The Quest

Chapter 31

Frank Purcell stood with his back to the bar, a drink in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

The Addis Ababa Hilton cocktail lounge was filled with the usual clientele that one finds in times of war, pestilence, and famine, though it seemed to Purcell that there were far fewer news people here than in September — though more UN relief people and embassy reinforcements. And, as always, there were some shady-looking characters whose purpose here was unknown, but it had to do with either money or spying.

Another difference from the last time was that the rich Ethiopians seemed to have disappeared. The ones that weren’t dead or in prison were at Etiopia in Rome. The Italian expats and businesspeople had also disappeared.

Purcell was happy to see that the newly arrived Soviet and Cuban advisors were not drinking in the Addis Hilton. The hotel demanded hard currency, which kept out the riffraff and the Reds.

He’d sent his telex to Vivian at the Forum Hotel, and to Mercado at the newspaper two days before, informing them he was alive and well at the Hilton. Now he was waiting for Vivian to arrive.

A few of his former colleagues had approached him in the two days since he’d been here, but they’d observed the unspoken rule of not asking any questions of a fellow reporter. He had, however, volunteered a few details about his trip to the front in September, his arrest and imprisonment, and his expulsion from the country. He was back, he said, on assignment for L’Osservatore Romano. This was old news and didn’t rate getting bought a drink, but they wished him good luck.

One reporter, a nice lady named Fran from AP, had informed him, “The crazy fun phase of the revolution is over. Almost everyone they wanted dead is dead or in jail, or on the run. Now they have to govern and they can’t deal with the famine or the Eritrean separatists.”

Purcell had asked her about the Gallas, but she didn’t know or care much. The Gallas were not on the radar screens of anyone in the capital; they were like marauding lions, somewhere out there, with no political agenda. Plus, they were not available for comment.

He also asked, “How about the Royalist partisans?”

“They’re finished.”

He thought about Colonel Gann, who was returning to fight a lost cause. Colonel Gann would wind up dead this time.

Fran also informed him that the Falasha Jews were beginning an exodus, to Israel, and that was a good story.

Purcell looked up at the huge stained glass window that diffused the dying afternoon sunlight throughout the modern bar, and which would do credit to a European cathedral. The window was the work of a contemporary Ethiopian artist, done in a neoprimitive style, and told the story of the founding of the Ethiopian royal line. The first panel showed the black queen, Sheba, visiting Jerusalem with her attendants. The next panel showed them being received by King Solomon. The queen then returns to her homeland, and there she gives birth to a son, Menelik, the ancestor of the present emperor, who would also be the last emperor of Ethiopia, unless Colonel Gann could perform a miracle. Purcell wondered if the new government would allow that window to stay there. The hotel guests liked it.

He looked at his watch: 4:36. Vivian’s plane had landed. Lovers meet at the airport. Reporters and their photographers do not if they are also lovers and don’t want to advertise that relationship to the security apparatus, who might make use of the information. So for that reason, and also because L’Osservatore Romano was a Catholic enterprise, Vivian had her own room.

Purcell had, however, sent a hotel car and driver to meet her, and to report by telephone that the hotel guest had arrived and was safely through passport control.

Purcell informed the bartender that he was waiting for this call.

He ordered another Jack Daniel’s and perused an English-language newspaper on the bar. A small item tucked away inside the paper reported that the former monarch, Mr. Haile Selassie, remained under the protective custody of the Provisional Revolutionary government.

If Mr. Selassie was a younger man, Purcell knew, they’d have already executed him. But one of the advantages of advanced age — if there were any — was that people who wanted you dead only had to wait patiently. Also, the now Mr. Selassie was still popular in the West and killing him would further strain relations with Europe and America. Even the Soviet and Cuban advisors would argue against regicide in this case. The murdered Romanovs had become martyrs, and the modern Marxists wanted to avoid that this time.

Purcell thought back to Berini. Coffee and cannoli at the rectory of San Anselmo had not been as awful as he’d expected. The sister of Father Armano, Anna, was a sweet woman and she had taken to Vivian, despite Vivian’s exotic appearance.

Vivian had told Anna that her brother had mentioned her by name, which made Anna weep. Anna told them that she had seen her brother in a dream, last year when there was much news of Ethiopia, and her brother was smiling, which according to Sicilian belief meant he was in heaven. Unfortunately, Anna couldn’t recall the exact date of the dream, though with Vivian’s prompting she agreed it could have been in September.

Coincidence? Not according to Vivian or Mercado, who took this as a further sign of divine design. Even he, Frank Purcell, found himself wanting to believe that Father Armano had traveled home for a last visit.

Father Rulli’s small rectory had become filled with the near and distant relatives of the late Giuseppe Armano, and as Father Rulli explained, unnecessarily, “Sicilian families are large.”

There were some language difficulties, but mostly everyone understood each other, and Mercado and Vivian repeated the story of how they and Signore Purcell, who spoke no Italian, had found Father Armano, mortally wounded, and how the priest had asked them to tell his family that he was thinking of them in his last moments. Everyone was very moved by the story, and no one asked why it had taken so long for the three giornalisti to come to Berini, though Mercado mentioned he’d been in an Ethiopian prison. An older man, who’d fought in Ethiopia, and was a cousin of Father Armano, said, “Ethiopia is a place of death. You should not return.”

Vivian informed him and everyone that they were going to find the grave of Father Armano and bring back a mortal relic of the saint-to-be. Purcell thought this custom was ghoulish, but no one else there did.

The women disappeared at about 6 P.M., and cordials were served. At seven, the men excused themselves and Father Rulli invited his three guests to stay for dinner. Vivian wanted to stay, but it was obvious that Father Rulli wanted his guests to clear up some inconsistencies between their story and that of the Vatican beatification delegation, so Mercado reminded Vivian of their flight to Rome — which was actually the next day.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that was that.

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

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

“And forward my phone calls here.”

“Yes, sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Purcell.”

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

“Yes?”

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

He smiled and asked, “Is she naked?”

“Due minuto.”

“I’ll be right there.”

Chapter 32

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“They’re not saying.”

“Do you think he’s still alive?”

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

“Who is the successor to the throne?”

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

She nodded.

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

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

“No, I didn’t.”

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

She forced a smile.

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

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

She again forced a smile.

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

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

“You wanted my Jeep.”

“I didn’t even know you had a Jeep.”

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

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

“Wasn’t my fault.”

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

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

“You need to find him.”

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

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

“All right.”

She got up and left the lounge.

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

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

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

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

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

Chapter 33

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes, I know.”

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

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

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

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

“You can if you want to get arrested.”

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

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

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

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

“Right, but—”

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

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

“It was stolen.”

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

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

“Giornalisti.”

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

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

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

“What is her stall speed?”

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

“What speed, Signore Bocaccio?”

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

“I noticed.”

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

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

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

“We are looking for the war, Signore.”

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

“Cruising speed? Altitude?”

“This airfield is already at eight thousand feet. You will get the best cruising speed if you climb to perhaps twelve thousand. To go much higher would take too long. Especially with four people. As you go over the valleys you can drop down if you wish, but you must remember that at eight thousand feet, you may meet a nine-thousand-foot mountain. You understand?”

“Si. And what will she make?”

“Perhaps you can get a hundred fifty out of her. I make Gondar in two and a half hours, normally.”

“How’s the prop?”

“She wanders. Sometimes a hundred — two hundred rpm. Give it no thought.”

“It can wander all it wants as long as it doesn’t wander off the airplane.”

“The hub is solid. It has no cracks.”

“Let’s hope so.”

“Do you think I am”—Bocaccio tapped his head—“pazzo?”

“Well, Signore Bocaccio, if you are, so am I.”

He laughed, then looked at Purcell and said seriously, “Do not try tricks with Mia, my friend. She will kill you.”

“Capisco.” He said to Signore Bocaccio, “Are you ready to teach me how to fly Mia?”

He smiled. “After all I have said, you still want to fly her?”

“If the Ethiopian Air Force can fly her, I can fly her.”

Again Bocaccio looked at Purcell. “Whatever is your purpose, it must be important to you.”

“As important as your coffee beans.”

Apropos of nothing, Signore Bocaccio said, “This has become a sad land.”

“You should leave.”

“I will…” He smiled and said to Purcell, “Perhaps L’Osservatore Romano would like to buy Mia.”

“I will ask.” He looked up at the cockpit. “Ready?”

“I fly, you watch, then you fly and I watch you. Next time, you fly and I watch you from the ground.”

“Let’s hope for a next time.”

Signore Bocaccio laughed, and they climbed into the aircraft.

Chapter 34

Henry Mercado, wearing a bathrobe and undershorts, sat on the balcony of his top-floor room sipping coffee. The fog was lifting, and in the distance he could see a single-engine black aircraft rising off a hilltop airstrip. He said, “That must be Frank.”

Vivian, sitting next to him, replied, “He said to look for him about seven.”

Mercado glanced at her. She was wearing a short white shamma that she’d picked up somewhere, and she had obviously worn it to bed. The shamma reminded him of Getachu’s camp. The parade ground. The pole. He wondered if she’d thought about that.

Vivian told him, “Frank said he’d do a flyby and tip his wings.”

He supposed that meant she had to leave and get to her own room — or Purcell’s room — so that Purcell would not see both of them having coffee on Henry Mercado’s balcony at 7 A.M. But she didn’t move.

To make conversation, he said, “This is a squalid city.”

“It is not Rome.”

“No. This is the Infernal City.”

She laughed.

He had developed a strong dislike for Addis Ababa in 1935, and forty years later nothing he’d seen had changed his opinion. Even the Ethiopians disliked it. It was like every semi-Westernized town he’d seen in Africa or Asia, combining the worst aspects of each culture. Its only good feature was its eight-thousand-foot elevation, which made the climate pleasant — except during the June-to-September rainy season when mud slid down the hills into the streets.

He poured more coffee for both of them. Vivian put her bare feet on the balcony rail and her shamma slipped back to her thighs.

He was surprised that she had accepted his invitation for coffee on the balcony, and more surprised when she came to his door wearing only the shamma and little else. Or nothing else.

On the other hand, Vivian was of another generation. And sometimes he thought of her as a child of God: naturally innocent while unknowingly sensuous.

He looked out at the black aircraft in the distance. It was circling over the hills and making steep, dangerous-looking turns. He said, “I hope he’s a good pilot.”

She was staring at the aircraft and didn’t reply.

He looked out again into the city. Like all the cities of his youth, he hated this place because it reminded him of a time when he was hopeful and optimistic — when he believed in Moscow and not Rome. Now he was burdened with years and disappointments, and with God.

If he looked hard enough into the swirling fog below, he could see Henry Mercado dashing across Saint George Square to the telegraph office. He could hear the roar of Italian warplanes overhead. He could and did remember and feel the pleasure of making love to the nineteen-year-old daughter of an American diplomat in the blacked-out lobby of the Imperial. Why the lobby? He had a room upstairs. What if they’d snapped on the lights? He smiled.

“What is making you smile, Henry?”

“What always makes me smile?”

“Tell me.”

So he told her about having sex in the lobby of the Imperial Hotel during an air raid blackout.

She listened without comment, then stayed silent awhile before saying, “So you understand.”

He didn’t reply.

“We do things when we’re frightened.”

“We were not frightened of the air raid.”

“We want to hold on to another person.”

“I didn’t follow this person to Cairo.”

She didn’t reply.

He looked out at the Imperial Hotel. Its surrounding verandas seemed to sag. He had the nostalgic idea of checking in there instead of here, but maybe it was enough to visit once a day when he went to the press office. In fact, the places that once held good memories were best left as memories.

The aircraft was climbing to the north, and Mercado saw that it cleared a distant peak by a narrow margin. Vivian didn’t seem to notice, but he said to her, “I hope you’re prepared to do some aerial photography in a small plane with a novice pilot.”

“You should stay here, Henry.”

“I don’t care if I die, Vivian. I care if you die.”

“No one is going to die. But that’s very… loving of you to say that.”

“Well, I love you.”

“I know.”

He didn’t ask the follow-up question and stared out at Addis Ababa. It was dirty and it smelled bad. Old men with missing pieces of their bodies were a walking reminder of old-style Ethiopian justice. Adding to the judicial mutilations were the wounded of recent and past wars. And then there were the deformed beggars, the diseased prostitutes, and the starving barefoot children running through donkey dung. A quarter million already dead from the famine. How was he supposed to believe in God? “How can this be?”

“How can what be?”

“This.” He swept his arm over the city.

She thought a moment, then replied, “It’s good that you still care.”

“I don’t care anymore.”

“You do.”

He said to her, “Sometimes I think I’ve been around too long.”

“I think you told me that once before.”

“Did I? What did you say?”

“I don’t remember.”

But he did. She’d said to him, “How can you say that when you have me?”

He looked at her and his heart literally skipped a beat.

The aircraft was now directly over the city, making tight banking turns as they’d have to do when they were shooting photographs of the ground. He thought she should leave before Purcell decided to do a flyby. But she just sat there, her feet on the rail, with her legs parted too wide, sipping coffee, watching her lover fly. Finally he said to her, “You should go to your own balcony. Or his.”

Again, she didn’t reply.

Mercado stood, but did not go inside.

The sun was coming over the eastern hills, burning off the last of the ground mist. The capital of the former empire was a straggly city of empty lots with gullies and ridges everywhere. The few high-rise buildings were separated by miles of squalid huts that sat in clusters like primitive villages. Banana trees and palms shaded the corrugated metal roofs of the huts from the blazing sun. Vermin and insects swarmed through the city, and at night hyenas howled in the surrounding hills. Whatever hope there had been for this city and this country under the emperor’s halfhearted reforms was now drowned in a sea of blood. A long night was descending on this ancient land, and if a new dawn ever arrived, he would not see it in his lifetime.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

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

“You’re a good man, Henry.”

“I was.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He nodded.

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

“No.”

“We all bathed together.”

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

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

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

She walked past him into his bedroom.

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

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

He looked at her, but said nothing.

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

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

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

He looked at her.

“Like this, Henry. You understand.”

He nodded.

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

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

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

She asked him, “Do you understand this?”

“I do.”

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

He didn’t reply.

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

“I understand.”

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

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

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

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

“I always did.”

“Encore?”

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

“Rain check?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Anytime.”

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

Chapter 35

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

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

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

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

“She’ll be down.”

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

“Order light.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What did Vivian think?”

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

“I did.”

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

“And how did I look, Henry?”

“Sorry?”

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

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

Purcell stared at him, but didn’t reply.

Mercado was not enjoying this moment as much as he’d thought he would. It would have been much better if Vivian and Purcell had already had a tiff about this, followed by Purcell being sulky at cocktails or dinner.

Mercado didn’t want to protest too much, but he said, “We’re all civilized, old man.” He reminded Purcell, “We’re going to be in close quarters when we get into the bush.” He immediately regretted his choice of words. Get into the bush. Freudian slip? He suppressed a smile.

“All right.” Purcell let him know, “It’s nothing.”

Nothing? Mercado wanted to tell him, “I fucked her, actually,” but that would wreck the whole deal. So instead, he said, “She’s very attached to you, Frank.”

“End of discussion.”

“In fact, you should have this discussion with her.”

Purcell didn’t respond, but he was getting annoyed with Mercado. The subject of Vivian was not a happy one between them, and Mercado’s familiarity would have earned him at least a punch in the gut, as he’d told him in Rome. But Purcell didn’t want to upset the mission. Also, he liked Henry.

Mercado said to him, “I’m not sure, but I think you were flying too slow as you passed by.”

“Let me pilot the aircraft, Henry.”

“I’m thinking about me, old man. Your passenger. And Vivian.”

“Don’t worry about it.” Purcell informed him, “If it makes you feel better, Signore Bocaccio was impressed with my flying skills.”

“Good. But will he let you fly it again?”

“He’s thinking about it.”

“We need that plane.” Mercado asked, “And how is Signore Bocaccio? Is he trying to pretend that the Marxists haven’t taken charge and that his privileged life will continue as usual?”

“No, I think he gets that it’s over.”

“He sounds more realistic than many of my colonial compatriots around the world.”

“Right.”

“The old world order is finished.”

“Indeed it is.” Purcell informed Mercado, “Signore Bocaccio wants to know if our newspaper wants to buy Mia.”

“Who?”

“The airplane. Mia.”

“Oh… I don’t think so.”

“Please ask.” He explained, “Signore Bocaccio wants to get out.”

“He should. And you should tell him we’re considering buying his aircraft so he will let us continue renting it.”

“I may have led him to believe that.”

“You are devious, Frank.”

“Me? You just told me to con him.”

Their breakfast came and Purcell said, “On the taxi ride to the airstrip, I saw children with distended stomachs.”

Mercado stayed quiet a moment, then said, “Sometimes I weep for this land.”

“If you’d seen what I saw in Cambo, you’d weep for that land, too.” He looked at Mercado. “We could weep for the whole world, Henry, but that won’t change the world.”

Mercado nodded. “When you get to be my age, Frank, you start to wonder… what the hell has gone wrong?”

“It’s all gone wrong.”

