than the Romans.” He added, “I’m sure Peter and Paul found comfort here among their fellow Jews.”

Vivian said, “Amazing.”

The wine came and Henry toasted, “Merry Christmas to us.”

Vivian added, “And a happy, healthy, and peaceful New Year.”

Purcell didn’t think their immediate plans for the New Year included any of that, so he also proposed, “To a safe and successful journey.”

Vivian said to Henry, “And thank you for this night.”

Purcell offered, “We’ll split the bill.”

“No, no,” said Mercado. “This is my Christmas gift to you both.”

“Thank you,” said Vivian.

Purcell noticed that the table was set for four, and he wondered if Mercado’s lady friend was joining him, but he didn’t ask. Henry, however, brought it up. “I have an old friend in Rome — Jean — whom I mentioned to Frank, but she couldn’t join us.”

Purcell doubted if the lady was named Jean, and he looked at Henry, who smiled at him. Bastard.

Vivian said, “We’d like to meet her.”

They looked at the menus and Vivian noted that the food didn’t seem much different than traditional Italian, but Mercado assured her that there were subtle differences, and he offered to order for everyone, which he did. Mercado then held court for the rest of the evening, and if Purcell didn’t know better, he’d think that Henry was trying to re-impress Vivian, who handled the balancing act well, giving equal time to her host and former lover and to her new beau.

They left the restaurant at 3 A.M. and Mercado walked with Vivian and Purcell part of the way to their nearby hotel, then wished them Merry Christmas and continued on to the Excelsior.

Purcell and Vivian strolled hand in hand through the quiet streets and Vivian said, “I didn’t know Henry had a lady friend in Rome.”

“I’m sure Henry has a lady in every city.”

“And you?”

“Only four — Addis Ababa, Cairo, Geneva, and Rome.”

She leaned over and gave him a kiss. They continued on and Vivian said, “Wasn’t that a beautiful Mass?”

“It was.”

“Could you live in Rome?”

“I would need a job.”

She pointed out, “If we find the Holy Grail, you probably won’t need a job.”

“Right. Let’s ask ten million. Dollars, not lire.”

“We’re not going to steal the Grail or sell it. But you and Henry will write a book, and I’ll supply the photographs, and we’ll all be famous.”

“Don’t forget your camera.”

On the subject of money, Purcell had informed Vivian in Cairo that the AP, which he’d been working for when he went missing inside a Khmer Rouge prison camp, had generously given him a year’s back pay on his release. As with Henry’s back pay after four years in the Gulag, it wasn’t the easiest money Purcell had ever made, but the lump sum came in handy when he’d collected it in New York. He still had most of it, and this was paying for his Roman Holiday, and L’Osservatore Romano would pay the expenses for his Ethiopian assignment, sans salary. He assumed Henry would work out something similar for his photographer.

As for Vivian’s finances, she’d told him in Cairo that she had a small trust fund, though she never mentioned its source or anything about her family. All he knew about her past was that she’d gone to boarding school in Geneva. If there was anything more she wanted to tell him, she would. Meanwhile they were in Rome and in love. La dolce vita.

Most of the restaurants in Rome were closed on Christmas Day, but the concierge booked Christmas dinner for them at the Grand Hotel de la Minerva because he said Vivian was as beautiful as the goddess Minerva. That cost Purcell thirty thousand lire, but Vivian paid for dinner, which was her Christmas gift to him. His to her would be a trip to Tuscany.

Purcell rented a car and they drove to Tuscany and spent the week touring, staying at country inns, then they drove up to Florence for New Year’s Eve, where they joined the crowd in the Piazza della Signoria and celebrated the arrival of the New Year on a cold clear winter night.

They drove back to Rome on New Year’s Day and returned to the Hotel Forum in midafternoon.

There was a handwritten message at the desk from Henry that said, “Col. Gann will arrive at Fiumicino Jan. 4. Staying at Excelsior. Dinner at Hassler Roof 8 P.M. Call me when you’ve returned. Can you go to Berini next week? Good news about our visas.” It was signed, “Love, Henry.”

Purcell said, “Well, it seems that we are going to Ethiopia.”

Vivian nodded.

They returned to their room and Purcell called Henry at the office. “Happy New Year,” Purcell said.

“And to you. Are you in Rome?”

“We are. Got your message.”

“Good, come join me for cocktails and we’ll catch up. Excelsior, say five.”

“Six. See you then.” He hung up and said to Vivian, “I can go alone.”

“I’ll come. Lots to talk about.”

“There always is with Henry.”

“Now that it’s becoming real… I’m getting a little apprehensive.”

He looked at her. “I always feel that way before an assignment into a hostile area.” He assured her, “It’s normal.”

“Ethiopia was my first time in a war zone.” She smiled. “I was excited and clueless.”

“Now you’re an experienced veteran.”

“God will watch over us. He did last time.”

Purcell thought that God’s patience with them might be wearing thin, and he didn’t reply.

Chapter 24

The Excelsior bar and lounge, Purcell guessed, was probably Old World when it was brand-new, and Henry was at home here, and everyone seemed to know him. Someday they’d name a drink after him.

They were escorted to a good table by the window, and they gave their orders to a waiter, Giancarlo, who had greeted Signore Mercado by name, of course, and knew what he was drinking.

Purcell thought back to Harry’s Bar when Signore Mercado had told him never to darken his doorstep at the Excelsior. They’d come a long way. Purcell noted that Henry was wearing a sharp blue suit with a white silk shirt, and what looked like an Italian silk tie. Apparently Henry had gone shopping. Vivian, too, had gone shopping, in Florence, and she looked good in a white winter silk dress, which Henry complimented.

Purcell was feeling a bit underdressed in the only sport jacket he’d brought from Cairo. He would have gone shopping, too, but they weren’t going to be here long.

It was New Year’s Day evening, a quiet night back in the States, Purcell recalled, but the Excelsior bar and lounge was full, and Mercado informed them, “The Italians will take the rest of the week off.”

Purcell inquired, “And you?”

“The printing presses never stop, as you well know.” He added, “I’ll do half days.”

Vivian asked, “Will Jean be joining us?”

Mercado replied, “She had to go to London.”

Purcell lit a cigarette.

Vivian asked him, “So do we have our visas?”

Mercado pulled two passports from his inside pocket and handed the blue one to Purcell, then opened Vivian’s red Swiss passport and said, “This photo never did you justice.”

Vivian reached across the table and Mercado gave her her passport.

By this time, Purcell thought, he’d have clocked the guy, who was pissing him off, but he decided to see if Henry continued to be an asshole, then take it from there.

Henry said, all businesslike now, “Same as last time, the visas are stamped inside.” He drew two sheets of paper from his pocket. “And these are copies of your visa applications, signed and stamped by the consul general.” He handed a visa to each of them.

Purcell glanced inside his passport and saw that the new visa stamp, unlike his last one, had been altered by someone, who’d scratched out the Lion of Judah in red ink. His visa application had the same rubber stamp, similarly altered to show that things had changed in Ethiopia.

Their drinks came and Henry informed them, “Tonight is on L’Osservatore Romano.”

They touched glasses and Purcell asked, “Do you have our press credentials?”

“I do.” He handed each of them a press card, and also a larger document written in several languages, including Amharic, Arabic, and Tigrena, which he said was sort of a journalist’s safe-conduct pass. He smiled.

Neither Purcell nor Vivian returned the smile.

The waiter brought over an assortment of nuts, olives, and cheese, which Purcell suspected was Henry’s dinner on most nights.

Purcell asked, “Any good news about the Ethiopian College?”

“Not yet.” Mercado explained, “The college is closed until the Epiphany.”

“Good time to break in.”

Mercado looked at him, but did not respond.

Vivian, too, had nothing to say about that, but she asked, “Will I be allowed in?”

“No.”

Purcell inquired, “What do you make of this refusal to let us see their library?”

Mercado pondered that, then replied, “That depends on your level of paranoia.” He informed them, “The Ethiopian College is a very cloistered place. I’m sure there is nothing strange or secretive going on there, but they like their privacy.”

“We all do, Henry, but this place is not a monastery on a mountain — or in the jungle. It’s on Vatican City property, under the authority of the papal state. Who makes the rules? Them or the Vatican?”

“They are semi-autonomous.” He let them know, “I’m pushing our cover story that we want to do some research for our Ethiopian assignment — which is actually true. But I’m not pushing so hard that someone would think there is more to my interest.”

“All right.” He asked, “Is this library worth the trouble?”

“I think the maps will be invaluable. But I may be wrong.”

Purcell nodded. Henry’s time in the Vatican Library and his request for access to the Ethiopian College were well within his needs as a reporter for L’Osservatore Romano. On the other hand, if someone in the Vatican hierarchy was putting the pieces together — including Henry asking to go back to hell with the same reporter and photographer he’d been with in prison — then a picture was taking shape. Actually, two pictures: one that looked like a reporter doing his job, and one that looked like a reporter who was getting nosy about something he wasn’t supposed to know. The thing that would put the picture in focus would be Henry’s notifying the Vatican of Father Armano’s death, saying in effect that he’d heard the dying words of Father Giuseppe Armano, who once had a papal letter in his pocket telling the good father to grab the Holy Grail from a Coptic monastery.

Mercado asked, “What’s on your mind, Frank?”

“Our cover story.”

“The beauty of our cover story is that it is real.”

“Right.” Up until the point where they went off into the jungle. And even then, they were on assignment, though not necessarily for L’Osservatore Romano.

Also, Purcell thought, Henry was driving this bus with a lot more enthusiasm than he’d shown at Harry’s Bar. He’d been touched by the Holy Spirit, or he just smelled a good story — the Holy Grail of stories. Plus, of course, Henry wanted to make up for his past poor performance in Ethiopia. It was important to him that neither Vivian nor Frank Purcell thought he had lost his nerve. Henry should take his own advice about going to Ethiopia for the right reasons.

Henry seemed to be done with business, and he inquired about their trip to Tuscany, and Vivian provided most of the answers. Henry said it sounded like a wonderful trip, and added, “If you are still here in the spring, or the fall, Tuscany is at its best.” He further advised, “But stay away in the summer. It’s overrun with Brits.” He smiled and said, “The Italians call it Tuscanshire.”

Henry continued with his travel advice, and it occurred to Purcell that he might be lonely. He obviously knew people in Rome, including his colleagues at the newspaper as well as every bartender and waiter on the Via Veneto. And there was also the mysterious lady whose name was not Jean. But Purcell could detect the loneliness — he’d experienced it himself. In a rare moment of empathy, Purcell understood that Henry had lost more than a lover in Ethiopia — he’d lost a friend. Or, considering the age difference, he’d lost a young protégée — someone he could teach. Or was it manipulate?

He looked at Vivian as Henry was going on about Perugia or something, and it seemed to Purcell that Vivian had lost the stars in her eyes for Henry. In fact, Vivian, like himself, had been transformed by her experience in Ethiopia. She had seemed then, to him, a bit… immature, almost childish in Addis and on the road to the front lines, not to mention the mineral baths or Prince Joshua’s tent. But she’d grown up fast, as people do who’ve been traumatized by war. He knew, too, that the encounter with Father Armano had affected her deeply, as had her recent romantic complications. It was a mature decision to get herself to a nunnery, and though he loved the woman who’d left him in Cairo, he liked the woman who’d met him in Rome.