“It has. But then you see… well, Father Armano. And these UN relief people. And all the aid volunteers and missionaries who come to places like this to do good. To help their fellow human beings.”

“That is a hopeful thing.”

“For every Getachu, there is a decent human being trying to soften the world’s suffering.”

“I hope so.” Purcell asked, “When will the good guys win?”

“When the last battle is fought between the forces of good and evil. When Christ and the Antichrist meet at Armageddon.”

“Sounds like a hell of a story. I hope I get to cover it.”

“We cover it every day, Frank.”

Purcell nodded.

Purcell wasn’t as hungry as he’d thought, and he drank his coffee and lit a cigarette.

Mercado was looking up at the stained glass and said, “It doesn’t actually show Solomon and Sheba in the act.”

“You have to use your imagination.”

“I think that scene would bring in the customers.”

“Or the police.” Purcell asked, “Have you heard anything about Mr. Selassie, as he is now called?”

“I have heard a rumor that they are gently grilling him about his assets here and abroad, and that he’s giving them a little at a time in exchange for the lives of some of his family.”

“And what happens when he’s given them everything?”

He informed Purcell, “They’ve smothered a few old royals with pillows and announced a natural death. That will be his fate. Or something similar.”

Purcell nodded. He asked, “Do you think the emperor knows the location of the black monastery?”

“That is a good question. The royal court used to travel throughout the kingdom to dispense justice, give pardons, give money to churches, and so forth. They would always visit the Ark of the Covenant at Axum. So it is possible that the emperor has visited the black monastery, but my instincts say he has not. And even if he had, he could not give his captors the grid coordinates.”

“Right. I’m sure he wasn’t driving the tour bus.”

“More likely the Grail was brought to him at some location away from the monastery.”

“Like the village of Shoan.”

“Possible.” Mercado informed him, “The royal court has been shrouded in secrecy for three thousand years. They make the emperor of Japan’s court seem like an open house party.”

“And the Vatican makes every other closed institution look like a public information office.”

“Your anti-papist views are annoying, Frank.” He reminded him, “You work for the Vatican newspaper.”

“God help me.”

“In any case, the imperial court of Ethiopia is no more.”

“Unless Gann gets his way.”

“That will not happen. There is no going back.”

“I think you’re right, Henry. And on that subject, where is Sir Edmund?”

“I’m beginning to wonder myself.”

“He said he’d arrive on the twenty-fourth, which was yesterday. But we were to wait four days before we gave up on him.”

“Then we will wait. But if he doesn’t show, we will press on. Without him.”

“We need those maps.”

“We have an aircraft.”

“Aerial recon is not a substitute for terrain maps. One complements the other. Also, Colonel Gann has skills we don’t have.”

“I believe we can do this without him. But I can’t do this without you and Vivian.”

Purcell looked at Mercado and asked, “Why are we actually doing this? Tell me again.”

“My reasons, like yours, Frank, change every day. There are days I think of my immortal soul, and other days I think how nice it would be to become rich and famous on a world Grail tour. The only thing I’m sure of is that we — all three of us — were chosen to do this, and I believe we will not know why until we are in the presence of the Holy Grail and the Holy Spirit.”

Purcell nodded. “All right. If Gann doesn’t show up, I’m still in. I’ll ask Vivian.”

“You don’t have to ask.” Mercado looked toward the lobby. “But if you’d like to, here she is.”

Vivian came into the room carrying a tote bag and wearing khaki trousers, a shapeless pullover, and walking shoes. She spotted them and came toward the table, smiling.

Mercado rose, smiled at her, and pulled out a chair.

Vivian gave them both a peck on the cheek, then sat and said, “I thought I might find you both in the bar as usual.”

Mercado replied, “It is now the breakfast room. But I can get you a Bloody Mary.”

“No thank you.” She asked, “What have you two been talking about?”

Purcell replied, “Aerial recon.”

She took his hand. “Frank, you were absolutely magnificent. What other skills do you have that you haven’t told us about?”

“I can tie a bow tie.”

She laughed, then took Purcell’s toast. “I’m famished.”

Mercado said to her, “I was telling Frank that we were impressed with his flyby.”

Vivian glanced at Purcell, who was trying to get a waiter’s attention, then she looked at Mercado and their eyes met. He smiled. She gave him a look of mock annoyance.

The waiter came and Vivian ordered tea and fruit, then ate one of Purcell’s sausages. Mercado told her, “We were feeling guilty about the famine.”

“Did you cause it, Henry?”

“I’m having only a cornetto.”

“Well, you should keep up your strength. You’re going to need it.”

“Excellent point.” Mercado was not getting the full satisfaction from this moment, so he suggested, “Perhaps we should clear the air about this morning.”

Vivian responded a second too late. “What do you mean?”

“Frank was wondering why we were having coffee together on my balcony.”

She looked at Purcell. “What were you wondering about?”

“I think Henry misconstrued my question.”

She looked back at Mercado, who said to Purcell, “Sorry, old man. I thought you were showing a bit of jealousy.”

Purcell looked at him and said, “I was actually wondering how you got your old ass out of bed so early.”

“I set my alarm to see you, Frank. And then I thought, What if Vivian oversleeps? So I rang her up and asked her to join me for coffee while you buzzed by.” He joked, “If you hadn’t seen either of us, then perhaps you should have wondered where we were.”

Purcell was not amused, and Vivian kicked Mercado under the table and said, “Can we change the subject?” She asked, “Have we heard from Sir Edmund?”

Mercado replied, “We have not.”

“Should we be worried?”

“Frank thinks not.”

“Can we do this without him?”

“Again, Frank thinks not.” Mercado added, “The maps.”

Vivian reached into her bag, withdrew a thick manila envelope, and put it on the table. “This was at the front desk.”

Purcell saw that it had been hand-delivered, addressed to “Mercado, Purcell, Smith, L’Osservatore Romano, Hilton Hotel.” There was no sender information.

Vivian asked, “Shall I open it?”

Purcell glanced around the room. “Okay.”

Vivian used a knife to cut through the heavily taped flap, then peeked inside. “M-A-P-S.”

Purcell said, “See if there’s a note.”

She slid her hand in the envelope and pulled out a piece of paper. She read, “I am in Addis. Will contact you. Good flying, Mr. Purcell.” Vivian told them, “It is unsigned.”

Mercado said, “Thank God he’s here and safe.”

Purcell pointed out, “Being here is not being safe.”

“Well, in any case, we have the maps, and if he does not contact us, we three can continue on.”

Vivian asked Purcell, “How did he know you were flying?”

“I suppose we’re being watched by the Royalist underground.”

Vivian said, “This is exciting.”

Purcell assured her, “It gets more exciting when the security police knock on your door.”

They finished their breakfast and Purcell said he’d call Signore Bocaccio to see if they could get the airplane for seven the next morning. He advised Mercado, “We don’t need you on board, but another set of eyes would be good.”

Mercado hesitated, then replied, “I wouldn’t miss the experience, Frank.”

“Good.”

Mercado said he was going to the Imperial to check telexes and catch up on rumors and gossip. He added, “I will also write a story on the famine.” He told Purcell, “I saw that story you filed about the Catholic refugees, saying that the Provisional government was not helping them.”

“Hope you enjoyed it.”

“Was any of it based on fact?”

“I’m taking a page from your notebook, Henry, and being creative.”

Mercado did not reply to that, but said, “It is true that newspapers are a rough draft of history. But not a rough draft of historical fiction.”

Purcell was getting annoyed. “Looking forward to your factual coverage of the famine.”

“My story will stress the government’s selling of national treasures to buy food for the people.”

“That is not what is happening. They are buying guns.”

“My point, Frank, has nothing to do with truth or fiction — it has to do with not writing anything that will get us expelled from the country. Or arrested.”

“I think I know that, Henry.”

“Good. We can tell the truth when we get out of here.”

“When you’re in Ethiopia, it’s if, not when.”

“Meanwhile, I’ve told the paper to hold your story.”

Vivian, who had stayed quiet during this exchange, said, “When we get out of here, we will have a much bigger story to tell.” She said to Mercado, “We have agreed to work together, Henry, and to be friends and colleagues, and to forget the past.” She looked at him. “Didn’t we?”

He smiled. “We did.” He wished them a good day and left.

Vivian stayed quiet a moment, then said to Purcell, “I’m sorry.”

“About what?”

“You know.”

“Look, Vivian, I know you’re still fond of him, and that’s all right.” He recalled what Mercado said and reminded her, “We’re going to be in close quarters when we get out of Addis, so we all need to put aside the… jealousies.”

She smiled and asked, “So can we all bathe together in the nude?”

“No.”

“See? You are jealous.”

“What do you want to do today?”

“I want to take pictures of everything I lost when I was in jail and those bastards ransacked my room.”

“Sounds good.”

“I need to get my camera.” She stood and said, “Will you come upstairs with me, Mr. Purcell? I want to show you my new F-1.”

He smiled and stood. “Remember that we work for the Vatican, Miss Smith.”

“I will shout, ‘Oh, God!’ at the appropriate moment.”

He picked up the envelope and they went to her room.

As he was getting undressed, he noticed the white shamma she had been wearing, draped over a chair. He also noticed the hotel bathrobe lying on her bed. It was a very cool morning and he thought she should have worn that on Henry’s balcony.

Chapter 36

The small Fiat taxi climbed the fog-shrouded hills with Purcell and Vivian in the rear and Mercado in front with the driver.

They reached the airstrip, where a swirling ground mist obscured the runway and the hangars. Purcell said to Mercado, “It’s okay if you want to go back.” He added, “It’s not a bad idea to have a potential survivor.”

Mercado did not reply.

“Someone to carry on with the mission. Or tell our story.”

Mercado opened the door and got out of the taxi.

Purcell told the driver to wait, and to Vivian he said, “In case there’s a problem with the authorities. Or with Henry.”

“He’s not good in the mornings.”

“I wouldn’t know.” He got out of the taxi and walked to the hangar to file his flight plan. He found, to his surprise, that he was still annoyed with Henry — and with Vivian — about their coffee date. There was no reason for her to be alone with him. But as they all knew, there would be more such moments in the weeks ahead.

A young air force lieutenant sat behind a desk in the hangar office, smoking a cigarette. Signore Bocaccio had given Purcell a few flight plan forms and advised him how to fill them out, which Purcell had done in English, the international language of flight — except here, apparently.

The lieutenant looked at the flight plan, and it was obvious he couldn’t read it.

“Where go you?”

“Gondar.” Purcell pointed to the destination line of the form.

“Why?”

Purcell showed him his press credentials and his passport. “Gazetanna.”

The man pointed outside. “Who go you?”

“Gazetanna.” He held up two fingers.

The lieutenant shook his head. “No.” He waved his hand in dismissal.

Purcell took the carbon copy of the flight plan out of his pocket and put it on the desk. The Ethiopian birr had collapsed, but there was a fifty-thousand-lire note — about forty dollars — paper-clipped to the form.

The lieutenant eyed the money — about a month’s pay — then picked up his rubber stamp and slammed it on Purcell’s copy of the flight plan, then wrote the time on it. “Go!”

Purcell took his copy and exited the hangar.

Henry hadn’t taken the taxi back to the hotel, and he was talking to Vivian near the Navion. Purcell paid the cabbie, then walked to the aircraft.

Mercado asked, “Any problems?”

“Are we reimbursed for bribes?”

“There are no bribes in the People’s Republic. Only user fees.”

Vivian had her camera bag and said, “I was telling Henry that I dug up a wide-angle lens at the Reuters office, and they have a good lab for blow-ups.” She added, “And they don’t ask questions.”

“Good. Are we ready? Pit stop? Henry? How’s your bladder?”

“Everything down there works well.”

Purcell tapped his canvas bag and said, “I have an empty water carafe from the hotel if anyone needs to use it.” He asked Mercado, “Did you remember to buy binoculars?”

“I borrowed a pair from the press office.”

As Purcell walked to the wing, Mercado asked him, “What is this?” He pointed to the rocket pod.

“What does it look like, Henry?”

“A rocket pod. Are we attacking?”

As Purcell was explaining about the rocket pod, Mercado noticed bullet holes in the fuselage and pointed them out to everyone.

Purcell assured Vivian and Mercado, “Lucky hits.” He climbed onto the left wing from the trailing edge, unlatched the canopy, and slid it back. The odor of musty leather and hydraulic fluid drifted out of the cockpit. He reached down for Mercado, who took his hand and vaulted up onto the wing. Purcell said, “Pick any seat in the rear.”

“There are no seats.”

“Sit on the bean bags.”

Mercado climbed unhappily into the rear as Purcell reached down for Vivian and pulled her up. She squeezed into the cockpit and crossed over to the right-hand seat.

Purcell got in and slid the canopy closed. “All right, Henry, there is a seat belt back there.”

“I’m working on it.”

Purcell fastened his belt and Vivian did the same. He said, “The time written on our flight plan is six thirty-eight. We are supposed to be in Gondar in under three hours. Anything longer will raise questions from the guy who takes our flight plan at the other end. But we need to make some unauthorized detours, so it might be after ten when we land. I will blame headwinds.”

Mercado asked, “What if they know there are no headwinds?”

“They only know what is reported to them by other pilots who have landed. And I don’t think there is much traffic from Addis to Gondar.”

Purcell opened Signore Bocaccio’s chart and glanced at it. He said, “What I will do is run her up to twelve thousand feet, and try to get a hundred and fifty out of her. When we see Lake Tana, I will go as low and slow as I can around the areas where we think the black monastery could be located.” He added, “We’ll also take a look at the spa and the thing marked incognita. Vivian will take wide-angle photos, then at some point we need to climb to six thousand feet, which is Gondar’s elevation. With luck we will land in Gondar no later than ten A.M.”

Vivian said, “If anyone asks, what are we supposed to be doing in Gondar?”

“We’re doing an article on the ancient fortress city.”

Mercado said, “That’s a stretch, Frank.”

“Okay. We’re looking for an interview with General Getachu.”

Vivian said, “I like your first idea better.”

Purcell reminded them, “We’re reporters. We have no idea what we’re doing.” He looked at his watch: 6:52. “Ready?”

Vivian said, “If you are, I am.”

He turned on the master switch, then pulled the wheel, and Vivian was startled when the wheel in front of her moved in concert with his. He pushed on the rudder pedals, and hers moved under her feet. He said to her, “This is dual control, but that does not mean that two of us are going to fly this. Keep your hands off the wheel and your feet off the pedals.”

“Yes, sir.”

He pumped the throttle a few times, then hit the starter. The engine coughed, and a black puff of smoke billowed out from under the cowl. The propeller went by once, twice, and the engine caught.

Vivian noticed a Saint Christopher medal that Signore Bocaccio had pinned to the headliner above the windshield. She touched it, and said, “Patron saint of travelers. He will watch over us.”

“Good.”

Purcell looked at the disarrayed and mostly inoperative gauges. Under the control panel was a new switch, marked in English, “Safety,” and “Fire.” A separate red button was the actual trigger for the smoke rockets. A round, clear plastic sighting device was mounted in front of him on a swivel near the windshield. He had noticed that there were still four smoke rockets left in the pod. According to Signore Bocaccio, this was not unusual; the Ethiopian ground crews minimized their workload. Signore Bocaccio had advised Purcell not to demand that the rockets be taken out. He also advised him not to fire them for sport.

Purcell glanced at the distant windsock, then released the handbrake and rolled toward the runways. He saw that a C-47 was sitting on the edge of the long runway that he had used with Signore Bocaccio the previous day. He had no time to wait for the C-47 to move, so he taxied to the shorter runway, which Signore Bocaccio had said was all right to use, depending on winds, fuel load, and cargo load. The fuel gauge said full, but Vivian was light and Mercado had skipped breakfast.

Purcell taxied to the end of the shorter runway. The noise level in the cockpit was tolerable and speech was possible if they raised their voices. He asked, “Everyone okay?”

Vivian nodded. Mercado did not reply.

Purcell checked the flight controls and the elevator trim position. He did a quick engine run-up and noticed that the magneto drop was neither good nor bad. He’d go with it.

He cycled the propeller through its range, then wheeled onto the runway, where the ground fog had mostly blown off. He lined up the nose on what was once a white line. The expanse of broken concrete was a little disturbing. He hesitated, then pushed the throttle in and the Navion began its run.

The aircraft bounced badly over the broken concrete. The control panel vibrated, the Plexiglas canopy rattled, and the controls shook in his hands. The thumping sound of the nose gear strut filled the cabin as it bottomed out. He glanced at Vivian and saw that she was playing with her camera.

The Navion ate up the runway at the rate of fifty miles per hour, then sixty. The end of the runway was shrouded in fog, but he knew it was also the end of the flat-topped hill that he’d noticed when he’d flown over it with Bocaccio. Purcell saw that the land dropped away to his sides into fog banks. He was on a ridge and there was no aborting this takeoff anymore.

“Frank!”

It was Mercado, but there was nothing to discuss.

Vivian looked up from her camera, but said nothing.

Purcell glanced at his airspeed indicator and noticed that the balky instrument read zero. The throttle was fully open, but Mia showed no signs of lifting.

The runway suddenly ended and Vivian let out a startled sound, then reached out and put her fingers on Saint Christopher.

The control wheel felt light in Purcell’s hands and the Navion hung for a moment, as though trying to decide whether to fly or drop into the valley.

The nose dipped down, and Purcell pulled back slowly on the wheel and pulled the hydraulic landing gear lever. Mia lifted slightly. The adjoining hill went by off his left wing, and he noticed that it had more elevation than the Navion. The sound of the landing gear banging into its wells gave Vivian a start, and Mercado said, “Oh!”

The aircraft began to climb. Purcell glanced at the altimeter. He was at seventy-eight hundred feet, which was not good considering he had started at seventy-nine hundred. Around him, the mountains rose ten and twelve thousand feet and seemed to hem him in. A peak rose up to his front.

The aircraft continued to climb, and at twelve thousand feet he relaxed a bit. He turned to a northwesterly heading and asked, “Mind if I smoke?”

No one seemed to mind, so he lit up. He asked, “Anyone need that carafe?”

Vivian replied, “Too late for that.”

Purcell asked, “How you doing, Henry?”

No response.

Vivian turned her head. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“Would you like some water?”

“I’m fine.”

Vivian asked Purcell, “Did you do that yesterday?”

“Yesterday we used the longer airstrip.”

“Can we do that next time?”

“We can.”

“How did the landing go?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Can I have a puff?”

He handed her the cigarette.

They continued on a northwesterly heading and Purcell said to Mercado, “You should familiarize yourself with those terrain maps.”

“I thought you had them.”

“Are you joking, Henry?”

“Oh… here they are.”

Vivian laughed.

Purcell settled back and scanned the instrument panel. He was happy to see that the airspeed indicator was now working.

Mercado said, “The next time, I will volunteer to be the potential survivor.”

“Happy to shed the takeoff weight.”

They continued on and Purcell looked out his left side. It was a beautiful country from the air. This is what God had given the human race. In fact, the earliest remains of a human ancestor, over three million years old, had been found in the Awash Valley. And since then, it had been a long, hard climb toward… something.

Vivian snapped a picture of him, then of Henry sitting on the coffee bean bags in the rear. Henry took her camera and said, “Turn around.”

She turned, smiled, and Mercado took a picture of her.

Vivian said to her companions, “We have begun our journey.”

Mercado replied, “We almost ended it on takeoff.”

Vivian assured him, “I felt Saint Christopher and the angels lifting our wings.”

Purcell was about to say something clever, but when he thought about that takeoff, there was no aeronautical reason why it should have happened.

Vivian again touched the Saint Christopher medal over the windshield. “Thank you.”

“How about me?”

“Next time, use the longer runway.”

They continued on in silence as Ethiopia slid by beneath their wings. Somewhere down there, Purcell thought, was the thing they were looking for. And maybe that thing was waiting for them.

Chapter 37

An hour out of Addis, Purcell spotted the great bend in the Blue Nile. He banked right and followed it north. Their airspeed was one hundred fifty, and the flight so far had been smooth except for some mountain updrafts. The smell of the coffee beans in the burlap bags was pleasant.

Purcell had been thinking about the logistics of their quest, the devils that were in the details. He said to Vivian, “If there is any problem when we land in Gondar, they may confiscate your film. And if they see we’ve been shooting wide-angle photos of the terrain, we will have some explaining to do.”

“I will hide the exposed rolls on my person.”

“They may look at your person.”

Mercado confided to them, “I once hid a roll of film in a place where the sun does not shine.”

“Don’t tempt me, Henry.” He added, “We don’t want the film found on us.” He suggested, “Maybe the coffee bags.”

Mercado replied, “The ground crew at Gondar will help themselves to a bag or two.”

Purcell noticed a taped rip in the headliner above the windshield where the Saint Christopher medal was pinned. He pulled back the tape and said, “We can also put the maps in there.”

Mercado pointed out, “Even if there is no trouble in Gondar, the authorities will do a thorough search of the cockpit when we leave the aircraft, and they will probably find that.”

Purcell did not reply.

Mercado continued, “If we deny any knowledge of the maps or the film, which together may look suspicious, then Signore Bocaccio will be down at police headquarters in Addis answering questions, while we are answering questions at Getachu’s headquarters in Gondar.”

Purcell thought about that. Henry made some good points. “What do you suggest?”

“I say we take a chance that there will be no problems at the Gondar airfield, and we should carry the exposed film and maps with us.” He added, “If there is a problem in Gondar, it is already waiting for us, and the film and the maps will be the least of our problems.”

Purcell’s instincts still told him not to carry around incriminating evidence in a police state. Especially with prior arrests hanging over their heads. But Henry Mercado had been at this game far longer than Frank Purcell. And there seemed to be no good choices.

Vivian said, “I will carry my exposed film in my bag.” She added, “Naked is the best disguise. As soon as you try to hide something, you get in trouble.”

Mercado commented, “You should know.”

Vivian ignored him and continued, “Frank will carry the maps.” She pointed out, “It’s not as though we’re carrying guns or a picture of the emperor.”

Purcell nodded. “Okay. We land in Gondar and take our things with us. I need to give our flight plan to the officer on the ground, then we take a taxi to town.”

Mercado, too, had some thoughts about their destination. “If Getachu somehow knows we have returned to his lair, I believe he will not reveal himself to us. He will watch to see what we are doing back in Ethiopia.”

Purcell replied, “I don’t think he’s that bright. I think he acts on his primitive impulses.”

“We will find out in Gondar.”

Vivian asked, “Can we change the subject?”

Purcell said, “Here’s another subject. When we begin our search for the black monastery, we should not drive from Addis to the north again. Agreed?”

Vivian agreed. “I would not do that again.”

“So,” Purcell said, “at some point, after we’ve finished our aerial recon, and when we think we have a few possible locations for the black monastery, we need to fly to Gondar, ditch the aircraft, and buy or rent a cross-country vehicle to go exploring.” He pointed out, “From Gondar to the area we need to explore is about four to six hours — rather than three or four days cross-country from Addis.”

Mercado agreed. “Gondar should be our jump-off point.”

They continued on in silence. Purcell followed the Blue Nile north and maintained his airspeed and altitude.

Vivian announced, “I need to go.”

Mercado passed her the empty water carafe. She said, “Close your eyes. You too, Frank.” She pulled down her pants and panties and relieved herself.

Purcell said, “My turn. Close your eyes, Henry.” He unzipped his fly.

Vivian offered, “I’ll hold it for you so you can fly.” She laughed. “I mean the carafe.”

Purcell suspected that Henry was not amused. He held the wheel with his left hand and himself with the other, and Vivian held the carafe for him.

“Finished.”

She snapped the hinged lid of the carafe in place and passed it to Henry, who also used it. Indeed, Purcell thought, they would be in close quarters in the days and weeks ahead with many more close bonding moments. It was good that they were all friends.

At 8:32, Purcell spotted Lake Tana, nestled among the hills. The altimeter read eleven thousand eight hundred feet, and the lake looked like it was about six thousand feet below, which put the lake’s altitude at about a mile high. In the hazy distance, about twenty miles north of the lake, would be Gondar.

He pointed out the big lake to his passengers and said, “We’ve made good time, so we may be able to snoop around for an hour.”

Purcell began his descent. Within half an hour they were about a thousand feet over the terrain, and the altimeter read sixty-three hundred feet above sea level.

He made a slow banking turn over the lake’s eastern shore, and Henry, who had a map spread out in the rear, said, “I can see the monastery of Tana Kirkos that Colonel Gann mentioned. See it on that rocky peninsula jutting into the lake?”

Vivian saw it and took a photo through the Plexiglas.

Mercado said, “Somewhere along that lakeshore is where Father Armano’s battalion made camp, almost forty years ago.”

The lake was ringed with rocky hills, which Purcell knew was very defensible terrain for Father Armano’s decimated battalion. The monastery of Tana Kirkos, he thought, was also defendable because of its position on a rocky peninsula. The black monastery, however, was safe because it was hidden. Even from up here.

He made another slow banking turn and said, “We will see if we can find the spa.”

Mercado peered through the canopy with his binoculars and Vivian had her nose pressed against the Plexiglas. “There! See it?”

Purcell lowered his right wing and reduced his airspeed. Below, off his wingtip, he could clearly see the white stucco spa complex and the grassy fields around it. He saw the main building where they’d parked the Jeep and found Father Armano, and he spotted the narrow road that they’d driven on to get there. He wondered again why he’d turned off that bush-choked road at exactly that spot.

Vivian said excitedly, “There’s the sulphur pool!”

Purcell stared at the pool, then glanced at Vivian. A whole confluence of events had come together down there on that night, and from up here, in the full sunshine, it was no more understandable than it was in the dark.

Vivian said, “It looks so beautiful from here.” She took several pictures and said, “We will go back there to find Father Armano’s remains.” She reminded them, “The Vatican needs a relic.”

Purcell had no comment on that and said, “We will continue our walk down memory lane.”

He turned the aircraft north and said, “The scene of the last battle.”

Below were the hills where the last cohesive Royalist forces, led by Prince Joshua, had camped and fought, and died. Purcell dropped to two hundred feet. All the bright tents of the prince’s army were long gone, and all that remained were scattered bones and skulls in the rocky soil.

Mercado said, “A civilization died there.”

Purcell nodded.

The hills still showed the cratered shell holes on the bare slopes, and those scars and the bones were all the evidence left of what had happened here while he, Vivian, and Henry were bathing at the Italian spa. If they had arrived a day earlier — or a day later — who knows?

They flew farther north to Getachu’s hills. The army had decamped long ago, and only the scarred earth of trenches and firing positions remained to suggest that thousands of men had been there.

Purcell could not determine where Getachu’s headquarters tent had been, but then he saw where Getachu had hanged the soldiers with commo wire, and he spotted the ravine where they had all been shackled, and the helipad where they had been lifted out of this hell.

Purcell got lower and slower and they could see the natural amphitheater — the parade ground — and Purcell was certain that Vivian and Henry saw the ten poles that were still sticking out of the ground. But no one pointed this out. And neither did anyone point out the wooden platform where he and Vivian had clung to each other in what they both believed was their last night on earth.

Unlike the spa, this scene, from this perspective, made the events of that night more understandable.

Vivian did not take photographs and she turned away from the Plexiglas.

Henry, of course, had nothing to say, but Purcell would have liked to know what he was thinking.

Purcell circled around toward the plateau between the two camps. To their left he spotted the ridgeline that they’d all climbed to get away from the Gallas, and the peak where Henry and Colonel Gann had picked the wrong time to take a nap. He banked to the right, and the wide grassy plateau spread out before them between the hills.

Vivian asked him, “Is that where we were?”

“That’s it.”

“It looks very nice from up here.”

“Everything does.” He pointed. “That’s the ridge we climbed to go get help from General Getachu.”

It sounded funny in retrospect and Vivian laughed. “What were we thinking?”

“Not much.”

He turned east and flew the length of the plateau between the hills where the armed camps had once been dug in.

Something caught his eye in the high grass ahead: a dozen Gallas on horseback riding west toward them.

Mercado saw them, too, and said, “Those bastards are still here.” He suggested to Purcell, “Fire your rockets at them.”

“They’re not my rockets. And they’re only smoke markers.”

“Bastards!”

Henry, Purcell thought, was recalling Mount Aradam, where the Gallas had almost gotten his balls.

The Gallas saw the aircraft coming toward them, and Purcell was about to bank right to get out of rifle range, but he had a second thought and put the Navion into a dive.

Vivian asked, “What are you doing? Frank?”

Mercado called out, “For God’s sake man—”

Purcell got as low and slow as he dared, and the Gallas sat placidly on their horses, staring at the rapidly closing airplane. They must have seen the rocket pod, Purcell thought, because they suddenly began to scatter. A few horses reared up at the sound of the howling engine, and a few riders were thrown off their mounts.

Purcell got lower and gunned the engine as he buzzed over them. He banked sharply to the right to avoid giving them a retreating target, then flew over the Royalist camp and dropped lower toward the valley to put the hills between himself and the line of fire of the very angry Gallas.

Mercado shouted above the noise of the engine, “What the hell are you doing?”

“Looking for my Jeep.”

“Are you insane?”

“Sorry. I lost it.”

Vivian took a deep breath. “Don’t do that again.”

Purcell headed southeast along the jungle valley and said, “We will look for Prince Theodore’s fortress.”

He reduced his airspeed and his altitude as he followed the valley, which widened into a vast expanse of green between the neighboring hills.

Mercado leaned between the two seats with the map of the area and said, “Here is incognita.” Purcell glanced at the map, then looked through the surrounding Plexiglas to orient himself. He made a slight right turn and said, “Should be coming up in a few minutes at about one o’clock.”

He pulled back on the throttle and the airspeed bled off, and the Navion sank lower above the triple-canopy jungle. He was starting to recognize the warning signs of a stall in this aircraft, but its flight characteristics were still unpredictable.

He got down to two hundred feet and Vivian said, “It’s all going by too fast.”

He explained, “If we go low, we can see things in better detail, but everything shoots by fast no matter how slow I go. If we go high, the ground looks like it’s going by slower, but we can’t see smaller objects.”

“Thank you, Frank. I never realized that.”

“I’m telling you this because you are in charge of photography. What do you want?”

“I need altitude for the wide-angle lens. I’ll get the photos enlarged and we can go over them with a magnifier.”

“Okay. Meanwhile, if you’ll look to your one o’clock position, I see something.”

Henry learned forward and they all looked to where Purcell was pointing. He picked up the nose to slow the aircraft, and up ahead, to their slight right, they could see a break in the jungle canopy, and inside the clear area were broken walls and burned-out buildings. If they hadn’t known it was intact five months before, they’d have thought it was an old ruin — except that the jungle had not yet reclaimed the clearing.

Purcell thought of the priest. He’d escaped death here, then walked out of his prison into the jungle. And something — God, memory, or a jungle path — led him west, to the Italian spa. But he wasn’t heading for the spa. It hadn’t been built when he’d been captured, according to Gann and to the map, which did not show the spa. So what was it that took him west to that spa and to his rendezvous with three people who themselves did not know about the spa? Probably, Purcell thought, a jungle path, or a game trail. If he asked Vivian or Henry, the answer was simple: God led Father Armano to them. Purcell thought he’d go with the game trail theory.

Vivian shot a few photos as they approached, then the ruined fortress shot by and she said, “Can we come around higher?”

“We can.” He climbed as he began a wide, clockwise turn.

In a few minutes, the fortress came into view again off their right side at about a thousand feet.

As Vivian took photos, she asked, as if to herself, “Can you imagine being locked in a cell in the middle of the jungle for forty years?”

Purcell wanted to tell her that if they found the black monastery, she might find out what that’s like.

More importantly, he had confirmed another detail of Father Armano’s story. Also, they’d fixed a few points of this tale — the east shore of Lake Tana, the spa, and the fortress. Now all they had to do was find the black monastery which they believed was in this area.

He looked at the thick, unbroken carpet of jungle and rain forest below. He’d once ridden in an army spotter plane in Vietnam, and the pilot had told him, “There are enemy base camps under that triple canopy. And thousands of men. And we can’t see anything.”

Right. Which was why the Americans defoliated and napalmed the jungle. But here, there were hundreds of thousands of acres of thick, pristine jungle and rain forest, and there could have been a city under that canopy and no one would ever see it. Also, they had only a vague idea where to look.

Mercado was having similar thoughts and said, “This is a rather large area of jungle.”

“You noticed?”

“A clue might be that old map we saw in the Ethiopian College.”

“Henry, please.”

“And the stained glass window at the Hilton.”

“You’re sounding oxygen-deprived.”

“What they have in common is that they show palm trees. And if you look, you won’t see many clusters of palms down there.”

Purcell glanced out the canopy. True, there weren’t many palm trees, but… that wasn’t a very solid clue. He said, “Okay, we’ll keep an eye out for palms. Meanwhile, we have about a half hour before we need to head for Gondar, so I’ll make ascending corkscrew turns and Vivian will begin shooting everything below as we climb.” He suggested to her, “Try to overlap a bit—”

“I know.”

“Good. Up we go.” He pushed in the throttle and the Navion began to climb. Purcell said to Mercado, “Use the field glasses, and if you see any abnormalities below, bring it to my and Vivian’s attention.” He told them, “I’m going to slide open the canopy so Vivian can get clear shots.” He unlatched the canopy and slid it open a few feet, and the roar of the engine filled the cabin.

Vivian unfastened her seat belt, leaned forward, and pointed her camera through the opening.

They circled the area east of Lake Tana — the forested land that matched up with Father Armano’s story, which began on the east shore of the lake and ended at his fortress prison. The lakeshore was known, though not the exact location of the priest’s starting point along the eighty-mile shoreline. And the fortress was no longer incognita. What was incognita, however, was everything under that jungle canopy, including the black monastery.

Purcell looked down at the land below. There seemed to be no man-made break in the green carpet of jungle. But they knew that.

Vivian, believing in Henry’s inspiration about the palm trees, took lots of photos of palm clusters. There were a few small ponds below, and she also focused on them because the priest had mentioned a pond within the walls of the monastery.