Henry, on the other hand, seemed to be regressing. But Purcell was not going to underestimate the old fox.

Henry had moved on to Milan, and Vivian was nodding attentively, though her eyes were glazing over.

It occurred to Purcell, too, that Henry must hear time’s wingèd chariot gaining on him. So for Henry, a return to Ethiopia was a no-lose situation; if he died there, he wasn’t missing much more of life. But if he returned — with or without the Holy Grail — he would have stories to tell for the rest of his life. Hopefully to a nice woman, but anyone would do.

For Vivian and Purcell, however, the timeline was different. Especially for Vivian. Henry Mercado was at the end of that timeline, while he, Purcell, was somewhere in the middle, and Vivian was just beginning her life and her career as a photojournalist. By now, she’d figured out that it wasn’t easy or glamorous, but it was exciting and interesting. Unfortunately, the exciting parts were dangerous and the interesting parts had nothing to do with the job. And it was often lonely.

He didn’t know if Henry had ever had this conversation with Vivian, and he would advise against it in any case. Frank Purcell was not going to give her The Lecture. She’d figure it out on her own. Meanwhile, Vivian thought they had something together, and they did, but the future was something else. He’d had a few Vivians in his life, and the odds were that Vivian would have a few more Frank Purcells in her life, and maybe one or two more Henry Mercados.

Or Ethiopia would join them together forever, one way or the other.

“Frank?”

He looked at Henry.

“Are you mentally attending?”

“No.”

Mercado laughed. “Learn to lie a bit, old man. You’re offensive when you don’t.”

“I’m learning from a master, Henry.”

“That you are.” He said to Purcell, “I was just telling Vivian the terms of her employment. All expenses paid, but no pay.”

“Right. Money is tight at the Vatican.”

Henry laughed, then informed him, “We try to keep the newspaper self-sufficient.”

“Sell tobacco ads.”

“The assignment is for one month.” He looked at both of them and said, “That should be enough time… one way or the other.”

Neither Purcell nor Vivian replied.

Mercado said, “I have a contract for each of you to sign.”

Purcell informed him, “I stopped signing contracts in bars years ago.”

Mercado laughed. “They’re in my office, old man. Not here.” He let them know, “Anything you write — or photograph — becomes the exclusive property of L’Osservatore Romano.”

“Who gets to keep the Holy Grail?”

“We will see.”

The waiter brought another round along with a plate of canapés. Main course.

Mercado announced, “By the way, I’ve informed the Vatican, by letter, of the death of Father Giuseppe Armano of Berini, Sicily, with copies of my letter to several Vatican offices, which is what one does in a bureaucracy, and a copy to the Ministry of War because the deceased was in the army serving the fatherland in Ethiopia.”

Purcell asked, “Have you had a response?”

“No.”

Vivian asked, “Did you relate the circumstances of his death?”

“Yes, of course, but I neglected to mention the black monastery or the Holy Grail.”

Purcell asked, “Did you use our names in the letter?”

“I did.” He explained, “I didn’t want them thinking I was hallucinating at the sulphur baths.”

Purcell said, “We’d like to see a copy of the letter.”

Mercado took a photostated page out of his pocket and handed it to Purcell. Purcell read it and saw it was a fairly straightforward account of what had happened that evening, though Father Armano’s tale had been condensed to a few lines about his capture by Ethiopian forces — though he’d actually been captured by Coptic monks — and his forty-year imprisonment in a Royal Army fortress. Purcell noticed, too, that Henry had not mentioned the nude bathing.

He passed the letter to Vivian and said to Mercado, “I would think someone would have replied to this.”

“Communication with the Vatican is usually one-way. Same with government ministries.”

“Yes, but they’d want more information.”

“Not necessarily.”

“How about a thank-you?”

“A good deed is its own reward.” He popped a canapé in his mouth, then said, “I wasn’t actually sure whom to notify, so I copied six Vatican offices, and I admit I am a bit surprised myself that no one from the Vatican has gotten back to me — though someone else did.”

“Who?”

“The order of Saint Francis. And they have no one in their files or records by the name of Giuseppe Armano of Berini, Sicily.”

Vivian looked up from Mercado’s letter.

Purcell asked him, “What do you make of that?”

“I’m not sure. Certainly Father Armano existed. We saw him. Or we saw someone.”

Vivian said, “A man lying on his deathbed does not make up a lie about who he is.”

Mercado agreed and said, “It gets curiouser.” He continued, “I called the Franciscans in Assisi to follow up and someone there said they’d get back to me, though they haven’t. Then I tried the Ministry of War, and some maggiore informed me that the 1935 war in Ethiopia was not his most pressing problem. He did say, however, that he’d make internal inquiries.”

Purcell thought about all this, then said to Mercado, “Things, I’m sure, move slowly in the Vatican bureaucracy, but you may hear back soon.”

“What is the date of my letter?”

Vivian looked at it and said, “Ten November.”

“Which,” Mercado said, “is less than a week after I arrived in Rome from London, and which is why, as you’ll see in the letter, I didn’t apologize for any delay in reporting this death to whomever I thought were the proper authorities.”

Purcell reminded him, “You told me you didn’t notify the Vatican.”

“I lied.” He smiled. “I didn’t like you then.” He added, “Now we are friends and partners in this great adventure and we have sealed our covenant with blood. Well… cheap wine. And we are, as they say, putting all our cards on the table.”

Purcell thought Henry was still holding a card or two. He asked, “What do you think is actually going on?”

Mercado drained his gin and tonic and replied, “Well, obviously, something is going on. Someone, perhaps in the Vatican, instructed the Franciscans to post a reply, and further instructed them to say there is no Father Armano.”

“Why?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, old man.”

Vivian said, “The Vatican knows who Father Armano is, and they know what Father Armano was doing in Ethiopia. And now they’re wondering how much we know.”

“That’s very astute, Vivian. And they will continue to wonder how much we know — what Father Armano’s last words were to us.”

Again Purcell thought about this. He wasn’t a believer in grand conspiracies or a fan of those who did believe in them. But Father Armano had, in effect, spelled out a Vatican conspiracy to steal the Holy Grail. It would follow, then, that there still existed a conspiracy of silence regarding what seemed to be an ongoing Vatican mission to relieve the Coptic Church of their Holy Grail.

Vivian asked Mercado, “Will you do any further follow-up?”

“That would not be a wise thing to do.”

She nodded.

Purcell commented, “It would have been wiser for someone in the Vatican to just say, ‘Thank you, we will notify next of kin, and God bless you.’ ”

Mercado nodded. “That would have been the wise thing for them to do. But I suspect my letter caused some worry and they decided to… what is the expression? Stonewall it.”

Purcell also pointed out, “Maybe you shouldn’t have sent the letter at all.”

“I thought about that. About not tipping my hand. But then the job in Rome came up with L’Osservatore Romano, and I thought ahead to writing about this, so I couldn’t very well reveal this story in an article months or years later without having to explain why I’d kept this information to myself.”

Purcell suggested, “Your letter to the Vatican may actually be the reason you’re working in and for the Vatican.”

Mercado looked at Purcell. “Interesting.”

“And,” Purcell pointed out, “why Vivian and I are now working for the Vatican.”

“Actually, you’re working for the Vatican newspaper, Frank, but I won’t split hairs with you.”

Vivian was taking this all in, then said to Mercado, “You did the right thing, Henry, by reporting Father Armano’s death.”

“Yes, you can never do wrong by doing right.” He suggested, “Let’s put conspiracy aside and think this could be typical bureaucratic indifference, coupled with bad record-keeping in all departments.” He added, “The Italians, like the Germans, would just as soon not be reminded of the 1930s and ’40s.”

Purcell replied, “That could explain the indifference of the Ministry of War. But not the Vatican.”

Mercado did not reply.

Vivian said, “Father Armano was real, and we are going to make sure that his suffering and death are acknowledged by the people who sent him to war.”

Mercado looked at her, and it seemed to Purcell that Henry was just noticing the change in his former playmate.

Vivian continued, “We will go to Berini and find his family.”

“That is the plan,” Mercado agreed, and ordered another round.

Vivian had two full glasses of red wine in front of her, and Purcell was still working on his last Jack Daniel’s, and he wondered where Henry put all that gin.

They spoke awhile about the timing of their trip to Berini, then Ethiopia, and how they’d approach the problem of covering their assignments while actually trying to find the black monastery, which was in Getachu territory.

Vivian surprised everyone and herself by saying, “I hope Getachu gets arrested and shot before we get there.”

Mercado informed her, “Men like that do not get eaten by the revolution. They do the eating.”

Vivian nodded, then said, “Maybe we should not be asking Colonel Gann to come with us.”

Mercado suggested, “Let’s discuss that further when we see him.”

Vivian got up to use the ladies’ room and Purcell said to Mercado, “As I mentioned to you in your office, these entry visas are not necessarily exit visas.”

“And as I said to you, save your paranoia for Ethiopia.”

“I’m practicing.”

Mercado changed the subject and said, “She looks very happy.”

Purcell did not respond.

“I told you, old man, I’m over it, and I’m over the anger as well.” He asked, “Can’t you tell?”

“We don’t need to have this conversation.”

“It’s not about us, Frank. And it’s not even about her. It’s about our… assignment.”

“We all understand that. That’s why we’re here.”

“I’d like us to be truly friends.”

“How about close colleagues?”

“I didn’t steal her from you, old boy. You stole her from me.”

“You sound angry.”

“Put yourself in my shoes. I’m hanging there from a fucking pole, and what do I see? Fucking.”

“You’re drunk, Henry.”

“I am… I apologize.”

“Accepted.” Purcell stood. “And if you mention the name Jean one more time, I am going to clock you.”

“What does that mean?”

“You don’t want to find out.”

Mercado stood unsteadily and offered his hand to Purcell. Purcell saw Vivian coming back, so he took Mercado’s hand.

Vivian asked, “Are we leaving?”

“We are.”

She said to Henry, “We had a long drive from Florence. Thank you for drinks.”

“Thank our newspaper.”

She looked at him and suggested, “You should turn in.”

He leaned toward her, she hesitated, then they did an air kiss on both cheeks. “Buona notte, signorina.”

“Buona notte.”

Purcell took Vivian’s arm and they left.

As the doorman signaled for a taxi, Vivian said, “I’ve never seen him so drunk.”

Purcell did not respond.

She glanced at Purcell. “Well… I only knew him a few months.”

The taxi came and they got in. Purcell said, “Hotel Forum.”

They stayed quiet on the ride to the hotel, then Vivian said, “If I hadn’t met him, I wouldn’t have met you.”

Purcell lit a cigarette.

She took his hand. “Did something happen when I was gone?”

“No.”

“I love you.”

He took his hand out of hers and put his arm around her shoulders. He said to her, “You once told me to go to hell.”

“I was so angry at you.” She mimicked him: “I think I could have done this on my own. Can we save this for the Hilton bar?” She said, “Bastard.”