As for the tree, the stream, and the rock, as Gann had pointed out, there were lots of trees, and a rock would not be visible unless it was huge, or sat in a clearing. Purcell and Mercado saw streams on the map, but they were not visible through the thick jungle.

Purcell thought about the Italian Army cartographers who’d created dozens of terrain maps based on their aerial photography. They’d spotted the fortress, and a few other man-made objects on their photographs that they’d transferred to their maps. But they had not spotted the black monastery, or anything else they might have labeled “incognita.”

Needle in a haystack. Monastery in a jungle.

The key, he thought, might be the village of Shoan. He looked at his watch. It was almost 10 A.M. and they needed to head for Gondar, or they’d be unexplainably late on a flight from Addis.

He let Vivian take a few more photos, then shouted, “That’s it!” He slid the canopy closed and latched it. The cockpit became quieter, but no one spoke. If they were disappointed in their aerial recon, they didn’t say so.

Purcell picked up a northwesterly heading and began climbing to Gondar’s elevation.

He had no idea what awaited them in Gondar, away from the relative safety of the capital. But if their last trip to Getachu territory was predictive, their search for the Holy Grail could be over in half an hour.

He had enough fuel to turn around and go back to Addis, but then he’d have no explanation for this flight.

He said, “We land in about twenty minutes.”

No one replied, and he continued on.

Chapter 38

Lake Tana was coming up on their left, and beyond the lake were the mountains of Gondar.

Purcell said, “We’ll catch Shoan on the way back.”

Mercado informed him, “You may not see anyone down there.” He explained, “There is a mass exodus of Falasha Jews under way.”

“I heard that. But why?”

“They feel threatened.”

“I know the feeling.” He reminded Mercado, “Gann said the Falashas have a special place in Ethiopian society.”

“Not anymore.”

Vivian asked, “Where are they going?”

“To Israel, of course. The Israelis have organized an airlift.” Mercado informed them, “Every Jew in the world has the right to emigrate to Israel under the Law of Return.”

It seemed to Purcell that everyone who could leave was leaving. Soon the only people left would be the Marxist government, the Russian and Cuban advisors, the peasants, and idiot reporters. And for all he knew, the monks of the black monastery were gone, too, along with the Holy Grail.

Mercado continued, “The Falashas are the only non-convert Jews in the world who were not part of the Diaspora. They are Ethiopians who have been Jewish since before the time of Sheba. Their ethnic origins are here, not Israel or Judea, so the Law of Return does not technically apply to them. But the Israeli government is welcoming them.”

“That’s good. But I hope they’re still in Shoan, because we’re going to put that on our itinerary.”

“I think you’re placing too much hope on Shoan for our mission.”

“We’ll see when we get there.”

At 10:20, Purcell spotted the fortress city of Gondar rising from the hills. It looked like some movie set from a fantasy flick that featured dragons and warlocks. The reality, however, was worse; it was General Getachu’s army headquarters.

The civilian-military airfield was perched on a nearby plateau, and without radio contact, Purcell had to swoop down to see the windsock, and for the tower to see him, making him feel like an intruder into enemy airspace.

The control tower turned on a steady green light for him, the international signal for “Cleared to land.”

He lined up on the north-south runway and began his descent.

Mercado said, “I don’t see a firing squad waiting for us.”

“They’re behind the hangar, Henry.”

Vivian suggested, “Can we stop with the gallows humor?”

As the Navion crossed the threshold of the long runway, Purcell snapped the throttle back to idle, and the aircraft touched down. “Welcome to Gondar.”

He let the Navion run out to the end of the runway as he looked around for any signs that they should turn around, take off, and fly to Sudan, or to French Somaliland, about two hundred fifty miles to the east.

Henry, too, was looking toward the hangars, and at the military vehicles nearby.

The Navion came to a halt, and Purcell taxied toward the hangars.

Vivian lifted her camera, but Mercado said, “You cannot take photos here.”

She put the camera in her bag.

Purcell noticed a C-47 military transport parked near one of the hangars, and he wondered if it was the same one that had blocked him from using the longer runway at the Addis airstrip. The tail number seemed to be the same, but he couldn’t be sure.

He taxied up to the hangar and killed the engine. The cockpit became quiet after four hours in the air, and it was easy now to speak, but no one had anything to say.

Purcell unlatched the canopy and slid it back, letting the cool mountain air into the stuffy cockpit. He said, “Take everything. Leave the carafe.”

He climbed onto the wing, then helped Vivian and Mercado out.

Four men in olive drab uniforms, wearing holsters, were watching them.

They knew the Navion, of course, and Purcell could see they had expected Signore Bocaccio to come out of the cockpit, or maybe Ethiopian pilots who had commandeered the Navion to shoot smoke rockets at the enemies of the state.

Purcell said to his companions, “The good news is that they seem surprised to see us.”

They all jumped down to the concrete apron and walked toward the four military men. One of the men, a captain, motioned them inside the hangar office. He took his seat behind a desk and looked at them.

Purcell noted that the captain was wearing the red star insignia of the new Marxist state, but he had probably worn the Lion of Judah six months ago. Hopefully, this guy was not Getachu’s nephew, and hopefully he spoke the international language of flight, and also believed in the international brotherhood of men who took to the skies. Or he was an asshole.

The captain asked, in good English, “Who are you?”

Purcell replied, “We are journalists from Addis and friends of Signore Bocaccio.”

“What is your business here?”

“We are here to see the ancient city of Gondar.”

“Why?”

“Because it is famous.”

The captain thought about that, then said, “Your flight plan, passports, and credentials.”

Purcell gave him the flight plan, and everyone gave him their passports and press cards. He studied each passport, then checked their names against a typed list. Purcell, Vivian, and Mercado glanced at each other.

The captain looked at their press cards, then handed everything back to Purcell and informed him, “There is a landing fee.”

“What is it today?”

The captain stared at him, then asked, “What do you have?”

“Lire.”

“Fifty thousand.”

Purcell said to Mercado, “Pay the gentleman, Henry.”

Mercado looked both relieved and annoyed. He took a fifty-thousand-lire note out of his wallet and gave it to the captain.

The captain asked, “How long are you here?”

“A few hours.”

“A long flight for a few hours in Gondar.”

Vivian replied, “I am a photographer.” She tapped her camera bag. “We are taking preliminary photographs today, and if our newspaper likes them, we will be back to do a photographic essay of the ancient city.”

The captain stared at her, and he seemed to be processing that information. He asked Purcell, “What other business do you have here?”

“None.”

“Do you know anyone here?”

“No one.” Except General Getachu, of course, but that wasn’t worth mentioning.

The captain looked at them for a long time, then said, “If a military situation develops, the Provisional Revolutionary Air Force has the right to make use of your aircraft, as I am sure Signore Bocaccio told you.”

“We understand.”

“Are you here to report on the war?”

“Not today.”

“What is your next destination?”

“Addis.”

The captain informed them, “Your fuel tanks will be filled in your absence and you will pay for the fuel in Western currency.” He reminded them, “You will file a flight plan for Addis, and there will be a takeoff fee.”

“I understand.”

“You will see me — Captain Sharew — before you take off.”

“All right.”

“You may leave.”

They walked toward the door.

“Wait!”

They turned and Purcell saw that Captain Sharew was looking at their flight plan. He said to Purcell, “It has been over four hours since you left Addis.”

“We had headwinds.”

Captain Sharew pointed to the C-47 outside his window and informed them, “That aircraft left from the same airstrip after you. He arrived two hours ago and reported no headwinds.” He asked, “Did you deviate from your flight plan?”

“Actually, I misread the chart, and I’m unfamiliar with the terrain, so I was lost for about an hour.”

“So, headwinds and lost. You are an unlucky pilot.”

“Apparently.”

“I will be taking note of your total fuel consumption from Addis.”

“Note that we started with only three-quarters fuel.”

“Perhaps someone at Addis will remember that.”

“I’m sure they will.”

The captain kept staring at them, then said, “You may leave.”

They turned and exited the hangar.

Mercado said, “He is not buying headwinds and lost, Frank.”

Purcell had spotted the small commercial aviation terminal from the air, and as they walked toward it to get a taxi, he assured everyone, “My explanation, as a pilot, was logical and believable.”

Vivian replied, “I think my explanation as a photographer for what we’re doing here for two hours was more believable than your explanation about what took us over four hours to get here.”

“You’re a better liar than I am.”

Mercado also reminded them, “They may borrow our aircraft while we’re gone.”

“They’ll return it if it doesn’t get shot down.”

Vivian asked, “Is there a hotel in this town?”

Mercado replied, “There were a few good ones last time I was here.”

“When was that?”

“Nineteen-forty-one.”

They reached the passenger terminal and entered through the rear. The small, shoddy terminal building looked deserted, and Vivian asked, “Are there any commercial flights to Addis?”

Mercado replied, “There used to be one a day. Now, from what I’ve heard, perhaps one a week.”

Purcell observed, “Obviously we missed that one.”

Vivian said, “We could get stuck here.”

Purcell replied, “That would be the least bad thing that could happen here.” He noted that the only car rental counter was closed and he suggested, “While we’re in town, let’s see if we can find a cross-country vehicle to rent.”

They exited the front of the terminal, where a single black Fiat sat at the taxi stand. Mercado woke the driver and they climbed in, with Mercado in the front. “Gondar,” he said.

The driver seemed confused, as though he hadn’t had a customer since the revolution.

Purcell said to Mercado, “Give him twenty thousand.”

“That’s about fifteen dollars, Frank. He makes about a dollar a day.”

“That’s more than L’Osservatore Romano is paying me. Let’s go.”

Mercado reluctantly gave the driver a twenty-thousand-lire note, and the man stared at it, then started his car and drove off.

On the way down the plateau, Mercado attempted a few words of conversation with the driver in Amharic, Italian, and English.

Vivian said to Purcell, “I don’t think we should fly the Navion back here. That would be one trip too many.” She suggested, “We’ll take the commercial flight here when we’re ready to begin our journey.”

“We need one more recon flight to check out anything that looks interesting on your photographs.”

“I’m not even sure we’re getting out of here.”

“We have been chosen to get out of here.”

She didn’t reply.

As they climbed the steep, narrow road toward the walls of the city, Mercado turned and said, “This driver was actually waiting for a Soviet Air Force general.”

Vivian laughed. “Then why did he take us?”

Purcell replied, “Because Henry gave him a month’s pay.”

Mercado said, “Nothing has gone right today.”

Purcell disagreed. “I didn’t crash, and we didn’t get arrested.”

“The day is not over.”

Chapter 39

Mercado directed the driver to the Italian-built piazza in the center of Gondar. They stood in the cool sunshine and looked around at the shops, cinema, and public buildings designed by Italian architects in 1930s modern Fascist style.

Mercado said, “This looked better in 1941.”

“So did you,” Purcell pointed out.

Mercado ignored that and said, “Gondar is where the Italian Army made its last stand against the British in ’41.” He stayed quiet awhile, then continued, “I was traveling as a war correspondent with the British Expeditionary Force by then… we’d taken Addis from the Italians six months before, and Haile Selassie was back on the throne.”

Purcell looked at Henry Mercado standing in the piazza. The man had seen a great deal of life, and death, and war, and hopefully some peace. He had, in fact, seen the twentieth century in all its triumphs and disappointments, its progress and failures.

It was a wonder, Purcell thought, that Mercado had anything left in him. Or that he could still believe in something like the Holy Grail. Or believe in love.

Purcell glanced at Vivian, who was looking at Henry. Purcell hadn’t meant to take Henry’s lady.

Mercado nodded toward the cinema. “The British soldiers watched captured Italian movies, and I stood on the stage and shouted the translations.” He laughed. “I made up some very funny sexual dialogue.”

Vivian laughed, and Purcell, too, smiled.

Mercado pointed to a large public building. “That was where the British Army put its headquarters. The Union Jack used to fly right there.” He informed them, “Gann told me he was here as well, but we never met. Or if we did, it was in a state of intoxication and we don’t remember.”

Purcell wondered if thirty-five years from now he’d be here, or in some other place from his past, telling a younger companion about how it was way back then. Probably not. Henry had been exceedingly lucky at cheating death; Purcell felt lucky, too, but not that lucky.

Mercado continued, “The Italians carried on a surprisingly strong guerrilla war in the countryside against the Brits for two more years before they finally surrendered this last piece of their African empire. By then I was traveling with the British Army in North Africa.” He stayed quiet a moment, then said, “I always meant to come back to Ethiopia, and especially to Gondar. And here I am.”

Vivian said to him, “Show us around, Henry.”

They left the piazza and walked into the old city, which was as otherworldly as it appeared from the air: a collection of brick and stone palaces, churches, fortifications, an old synagogue, and ruins. It looked almost medieval, Purcell thought, though the architecture was unlike anything he’d seen in Europe or elsewhere.

Vivian took photographs as Mercado pointed out a few buildings that he remembered. He observed, “There seem to be fewer people here than I remember.” He informed them, “Gondar and the surrounding area is where most of the Jewish population in Ethiopia lives. I think, however, the Jews have left, along with the nobility, the merchant class, and the last of the Italian expats.”

Vivian pointed out, “If you lived where General Getachu lived, you’d get out, too.”

Mercado also told them, “The Falashas, along with the last of the Royalists, and other traditional elements in the surrounding provinces, have formed a resistance against the Marxists. So Getachu is not completely paranoid when he sees spies and enemies all around him.” He added, “The countryside is unsettled and dangerous.”

Vivian asked, “Does that include the area where we will be traveling?”

“We will find out.”

Most shops and restaurants were closed, including an Italian restaurant that Mercado remembered. Soldiers with AK-47s patrolled the nearly deserted streets and looked them over as they passed by.

Vivian said, “This is creepy.”

Purcell suggested, “Tell them you know General Getachu.”

They found a food shop that sold bottled water and packaged food and they noted its location for when they needed to buy provisions.

There was an open outdoor café in a small square near a church, and they would have stopped for a beer, but six soldiers, who were undoubtedly Cuban, were sitting at a table watching them approach. One of them called out to the senorita, and Vivian blew them a kiss. They all laughed.

Purcell wanted to find the English missionary school where young Mikael Getachu got his ass whipped, but an old man who spoke Italian told Mercado, “It is now the army headquarters.”

Mercado suggested they skip that photo, and Purcell said, “Mikael is trying to work through some childhood issues.”

Inquiries about the best hotel in town led them to the Goha, near the Italian piazza. They asked for an English- or Italian-speaking person, and were escorted into the office of the hotel manager, Mr. Kidane, who spoke both languages.

They inquired about rooms for the near future, though the hotel seemed deserted, and also asked about renting a cross-country vehicle. Mr. Kidane informed them he could get his future guests a British Land Rover, but unfortunately, due to the unsettled situation, the price would be two hundred dollars American, each day. A driver and security man would be extra, and he recommended both. Mr. Kidane also required a two-thousand-dollar security deposit in cash — just in case the vehicle and his guests never returned, though he didn’t actually say that.

They took Mr. Kidane’s card with the Goha’s telex number. Purcell gave him a twenty-dollar bill for his trouble, and Mr. Kidane called them a taxi.

Purcell, Vivian, and Mercado headed back to the airport.

Vivian said, “That was fascinating.”

Mercado replied, “Someday, Gondar will be a tourist attraction. Now it is Getachu’s prize, if he can hold on to it.”

Purcell said, “It looks like we have our vehicle, and we can also get provisions in Gondar. But we have to act fast in case the fighting starts again.”

Mercado agreed. “These mountains have always been a place of desperate last stands.”

Purcell suggested, “We’ll make one more recon flight tomorrow or the next day, and if we still haven’t heard from Gann, we need to decide our next move.”

Everyone agreed, and they continued on to the airport, where Captain Sharew awaited them.

The Navion was still there, but Captain Sharew was happily not, so another kleptocrat took their fifty-thousand-lire takeoff fee, which Mercado paid while Purcell quickly filled out the flight plan.

Purcell didn’t mind the bribes; it was when the authorities stopped taking bribes that you had to worry.

The new officer wrote their takeoff time as 1:30 P.M., and advised them, “Do not deviate.” He then presented them with an outrageous bill for fuel, which needed to be paid in Western currency. Purcell said, “Your turn, Vivian.”

They got quickly into the Navion and noticed that two bags of coffee beans were missing, as well as the urine-filled carafe. Purcell hit the ignition switch and said, “I hope they left the spark plugs.”

The engine fired up and he taxied at top speed to the north end of the runway. He got a green light from the tower and pushed the throttle forward.

The Navion lifted off and he continued south, toward Addis Ababa.

A half hour out of Gondar, he took an easterly heading and said to Mercado, “Pass me the map that shows Shoan.”

“I do not want to be late into Addis.”

“We have tailwinds.”

Mercado passed him the map and Purcell studied it. He asked Mercado, “Do you have any interest in flying over Mount Aradam?”

Mercado did not reply, and Purcell did not ask him again.

Purcell found Shoan on the map, and looked at the terrain below, then turned farther east. He picked out the single-lane north-south road that they’d used when they were looking for the war and found the spa. He noticed on the map that Shoan was only about thirty kilometers east of the road, located on high ground that showed on the map as agricultural, surrounded by dense vegetation. If Gann was correct about the village supplying the black monastery with candles and sandals, then Shoan should be a day or two’s walk to the meeting place. The monastery, too, could be a day or two’s walk to this meeting place. Therefore, Shoan could be a four-day walk to the monastery. But in what direction?

He looked again at the terrain map. They had narrowed it down a bit, but the area was still thousands of square kilometers, and most of it, according to the maps, was covered with jungle and forest.

Vivian asked, “What are you looking at?”

“I’m looking for a black dot in a sea of green ink.”

“It’s down there, Frank. And we will find it.”

“We could walk for a year and not find it. We could pass within a hundred yards of it and miss it.”

“I’ll have the photographs developed and enlarged before noon tomorrow.”

“Good. And if we don’t see anything… then we need to start at a place we can easily find. Shoan.” He looked out the windshield. “In fact, there it is.”

He made a shallow left bank and began to descend.

As they got closer, they could see white farmhouses with corrugated metal roofs sitting in fields of crops. There were also what looked like fruit orchards, and pastures where goats roamed and donkeys grazed. There was also a horse paddock built around a pond. It looked peaceful, Purcell thought, an island of tranquility in a sea of chaos.

The village itself was nestled between two hills, and they could see a cluster of houses around a square. There were a few larger buildings, one of which Purcell thought could be the synagogue. Another large building at the edge of the village was built around a courtyard in which was a round pool and palm trees.

Mercado was looking through his binoculars and said, “Amazing.”

Purcell asked, “Do you see any people?”

“Yes… and I see… a vehicle… looks like a cross-country vehicle… maybe a Jeep or Land Rover.”

“Could it be military?”

“I really can’t say, Frank. Get closer.”

He glanced at his watch, then his airspeed. The phantom headwinds he’d reported on the northbound flight were real now, and they needed to get back to the flight plan and head directly toward Addis. “We’re heading back.”

He looked at his chart and compass and took a direct heading toward Addis Ababa with the throttle fully opened. He said, “If there’s a vehicle in the village, then there is a passable road into the village. Probably from the one-lane road we took.”

Mercado replied, “I don’t remember seeing any road coming off that road.”

Purcell said, “There wouldn’t be a road sign saying, ‘Shoan, population a few hundred Jews.’ ” He speculated, “The road might be purposely hidden.”

Mercado agreed. “They don’t want visitors.”

“Well, they are about to get three.” He said, “From what I see below, and from what we’ve experienced ourselves, most of this terrain is impassable, even for an all-terrain vehicle. What I suggest is that we have a driver in Gondar take us as far as the spa, and from there we’ll walk to Shoan. Should be a few hours.”

No one replied.

“I suggest we use Shoan as our base of operation and explore out from there.”

Mercado said, “I’m not sure the Falashas would welcome our intrusion, old man. Nor would they be keen on us looking for the black monastery.”

“Gann was telling us something. And I think what he was saying was, ‘Go to Shoan.’ ”

Mercado informed him, “The English are not that subtle, Frank. If he wanted us to go to Shoan, he would have said, ‘Go to Shoan.’ ” He further informed Purcell, “That’s the way we speak.”

“I think he was clear.”

“What is clear to me is that we should avoid all human contact as we’re beating about the bush. Nothing good can come of us trying to get help from friendly natives.”

“I hear you, Henry. But as we both know, you can usually trust the outcasts of any society.”

“The Falasha Jews are not outcasts — they are people who just want to be left in peace as they have been for three thousand years.”

“Those days are over.”

“Apparently, but if Sir Edmund is correct about the Falashas and the monks, and if we engage the Falashas, we may find ourselves as permanent residents of the black monastery.”

“There are worse places to spend the rest of your life, Henry.”

Vivian had stayed silent, but now said, “I think you are both right to some extent.”

“Meaning,” Purcell replied, “that we are both wrong to some extent.”

She pointed out, “We could clear this up if Colonel Gann shows up.”

No one responded to that.

They continued south, toward Addis.

Vivian said, “I think we are missing something.”

“The carafe?”

“There was something that Father Armano said… He gave us a clue, without knowing it.”

Purcell, too, had had the same thought, and he’d tried to drag it out of his memory, but couldn’t.

Vivian said, “It’s something we should have understood.”

Mercado reminded them, “He didn’t want us looking for the black monastery or the Holy Grail, so he wasn’t giving us an obvious clue to where the monastery was located. But Vivian is correct and I’ve felt that as well. He told us something, and we need to understand what it was.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He didn’t respond.

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

“Did we have the Grail with us?”

“We had each other.”

“That’s good enough.”

He throttled back and began his descent.

Chapter 40

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

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

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

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

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

Purcell observed, “The décor has not changed.”

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

“Where was the portrait of the emperor?”

“Also above your head.”

“What’s above my head now?”

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

“The Italians are very practical.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Or died.”

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

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

“Makes sense.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Vivian asked, “What is glint?”

“If you buy me lunch, I’ll tell you.”

“I’ll buy you two lunches.”

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

Purcell asked, “What makes you say that?”

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

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

Mercado admonished, “That is insensitive.”

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

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

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

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

“You can write it, Frank, but it will not run. And if it does, you will be lucky if you only get expelled.”

“The truth will set us free, Henry.”

“Not in Ethiopia. Save it for when we are out of here.”

“What is worse — me not demonstrating the proper guilt about eating during the famine, or you not letting me write the truth about it?”

Mercado stayed silent awhile, then replied, “Your point is made, and well taken.” He smiled, “Someday you will make a good journalist.”

Vivian asked, “Is the pissing match over?”

Purcell said, “Pass the bread.”

The wine came and they drank as they flipped through the photographs.

Purcell looked around the restaurant, which, if it could talk, would have some stories to tell. The clientele was mostly Western European embassy staff, though he spotted four Russians in bad suits at a table. Vesuvio, unlike the Hilton and other hotels, was not in a position to demand only hard currency, but the proprietor and staff did not go out of their way to welcome the Russians or Cubans who paid in birr.

This country was in bad shape, Purcell thought, and the worst was yet to come. The old Ethiopia was dead, and the new Ethiopia should never have been born.

Vivian said, “I assume there was no message from Colonel Gann at the hotel.”

Mercado replied, “None.”

“Do you think something has happened to him?”

Mercado replied, “If he’s been arrested, and being held in Addis, someone in the press community would have heard through sources.” He added, “But if he’s been killed in the hinterlands, we may never know.”

Purcell said, “We will hear from him.”

Vivian reminded Purcell, “You were going to tell us what a glint is.”

“It is what you see in my eyes when you walk into a room.”

Purcell thought that was funny, but Vivian did not, though she might have if Henry was not at the table. Clearly she was still uncomfortable with the situation, but no more so than he was. Henry, too, was not amused, though he smiled for the record.

Purcell said, “A glint is what it sounds like — a quick reflection of light off a shiny surface. Pilots in combat look for the glint of an enemy aircraft, or the glint of a metal target on the ground.” He picked up his wineglass. “Glass, too, can give off a type of glint. Glass roofs, even if opaque, may give off a glint.” He drank his wine.

Mercado was nodding, and Vivian was flipping through the photographs again, looking for a glint.

Purcell continued, “Obviously, the sun has to strike the object, and the object has to be reflective enough to produce a glint.”

Mercado nodded again, and Purcell continued, “Father Armano said he thought the roof could have been alabaster, and he said it let in the sunlight and bathed the church in a glow that made his head swim and hurt his eyes.” He speculated, “It could also have been quartz, or, despite what the priest thought, it could have been a type of stained glass that was rippled and mostly clear, and that might account for the strange light.” He concluded, “In any case, this substance did not let all the sunlight in, and that means it had to reflect some sunlight back.”

Mercado asked, “So do we now believe in palm trees and glints?”

Purcell replied, “I can make a stronger case for that than I can for the existence of the Holy Grail.”

Mercado did not respond to that, but said, “If we see a glint coming through palm trees, then I think we’ve found the black monastery.”

Vivian said, “I see palm trees, but I’m not seeing any glints.”

Purcell said, “We’ll have the photographs done again in a high-gloss finish, and we’ll go over them inch by inch in our rooms.”

Vivian informed them, “The Reuters photo lab guy is very taken with me, but if I ask him to reprint ninety-two photographs in a different finish, I’ll have to have a drink with him.”

“Have several,” Purcell suggested.

She smiled, then said, “He also asked me why I was taking aerial photos of jungle.”

Mercado said, “He is not supposed to ask questions. What did you tell him?”

“I told him I was trying to find the right green for my drapes.”

Mercado asked, “Is Father Armano’s mention of this roof the unintended clue he gave us as to the location of the monastery?”

Purcell replied, “It is an unintended clue, but there is something else. Something keeps nagging at my mind, and it will come to me.”

Vivian poured him more wine. “This might help.”

“Can’t hurt.”

Their lunch came and Purcell said, “Buon appetito.”

Chapter 41

They laid the photos out on the bed in Mercado’s room. Each photograph was now in matte and gloss finish, and Vivian had also borrowed two lighted magnifiers from the smitten lab tech.

The drapes were open and they knelt around the bed, studying the photographs. Purcell was at the foot of the bed, and Vivian and Mercado on opposite sides. Vivian looked up to say something to Mercado and saw him looking at her across the bed that they’d shared a few days before. She met his gaze for a second, then looked down at the photograph in front of her.

They each had a grease marker that they used to circle palm clusters. Next, they looked closely for a glint, or a reflection of light, or anything that could be an anomalous source of light.

Purcell advised them, “Consider the position of the sun when looking for a glint or sparkle, and consider the direction we are looking at.”

They also had the terrain maps spread out so they could match the photos with the maps, but this turned out to be difficult unless there was an identifying feature in the photo that was represented on the map. Real aerial photographers, Purcell knew, had methods of printing grid coordinates on their photos, but he, Vivian, and Mercado were trying to match the photo to the maps, then mark the maps, which they would use on the ground.

Mercado said, “This is more difficult than I thought it would be.”

“It was never going to be easy or fun.”

Vivian found what she thought was a glint close to the destroyed fortress, and they all took a look at it.

Mercado said, “It is definitely a reflection of some sort, but there are no palms around it.”

Purcell added, “It’s also too close to the fortress — maybe five hundred meters.”

Vivian agreed that the monastery would not be that close to the fortress.

Mercado said, “It could be a pond, or one of the streams that run through the area. We will check it out when we get there.”

Vivian pointed out the sulphur pool of the spa and said, “That is what a body of water looks like in these photographs. It is more reflective than… glinting.”

Purcell agreed. “We are looking for something that… if we saw it from the air, we’d say something sparkled down there. Or maybe flashed. The problem with still photography is that you need to capture the glint at the moment it happens. And even then, it might not register on the film.”

Vivian said, “I used both high- and low-speed film, but I’m not sure which would be better for capturing a quick glint of light.” She added, “The matte finish actually seems better for showing a light anomaly.”

Purcell also pointed out, “It was a mostly sunny day, but there are a few cloud shadows on these photographs, and when the sun is blocked, you won’t get reflected or refracted sunlight.”

Mercado said, “We will pray for clear skies on our next flight.”

Purcell replied, “Remind God that we are chosen.”

“We are being tested.”

“Right. But tell him clouds are not fair.”

They continued to study the photographs.

After half an hour, Purcell said, “I’m going blind and nuts.” He stood and retrieved the photographs that Vivian had taken in Gondar for her bogus photographic essay.

He sat in a chair and flipped through the photos. One was an artistic shot of a palace garden with a reflecting pool, and the plants around the pool were reflected in the water of the pool, which was the idea. He thought a moment, then said, “Depending on what that church roof was made of, it might reflect what is above and around it.” He suggested, “Look for a palm frond or maybe a tree branch that has an exact mirror image.”

Vivian looked up at him, “All right… would you like to join us?”

“I’m just the pilot. Also, you have the only two magnifiers.”

Vivian smiled. “I can get another one from the lab guy, but it will cost me.”

“Go for it.”

Vivian and Mercado continued to study the photos, then Mercado stood and said, “I need a break.”

“I’m surprised your old eyes lasted this long.” Purcell stood and took Mercado’s place at the side of the bed, and Mercado sat and looked at Vivian’s pictures of Gondar.

Vivian said, “I have three possible… glints. But I could be looking at ground water, or even moisture on leaves or palm fronds.”

“That is another problem with photographs. They are two-dimensional, and depth of field can only be interpreted from what we know of the image.” He added, “This is not an exact science.”

“Thank you, Frank.”

“Anytime.”

He moved a photograph to the side and noticed something on the bedspread. He looked closer and saw that it was a long, straight jet black hair, and he didn’t need the magnifier to tell whose it was.

He looked up at Vivian, who was bent closely over the magnifier. He glanced at Mercado, who was looking at the Gondar photos. He tried to remember if Vivian had knelt at this side of the bed, but he knew she hadn’t. Not today, anyway.

He had two choices: pick up the hair and bring it to everyone’s attention — or forget it.

He looked again at Vivian. If he asked her what happened here, she would tell him the truth. But he already knew the truth. Or did he? It would not be unlike her to make herself comfortable on a male friend’s bed and chat away while the poor guy was trying to talk his dick down.

On the other hand… but why would she have sex with Henry Mercado? He thought he knew, and thinking back to Henry’s changed demeanor since that morning, he could imagine what Vivian’s purpose was.

Or was he misinterpreting all those images the way he might misinterpret a photograph?

Vivian said excitedly, “I think I see a double image. Two palm fronds that are the mirror image of each other.” She put a circle on the photograph and flipped it to him.

He looked at the circled image under the magnifier and said, “These are not exact doubles. These are two very similar palm fronds.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am sure.”

“Damn it.”

He said to her, “Things are not always what they seem.”

She looked at him, then some instinct, or prior experience, made her look at where his hand was resting on the light yellow bedsheet. She looked up at him again and said, “Sometimes things are what they seem.”

He nodded and went back to his magnifier and the photograph in front of him.

At 5 P.M., Mercado determined that there was nothing else to look at, and he suggested a cocktail in the lounge.

They stopped at the front desk for messages, and the desk clerk gave them a hand-delivered letter-sized envelope addressed to “Mercado, Purcell, Smith, L’Osservatore Romano, Hilton Hotel.” The handwriting was different from the writing on the manila envelope that had contained the maps, but they had no doubt who this was from.

Purcell carried the envelope into the lounge and they sat at a table.

Vivian said, “He’s alive and well.”

Purcell pointed out, “He was when he sent this.”

“Don’t be a pessimist. Open it.”

“We need a drink first.”

Mercado signaled a waiter and ordered a bottle of Moët, saying to his companions, “We’re either celebrating something, or we need to drown our troubles in champagne.”

“I like the way you think, Henry.”

Vivian said, “Out of ninety-two photographs, there are only six circled locations that fit our criteria.” She listed the criteria: “Palm trees, and/or a glint, in a location that is not too close to the fortress or to the spa, or the road, or to any place that would not be a likely location of a hidden monastery.” She continued, “Only one photo has all three — palms, a glint, and a likely location.”

Mercado suggested, “But we may have our criteria wrong.”

“In fact,” said Purcell, “we may have talked ourselves into palms and glints, so we need to look at the photos with a fresh eye in the morning.”

Mercado informed them, “I need to go to work tomorrow to justify our existence here.”

Purcell reminded him, “You’re on the payroll. The rest of us are working for room and board.”

They discussed photo analysis for a while, and their next recon flight over the area.

Purcell looked at Vivian, then at Mercado. There had definitely been a new spring in Henry’s step since that morning. But interestingly, Vivian seemed the same. In fact, at breakfast on the morning of his flight with Signore Bocaccio, which would have been soon after Vivian had sex with Henry, she had seemed herself — as though she’d put the encounter in a file drawer and forgot about it.

And then she’d invited Purcell to have sex with her.

It was possible, however, that nothing of a penetrating nature had happened. He was certain he would not have been happy to see what did happen in Henry’s bedroom, but it might have fallen short of a legal definition of cheating on your boyfriend.

Henry, however, seemed to be happy with whatever had happened, even if the object of his affection didn’t seem so moved by the experience.

He looked again at Vivian, who was chatting happily with her old friend.

In Vivian’s mind, all was now right with her world, and they could all be friends, and continue with their mission here, which to Vivian was far more important than two horny men. No doubt she loved Frank Purcell, and he loved her, so now he had to decide what to do about what she had done.

Two waiters appeared with a wine bucket, fluted glasses, and a bottle of Moët & Chandon, which one of them displayed to Mercado. He pronounced the year magnifique, and told his companions, “This is on the newspaper.”

Purcell suggested, “Tell them you entertained a member of the Derg.”

“I always do.”

The headwaiter popped the cork, which caused some heads to turn, then filled the flutes.

Henry held up his glass and proposed, “To us, and to Sir Edmund, and to our journey.”

They drank and Vivian said, “Ooh. I love it.”

Mercado suggested, “We will take a bottle with us on the road, and pop it when we see the black monastery in the jungle.”

Purcell warned him, “That might be the last alcohol you ever see.”