He drew her closer and she put her head on his shoulder. She said, “It was my idea to invite you along.”

“I thought it was God’s plan.”

“It was. I just went along with it.”

“What’s the rest of the plan?”

The taxi stopped. “Forum.”

She said, “To get upstairs and get our clothes off.”

“Good plan.”

Chapter 25

The golden domes and crosses of the churches caught the first rays of the rising sun, and Purcell watched the dawn spreading over the city.

He looked back at Vivian lying naked in the bed, her skin as white as the sheets, making her appear wraithlike.

“Come to bed, Frank.”

He sat at the edge of the bed and she ran her hand over his back. She said, “You were talking in your sleep.”

“Sorry.”

She sat up and said, “I dreamt that we were at the mineral baths, and we were swimming, and we made love in the water.”

Purcell wondered where Henry was, but he didn’t ask.

“And then we went back to the Jeep, and Father Armano was there… and we were still naked…”

“Sounds like a Catholic schoolgirl’s nightmare.”

She laughed, then stayed silent awhile. “Why did he have that skull?”

“I don’t know.”

“Was it a warning?”

“I’m not good at symbolism, Vivian.”

“What did you dream about?”

“Henry, in the Vatican archives. A nightmare.”

“Tell me.”

“Henry has solved the mystery of how the Holy Grail wound up in Ethiopia.”

“What difference does it make?”

“That was my point.” He lay down beside her and asked, “Do you believe that the actual Holy Grail is sitting in a black monastery in Ethiopia?”

“I told you I believe what Father Armano said to us. I believe that God led us to him, and him to us.” She also told him, “I believe that if we find the Grail, and if we believe in it, it will reveal itself to us. If we do not believe in it, it will not be real to us.” She made him understand, “It’s not the Grail by itself — it is our faith that heals us.”

This sounded to Purcell almost as complex as the doctrine of the Trinity, but he understood what she was saying. “All right… but do you believe that we should risk our lives to find it?”

She stayed silent a moment, then replied, “If this is God’s will… then it doesn’t matter what happens to us — it only matters that we try.”

Purcell glanced at her. He wondered if Mercado had told her what he’d said to him.

She asked, “Do you believe in this, Frank?”

“Henry says I do.”

“And you say…?”

“Depends on the day.”

“Then you shouldn’t be going to Ethiopia.”

“I am going.”

“Go for the right reasons.”

“Right.”

She moved closer to him and said, “There is another miracle. Us.”

“That’s one I believe in.” He asked her, “Would you like breakfast in bed?”

“It’s early for breakfast.”

“It’s two hours to get room service. You’re not in Switzerland anymore.”

She laughed and said, “I want you to fill the tub and make love to me in the water. That’s what I wanted you to do at the spa.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“You did.”

“Never crossed my mind.”

“Do you think I take my clothes off in front of any man I just met?”

In fact, he’d thought that she and Henry were just being worldly and sophisticated, and maybe trying to shock his American sensibilities.

“Frank?”

“I thought that was a rhetorical question.” He got out of bed. “I’ll run the water. You call for coffee.”

He filled the tub and she came into the bathroom and they got into the steamy water together, facing each other. They moved closer, embraced, and kissed. She pressed her breasts against his chest, then rose up and came down on his erect penis. She gyrated her pelvis as she clung to him in the warm water, and they climaxed together.

They sat at opposite ends of the tub, and Vivian lay back with her eyes closed, breathing in the misty air.

He thought she’d fallen asleep, but she said softly, “It doesn’t matter what happens, as long as it happens to us together.”

“I believe that… but I want to make sure we’re not choosing death over life.”

“We are choosing eternal life.” She added, “As Saint Peter did.”

“Right… but I’m not a martyr, and neither are you. We’re journalists.”

She laughed. “Journalists go to hell.”

“Probably… and we’re not saints either, Vivian.”

“Speak for yourself.”

They sat back in the water with their eyes closed, and Purcell drifted off into a pleasant sleep. He thought he heard Vivian saying, “Take this cup and drink of it, for this is my blood.”

“Frank?”

He opened his eyes.

Vivian stood over him in a robe, holding a cup. “Have some coffee.”

He took the cup and drank it.

Chapter 26

The Hassler Hotel sat high above the Spanish Steps, offering a panoramic view of Rome and the Vatican. It was Saturday, and the elegant rooftop restaurant was filled with well-heeled tourists, businesspeople, and celeb types, but Mercado had gotten them a choice table by the window.

Purcell had no doubt that Signore Mercado used his connection to L’Osservatore Romano all over town. No one actually read the paper, of course, but it was widely quoted over the wire, and its name had cachet, especially in Rome.

Henry Mercado and Colonel Sir Edmund Gann had arrived together from the Excelsior, and Gann, thin to begin with, looked like a man who’d been on starvation rations for a few months, which he had, and he hadn’t put on any weight in London. His tweed suit hung loosely and his skin had a prison pallor. As Purcell knew from firsthand experience, it took awhile before the body got used to food again.

Gann’s eyes, however, were bright and alert, and his demeanor hadn’t changed much. His mind had stayed healthy in prison, and his body just needed a few Italian meals. Then back to Ethiopia for another round with fate. Purcell wondered again what was driving Colonel Gann.

Purcell noticed that Henry had slipped into his British accent to make the colonel feel at home away from home, and Colonel Gann had now become Sir Edmund.

Mercado informed them that he’d briefed Sir Edmund over a few drinks at the Excelsior, but Purcell wasn’t sure how detailed that briefing had been. Sir Edmund, however, did seem to know that Miss Smith was now with Mr. Purcell, and that Mr. Mercado was okay with that — so there’d be no unpleasantness at dinner.

Cocktails arrived at the table, and Henry toasted, “To being alive and being together again.”

Vivian added, “And thanks to Sir Edmund for keeping us alive.”

They touched glasses and Sir Edmund said modestly, “Trying to save my own skin, actually, and I was glad for the company — and your assistance.”

Purcell was sure that Gann didn’t want to talk about his three months in an Ethiopian prison, so Purcell picked another unhappy subject. “I assume you heard about Prince Joshua.”

“I did.”

Gann didn’t seem to want to talk about that either, so they perused the menu. Purcell remembered that he was buying, and the prices, in lire, looked like telephone numbers. But he supposed he owed this to Colonel Gann for saving their lives, and he owed it to Henry for stealing his girlfriend.

The waiter came and they ordered. Henry found the same amarone at double the price of the Forum.

Mercado said to Vivian and Purcell, “I’ve told Sir Edmund that we have our visas, and I took the liberty of telling him that this black monastery may be of interest to us when we return.”

Gann reminded Purcell, “Last time we discussed this — in that ravine — I believe you said you were never going back.”

“I’ve changed my mind.” He added, “Actually, we’ve all lost our minds.”

Colonel Gann flashed his toothy smile. He thought a moment, then replied, “I grew up with King Arthur and his Knights of the Round Table, Mr. Purcell. And when I was a boy, my greatest dream was to join in a quest to find the Holy Grail.”

“So you’re crazy, too.”

Everyone laughed, and Gann continued, “Now, of course, I, like most rational men, do not believe any of this… but it is a wonderful story — it is the story of our unending search for something good and beautiful… which is why it appeals to us… to our hearts and our souls. And I loved those stories of Arthur and his knights, and they affected me deeply. And then I grew up.”

Everyone stayed silent, so Gann continued, “But those stories have stayed with me… and they are still part of me.”

Again no one spoke, then Mercado confessed, “I believe there was a King Arthur, and a Camelot. I also believe there was a round table of virtuous knights, and I believe they sought the Holy Grail.” He hesitated, then continued, “I also believe that Perceval and Gauvain found the Grail Castle in Glastonbury and sailed off into a fog with the Grail and returned it to Jerusalem.”

Again, no one spoke, then Gann said, “I don’t seem to remember the Jerusalem bit.”

Mercado said, “That’s my theory.”

“Yes… well, I suppose that’s possible.”

Mercado took the opportunity to explain to Gann, and also to Vivian, how the Holy Grail was then taken from Jerusalem to Egypt, then to Ethiopia, a half step ahead of the armies of Islam.

Both Gann and Vivian seemed to agree that Henry’s scholarship was impressive and logical.

Purcell said to Gann, “More importantly, we have been told by this Father Armano, who Getachu was asking us about, that the Grail — or something called the Holy Grail — is sitting in this black monastery.”

“I see.”

“So we’re going back to Ethiopia to see who’s crazier — us or Father Armano.”

Gann said, “There is a thin line, Mr. Purcell, between bravery and insanity.”

“No argument there.”

“Some people are content to accept things on faith. Others are driven to extraordinary efforts to find and see the thing they want to believe in. Vide et crede. See and believe. And that is where bravery and insanity become one.”

“And that’s when you buy a ticket to Ethiopia.”

Gann smiled and suggested to his dining companions, “And while you are there looking about for the Holy Grail, you might as well try to get a look at the Ark of the Covenant.”

“Is that there too?”

“Apparently, but not in the black monastery. It’s in the ancient ruins of Axum.”

Purcell asked Mercado, “Have you heard of that?”

“I have.”

It seemed to Purcell that Ethiopia had at least two amazing biblical relics, making him start to wonder about the first one. He asked Gann, “Has Noah’s Ark also shown up there?”

Again Gann smiled, then said, “Not that I’m aware of. But I have seen the resting place of the Ark of the Covenant.”

Vivian encouraged him to tell them about it, and Purcell wished she hadn’t.

Gann explained, “The Ark of the Covenant is hidden in a small Coptic chapel in Axum, and it is guarded by one monk, a man named Abba who is called the Atang — the Keeper of the Ark.” He further explained, “This is the most solemn position in the Ethiopian Orthodox Church — the Coptic Church. Abba can never leave the grounds of the chapel and he will hold this position of Atang until he dies.”

Vivian asked, “And you’ve seen this man?”

“And I’ve spoken to him.” He added, “He is the only living person who has ever actually seen the Ark, but he has never opened this chest to see the stone tablets on which God gave Moses the Ten Commandments.” Gann explained, “Abba told me that whoever opens the Ark will be struck dead.”

Purcell inquired, “Did the Ark of the Covenant arrive in Ethiopia along with the Holy Grail?”

Gann smiled again and replied, “No, the time and the circumstances were quite different.” He explained, “As you know, the Queen of Sheba, who ruled in Axum three thousand years ago, went to Jerusalem and was impregnated by King Solomon. She returned to Axum and bore a child whom she named Menelik, and this was the beginning of the Solomonic dynasty that has ruled Ethiopia until… well, a few months ago.” He continued, “When Menelik was a young man, he traveled to Jerusalem to meet his father. Menelik stayed for three years, and when he left, Solomon ordered that the Ark of the Covenant accompany his son to protect him. Menelik brought the Ark to a monastery called Tana Kirkos on the eastern shore of Lake Tana, which feeds its waters into the Blue Nile. The monastery is still there, guarded by monks, and I have actually been a guest at this monastery.”

Purcell inquired, “Did the monks insist that you stay forever?”

“Sorry?”

“Please go on.”