“Nonsense. The monks drink wine.”

They finished their glasses and Mercado refilled them.

Purcell said, “Okay, one more flight to Gondar, and on the way we will check out whatever we’ve circled on the photographs. With any luck, we will be able to narrow the circles down to a few, or we will see something else that may be of interest. In any case, we will land in Gondar and go to the Goha Hotel. We’ll shop for provisions without attracting too much attention, then we will spend the night, then get in the Land Rover with the driver and security man, and tell them we are hiking. We’ll get dropped off near the spa, tell the driver to meet us there in six hours, and we are off on our quest. First stop is Shoan.”

Mercado and Vivian processed all that, and Mercado said, “I think we should go first to the places in the photographs that are possibly what we’re looking for.”

“I don’t want to traipse around the jungle for a week or two.” He reminded Mercado, “That is rough country, old man, and I don’t just mean the terrain. We want to minimize the walking, and not use up our provisions.”

Mercado replied, “I’ve done this sort of thing before, Frank.”

“Good. Then you agree.” He continued, “The Falashas may be more helpful than those photographs.”

“They may be the opposite of helpful — or they may all be gone.”

Vivian said, “Our first objective should be the spa.” She reminded them, “We said we’d bring back a relic… a bone of Father Armano.”

“You carry the bone.” He also said, “I will call Signore Bocaccio tonight about the availability of the plane. I’d like to go tomorrow.”

Mercado thought about that, then asked, “Are you saying that we’re leaving the aircraft in Gondar?”

“Well, it’s not going to fly itself back.” He assured Mercado, “I’ll telex Signore Bocaccio from the Goha and let him know he can pick up his plane in Gondar, and keep our security deposit.”

Neither Mercado nor Vivian replied.

“I don’t think we’ll be needing Mia one way or the other after we leave Gondar on our journey.”

Again, no one responded.

Purcell further explained, “There is no reason for us to return here. We don’t need any more photographs developed, and it is time we moved forward — before we get shut down by the authorities or by something outside our control.” He looked at Mercado and Vivian. “Caesar crossed the Rubicon and burned his bridges behind him. And that is what we will do tomorrow.”

Mercado said, “We should see what Sir Edmund has written to us. That may influence what we do next.”

“Let’s first have our own plan.”

“All right, Frank. We have a plan. Now please open the envelope.”

Purcell glanced around to see if anyone was paying too much attention to them, then tore open the envelope. He extracted a single piece of paper and looked at it.

Vivian asked, “What does it say?”

“It is… a poem.” He smiled, then said, “Titled, ‘The Explorer.’ ”

Mercado said, “That’s Kipling, if you don’t know.”

“Thank you.” He read, “Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges — Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!”

He looked up at Mercado and Vivian.

They stayed silent, then Vivian asked, “Is that it?”

“That is it — except for the signature.”

Mercado asked, “Did Sir Edmund sign it?”

“Actually, no, and neither did Rudyard Kipling.” He glanced at the signature and said, “It is signed, I. M. N. Sloan.”

“Who?”

“You gotta say it fast, Henry.”

Vivian said, “I am in Shoan.”

Purcell passed the note to her. “You win.”

She looked at it, then gave it to Mercado.

Purcell said, “We will join Sir Edmund in Shoan.”

Mercado had a dinner date and left them in the lounge. They sat without speaking for a while, then Vivian said, “I don’t want dinner. Let’s have a bottle of wine sent to our room.”

Purcell replied, “You can have one sent to your room.”

She didn’t reply.

He stood and said, “Good night.”

“Frank…”

He looked at her in the dim light and he could see tears running down her face.

She looked at him. “Do you understand?”

“I do.”

“I’m sorry.”

“We will all stay friends, until we leave Ethiopia.”

She nodded.

He turned and left.

Chapter 42

The Navion was available the next day for an overnight stay in Gondar and a return to Addis on the following day. Signore Bocaccio met them at the airport at noon to collect his rental fee and deliver the news. “This is unfortunately your last flight.” He explained, “This is causing me worry.”

“I’m the one flying this thing.”

Signore Bocaccio smiled, then said seriously, “I want no trouble with the government.”

“I understand.”

He advised, “You, too, should be careful with the government. They will be curious about your flights to Gondar.”

“We are journalists.”

“There is a commercial flight once a week. So perhaps they will want to know why you need my aircraft.”

“We don’t want to spend a week in Gondar.” Purcell asked, “How does that sound?”

“To me, it sounds good. To them… who knows?” He motioned toward Vivian and Mercado, who were standing near his aircraft. “You are nice people. Please be careful.”

“We’re not actually that nice.” Purcell paid him in dollars for the two-day rental and informed him, “Some of your coffee was stolen in Gondar.”

“It is there to be stolen.”

“Right.” He suggested to Signore Bocaccio that he meet them at the Hilton for dinner on their return from Gondar so that the Signore Bocaccio could release their security deposit.

“But you must let me buy you dinner, and I will keep the security deposit for the down payment on Mia.” He smiled.

Purcell returned the smile and suggested, “Seven P.M., but check at the desk for a telex from us in case we are delayed getting out of Gondar.”

The Italian looked at him. “Be careful.”

“See you then.”

Signore Bocaccio would actually be dining alone, but he had their two-thousand-dollar security deposit to keep him company — and also to pay for his commercial flight to Gondar to retrieve his aircraft.

Purcell was about to say arrivederci, but then said to Signore Bocaccio, “I have seen expats and colonials all over the world waiting for the right time to leave a place that has become unfriendly.” He advised him, “That time has arrived.”

Signore Bocaccio, the owner of coffee plantations and other things in Ethiopia, nodded. “But it is difficult. This is my home.” He told the American, “I love Africa.”

“It doesn’t love you anymore.”

He smiled. “It is like with a woman. Do you leave the woman you love because she is having difficulties with life?”

Purcell did not respond.

Signore Bocaccio informed Purcell, “My wife is Ethiopian. And my children. Would they be happy in Italy?”

“I saw many Ethiopians in Rome.”

“Yes, I know.”

“At least take a long vacation.”

“As soon as I leave, the government will take all I have.”

“They’ll take it anyway.”

“This is true… so perhaps a long vacation.” He smiled. “I will fly to Rome with my family in Mia.”

“Bad idea.” He suggested, “Bring your wife to dinner.”

“That is very kind of you.”

They shook hands and Signore Bocaccio wished them, “Buona fortuna.”

“Ciao.”

Purcell had already filed his flight plan for Gondar, and as a repeat customer with fifty thousand lire clipped to the form, he got his red stamp without attitude. The duty officer had written 12:15 as the departure time on the form, and that was fifteen minutes ago, so Purcell said to his flight mates, “Let’s hit it.”

Mercado and Vivian had loaded the luggage, which contained more than they needed for an overnight in Gondar, and most of what they needed for a few weeks in the bush, including a bottle of Moët for when they found the black monastery. Henry had also sent a hotel employee out early in the morning with three hundred dollars and a shopping list that included three backpacks, flashlights, and other camping equipment, all of which could be found in Addis’s many secondhand stores that were bursting with items sold by people who were getting out or who needed hard cash to buy food. The young hotel employee had found nearly everything on the list, including a compass. The only thing they needed now was food, which they could buy in Gondar, and luck, which could not be bought anywhere.

Purcell jumped on the wing and helped Mercado up, then took Vivian’s hand and pulled her onto the wing. They looked at each other a second, then she released his hand and climbed into the cockpit and over to the right-hand seat.

Purcell got in, hit the master switch, and checked his flight controls, then pumped the throttle and hit the starter. The engine fired up quickly, and he checked his instrument panel. Oil pressure still low.

Mercado said, “It’s a bit tight back here with the luggage.”

Vivian said to him, “Do not disturb the pilot when he is doing his pilot stuff.”

Purcell said, “Seat belts.”

He released the handbrake and brought the Navion around. He saw Signore Bocaccio standing beside his old Fiat, waving to them. He returned the wave, then slid the canopy closed and taxied toward the end of the longer runway, which was clear of traffic this afternoon.

Vivian asked him, “Do I need to pray to Saint Christopher?”

He didn’t reply.

Vivian had been trying to engage him in light banter all morning, but he wasn’t in the mood. She’d been good enough not to call him in his room last night, or knock on his door, and he was fairly certain she hadn’t spoken to Mercado about the new sleeping arrangement because Henry seemed himself.

Purcell ran the engine up, checked his controls and instruments again, then wheeled onto the runway. “Ready for takeoff.” He pushed the throttle forward and the Navion began its run.

The aircraft lifted off and Purcell began banking right, north toward Gondar. To his right lay Addis Ababa, a city he would probably never see again, or if he did, it would be from a prison cell — unless they gave him the same view of the courtyard and gallows.

Purcell steered the Navion between two towering peaks, then glanced back at what he hoped was his last look at Addis Ababa.

Henry, as it turned out, had not gone to the press office that morning, but he’d sent a telex from the hotel to L’Osservatore Romano telling his editors that the team was going to Gondar for a few days to report on the Falasha exodus.

Purcell, Vivian, and Mercado had spent the morning in Henry’s room, giving the photos a last look and marking the terrain maps with a few more suspected hiding places for the black monastery. The other suspicious thing in Mercado’s room, the strand of black hair, was still there. Henry should speak to the maid. But they would not be returning to their hotel rooms ever. It was time, as Colonel Gann suggested, to go and find it.

Regarding where to go next if they did find it, Colonel Gann, in the maps he’d sent them, had included contiguous terrain maps from Gondar and Lake Tana to French Somaliland on the coast. Clearly Gann was suggesting an exit plan for them.

So, with or without the Holy Grail, they would make their way to French Somaliland, the closest safe haven, where many Westerners and Ethiopians on the run had gone. The French officials were good about providing assistance to anyone who reached the border. All they had to do was get there.

Vivian said to him, in a soft voice, “You told me we would be friends.”

“We are.”

“You’ve barely spoken to me all morning.”

“I’m not good in the morning.”

She glanced back at Henry, who was concentrating on a photograph with the magnifier. She said to Purcell, “It will never happen again. I promise you.”

“Let’s talk about this in Gondar.” He added, “I’m flying.”

She looked at him, then turned her head and stared out the side of the canopy.

They continued on, and Mercado said, “We have reached the point of no return on our journey.”

Purcell replied, “Not yet. We have burned no bridges, and I can still fly back to Addis and say we had engine problems.”

Mercado did not reply, but Vivian said, “Avanti.”

Chapter 43

Purcell spotted the single-lane road and followed it north. Off to his right front, he could see Shoan about ten kilometers away. He banked right and began descending, saying to his passengers, “I want Colonel Gann to know we are on the way.”

As they got lower and closer, Mercado leaned forward with his binoculars. “I don’t see the vehicle.”

Purcell replied, “We don’t know if that vehicle had anything to do with Gann.”

Purcell flew over the village at four hundred feet and tipped his wings.

Mercado said, “I saw someone waving.”

“Did he have a mustache and a riding crop?”

“He was wearing a white shamma… but it could have been him.”

“Going native.”

They flew over the spa, then Purcell banked right, to the area east of the single-lane road where most of their photographs had been taken of the jungle and rain forests that lay between Lake Tana and the area around the destroyed fortress — an area that Purcell estimated at more than a thousand square miles.

Vivian had the large-scale maps on her lap, and Purcell asked her to hold up the one of the area below.

She held the map for him, and he glanced at the circled sites, then banked east toward the first circle on the map. He dropped down to three hundred feet and slowed his airspeed as much as he could.

Mercado was leaning between the seats, dividing his attention between the map and the view from the Plexiglas canopy.

Purcell dropped lower as he approached the first site, marked Number One on the map, which had shown a light reflection in the corresponding photograph. He made a tight clockwise turn, then dipped his right wing so that it was not obstructing their view. Mia shuddered to warn him she was about to stall, and Purcell pushed in the throttle as he leveled his wings.

Mercado lowered his binoculars. “I think I saw a pond… or maybe swampland.”

Vivian agreed, “It was water. Not a glass roof.”

Purcell said, “At least what we saw in the photograph was not an illusion, and we’ve also marked the map position correctly. That’s the good news.”

Vivian agreed. “One of these circles will be the black monastery.”

“If not, we have at least eliminated some locations.”

They continued on to the next closest circle that showed a large cluster of palm trees in the photographs, and Purcell repeated his maneuvers. No one saw anything, so he made another pass, and this time Vivian said, “I definitely saw a body of water through the palms.”

“Any shiny roofs?”

“No.”

Purcell moved on to the next circle on the map, Number Three, which Vivian pointed to on the corresponding photograph. He glanced at the photo and saw a very large cluster of palms, surrounded by much taller growth. This looked more promising and he pulled off some power and lowered his flaps as if he intended to land. The airspeed indicator bounced between sixty and sixty-five miles per hour.

The cluster of palms was coming up fast at his one o’clock position and he dropped his right wing, causing the Navion to shudder, but giving Vivian and Mercado an unobstructed view as they passed by.

Vivian shouted, “I saw something! A glint of light… not water.”

Mercado agreed, and Purcell, too, had seen something, and it was definitely not water.

He climbed as fast as he could, got to six hundred feet, and came around again, this time from the west so that the afternoon sun was at their back. He was higher than last time, so he could keep his nose down as he flew straight toward the cluster of palms.

Vivian had taken the binoculars from Mercado and she was unbuckled and leaning over the instrument panel, staring through the front windshield.

Purcell continued his dive until the last possible second, then pushed the throttle forward, pulled back on the wheel, and raised his flaps. The Navion continued downward for a few more seconds, then the nose slowly lifted and they leveled out over the jungle canopy at about two hundred feet, then began gaining altitude.

Mercado said, “That was a bit close, old man.”

“Right.” Purcell glanced at Vivian, who was sitting back in her seat with the binoculars in her lap. He asked, “See anything?”

She nodded. “It was… black rock. Just rock.”

Purcell nodded. That was what he thought he’d seen, too. A shiny outcropping of black rock — probably obsidian. “Well, there is black rock in this area.”

Vivian said, “Father Armano mentioned a rock, a tree, a stream…”

“Right. Lots of that down there.” He added, “We’ll check this out on the ground tomorrow.”

He glanced at his watch. It had been three hours since they left Addis. They could keep flying over the area for maybe another half hour, and they should be able to recon all the sites marked on the maps, with maybe some time left over to look at anything else that seemed promising. They’d be late into Gondar again, but not two hours late as they’d been last time. He’d worry about that when they landed. The goal now was to complete the aerial recon, which, if they were very lucky, would reveal the location of the black monastery.

He said to Vivian, “Map.”

She held the map toward him, and he looked at it, trying to determine what heading to take to get to the next circle on the map.

Vivian was glancing out the windshield, then suddenly shouted, “Look!” She dropped the map.

Purcell looked quickly through the windshield. Passing across their front was a helicopter, about a half mile away. “Shit!”

Mercado said, “I think he may have seen our maneuvers.”

“You think?” Purcell had no way of knowing if the helicopter just happened to be in the area, or if it was sent to track them. He said, “If he has a radio, and I’m sure he does, he has radioed ahead to Gondar Airport.”

Vivian said, “Maybe he didn’t see us.”

“We saw him, he saw us.”

Purcell watched as the helicopter turned northwest, toward Gondar, which was where they were supposed to be heading. So Purcell took the same heading, but stayed to the left of the helicopter, and kept his distance at about half a mile.

Vivian asked, “How will he know it was us?”

Purcell informed her, “There are not too many black-painted vintage Navions in East Africa, Vivian. Probably one.”

She nodded.

Mercado said, “We actually have done nothing illegal.”

Purcell reminded him, “We didn’t do anything illegal last time we wound up in jail here, and this time we are suspiciously diverting from the flight plan.”

“Quite right.” Mercado asked, “What do we do?”

Purcell watched the helicopter. He was flying at the same altitude, and he had definitely slowed his speed relative to the Navion, and the distance was closing. Purcell throttled back and the Navion slowed.

“Frank?”

“Well… what we don’t do is continue on to Gondar Airport where a reception committee will be waiting for us.”

No one replied to that, then Mercado announced, “We need to fly to French Somaliland.” He asked, “Can we do that?”

Purcell glanced at his fuel gauge. “The fuel should not be a problem.” But they could have other problems with that idea.

Purcell saw that the helicopter had also reduced its speed to maintain the distance between the aircraft. He understood that the helicopter pilot wanted the Navion to follow him into Gondar.

Mercado suggested, “You may want to turn east now.” He reminded Purcell, “French Somaliland is that way.”

“Right.”

Vivian was slumped in her seat. She said softly, “It’s over. We never got a chance…”

Mercado said comfortingly, “We will come back.”

Purcell noticed that the helicopter had slipped to the right and was higher now, so that Purcell had a side view of it, and the pilot had a better view of the Navion.

Mercado said, “We have to turn east, old man.” He asked, “Can we outrun this helicopter?”

“Depends on too many unknowns…” Purcell said to Vivian, “Give me the binoculars.”