Gann went on, “After Menelik died, the new emperor, Ezana, sent for the Ark, and it was brought to Axum, where it remains to this day.”

Purcell asked, “Why hasn’t the Marxist government grabbed it?”

“Interesting question.” Gann explained, “They’ve appropriated some church property, but there is a backlash growing among the Coptic faithful, so the government has backed off a bit.” He added, “The stupid Marxists have actually stirred a religious revival amongst the peasants.”

Purcell nodded. That wasn’t what happened in Russia when the Communists crushed the churches, but it was interesting that it was happening in Ethiopia. More importantly, if the Ark of the Covenant was safe for the time being, then maybe the black monastery and the Holy Grail were also safe for now — at least until the team from L’Osservatore Romano arrived.

Mercado had come to a similar conclusion and said, “The black monastery is also on borrowed time.”

Gann said, “The new government is trying to consolidate its power, and it doesn’t wish to anger the masses whom it purports to represent. But as you say, it’s only a matter of time before they resume their confiscation of church property. For now, they are satisfied with executing the royal family and the rasses, and appropriating their palaces and wealth.”

Purcell asked Gann, “Are you still working for the Royalists?”

Gann hesitated, then replied, “I am in contact with counterrevolutionary elements here in Rome, in London, and in Cairo and Ethiopia.”

“How’s that counterrevolution looking?”

Gann replied, “Not very good at the moment. But we are hopeful.”

Their antipasto arrived and Mercado picked at his food, then said, “I am convinced that the Holy Grail could eventually wind up in the hands of the Marxist government. And if that happens, the Grail may not be sold to the highest bidder — it may be destroyed.”

Purcell looked at Mercado. It was inevitable, he thought, that Henry, or one of them, would find a justification for stealing the Grail from the monastery — for its own protection, of course. And, in truth, Henry had a point.

Mercado went on, “After three thousand years of relative stability under the Solomonic dynasty, the whole country is in chaos.” He pressed his point. “And if the black monastery is looted by revolutionary troops — soldiers of Getachu, for instance — the Grail is in jeopardy. Even if it is sold to the highest bidder, that bidder could very well be someone like the Saudi royal family, who have billions to spend on whatever they fancy.” He concluded, “I don’t want the Holy Grail to wind up in Mecca.”

Purcell pointed out, “You’ve done a quantum leap, Henry.”

“Perhaps, but you see what I’m getting at.”

“You’re making a case for why we should relieve the Coptic monks of their property.”

“I am trying to protect the Grail.”

Purcell inquired, “And where do you think it would be safe?”

“The Vatican, of course.”

“I thought you might say that.”

Everyone got a small laugh from that.

Vivian said, “I agree with Henry.”

Gann, too, said, “I agree that you — we — need to get this relic out of Ethiopia.”

Purcell, too, agreed, but he advised, “Not permanently. Just until the times in Ethiopia grow less evil.”

Mercado pointed out, “The Grail has been taken on long journeys over the last two thousand years to safeguard it from evil, and I believe it has fallen to us to do that again.”

Purcell said, “So we are all agreed that if we find the black monastery and the Holy Grail, we are morally justified in stealing the Grail for its own protection.”

Everyone nodded.

Colonel Gann looked at Mercado, Purcell, and Vivian and said, “I should tell you that I am not a believer in this relic as the true cup that Christ used at the Last Supper, and neither do I believe that the Ark of the Covenant and the Ten Commandments are in a hidden chapel in Axum. But these artifacts are central to the Coptic Church in Ethiopia, as well as in Egypt.” He continued, “Egypt may never be Christian again, but Ethiopia will be. And it is important that all the religious objects that are in jeopardy be safeguarded for the time when the Marxists are overthrown and the emperor is restored to the throne.”

Purcell thought that if by some miracle they actually got hold of the Holy Grail and got it to the Vatican — for safekeeping — it wouldn’t get out of there until the second coming of Christ. But that wasn’t his problem.

Gann asked, “Can you tell me a bit more about this Father Armano?”

Mercado looked at Purcell and Vivian, who both nodded. Mercado said to Gann, “I’m sure you know of the Italian spa that Getachu was talking about.”

“I do indeed.” He told them, “You shouldn’t have spent the night there.” Gann explained, “The Gallas fancy the place. I don’t think they bathe there — or bathe at all — but there is fresh water for their horses and for themselves.” He advised, “It is a place to avoid.”

Purcell commented, “We had an old guidebook.”

Mercado continued, “Well, we put up for the night — had a quick wash — and when we returned to our Jeep, we came upon Father Armano, who was wounded and dying.”

“And I’m sure he said more to you before he died than you told Getachu.”

“Correct.” Mercado suggested that Vivian relate the story, which she did.

Gann listened attentively, nodding now and then, and when Vivian had finished, he said, “Remarkable. And do you believe this man’s story about the Lance of Longinus hanging in thin air, dripping blood? Or that this blood healed the priest?”

Vivian said she did, as did Mercado.

She also said, “We think it was more than chance that we and Father Armano arrived at the same place at the same time. And now you tell us that the Gallas are usually there, but they weren’t that night.” She concluded, “We think it was a miracle.”

Colonel Gann nodded politely.

Vivian added, “And it was an eerie coincidence, I think, that Father Armano and Henry were at the same battle of Mount Aradam in 1935.”

“Yes… striking coincidence.” He looked at Purcell.

Purcell said, “I believe the substance of Father Armano’s story, but I’m a bit skeptical about the Lance of Longinus hanging in thin air, or about the Holy Grail healing Father Armano.”

Gann replied, “Yes… that seems a bit unnatural, doesn’t it? But we agree that this relic is probably in the black monastery.”

Everyone agreed.

Gann asked, “Do you have any specific operational plans to find this monastery?”

Mercado replied, “We hoped you could help us with that.”

“I believe I can.” He informed them, “I have a general idea where it is.”

“So do we,” said Purcell, “based on what Father Armano said about his army patrol from Lake Tana to the black monastery, then being taken by foot to the Royalist fortress, then his escape forty years later and his walk that night to the Italian spa.” He suggested, “Maybe we could triangulate all of that if we had a good map.”

Gann nodded again. “It’s a starting point.” He advised, “You ought to begin with aerial reconnaissance if you can.”

Purcell informed him, “We might have access to a light plane in Addis.”

“Good. That will save you time and effort, and help keep you out of the hands of the Gallas — or Getachu.”

Mercado told Gann, “There are possibly some good Italian Army maps in the Ethiopian College in Vatican City.”

“Excellent. I’d like to take a look at them.”

“I’m working on that.”

Gann also informed them, “There is a Falasha village in the vicinity, as I mentioned to Mr. Purcell at Getachu’s parade ground. These Jews may be a key to locating the black monastery.” He explained, “There seems to be some… ancient relationship there.”

Vivian asked, “What is that relationship?”

Gann further explained, “The royal family, of course, has Jewish blood from Solomon, and they are proud of that. Proud, too, that they, through the Coptic Church, are the keepers of the Ark of the Covenant, which presumably they are keeping safe for the Jews. The Jews there, the Falashas, see Jesus as a great Jewish prophet and they revere him, and presumably they also believe in the Holy Grail — the kiddush cup of Jesus’s last Passover meal.” He asked his companions, “Do you see the connection?”

Everyone nodded.

Gann continued, “Also, it would appear that the only connection the black monastery has with the outside world is through this Falasha village. Shoan.”

Purcell inquired, “What sort of connection?”

Gann replied, “A spiritual connection. But also a practical connection. Food, medical supplies—”

“They have the Holy Grail,” Purcell reminded him. “Cures what ails you.”

“Yes… well… good point.” He continued, “The monastery, like most monasteries, is self-sufficient, but even a monk needs new underwear now and then. Sandals and candles. And a bit of wine.”

Purcell asked, “How do you know all this?”

“We can discuss that in Ethiopia.”

“All right.” Purcell said, “It would seem, then, that the Falashas know how to find the black monastery.”

Gann replied, “My understanding is that there is a meeting place somewhere between the monastery and the village.”

Purcell nodded. He had this feeling, as he’d had in Ethiopia, that he’d fallen through the rabbit hole. He said to Mercado, “This is a whole chapter in our book, Henry. Jews for Jesus.”

Gann changed the subject. “Have you thought about how you will actually get into this walled monastery if you find it?”

Purcell admitted, “We haven’t thought that far ahead — about pulling off a heist in a monastery filled with club-wielding monks.”

Gann nodded. “Well… we can discuss that if or when the time comes.”

“Right.” But the more Purcell thought about all this, the more he believed that time might never come. More likely, they’d wind up in Getachu’s camp again, or if they were really unlucky, they’d meet up with the Gallas. Henry and Vivian, however, believed they were chosen to find the Holy Grail, and that God would watch over them. As for himself, he half believed half of that.

Purcell asked Gann, “If you can get back into Ethiopia, will you actually come with us to the monastery?”

“Am I invited?”

Vivian cautioned, “This would be more dangerous for you than for us.” She asked, “And how would you get into the country?”

Gann reminded them, “I am officially a fugitive from Ethiopian justice, so I will not be applying for a return visa. I will acquire another identity and fly in from Cairo on a commercial flight.” He informed them, “I have access to everything I need in regard to a passport and a forged visa.”

Vivian said, “Sounds risky.”

“Not too.” He explained, “The security people at Addis airport are totally inept — except the ones who are corrupt.” He informed them, “That was how I flew in last time. I was Charles Lawson then, a Canadian citizen, and within a few days I was Colonel Sir Edmund Gann again, up north with Prince Joshua.”

Vivian pointed out, “They know what you look like now.”

“You, Miss Smith, will not know what I look like when I see you in Ethiopia.”

Purcell inquired, “What is your motivation, Colonel, in risking your life?”

“I believe we had this discussion on a hilltop.” He informed everyone, “I am being well paid by the Ethie expat community, but even if I weren’t, I’d do this because I believe in it.”

“And what is it that you believe in?”

“The restoration of the monarchy and the liberation of the Ethiopian people from Communism, tyranny, and terror.”

“Do you get paid for trying? Or only for success?”

“Both.” He admitted, “The princely payment comes when the emperor or his successor is back on the throne.”

“Do you get a palace?”

“I get the satisfaction of a job well done — and the honor of having changed history.”

Vivian asked Gann, “Will you be coming to Sicily with us?”

“I’m afraid not. As I explained to Mr. Mercado earlier, I have related business here in Rome.”

Mercado informed Gann, “Neither the Vatican nor the Ministry of War nor the Franciscans seem to have any record of Father Giuseppe Armano, which is why we need to go to Berini — to establish his existence. And also to notify next of kin of his fate.”

Gann thought about that, then replied, “Well, I suppose his name could have been lost.” He added, “But if the Vatican wants his name lost, then they’ve been to Berini before you.”

That thought had briefly crossed Purcell’s mind, but it seemed outlandish to believe that Father Giuseppe Armano was disappearing into an Orwellian black hole. But maybe not so outlandish. They’d find out in Berini.

Chapter 27

Mercado said, “In 1868, the Ethiopian emperor Theodore wrote a letter to Queen Victoria. She did not respond, and Theodore, to avenge the insult, imprisoned a number of British nationals, including the consul. The British then landed an expeditionary force on the African coast and marched on Ethiopia to rescue these people.”