She gave them to him and Purcell focused with his left hand while he flew with his right. The helicopter was olive drab, definitely military, and on the side of the fuselage was a red star. He said, “It’s a Huey… UH-1D… saw a million of them in ’Nam…” In fact, this was the same type of helicopter that Getachu had used, and maybe it was the same one that had taken them to prison in Addis. He added, “His top speed would be about the same as ours.” He lowered the binoculars and said, “Also, I can see a door gunner.”

“A what?”

“A fellow sitting in the door opening with a mounted machine gun. Probably an M-60, and there is probably another one on the other side.” He added, “I don’t see anyone in the cabin, so General Getachu is not on board.”

No one replied.

Purcell noticed that the distance between him and the helicopter was again closing. He was barely doing seventy miles per hour, and the helicopter pilot, of course, could do zero if he wanted to, so Purcell was going to pass alongside that machine gun unless he turned.

Mercado said again, “You really need to turn, Frank.”

“Right… but I’m thinking this guy will follow us toward French Somaliland, and even if I can outrun him, I can’t outrun a stream of 7.62-millimeter machine-gun rounds.”

Vivian drew a deep breath. “Oh, God…”

Purcell continued, “Also, even if I could stay out of his machine-gun range, he will radio for support, and the Ethie Air Force might scramble some kind of fighter aircraft.”

Mercado processed all that and said, “We have no choice then… we must continue on to Gondar.”

Purcell told them, “I don’t think we’re going to be as lucky in General Getachu’s headquarters as we were last time.”

No one replied, but then Mercado said again, “We’ve done nothing illegal.” He had an idea and said firmly, “We will jettison everything that is incriminating — the camera, the maps, the photographs, the film… our camping gear — everything.”

Purcell replied, “That goes without saying, Henry. But I have to tell you both — Getachu knows, or will know, what we are doing here, and he will not hesitate to use any means that comes into his sick mind to get us to tell him everything he wants to know.”

Vivian put her hands over her face. “Oh my God…”

Purcell continued, “And if he also asks us about Colonel Gann, one of us will eventually say Shoan.”

Vivian was visibly shaken, but she sat up in her seat, took a deep breath, and said, “I would rather die trying to get away.”

Purcell agreed. “That would be preferable to what awaits us in Gondar.” He asked, “Henry?”

Mercado did not respond.

Purcell looked out the windshield and saw that he was only about five hundred yards behind and to the left of the helicopter. He could now see the left door gunner leaning out, attached to his harness, looking back at them, with the machine gun pointed at the Navion.

He slid the Navion to the right to get directly behind the helicopter, but the pilot also slid to the right, so his door gunner could keep them in sight. Purcell knew he couldn’t play this game with a highly maneuverable helicopter, so he maintained his position, but reduced his airspeed as low as he could without going into a stall. He needed time to think.

Vivian said to him, “Frank… we have to get away from him. Can you do that?”

He was already considering his options. If he made a sudden dive left or right, one or the other door gunners could easily blow them out of the sky. If he climbed, he could possibly pass over the helicopter, and if he kept directly in front of him and got some distance, the door gunners might not be able to swivel their guns that far to the front — but the helicopter pilot only had to swivel his aircraft to give one or the other of his gunners an easy shot at the retreating Navion.

His only chance was to go into a dive — to get into the blind spot below the pilot and the door gunners. He’d have the dive speed he needed to possibly get beyond the accurate range of the machine guns before the helicopter pilot could position his aircraft to give one of his gunners a shot.

Vivian put her hand on his shoulder. “Frank?”

He asked Mercado, “Have you come to a decision, Henry? Run or follow this asshole to Gondar?”

Again, Mercado did not reply.

Purcell looked at the distant horizon. Lake Tana was coming up, and so was Gondar. It was possible, he thought, that the Ethiopian Air Force had already scrambled fighters or more helicopters to make sure they didn’t lose them. He was a few minutes away from having no options left.

Mercado said, “Run.”

“Okay…” He looked at his airspeed and altimeter and considered what to do, and how best to do it. His rate of descent in a dive would be greater than the Huey’s, and his airspeed, too, would be greater. But, as he said, he couldn’t outrun a bullet.

The helicopter was nearly hovering now, about three hundred yards away, and he saw the left door gunner making a sweeping motion with his arm, indicating that the Navion should pass and get in front of the helicopter on the approach into Gondar.

That was not what Purcell wanted to do, and it suddenly became clear to him what he needed to do. And he’d known this almost from the beginning.

He reached up and moved the plastic aiming disc on its flexible arm so that it was in front of his face.

Mercado asked in a forcibly controlled voice, “What are you doing?”

“What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Are you insane?”

Purcell moved the switch under the instrument panel to the “Fire” position.

Vivian watched him, but said nothing.

The helicopter was less than two hundred yards away, and the door gunner kept waving his arm for the Navion to pass.

Purcell dipped his right wing as though he were going to bank right, and the helicopter pilot, who’d either seen this or heard from his left door gunner, slid his helicopter to the right to keep the Navion on his left.

Purcell pushed forward on the throttle and shoved his rudder hard right, causing the Navion to yaw right, with its nose now pointed at the helicopter. He lined up the helicopter in the red concentric circles of the plastic disc and pushed the firing button, praying that the electrical connection to the rocket pod was working.

The rocket shot out of the pod with a rushing sound and trailed a white smoke stream toward the Huey, less than two hundred yards away now.

Vivian let out a startled sound and Mercado shouted, “Oh God!”

The rocket went high over the helicopter, just missing the rotor shaft.

The door gunner seemed frozen behind his machine gun.

Purcell fired the second rocket, which went low, passing between the landing skids and the cabin, right under the door gunner’s feet.

The door gunner fired a long burst of rounds at the Navion and the tracers streaked over the Plexiglas canopy. Vivian screamed and dove onto the floor.

The helicopter pilot made the instinctive mistake of taking evasive action, which threw off the aim of his gunner and gave Purcell a better shot at the Huey as it tilted away from him and slipped sideways and downward. Purcell again kicked the rudder to yaw farther right, and pushed hard on the control wheel to lower the Navion’s nose. He kept looking through the plastic disc as the Huey again passed into the concentric circles. The door gunner fired again, and Purcell heard the unmistakable sound of a round impacting the aircraft. He pushed the red button once, then again, firing his last two rockets.

The first smoke rocket sailed through the open cabin, past the head of the door gunner, and the second rocket hit the Plexiglas bubble and burst inside the cockpit. Billows of white smoke poured out the hole in the bubble and through the open doors of the Huey.

The pilots were either injured or blinded by smoke, or something critical was damaged in the cockpit, and the Huey’s tail boom began swinging left and right.

Purcell did not change course and continued to fly straight at the unstable helicopter. He could see the door gunner through the billowing smoke, but the man, undoubtedly terrified, had let go of his machine gun and the barrel was hanging loose.

The Huey began a slow roll to the right, then suddenly inverted and dropped like a stone into the jungle canopy below, just as the Navion passed through the airspace that the helicopter had occupied a second before. There was a barely audible explosion behind them as Purcell gave it full throttle and began to climb hard.

Purcell turned off the firing switch, slapped away the plastic aiming disc, then said to Vivian, “It’s over.”

She rose slowly back into her seat.

He asked, “Mind if I smoke?”

No one replied, and he lit a cigarette, noticing that his hand was shaking.

He glanced at Vivian. Her skin, already pale, was now stark white. “Are you okay?”

She nodded.

“Henry?”

No reply.

Vivian turned in her seat. “Henry? Henry?” She leaned farther into the rear compartment. “Are you all right? Did you get hit?”

“By what?”

Vivian watched him awhile, then turned around.

Purcell kept the throttle open and the Navion continued to climb.

Mercado asked, “What happened?”

Vivian replied, “The helicopter… crashed.”

He didn’t reply.

Vivian looked at Purcell. “Now what?”

“Well… the French Somaliland option is again open. But that’s over two hours from here… and the Ethiopian Air Force may be looking for us shortly.”

Mercado seemed to be fully aware now, and he cleared his voice and asked, “Do you think the helicopter pilot had time to radio anyone?”

Purcell didn’t think the pilot even had time to piss his pants after the first smoke rocket went over his head. He replied, “I don’t think so. But the helicopter is now obviously out of radio contact, so Gondar will be looking for him, and for us.”

Mercado stayed silent, then said, “I don’t see that we have any option other than French Somaliland… or perhaps Sudan. How far is that?”

Purcell glanced at his flight chart. “The Sudan border is less than two hundred miles — maybe an hour-and-a-half flight. But the Ethie Air Force won’t hesitate to pursue over the Sudan border, though they probably won’t pursue over the French territory’s border.”

Mercado seemed to be thinking, then said, “I will vote for the French border.” He reminded everyone, “We will receive a better reception there than in Sudan.”

Purcell nodded, then glanced at Vivian. “Your vote?”

She had already thought about it and said, “Shoan. Can you land there?”

Purcell thought about that. The single-lane road was too narrow, with towering trees on both sides. The open pastures, however, were a possibility.

Mercado said, “I’m not sure I’m following you, Vivian.”

“You are, Henry.” She let them both know, “We are not leaving Ethiopia. We came here to find the Holy Grail.”

Mercado pointed out, “We are now hunted fugitives. We have just committed murder.”

Purcell corrected him. “I engaged a hostile aircraft.”

“Call it what you will, old man, if it makes you feel better as they put the noose around your neck.” He said to Vivian, “We need to get out of here.”

“We will, when we finish what we came here to do.”

Purcell was still heading east, toward French Somaliland, and if they decided to change course to Sudan, they had to do it soon, before Sudan became a longer flight than the French territory. He said to Vivian, “You have two choices, and landing in Shoan is not one of them.”

“How do you know you can make it to a border before the Ethiopian Air Force shoots us down?”

“I don’t know.”

“Then land. In Shoan. How far is it?”

“Maybe… twenty or thirty minutes.”

She pointed out, “Colonel Gann is there. Waiting for us. The black monastery is down there, also waiting for us.”

Purcell thought about that. Vivian was crossing the thin line between bravery and insanity — or obsession at best. But she made good arguments.

He was about three thousand feet above the ground and climbing. Airspeed was a hundred miles per hour in the climb, but he could get a hundred fifty in a descent. He banked right and the Navion began turning south.

Mercado asked, “What are you doing?”

“We are landing in Shoan, Henry.” To be completely honest, he added, “Or we will die trying.”

“No!”

Vivian turned in her seat. “Yes!”

Vivian and Henry looked at each other for several seconds, and Purcell could imagine Vivian’s green eyes staring into Henry’s soul.

He heard Henry say, “Yes… all right.” He added, “We have come a long way to find the Grail, and we are too close to turn back.”

Vivian reached out and touched Henry’s face, then turned in her seat and stared out the windshield as the Navion picked up a southwesterly heading toward Shoan and began descending.

She turned her head toward Purcell and looked at him until he looked at her. She said softly, “I love you.”

“You love anyone who gives you your way.”

She smiled. “What is best for me, is best for us.”

He didn’t reply.

They continued their rapid descent and Purcell said, “Shoan, about ten minutes.” He added, “I will attempt a landing.”

Vivian said, “That’s all I ask of you.” She let him know, “You can do it.”

“We are about to find out.”

He cut his power and began a gradual descent toward the village, which was now visible in the distance.

If he let his imagination go, and if he excluded the surrounding jungle, the fields of Shoan could be upstate New York where he first learned to fly as a young man. His mother had said flying was dangerous and urged him to pursue something safer, like writing.

“I am glad to see you smiling.”

“I used to write for my high school newspaper and the hometown weekly. I majored in journalism in college. My mother wanted me to have a safe job.”

She smiled and said, “I’ve read only one article that you wrote. Are you any good?”

“My mother thinks so.”

“I lost my parents when I was twelve. A plane crash.”

“Sorry.”

“Maybe I should have picked a better moment to say that.”

Purcell didn’t know how many moments they actually had left, but he said, “We have a lot to tell each other in Rome.”

She unpinned the Saint Christopher medal from the fabric over the windshield and stuck it on his shirt. “Christopher saved a child from a river, and though he was a big and strong man, the surprising weight of the small child almost made him stumble and fall into the raging water, but he would not let go of the child — and when they reached safety, the child revealed to him that he was Jesus who carried the weight of the world.”

“I know the feeling.”

He eased the throttle back and continued their descent.

Chapter 44

Purcell looked for an open pasture among the hundreds of acres of orchards and planted fields. He thought he needed about a thousand feet of unobstructed, mostly level terrain, but stone and wooden fences separated many of the fields, and trees grew in most of the pastures.

Purcell wanted to do a wheels-down landing, but if the ground was too wet, rocky, or potholed, he might have to do a belly landing, though he had the rocket pod to contend with.

Most importantly, he had too much fuel on board — about half a tank — and he couldn’t risk staying in the air to burn it off. He instructed Vivian and Henry to clear the aircraft quickly after it came to a stop.

He circled around the periphery of the fields, and he could see a few people near the village looking up at him. Hopefully, Gann was one of them.

Vivian asked, “Do you see a place to land?”

“Only one. That pasture ahead.”

Mercado asked, “Is that long enough?”

“I’ll make it long enough.”

The pasture was slightly sloped, and he decided to land upslope so that the land came up to meet the Navion, and the aircraft would slow sooner uphill and hopefully come to a stop before he ran out of pasture.

He lined up the aircraft with the pasture, which looked to be about a thousand feet long. He now noticed there was a stone fence at the end of the rise, but no trees or water holes.

He had no idea what the winds were doing, but it didn’t matter; this was the landing strip, and upslope was the direction.

Purcell lowered his landing gear and flaps and pulled back on the throttle. His airspeed was barely sixty miles per hour, and he estimated his altitude at five hundred feet, then four, three… He looked out at the approaching pasture of short brown grass. The goats had scattered, but now he could see rocks and sinkholes. “Hold on.”

He cut the power back to idle, pulled the nose up, and the Navion touched down hard and bounced high, then down again and up again across the rocky pasture. He shut down the engine and applied the brakes. Up ahead he could see the stone fence. He worked the rudder, making the aircraft fishtail, and he began to slow, but the stone fence was less than a hundred yards away, then fifty yards.

“Frank…”

“Brace!”

He kicked the rudder hard, causing the Navion to go into a sideways skid. He expected the landing gear to collapse, but the old bird was built well and the gear held as the wheels traveled sideways across the grassy pasture. The Navion came to a jolting, rocking halt less than twenty feet from the stone fence.

Vivian said, “Beautiful.”

Mercado said, “Good one, old boy.”

Everyone grabbed their canvas bags that held the maps, camera, and film, as Purcell slid the canopy open and scrambled onto the wing. Vivian followed quickly and jumped to the ground, followed by Mercado. Purcell joined them and they put some distance between themselves and the Navion in case it decided to burst into flames.

Purcell stood looking at Signore Bocaccio’s aircraft, which landed a bit better than it flew. Vivian unpinned the Saint Christopher medal from Purcell’s shirt, kissed it, then shoved it in his top pocket.

He heard a noise behind him and turned to see a Land Rover coming toward them. The vehicle stopped a distance away and the door opened. Colonel Gann, wearing a white shamma and sandals, came out of the driver’s side and walked toward them. He called out, “Was that a landing, or were you shot down?”

Mercado replied in the same spirit of British lunacy, “Just dropping in to say hello.”

Gann smiled as he continued toward them. “Just in time for tea.”

Gann’s hair was now very short, Purcell noticed, and jet black, and he’d lost his red mustache somewhere, and also lost his riding crop if he’d had one. Also gone was his prison pallor, replaced by a nice tan.

Gann walked up to Purcell. “Good landing, actually. Frightened the goats a bit, but they’ll get over it.”

“So will I.”

Gann flashed his toothy smile, then took Vivian’s hand. “Lovely as always.”

“You look good in a shamma.”

“Don’t tell.” He took Mercado’s hand. “Is Gondar closed today?”

“It is to us.”

“Well, you must have a good story to tell. But first meet my friend.” He waved at the Land Rover, and the passenger-side door opened.

A young woman wearing a green shamma came out of the vehicle, and they all followed Gann as he walked toward the lady.

Gann announced, “This is Miriam.”

She nodded her head.

Purcell looked at her. She was about early thirties, maybe younger, with short curly black hair. Her features were distinctly Semitic, though her skin was very dark, and her eyes were a deep brown. All in all, she was a beautiful woman.

Gann introduced his friends who’d dropped in unexpectedly, and she took each person’s hand and said, “Welcome.”

Gann didn’t say this was his girlfriend, but it was, and that explained a few things. Always cherchez la femme, Purcell knew.

Gann asked his visitors, “Are you being pursued?”

Purcell replied, “Possibly by air.”

“All right then… we will bury the aircraft in palm fronds.” He looked at Miriam, who said in good English, “I will see to that.”

Gann let them know, “Miriam is… well, in charge here.” He explained, “She’s a princess of the royal blood.”

Purcell had had a few experiences with Jewish princesses, but he understood that this was different.

Mercado said to Princess Miriam, “We are sorry to intrude, your highness.”

“Please, I am just Miriam.”

Mercado bowed his head in acknowledgment.

Purcell reminded everyone, “Sir Edmund actually invited us.”