Colonel Gann said, half jokingly, “Now we’ve got to pay the bloody beggars to get her majesty’s subjects released.”

Purcell didn’t know if he was actually back in the reading room of the Vatican Library, or if this was a recurring nightmare. Vivian, however, seemed fascinated by the library and impressed with all the documents that Henry had assembled.

Mercado had assured Purcell that this would be a quick visit, to wrap up his background briefing. Next stop was the Ethiopian College, and if they weren’t kicked out again, he, Mercado, and Gann had been allowed one hour in the college library. Vivian, because of her gender, was not welcome.

Mercado continued, “The British Expeditionary Force was led by Sir Robert Napier, and they advanced on the new Ethiopian capital of Magdala. Theodore was beaten in battle and committed suicide on Easter Day 1868.”

Purcell glanced at his watch. Vivian had volunteered to stay in this room and read through Henry’s notes. She’d also brought her camera with her, a brand-new Canon F-1, to begin her photographic documentation of their story, starting with this reading room, and ending, Purcell hoped, with cocktails in the papal reception hall, with everyone holding up the Holy Grail like it was the Stanley Cup.

Vivian saw Purcell smiling and took his picture.

Mercado continued, “Napier, in good imperial tradition, sacked the emperor’s palace and the imperial library at Magdala, carrying off a trove of ancient documents. He took four hundred or so of the most promising of them back to England. He also took the ancient imperial crown that wound up in the British Museum.”

Gann said, “I believe we gave it back.”

“You did,” said Mercado. “And now it’s probably in the hands of the Marxists — or it’s been sold or melted down for the gold and gems.”

Purcell said, “We get the point, Henry.”

Mercado continued, “Inside the rim of the crown is engraved, in Geez, the ancient language of Ethiopia, which remains the language of the Coptic Church, these words”—he glanced at his notes—“King of Kings, Conquering Lion of Judah, Descendant of the House of David, Keeper of the Ark of the Covenant, and Keeper of the Holy Vessel.” Mercado looked at his audience and said, “We can assume that is the Holy Grail.”

No one argued with that translation, but everyone knew that kings and emperors liked to give themselves titles. Theodore may have descended from the House of David, Purcell thought, but he wasn’t the conquering Lion of Judah on Easter Day 1868. Nor was he King of Kings. He was dead. As for keeper of the Ark of the Covenant and the Holy Grail, Purcell was sure that Theodore believed it, but that didn’t make the relics real.

Mercado continued, “Napier, now Lord Napier of Magdala, sold some of the looted documents at auction, and a few of them found their way into the Vatican archives, and this”—he took a curled, yellowed parchment out of a velvet folio—“is one of them.”

Mercado held up the parchment by a corner and said, “It is written in Geez, and I had one of the Ethiopian seminarians who can read Geez translate it for me.”

Gann was looking closely at the parchment as though he could read it, but he said, “It’s Geez to me.”

Mercado smiled politely and replaced the parchment in its velvet folio. “The seminarian thought that based on the style of Geez used, and on the historical event described, this is from about the seventh century — about the time that Islam conquered Egypt.”

Mercado referred to his notes and continued, “This parchment is unsigned, and the author is unknown, but it was probably written by a church scribe or monk and it is an account of a miraculous healing of a Prince Jacob who was near death from wounds sustained in battle with the Mohammadans, as they are called here, who had invaded from Egyptian Sudan. According to this account, Prince Jacob was carried to Axum to die, and was taken to the place — it doesn’t say which place — where the Holy Vessel was kept. The abuna of Axum, the archbishop, gave this prince the last rites, then anointed him with the blood from the Holy Vessel, and Prince Jacob, because he was faithful to God, and because he loved Jesus, and also because he fought bravely against the Mohammadans, was healed of his wounds by the sacred blood of Christ, and he rose up and returned to battle.” Mercado said, “Unfortunately, there is no actual mention of the Lance of Longinus.”

Purcell thought there were other problems with that story. In fact, it sounded like propaganda to rally the troops and the citizens in time of war. But everyone understood that, so he didn’t mention it.

Mercado, too, saw the story as a morale builder and possibly a bit of a stretch. He said, “This proves little, of course, but it does mention the Holy Grail being in Axum at this time, and it is one of the few early references to the Grail having the power to heal.”

Vivian said, “The power to heal those who believe.”

Mercado nodded at his former protégée, then said to everyone, “At some point after this time, with Axum being threatened by Islam, the Grail was taken to a safe place — or many safe places — and now we think we know where it is.”

Mercado stayed silent a moment, then said, “Edward Gibbon, in his Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, wrote, ‘Encompassed on all sides by the enemies of their religion, the Ethiopians slept near a thousand years, forgetful of the world, by whom they were forgotten.’ ”

Mercado looked at his watch and said, “We will now go to the Ethiopian College.”

Chapter 28

A short, squat Ethiopian monk met them in the antechamber and escorted them, without a word, to a second-floor library. The college appeared to still be closed for the long Christmas holiday, and they seemed to be the only people there.

A very large monk stood inside the entrance to the library, and the two monks exchanged a few words in what sounded like Amharic.

Purcell looked around the library, which was windowless and badly lit. Book-laden shelves extended up to the high ceiling, and long reading tables ran down the center of the room.

The short monk left, and the big one remained in the room. Apparently he wasn’t leaving, so Mercado said something to him in Italian, and the monk replied in halting Italian.

Mercado informed Purcell and Gann, “He’s staying.”

Purcell asked, “Does it matter?”

“I suppose not.” He said, “There’s a map room here somewhere, and that’s what we want to see.”

Gann suggested, “Don’t go right for it, old boy. We’ll look around here a bit, then find the map room.”

Mercado nodded and moved over to the shelved books and scanned the titles. Gann did the same, so Purcell took a look at the books. Most seemed to be in Latin, some in Italian, and many in what looked like Amharic script.

Mercado said, “Here’s a Bible in Geez.”

Purcell’s three minutes of pretending were up and he moved toward the far end of the long room, where there was a closed door, which he opened, expecting to be shouted at by the monk. But the monk didn’t say anything, so Purcell entered the room, which was indeed the cartography room.

A long, marble-topped table sat in the center of the room, and hundreds of rolled maps sat stacked on deep shelves, each with a stringed tag attached. He looked at a tag that was handwritten in Italian, Latin, and Amharic.

He heard something behind him and turned to see the monk standing a few feet from him. Purcell asked, “Mind if I smoke?”

The monk did not reply.

Purcell moved along the shelves, looking at the hanging tags, though he couldn’t read any of them.

Mercado and Gann joined him, and they seemed pleased to see all the maps. Mercado began immediately reading tags, and Gann said, “Here are the Italian Army maps.” As he picked a few dust-covered maps off the shelf, Purcell unrolled them and laid them on the map table, weighting their corners with brass bars that had been stacked there for that purpose.

There didn’t seem to be a card catalog, but Mercado soon figured out how the maps were grouped, and he took a few ancient maps, hand drawn on parchment and papyrus, and set them gently on the table.

The monk watched, but said nothing.

Gann was now sitting at the table, studying the unfurled army maps, and Purcell sat to his right and Mercado to his left. Sir Edmund was once again Colonel Gann.

Purcell saw that the army maps were color printed, with shades of green for vegetation, shades of brown for arid areas, and pale blue for water. The elevation lines were in dark brown, and the few roads were represented by black dotted lines. The symbols for other man-made objects were also in black, as were the grid lines and the latitudes and longitudes. The map legend and all the other writing was in Italian. Gann said, “We used these captured maps in ’41, and map words are the extent of my Italian.”

Gann pointed to a map and said, “This one is a 1:50,000 map of the east bank of Lake Tana. It was partially field checked by the Italian Army’s map ordnance section that made it, but most of this map was compiled from aerial photographs. This map here is of the fortress city of Gondar and environs. It is a more accurate 1:25,000, and completely field checked. Everything else seems to be crude 1:100,000- and 1:250,000-scale maps, not field checked.”

Purcell knew how to read aviation charts, but these were terrain maps, and unless you understood what everything meant, it was like looking at paint spills on graph paper.

Gann continued, “Most of Africa was accurately mapped by the colonial powers. Ethiopia, however, was not a European colony until the Italians invaded, and the Ethies themselves hadn’t any idea how to make a map, or what use they were. Therefore, most of what exists is a result of the Italian Army’s brief control of the country.”

Mercado asked, “And nothing since then?”

Gann informed them, “The former Ethiopian government had a small cartography office, but they mostly reproduced Italian maps, and now and again they’d produce a city map or a road map, though never a proper field-checked terrain map.” He added, “Both armies in the current civil war are using what we see here from 1935 until 1941.”

Purcell pointed out, “I assume the black monastery hasn’t been moved, so maybe these are better than nothing.”

“Quite so.”

Gann studied the maps closely, then unrolled a few more.

“Here. This is the area where we were, and this is the map I was using then.” He ran his finger in a circle around a green-and-brown-shaded area. “This is the jungle valley where the spa is located, and this is the unimproved road by which you presumably arrived.”

Purcell asked, “Where is the spa?”

“Not here, actually. Probably built after the map was done. But right here”—he pointed—“is where it is.”

Gann bent over the map and said, “These are the hills where Prince Joshua set up his camp… These are the hills where Getachu’s camp was located. And this is the high plains or plateau between the camps where… where the armies met.”

Purcell stared at the map — the same one Gann had shown him — and that unpleasant day came back to him as it had just come back to Colonel Gann.

Purcell said to Mercado, “Puts me right there again, Henry. How about you?”

“Makes me wonder why we ever left.”

They all got a laugh at that, and Gann continued his map recon. He glanced at the monk across the room, then joked, “Don’t see the symbol for hidden black monastery.”

Purcell asked, “Do you see anything that could be a fortress?” He reminded Gann, “Father Armano’s prison for almost forty years.”

“No… don’t see any man-made structures…”

Mercado reminded everyone, “Father Armano walked through the night from this fortress to the spa.”

“Yes… but what direction?”

Purcell said, “He mentioned something about Gondar to the north. And I’m assuming the fortress was in the jungle — the dark green stuff.”

“Yes, possibly… here is something that would be a night’s march to the spa…” He pointed to a small black square identified as “incognita”—unknown.

Gann surmised, “Probably seen from the air and put on the map, but never field checked to identify it.”

Mercado said, “Could be the fortress. I don’t see any other man-made structures in this jungle valley.”

Gann agreed that incognita could be the fortress, but he advised, “The scale of this map is so large that even these hills, which we know are large from being there, look quite small.”

In fact, Purcell thought, those hills had almost killed Henry.

The monk had moved and was now standing across the table, looking at them.

Gann said, “Don’t assume he doesn’t speak English.”

Purcell said to Mercado, “Maybe this guy wants to back off.”

Mercado said something to the monk, who moved a few feet away.

Purcell said softly, “The priest said he was taken from the black… place by the monks and handed over to soldiers of this Prince Theodore, who marched him to the fortress.” He thought back to the spa and to Father Armano’s dying words. “The priest didn’t remark about the march, so maybe it was a day’s march at most.”

Mercado, too, was thinking about what Father Armano had said. “I don’t know if we can make that assumption… I wish we’d known we were going to be looking for this place. I’d have asked him to be more specific.”

Purcell replied, “We knew at some point, but there was a lot going on. He was dying.”

Gann suggested, “Try to recall all that this man said. He may have given you a clue.”

Purcell and Mercado thought about that, then Purcell suggested, “Let’s back it up. The priest said his battalion had made camp on the eastern shore of Lake Tana.” He pointed to the lake. “His patrol went out to find the place where the Gallas had ambushed the previous patrol. They found the ambush site… maybe the same day… then continued on to find the black walls and tower that the sergeant, Giovanni, said he’d seen on the previous patrol.”

Mercado added, “The priest said this took several more days… Three? Four? And they were lost, so they could have wandered in circles.”

Gann said, “I can tell you that you’d be good to make a kilometer an hour in this terrain. So if we assume a ten-hour-a-day march, from somewhere along this eastern bank of Lake Tana, we can reckon thirty kilometers in three days, perhaps, less if this patrol was moving cautiously, which I’m certain they did.”

Gann took a notebook from his pocket and a pen, which caused the monk to say, “No!”

Gann said to Mercado, “Tell him I’m not going to mark his map.”

Mercado spoke to the monk, and Gann measured the kilometers from the map legend on a piece of notepaper that he marked with his pen, then held the paper against the map and said, “This is ten K. But to find the ambush site, we would need to know where this man’s battalion made camp along the lakeshore — which as you can see is about eighty kilometers long — then draw a ten-K radius from there, and somewhere along that radius would be the ambush site. But we don’t know where on the lakeshore to start.”

Mercado said, “And then they wandered around for several more days to find the black wall and tower — the monastery.” Mercado said, “We’ve narrowed it down a bit, but that is still a lot of square kilometers of jungle to be walking through.”

Gann said, “That is why aerial recon would be helpful.”

They studied the terrain map and recomputed their numbers, based on different points along the shore of Lake Tana and different traveling times through the terrain, as well as trying to guess what Father Armano meant by “several days” from the ambush site to the black monastery. They then approached the problem the other way — from the fixed location of the fortress to the monastery, though Father Armano never said how long his march was from the monastery to the fortress. And what they thought was the fortress could be something else, though “incognita” was about five kilometers east of the spa — a night’s march.

Mercado and Purcell tried to recall if Father Armano had said anything else that could be a clue, and Purcell pointed out to Mercado that the priest had spoken Italian and that Mercado and Vivian had translated, so Purcell may not have gotten the entire story, or gotten an accurate translation.

Mercado said, “Perhaps Vivian will recall some further details.”

Purcell said to Gann, “This man did say something about a rock, a stream, and a tree.”

“No rocks on this map, I’m afraid, and I’m not sure which of the million trees he was referring to, but here is a small, intermittent stream… and another here, and a larger one here, all flowing downhill to Lake Tana.” He suggested, “Remember this when you are on the ground. But it’s of no help here.”

Purcell asked, “Where is this Falasha village?”

Gann replied, “Not on this map…” He pulled another map toward him and said, “Here, on the south adjoining map… the village of Shoan.” He put the maps together and said, “About forty K west and south of the suspected fortress.”

Purcell reminded Gann, “They might know the location of the monastery.”

Gann replied, “They know where they meet the monks. But they’re not going to take us along for company.”

They again looked at the maps, trying to transfer what little they knew to what was spread out in front of them.

Gann pointed out, “The Italian aerial cartographers saw this unknown structure, and noted it, but they apparently didn’t see what we are looking for or they’d have noted that as well.”

Mercado informed him, “Our friend said it was in a deep jungle valley, with trees that went right up to the walls.”

“I see… Well, it could have been missed from the air.”

Purcell added, “He said the area within the walls had trees, gardens, and I think a pond.”

Gann nodded. “This whole area was photographed and transferred to a map, and the thing we are looking for was on one of those photographs, but the cartographers missed it when they made these maps.” He further informed them, “Most aerial photography was done in black and white, so things — man-made and natural — are missed in black, white, and shades of gray that would be more apparent in color.” He added, “What we’re seeing here is what the cartographer thought he saw in black-and-white photographs, and there was little field checking. We can also assume the cartographers were a bit sloppy and perhaps overworked and under pressure to get these military maps to Il Duce’s army.”

Purcell said, “Maybe we’ll have better luck when we fly over this area ourselves.”

Gann agreed, but advised, “Don’t do too much flying, old boy, or you’ll attract attention.” He asked, “Do I understand that you have an aircraft and pilot?”

Purcell replied, “We’re working on that.” He confessed, “I’m the pilot.”

“I see. Well, good luck.”

“I thought you were coming with us.”

“I will try my best.”

Purcell said to Gann, “We are going to do this, Colonel. And we will find what we are looking for.”

“I believe you will.” He added, “That may be the easy part.”

Henry stood and moved to the antique maps, and Purcell said, “Henry, you will not find what we’re looking for there.”

Gann agreed. “Those maps are more fantasy than accurate representations of reality, old boy. Dragons and all that.”

Mercado ignored them and unrolled a few parchments on which were hand-colored maps of sorts, showing lakes, mountains, and hand-drawn churches. Mercado said, “This is written in Geez.”

No one replied.

He said, “I think this one is showing Axum. I see a crown, and here is a drawing of what looks like the stone tablets of the Ten Commandments.”

Purcell said, “Well, that proves it.”

“And here, to the southeast of this lake that looks like Tana… with the Blue Nile… is a drawing…” He slid the map toward them and they saw a nice drawing of a golden cup, next to which was a black cross, surrounded by well-drawn palm trees that Gann said would be about a half kilometer tall if they were drawn to scale.

Purcell said, “We should have started with this map, Henry.”

Gann suggested, “Offer this monk fellow ten pounds for it.”

Mercado was not enjoying the jokes, and he said, “Well, this may not be very detailed or accurate, but it is significant that it shows… or possibly shows what we are looking for.” He added, “Cross and cup. Monastery and Grail.”

“We get it.”

Gann said, “But it does show it southeast of Lake Tana… so that may actually be a clue on a real map, and on the ground.”

The monk said something in Italian, and Mercado said, “Our hour is fini.”

Chapter 29

They found Vivian sitting on a bench outside the Ethiopian College, and she informed them, “I was asked to leave the reading room.”

Mercado seemed surprised. “Why?”

“No explanation except that the archive materials had been out too long, and the reading room was needed by others.”

Purcell said to Mercado, “You have been abusing your library privileges, Henry.”

“This is not funny.”

Purcell pointed out, “You said we were done.”

“We were, but…” He looked at Vivian. “Where is my notebook?”

“In my bag.” She gave it to him.

Purcell said to Mercado, “If I were paranoid, I’d say you should not leave that notebook in your office.”

Mercado nodded.

It was late afternoon, the sky was overcast, and Henry said he had a bottle of Strega in his office to lift their spirits.

On the way, Vivian asked, “How did you make out?”

Mercado replied, “We’ve narrowed it down.”

Gann asked Mercado, “Is it possible to get back in there?”

“Another request is one too many.”

Gann suggested, “If you contact the Ministry of War, they will have a complete set of army survey maps of Ethiopia.” He also informed them, “If you know Father Armano’s military unit, you should ask to see his unit logs to see where his battalion made camp on the shore of Lake Tana.”

Mercado thought about that, then replied, “I will inquire about the maps. But we don’t know Father Armano’s army unit, and the War Ministry doesn’t know Father Armano.”

Vivian said, “Someone in Berini may have letters from him with a return military address.”

“Good thinking,” said Mercado.

Gann said, “There is a possibility, however, that these unit logs never made it back to Italy.”

Purcell pointed out, “Even if they did, the Ministry of War’s archives may not be open to us — or what we’re looking for may no longer be there.”

No one responded to that.

They continued their walk across the parkland of Vatican City. Purcell looked at Saint Peter’s, rarely seen from the rear, and he realized it was much bigger than it appeared from its well-known façade. The basilica and the square with its encompassing colonnades was the public face of the Vatican. But there was more to this place. There were offices and archives, and there were people whose job it was to manage the money, to support charities, to stamp out heresy, to propagate the faith, and to put out the word of God and the word of the pope and the Sacred College of Cardinals — as Henry did at L’Osservatore Romano.

Purcell didn’t think there were any great conspiracies being hatched behind the closed doors of all those offices — but he did think there was two thousand years of institutional memory that defined the Vatican and the papacy; there was an unspoken and unwritten understanding regarding what needed to be done.

Most times, he suspected, everyone was on the same page — the clergy, the hierarchy, and the bureaucracy who toiled here. But now and then there were quiet differences of opinion. And maybe that was what he was seeing now — assuming, of course, that the people here were on the same quest that he and his three companions were on.

Gann was saying, “If we can’t get access to the military maps here, I know that the Italian Library in Addis has a collection of wartime maps.” He added, “Problem is, the Provisional Revolutionary government may have confiscated all the maps as a security measure, or to issue to their fighting units in the field.”

Purcell interjected, “One of the first places we need to find is the village of Shoan.” He asked Gann, “Do you know how to get there?”

“I have been there.” He continued before anyone could ask him about that. “As I said, finding the monastery may not be as difficult as we think, given what we know. The problem, as with any military objective, is to get inside the place, get what we want, then get out.”

Purcell liked the way Gann thought. Military minds were generally clear, and geared to practical matters and problem solving. Lives depended on it. Vivian and Henry, on the other hand, were focused on the righteousness of their mission, with only passing thoughts about the logistics and the battle plan — like medieval Crusaders off to free the Holy Land. But, he supposed, the world needed those people too.

As for himself, he’d had enough of maps, archives, and religious experiences. He was ready to move.

They reached Mercado’s office, and Henry produced the bottle of Strega, which he shared with his guests to warm them up. Regarding their trip to Sicily, he consulted his calendar and said, “The Italians have the most vacation days in Europe. Forty-two, I believe. The fourteenth looks good for me.” He asked, “Is that good for everyone?”

Purcell and Vivian said it was, and Mercado asked Gann, “Are you sure you don’t want to go to sunny Sicily?”

“I’m afraid I can’t.”

Mercado said, “I won’t use the Vatican travel office, and I suggest we all use different travel agencies to book a flight to Palermo. We’ll hire a car there and drive to Berini.”

Purcell and Vivian agreed, and Henry poured more of the yellow liqueur into their water glasses.

Purcell said, “While we’re making travel plans, I suggest we pick a date now to fly to Addis Ababa.”

No one responded, and Purcell said, “As Colonel Gann would agree, we need to stop planning the invasion and we need to have a jump-off date.”

Gann said, “I’m actually fixed to go on January twenty-fourth — or thereabouts.”

“Good.” Purcell suggested, “The L’Osservatore Romano team needs to go separately, in case there is a problem at the other end. I will go first — let’s say January eighteenth. If I telex all is well, Vivian will follow on January twentieth—”

“We’re going together, Frank.”

He ignored her and continued, “If you don’t hear from me, take that as a sign that I may be indisposed.” He said to Mercado, “You may have the most risk considering your prior conviction for consorting with an enemy of the Ethiopian people. But if I and Vivian are okay, you bring up the rear.”

Gann agreed, “That is a safe insertion plan.”

Purcell said, “Unless they’re waiting for all of us to get there.”

Mercado said, “If your paranoia has substance, Frank, then I should go first to see if there is a problem.”

“Your offer is noted for the record.” He added, “I leave on the eighteenth.”

Gann informed them, “I have a number of safe houses in Addis. Where will you be staying?”

Purcell replied, “With all the other reporters at the Addis Hilton.”

“Safety in numbers,” said Gann.

“With the journalistic community, Colonel, it’s more like dog eat dog.”

Mercado reminded Purcell and Vivian, “Alitalia still has daily flights to Addis, and seats are not hard to come by. Same with rooms at the Addis Ababa Hilton. I will notify the newspaper and the travel office of our plans next week.” He added, “Gives us time to think about this.”

Purcell said, “There is nothing to think about.”

Mercado nodded.

They discussed a few other operational details, and in regard to their Berini trip on the fourteenth, Mercado consulted an Alitalia flight schedule and said to Purcell and Vivian, “Book the nine-sixteen A.M. Alitalia to Palermo. I’ll meet you at the airport.”

Mercado said he had work to do, and his three visitors left.

Gann said he wanted to wander around the seat of the papacy, and he wished them good day.

Purcell and Vivian exited Vatican City and walked along the Tiber.

Vivian said, “This has just become real.”

“It gets even more real in Ethiopia.”

Chapter 30

They landed in Palermo, rented a Fiat, and bought a road map of Sicily.

There were a few routes to Berini, which was in the mountains near the town of Corleone, and they decided to reverse the route that Father Armano had taken in 1935 from Alcamo to Palermo, though instead of a train, they drove the new highway to Alcamo. There, they took an increasingly bad road into the hills — the same road that the priest had undoubtedly walked forty years before with the other army conscripts who, like himself, were bound for Palermo, then Ethiopia. Father Armano, however, had taken a detour to Rome, and to the Vatican, before his fateful and fatal journey to Africa.

It was a sunny day and much warmer than Rome. The sky was deep blue and white clouds hung over the distant mountains. Lemon and orange groves covered the narrow valleys, and olive trees and vineyards rose up the terraced slopes. Clusters of umbrella pines shaded white stucco houses, and tall cedars stood sentry at the bases of the hills.

This, Purcell thought, was the last that Father Armano had seen of his native land, and he must have realized as he was walking to Alcamo with the other young men that he might never see it again.

Vivian said, “This is beautiful. Completely unspoiled.”

Purcell noticed there was very little vehicular traffic, but there were a good number of donkeys and carts on the road, and a lot of people walking and biking. The villages, as expected, were picturesque — white stuccoed houses with red tile roofs, and church bell towers in even the smallest town. “They must pray a lot.”

Mercado said, “I’m sure they’re all in church every Sunday and holy day. And, of course, for weddings, funerals, baptisms, and such, not to mention Saturday confessions.” He added, “They are a very simple, religious people and there are not many like them in Europe anymore.”

Purcell suggested, “You should move here, Henry.”

“After you, Frank.”

Vivian said, “I can see having a summer place in Sicily.”

Mercado reminded her, “You don’t speak the dialect.”

Purcell pointed out, “You both spoke to Father Armano.”

Mercado explained, “He spoke standard Italian, a result I’m sure of his seminary training and his time in the army.”

“Are we going to have trouble speaking to the citizens of Berini?”

“Sicilians understand standard Italian when they want to.” He added, “The priest will understand my Italian. And the younger people as well, because of television and cinema.”

“Then maybe we’ll get some answers.”

Mercado informed them, “Sicilians don’t like to answer questions, especially from strangers.”

“We’re doing a nice story for L’Osservatore Romano on their native son.”

“Doesn’t matter. They are suspicious of the outside world.”

“And with good reason.”

Vivian suggested, “Use your charm, Henry.”

Purcell said, “We may as well turn around now.”

Mercado ignored that and said, “The key is the village priest.”

They reached Corleone, consulted the road map and the signs, and headed southwest into the higher hills.

It would not have been too difficult, Purcell thought, to walk downhill to Alcamo. But it would not have been an easy journey home to Berini, on foot, though a soldier returning home would not think about that.

They had spotted a few classical Roman and Greek ruins along the way, and Mercado informed them, “The Carthaginians were also here, as well as the Normans, the armies of Islam, and a dozen other invaders.” He further informed his audience, “Sicily was a prize in the ancient world, and now it is the land that time forgot — like Ethiopia.”

“The world changes,” Purcell agreed. “Wars have consequences.”

“I have an English cousin who served with Montgomery, and he may have passed through here in ’43.”

“We’ll keep an eye out for anyone with a family resemblance.”

The village of Berini was strategically located at the top of a hill that rose above the valley, and the one-lane road hugged the side of the slope and wrapped around it like a corkscrew until it abruptly ended at a stone arch, which marked the entrance to the village.

Purcell drove through the arch and followed a narrow lane between whitewashed houses. The few pedestrians stood aside and eyed them curiously as they passed by.

A minute later they entered a small, sunlit piazza, and at its far end was a good-sized stone church, which according to the Vatican directory was San Anselmo. The parish priest, if the information was up to date, was Father Giorgio Rulli. There were no other priests listed.

On the right side of the square was a row of two-story stucco buildings, one of which had an orange awning and a sign that said, simply, “Taverna.” On the other side of the piazza was a place called “Caffe,” and next to that was a tabaccheria, a sort of corner candy store. That seemed to be the extent of the commercial establishments, and the other structures appeared to be residences and a village hall. A few miniature Fiats were parked around the perimeter of the piazza, but the main form of transportation seemed to be bicycles. Purcell noticed there were no donkeys.

The outdoor seating under the awning and umbrellas of the taverna and caffe was filled with people, and Purcell noted they were all male. He could also see that their full-sized Fiat had attracted some attention. It was a little past three o’clock and Mercado said, “This is the riposo — the traditional four-hour afternoon break.”

Purcell inquired, “Break from what?”

Vivian suggested, “Park someplace.”

“I’m looking for a parking meter.”

“Wherever you stop the car is a parking place, Frank.”

“Right.”

He moved the Fiat slowly over the cobblestoned piazza and stopped a respectable distance from the church. They all got out and stretched. It was cooler here at the higher elevation, and the air smelled of woodsmoke.

They had been advised by one of Mercado’s colleagues to dress modestly and in muted colors. The rural Sicilians, the colleague said, literally laugh at brightly colored clothing, the way most people would laugh at someone coming down the street in a clown outfit. Purcell and Mercado wore black trousers, white shirts, and dark sports jackets, and Vivian wore a black dress, a loose-fitting black sweater, and sensible shoes. She also had a black scarf to cover her head if they entered the church.

A few elderly men and women made their way up and down the steps of the church, and Mercado said to an old woman in a black dress, “Mi scusi, Signora,” then slowly and distinctly asked her something.

She replied, pointed, and moved on, giving the strangers a backward glance and looking Vivian up and down. Mercado informed them that the rectory was behind the church and he led the way.

The rectory was a small stucco house set in a garden, and they went up the path to the door. They had discussed what they were going to say, and they’d agreed that Mercado would take the lead. There was a doorbell and Mercado rang it. They waited.

The door opened and a very young priest stood there and looked at them. “Si?”

Mercado inquired, “Padre Rulli?”

“Si.”

Mercado introduced himself and his companions, and said they were from L’Osservatore Romano, then Purcell heard him say, “Padre Armano.”

The priest didn’t slam the door in their faces, but he seemed to hesitate, then invited them inside. He ushered them into a small, plain sitting room and indicated a narrow upholstered couch. They sat, and the priest sat opposite them on a high-backed chair.

The priest, as Purcell noted, was young, and also short of stature, though he had a presence about him. His nose looked like it could have its own mailing address, and his eyes were dark and intelligent. He had thin lips and an olive complexion, and the sum total of his appearance was handsome in an interesting way.

Purcell glanced around the room. A woodstove radiated heat, one floor lamp cast a dim light in the corner behind the priest’s chair, and the crude plaster walls were adorned with colored prints of men with beards and women with veils. A white marble Jesus hung from an olivewood cross above the priest’s chair.

This was obviously a small and poor country church in a poor parish, Purcell thought; a place where the priest answered his own door. This was not the Vatican.

Mercado said something to the priest, enunciating each word so the Sicilian priest would have no difficulty understanding.

The priest replied, “You may speak English if it is better than your Italian.”

Mercado seemed surprised, then recovered and said, “Forgive us, Father, for not making an appointment—”

“My doorbell rings all day. It is the only doorbell in Berini. I am here.”

“Yes… well, as I said, we are from L’Osservatore Romano. Signorina Smith is my photographer and Signore Purcell is my… assistant.”

“I understand.” He informed them, “I have taught myself English. From books and tapes. Why? It is the language of the world, as Latin once was. Someday…” He didn’t complete his thought, but said, “So forgive me in advance if I do not understand, or if I mispronounce.”

Mercado assured him, “Your English is perfect.”

Father Rulli asked, “How may I be of assistance?”

Mercado replied, “My colleagues and I were in Ethiopia, in September, and while there we came across a priest who was dying—”

“Father Armano.”

“Yes.” He asked, “Have you been notified of his death?”

“I have.”

“I see… When were you notified?”

“In November. Why do you ask?”

Purcell answered without answering, “We’re writing a newspaper article on Father Armano, so we are collecting information.”

“Yes, of course. But it is my understanding that you have all this information from the Vatican press office.”

Purcell knew that the Vatican press office and L’Osservatore Romano were not one and the same, though sometimes they seemed to be. He glanced at Mercado.

Mercado said to Father Rulli, “I haven’t had contact with the Vatican press office.”

“They said they were in contact with L’Osservatore Romano.”

“They may be… but not me.”

Father Rulli admitted, “I have no idea how these things work in Rome.”

Purcell assured him, “Neither do we.”

Father Rulli smiled. He then informed them, “But you do know about the steps toward Father Armano’s beatification.”

At first Purcell thought that the priest had mispronounced “beautification,” and he was confused. Then he understood.

Mercado seemed dumbstruck.

Vivian asked, “What am I missing?”

Mercado told her, “Father Armano has been proposed for canonization — sainthood.”

“Oh…”

“Did you not know this?” asked the priest.

“We… had heard…”

“That is the purpose of your visit, is it not?”

“Yes… well, we wanted to gather some background on his early life. His time in the army… perhaps letters that he wrote to his family and friends.”

Father Rulli informed them, “You could have saved yourselves the journey.” He explained, “A delegation from the Vatican was here in November to let me know of Father Armano’s death and his proposed canonization. As you know, if he is entered into the sainthood, and if a church is ever built in his name, a relic is needed to consecrate the church. And also a complete biography of the prospective saint is compiled. So a call was put out in Berini and we also searched the storage cellar of this rectory.” He let them know, “We found some of his old vestments in trunks, and his family had photographs and letters they had saved. Some from Ethiopia.” He told them, “The man from the Vatican press office interviewed the family and some childhood friends of Giuseppe Armano. So this has all been done.”

Mercado replied, “L’Osservatore Romano likes to do this work themselves.”

“As you wish.” Father Rulli said, “We had a special Mass when the delegation from the Vatican announced this. The town was very excited, and the bells of San Anselmo rang all day. His family was filled with joy at the news of his beatification. And of the news that he had performed miracles in Ethiopia.”

Mercado nodded, then said, “We are sorry we missed that day.”

Well, Purcell thought, Colonel Gann had guessed correctly. The Vatican was here first, and it was Henry’s unanswered letter that led them here. It was possible, of course, that there was nothing sinister about this; it was just the Vatican doing its job of making a death notification of a priest. And while they were at it, they sent a whole delegation to announce that Father Giuseppe Armano was being considered for sainthood. And they took what they needed. Purcell was impressed.

Father Rulli looked at his guests. “Did you say you were with Father Armano when he died?”

“Yes.”

The priest nodded, then said, “I am not clear about the circumstances of his death.” No one replied, so Father Rulli went on. “Monsignor Mazza from the office of beatification told me that Father Armano had been imprisoned since 1936, and that he escaped and was found dying by three war correspondents from England who did not speak much Italian.” He asked, “So that was you?”

Mercado nodded.

Father Rulli said, “Well, that is itself a miracle. After forty years, to be found by… English people who work for L’Osservatore Romano.” He asked Mercado, “Can you tell me the circumstances of this encounter?”

Mercado related an edited version of what happened that night, and Father Rulli kept nodding with interest. Mercado concluded, “We buried him in a garden of this Italian spa… and said prayers over his grave.”

“That is a wonderful story. And wonderful that this man did not die alone.”

Mercado said, “He was at peace.”

“Yes. Good.” He thought a moment, then asked Mercado, “Is your Italian good?”

“It is passable.”

The priest thought a moment, then said, “But Monsignor Mazza said to me he received a letter from one of the people who found Father Armano dying and that this man had little to report about Father Armano’s last words — because of the language difficulties and because he died soon after he was found.”

“He… was unconscious most of the time.”

“I see.” Father Rulli stayed silent awhile, then said, “As you know, there must be three miracles for a person to enter into the sainthood, and I am wondering how they in Rome would know of a miracle.”

Mercado replied, “I’m not sure.”

“Perhaps these miracles took place when he was serving in the army during that terrible war.”

“Probably.”

“And they were reported by the survivors of his military group.”

“That’s possible.” Mercado added, “That’s what we are investigating. For our story.”

Purcell inquired, “Do you have any information as to Father Armano’s military unit?”

“Well, his return address would have been on his letters, but that is all in Rome now.” He looked again at his guest and said, “It seems to me that all this information is available to you in Rome.”

“Of course.”

Father Rulli informed them, “I was told not to speak of this to outsiders. Why is that?”

Mercado replied, “I have no idea.” He added, “Rome is Rome.”

Father Rulli nodded, then changed the subject. “The most important relic of a saint is part of his body. Monsignor Mazza said that he was going to send a mission to Ethiopia to locate this spa and recover the remains.”

Mercado, wanting to appear more knowledgeable than he had been, replied, “Yes, we know that. In fact, we may return to Ethiopia ourselves.”

The priest advised them, “It has become dangerous there.”

Purcell reminded him, “We’ve been there.”

“Yes, of course.” Father Rulli looked at his watch and said, “I am to perform a burial Mass in half an hour.”

Purcell asked him, “Can you put us into contact with any of Father Armano’s family? Or anyone else who is still alive from his time? He mentioned a brother and two sisters.”

“Yes, Anna is still alive. A widow. And I can have her and other family members, and perhaps some friends, meet you here if you wish.”

“That would be very good of you.”

“Anna would find some comfort in speaking to you who last saw her brother alive.” He added, “She grieved for his loss, but now she has been delivered a miracle.”

The priest rose and his guests also stood. Father Rulli showed them to the door and said, “Five o’clock. I will have coffee.”

They thanked him, left the rectory, and walked along the side of the church and entered the piazza. The afternoon break seemed to be over and the taverna looked quiet, so they crossed the piazza and found a table under the awning.

Mercado said, “We were scooped by the Vatican press office.”

Purcell added, “And they made off with all traces of Father Armano.”

Vivian said, “This is hard to believe… I mean, is this canonization… legitimate?”

Mercado replied, “It could be.”

Purcell lit a cigarette and looked at him.

Mercado met his stare and said, “It could be, Frank.” He explained, “They’d want his army letters to see if he mentioned anything that could be construed as a miracle.”

“They wanted his army letters to see if he mentioned anything about the letter he was carrying from the pope.”

“We don’t know that.”

Purcell asked, “Aren’t there supposed to be eyewitnesses to these miracles?”

Mercado replied, “I’m impressed with your knowledge of the steps to sainthood.” He added, “The Vatican office of beatification will be trying to find and interview men who served with Father Armano in Ethiopia.”

Vivian said, “Even if he didn’t perform a miracle, he experienced the greater miracle of… being healed.”

Purcell inquired, “Does that count?”

Mercado surprised him by saying, “Even doubting Thomas had a place among the apostles.” He assured Purcell, “We need a skeptic.”

Vivian smiled. “I look forward to being there, Frank, when you are in the black monastery in the presence of the Holy Spirit.”

“I will eat my words. Or drink them.”

Vivian thought a moment, then said, “Father Armano asked us to tell his sister Anna of his death.”

No one responded.

“Why did he say Anna? Why didn’t he mention his other sister or brother?”

The obvious answer, as they all knew, was that Giuseppe Armano had indeed gone home to Berini, then returned to Ethiopia with the happy knowledge that Anna was still alive, and that she would be waiting to hear from them about his last hours on earth.

Purcell said, “The rational side of me says that Anna was closest to him.”

No one responded.

Purcell continued, “But I like the other possibility better. He went home.”

The proprietor saw they were still sitting in his chairs and he came out to see why. Mercado greeted him and asked politely for three glasses of vino rosso and acqua minerale. The man seemed all right with that and disappeared inside.

Mercado said, “The last strangers he saw were wearing British Army uniforms.”

“He looks the right age to be your cousin.”

Vivian returned to the subject. “Father Rulli seemed a bit confused, or even suspicious, that we didn’t know about the Vatican delegation or much else.”

Mercado assured her, “Catholic priests know better than anyone that the Vatican moves in mysterious ways.” He added, “Rome is Rome.”

Purcell said, “The Roman Church, in my opinion, is a continuation of the Roman Empire, also not known for openness or enlightenment.”

Mercado replied, “The Church of Rome preaches and practices the word of God.”

Purcell thought that every time Henry Mercado heard the word “God,” he also heard a choir of heavenly angels. He said to Mercado, “You lied to the priest.”

Mercado replied, “I was as confused as he was and I may have misspoken.”

“You need to go to confession.”

Mercado changed the subject. “We may be able to get some information on Father Armano’s military unit from his family. But to be honest with you, the Ministry of War is not going to be cooperative in regard to providing us with maps or logbooks.” He added, “We have been shut down.”

Purcell agreed. “This is not a productive trip. But it could be good background for our story — though not the one we write for L’Osservatore Romano.”

Vivian reminded them, “We also came here to inform his family — to tell Anna — of his death and to tell them we were with him at the end.”

Purcell pointed out, “The Vatican beat us to the death notification.” He added, “And whatever else we tell them might contradict what the Vatican delegation has already told Father Rulli and the family.” He advised, “Keep it short, general, and upbeat.”

Mercado reminded Vivian, “He was unconscious most of the time.”

Vivian replied, “Lies just breed more lies.”

Purcell said, “When in Rome.”

Their wine and water came with a bill written on a slate board, and Mercado gave the proprietor a fifty-thousand-lire note. He said to his companions, “It’s pay as you go.”

“We look shady,” Purcell agreed.

The proprietor made change from his apron and Mercado took it, explaining, “Overtipping is in poor taste.” He left some coins on the table.

Mercado raised his glass, “God rest the soul of Father Giuseppe Armano.”

“San Giuseppe,” said Purcell.

Mercado pronounced the wine drinkable, then informed them, “Sainthood moves very slowly. We will not see his canonization in our lifetime.”

“Well, not your lifetime, Henry.”

Mercado pointed out, “None of us knows how much time we have left here, Frank.” He nodded toward San Anselmo, where men, women, and children, dressed in black, were climbing the steps as the church bells tolled slowly and echoed through the piazza.

Vivian said, “Let’s go to this burial Mass.”

Purcell inquired, “Did you know the deceased?”

“I want to see Father Armano’s church.”

Purcell and Mercado exchanged glances, then Mercado said, “All right.” He went inside to say arrivederci to the proprietor, then came out and informed his companions, “You never leave without saying good-bye.”

Purcell said, “I’m impressed with your rustic etiquette.”

Vivian said, “I think I could live in Sicily.”

Purcell informed her, “Half the Italians in America are Sicilian. They couldn’t live here.”

“Maybe summers.”

They walked across the piazza to the church and Vivian draped her scarf over her head as they climbed the steps.

The church of San Anselmo was big, built, Purcell thought, when more people lived here. The peaked roof showed exposed beams and rafters, and the thick stone walls were plastered and whitewashed. The altar, though, was of polished stone and gilded wood, and looked out of place in the simple setting, as did the intricate stained glass windows.

A white-draped coffin sat at the Communion rail and Father Rulli stood beside it, blessed it, then went up to the altar.

There were no pews, but a collection of wooden chairs were lined up in rows, and most of them were filled with the people of Berini and the surrounding farms. The three visitors took empty seats in the rear.

Father Rulli stood in the center of the altar, raised his arms, and greeted his flock in Italian. Everyone stood and the Mass of Christian burial began.

Purcell looked at Father Rulli, and he saw Father Armano, forty years ago; a young priest from this village who’d gone to the seminary and returned to his village, his family, his friends, and his church where he’d been baptized. In a perfect world, where there was no war, Father Giuseppe Armano might have stayed here until the burial Mass was for him. But the new Caesar in Rome had much grander plans for the Italian people, and the winds of war swept into Berini and carried off its sons.

Father Rulli was now at the lectern, speaking, Purcell imagined, of the mystery of death and of the promise of eternal life. Or maybe he was speaking well of the departed, because people were crying. Even Vivian, who had no clue who was in the coffin, was dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief.

Purcell returned to Father Armano, and wondered if the priest saw his life as wasted or as blessed for having seen and experienced a miracle. Probably, Purcell thought, the priest had had moments of doubt in his prison cell, but his faith and his experience in the black monastery had sustained him. And in the end, as he was dying, he had probably thought he was again blessed to be ending his life a free man, in the company of at least one, maybe two believers who would tell his family and the world of his fate and of what he had seen and experienced. He seemed at peace, Purcell recalled, ready for his journey home.

It occurred to Purcell that they didn’t have to come to Berini, but it was the right thing to do; it was the right place to begin their own journey back to where this all began.