Gann replied, “I did, didn’t I? Glad you understood that. Well, here you are. So let’s be off.” He opened the door of the Land Rover for his princess, and said to everyone, “If the aircraft doesn’t blow up, your luggage will be along shortly.”

Purcell, Mercado, and Vivian squeezed into the rear of the Land Rover. Gann got behind the wheel and turned toward the village, saying, “I’m afraid Shoan will look a bit deserted, as you may have noticed when you flew by a few days ago. Most everyone has gone to Israel. Just a dozen or so left, and they’ll be heading off soon.”

No one responded to that, and Gann put his hand on Miriam’s shoulder and said, “But they’ll all be back. You’ll see. A year or two.”

Miriam didn’t reply.

They entered the small village of about fifty stucco houses, and except for the tin roofs and unpaved streets, Purcell thought he could be back in Berini. No church, however, but he did see the building on the small square that he’d seen from the air, and indeed it was the synagogue, with a Star of David painted in blue over the door.

The square was deserted, and so was the narrow street they turned down, which ended at the edge of the village. Purcell saw the large house he’d also seen from the air, which turned out to be the princess’s palace.

Gann stopped the vehicle under a stand of tall palms and said, “Here we are.”

Everyone got out and Gann opened a small wooden door in the plain, windowless façade. Miriam entered, then Gann waved his guests in.

It wasn’t that palatial, Purcell saw, but the whitewashed walls were clean and bright, and the floor was laid with red tile. Niches in the walls held ceramic jars filled with tropical flowers. They followed Miriam and Gann through an open arch into a paved courtyard where the round pool that Purcell had seen from the air sat among date palms. Black African violets grew beneath the palms, and bougainvillea climbed the walls of the other wings of the house.

Gann indicated a grouping of teak chairs and they sat.

A female servant appeared and Miriam said something to her and she left, then Miriam said to her guests, “I can offer you only fruit drinks and some bread.”

Purcell informed her, “We have about a hundred pounds of coffee beans in the aircraft. Please consider that our houseguest gift.”

Miriam smiled, turned to Gann, and said something in Amharic.

Gann, too, smiled, and Purcell had the feeling that Colonel Gann had briefed the princess about his friends.

Vivian said, “This is a beautiful house.”

“Thank you.”

Purcell went straight to the obvious question and asked Gann, “So, how did you two meet?”

Gann replied, “I was a friend of Miriam’s father back in ’41. Met him in Gondar after we kicked out the Italians.” He explained, “The Falashas own most of the weaving mills and silver shops in Gondar, and the bloody Fascists took everything from them because they are Jews, and arrested anyone who made a fuss about it. I found Sahle in a prison, half dead, and gave him a bit of bread and a cup of gin. Put him right in no time.” He continued, “Well, Sahle and I became friends, and before I left in ’43, I came to Shoan to see the birth of his daughter.” He looked lovingly at Miriam. “She is as beautiful as her mother.”

Vivian smiled and asked Miriam, “Are your parents… here?”

“They have passed on.”

Gann said, “Miriam has an older brother, David, who unfortunately went to Gondar on business a few months ago, and has not returned.” He added, “He is said to be alive in prison.” He added, “Getachu has him.”

The servant returned with a tray of fruit, bread, and ceramic cups that held purple juice. Everyone took a cup and the servant set the tray on a table. Miriam spoke with the woman, then said to her guests, “The aircraft is being hidden, and your luggage has arrived.” She also assured Mr. Purcell that the coffee beans were with the luggage, and coffee would be served later.

Gann raised his cup and said, “Welcome to Shoan.”

They all drank the tart juice, which turned out to be fizzy and fermented.

Gann said, “You must tell me everything.”

Purcell replied, “Henry is good at telling everything.”

Mercado started with their separate arrivals in Addis, and his finding Signore Bocaccio and his aircraft. Gann nodded, but he seemed to know some of this, and Purcell was impressed with the Royalist underground, or whatever counterrevolutionaries Gann was in touch with.

Mercado then described their aerial recon, and Vivian’s wonderful photography, and remembered to thank Gann for the maps, but forgot to compliment Purcell on his flying. Purcell noted, too, that Henry didn’t tell Sir Edmund that he, Henry Mercado, had recently fucked Frank Purcell’s girlfriend. But that wasn’t conversation for mixed company, though Henry might mention it later to Sir Edmund, man to man.

Purcell looked at Gann, then at Miriam, then at Mercado and Vivian. He hoped he was as lucky when he hit sixty. He thought, too, of Signore Bocaccio with his Ethiopian wife and children. If all went well — which it would not — they’d be in Rome in a few weeks; he, Vivian, Henry, Colonel Gann, Miriam, and the Bocaccio family, sitting in Ristorante Etiopia, drinking wine out of the Holy Grail. That was not going to happen, but it was nice to think it.

Henry was getting to the good part — the part where Frank Purcell shot down an armed Ethiopian Air Force helicopter. Henry said to Purcell, “Perhaps you’d like to tell this, Frank.”

Purcell understood that this was a good story for a bar, far away from Ethiopia. But here, it was not a good story. In fact, he had put them all in mortal danger. Though in Ethiopia, that was redundant.

“Frank?”

“Well, I think this chopper was looking for us, and I think our old friend General Getachu had sent him. So the game was up, one way or the other, and we — I—decided to take this guy out.”

Gann asked, “Do you have weapons with you?”

“No.” He explained about the rocket pod, and his creative use of the smoke markers. He didn’t go into detail, but he did say, “I rode in a lot of Hueys in ’Nam, covering the war, and I saw them using smoke rockets.” He added, “Looked easy.” He also explained, “We were dead anyway. Or worse than dead if we landed in Gondar.”

Gann nodded. “Quite right.”

Vivian let Gann know, “They fired a machine gun at us. Frank was very brave. I was petrified.”

Mercado admitted, “I was a bit anxious myself.”

Gann thought about this, then asked, “Did you see any other aircraft?”

Purcell replied, “No.”

Gann said, “They’re probably looking for you on the way to the French territory.”

“We thought about heading there, instead of here. Or Sudan.”

“Well, good that you didn’t.” He informed them, “You wouldn’t have made it.” He let them know, “The Ethies don’t have many jets — just a few Mirages — but they are getting Russian helicopter gunships with Russian pilots, and you would probably have met them on your way to Somalia or Sudan.”

Purcell nodded, then said, “Sorry, though, if we’ve put you in a difficult situation.”

It was Miriam who said, “We are already in a difficult situation. You are most welcome here.”

“Thank you.”

Vivian assured her, “We won’t be here long.”

Miriam looked at Vivian and said, “You are welcome to stay, and you are welcome to leave for French Somaliland, and we can help you with that journey.” She continued, “But I would prefer if you did not go to the place where you wish to go.”

Vivian replied, “We have come a long way to find this place.” She assured Miriam, “We mean no harm to these monks, or to their religious objects.”

“I understand that from Edmund. I understand, too, that you think you have been chosen to find this place. And I respect your beliefs. But I can offer you no assistance with your search.”

Purcell asked, “Why not?”

She looked at him and replied, “We here in Shoan have a sacred covenant with the monks of the black monastery.”

Purcell reminded her, “You’re Jewish. They’re Copts.”

“That does not matter. We are of the same tradition for two thousand years.”

“Right. Well, all we’re asking then is a good night’s sleep and food to take on our journey.”

“I will gladly give you that, but I wish you would reconsider that journey.”

“Can’t do that.”

Miriam didn’t reply.

Purcell said, “And we may have to return here at some point.”

“You are welcome to do that, but we may not be here when you return.”

Purcell looked at Gann and reminded him, “You let us know you were here.” He asked, “Why?”

Gann hesitated, then replied, “I would like to go with you.” He explained, “I’ve spoken to Miriam, and she understands that we believe that the object you are looking for is in danger, and it must be taken to a safe place, though she believes the monks themselves could do that.”

“Maybe they can.” He asked, “But if we took it, where would we take it?”

Gann glanced at Mercado, then said, “It’s not my decision to make.” He let them know, “We need to discuss this.”

Purcell pointed out, “We don’t have it yet, and to be honest with you, we probably never will. So maybe this is moot.”

Vivian said, “When we find it, we will know what to do.”

Purcell thought that Henry had undoubtedly promised the Grail to the Vatican, and Gann may have promised it to the British Museum, to take the place of the Ethiopian royal crown the British had snatched and given back. But in either case, the Grail, if it existed, and if they found it, was to be held in custody until Ethiopia was free again. At least that was the promise.

Mercado asked Gann, “What is the situation in the countryside?”

“A bit unsettled.” He explained about the counterrevolutionaries, and the Royalist partisans, both of whom he was in touch with. He also said, “The Gallas have mostly gone east where the Eritreans are fighting for independence from Ethiopia. But there are some left to see if the fighting here resumes.”

Purcell told him, “We saw some Gallas from the air.” He said to Gann, “I meant to ask you — what do they do with all those balls?”

“They eat them, old boy.” He further explained, “Not the Christian or Muslim Gallas, of course. But the pagan Gallas.” He added, “Gives them courage.”

“Right. You’d need a lot of courage to do that.”

“Never thought of that.” Gann further addressed Mercado’s concerns and told them, “The Israelis have smuggled in some firearms for the Falashas, to be sure the exodus goes off without a problem.” He reached into an empty urn and retrieved an Uzi submachine gun. “Nice piece of goods.” He handed it to Purcell and told them, “We’ll take that with us.”

Purcell looked at the compact weapon with a magazine longer than the barrel. “This should scare the hell out of those monks.”

Gann smiled. “I was thinking more of the Gallas — or anyone else who we may meet in the jungle.” He also informed them, “Getachu has sent some units down this way, but they’ve gotten a bad reception from the Royalist partisans and the anti-Marxist counterrevolutionaries.”

“Good.” Purcell asked, “Do you have three more Uzis?”

“I’m afraid not.” He let them know, “The few men left here need them.”

Purcell passed the Uzi to Mercado, who said, “Reminds me of the old British Sten gun,” and gave it to Vivian.

Gann said to his guests, “It’s a simple weapon, and I’ll show you how to use it in the event… I’m not with you.”

Miriam looked at her lover, but said nothing.

Mercado asked Gann, “Is Shoan safe?”

“It is to the extent that the Provisional government has agreed to let the Jews leave, unhindered.” He added, “So far the exodus has gone well all over the country, though there have been a few incidents, and thus the Uzis.”

Purcell asked Gann, “How do you communicate with the Royalists here, and in Addis?”

“I have a shortwave radio. I keep it outside the village, so as not to compromise the people here.”

“Can you show it to us?”

“Of course. But my batteries have died, and I’m waiting for replacements.” He added, “My Kipling poem to you was my last transmission.”

“We would have brought batteries if they’d been left for us at the hotel.”

“If you’re found with a shortwave battery, you are shot. After being tortured.”

“Right.” Maps and photographs were maybe explainable. Shortwave radio batteries were as hard to explain as a gun. He’d rather have the gun, which could explain itself.

Gann took the gun from Vivian and said, “We should push off tomorrow.” He asked them, “Do you have any idea where you would like to look?”

Purcell replied, “I hoped you — or Miriam — could suggest something.”

“I’m afraid I can’t, old boy.” He said, “I thought perhaps you’d seen something from the air.”

“We did. But we don’t want to see all those places on the ground.”

“Well, we may have to do that.” Gann stayed silent for a moment, then glanced at Miriam and said to his guests, “As I mentioned to you in Rome, the people of Shoan have some contact with the monastery. However, those who had this contact are gone.”

Purcell looked at Miriam. She told them, “The secret is with the elders who have left, and they took their secret with them.”

Gann looked at his guests. “A relationship… a friendship, that has lasted four hundred years, since the monastery was built, is now severed.” He told them, “The last meeting took place two weeks ago, and the monks have been told.”

Purcell again had the feeling he’d slipped into an alternate universe. He asked Miriam, “When the people who went to this meeting place left, how long were they gone?”

She looked at him but did not reply.

He asked, “Which way did they go?”

She replied, “They went in a different direction each time, and they were never gone for the same number of days.”

“Well, that narrows it down.”

Vivian said to him, “Frank, you are being rude.”

“Sorry.” He explained his rudeness. “I just want to find this place and get out of here.”

Miriam said to him, and to her other guests, “Let me think about what you have asked.”

“Thank you.”

Miriam said softly, “This is a difficult time for everyone. This civilization — Christian and Jewish — has come to an end. But we look to the future, which will be better. We must all leave here, but when we return, we must return as we were, with our customs and traditions, and our covenants unbroken.”

Purcell nodded. “I understand.”

Vivian said to Miriam, “We are here to do what you are doing. To take with us what cannot be left here. To keep things safe until this nightmare is over.”

Miriam replied, “You should let the monks do that.” She stood. “I must see to your comforts. I will return shortly.”

The gentlemen stood, and the princess left.

Gann said to his guests, “Miriam and I have had this conversation, as you can well imagine, and I assure you, she knows nothing more than she has told you.”

Mercado said, “I’m sure she’d have told you if she knew more.”

Purcell wondered if Henry really believed that women told their men everything. If he did, he’d be cuckolded every year.

Vivian told Gann, “Tomorrow, we’d like to go to the spa.” She explained that this was not a nostalgia trip, but a bone hunting expedition.

Gann replied, “Rather odd custom, don’t you think?”

Mercado, former atheist, now a believer working for the Vatican newspaper, explained, “This is very important to the Church of Rome when a person is proposed for sainthood.” He further explained, “A mortal remain is considered a first-class relic. A piece of a garment is second-class, other objects—”

“Yes, well, we can stop at the spa and look about for a bone or two.” He added, “Short walk. Half a day at most.”

Vivian continued, “And we’d like to see the fortress where Father Armano was imprisoned for forty years.”

Mercado told Gann, “We spotted incognita from the air and it was, indeed, Prince Theodore’s fortress.”

“Good recon.” He asked Vivian, “Is this part of the sainthood thing?”

She replied, “It is part of Father Armano’s story. It is something I need to see.”

“I see… Well, I’m sure it’s on the way to something.”

Mercado said, “Most of the suspected locations of the black monastery are a day or two walk from the fortress.”

Vivian added, “There may be a clue there.”

Gann nodded. “We’ll take a look.”

They had more fermented fruit juice as they discussed a few items on everyone’s agenda. They agreed they’d be gone a week — or less if they found what they were looking for. If not, they would return to Shoan, and as Colonel Gann said, “Regroup, refit, and strike out again.”

Vivian asked Gann, “Will anyone be here when we return?”

He didn’t reply for a moment, then said, “Everyone will be gone.” He told them, “Miriam and I will meet in Jerusalem.”

Vivian smiled. “That’s very nice.”

Mercado, who was again thinking about exit strategy, asked Purcell, “Could you get that aircraft out of here?”

“We could carry it out.”

“Why can’t you fly it out?”

“It has to take off first, Henry. That’s the hard part.”

“If you land, you can take off.”

“I may have blown the tires. I’ll look at it later.” He asked, “Where would you like to go?”

“French Somaliland.”

Gann interjected, “I think we will need to walk out of here.” He assured them, “A number of Royalist partisans have been to Somalia and back. I have a few chaps who will come along.”

Miriam returned and announced that dinner would be served in an hour, and she offered to show everyone to their rooms.

They all stood and Miriam led them to an arched loggia, along which were wooden doors. She indicated a door and said, “For Mr. Mercado.” Miriam thought she knew the sleeping arrangements and indicated another door. “For Mr. Purcell, and Miss Smith.” She added, “I hope we have gotten your luggage correctly placed.”

Gann pointed to the end of the loggia and said, “Bath down there.” He suggested, “Let’s say cocktails in one hour, on the patio.”

Purcell, Vivian, and Mercado thanked their hosts, and entered their rooms.

Purcell looked around the small, whitewashed room with a beamed ceiling. There were no windows, but narrow wooden louvers sat high in the wall to let in air and light, and to keep out wildlife and uninvited guests.

There were two gray steel beds against one wall that looked like they’d come from an institution. Against the opposite wall was a wooden table, on which sat their luggage and an oil lamp. In one corner was a chair, and in another was a washstand with a bowl and pitcher. He said, “Looks like a monk’s cell.”

“This will look good after a week in the jungle.”

“It will look like a palace.”

She asked him, “Are you all right with this?”

He didn’t reply.

“I can ask for a separate room.”

“Let me do that.”

“Frank. Look at me.”

He looked at her.

“I am sorry, and I love you.”

“We’ll discuss this in Gondar.”

“We are not going to Gondar.”

“Right.”

She changed the subject and said, “I didn’t think Sir Edmund had so much romance in his soul.”

Purcell admitted, “I was a bit surprised.”

“Love conquers all.”

“Any good news?”

“I’m going to find the bath.” She left.

He stood there awhile, then decided he needed a bath.

He found the door at the end of the loggia and went inside a roofless enclosure in which was a sunken pool against the far wall. The face of a black stone lion was embedded in the wall, and a stream of water poured from the lion’s mouth. Vivian’s clothes lay on a stone bench, and Vivian herself was floating full frontal nude in the pool.

He took off his clothes and slipped into the water, which was unheated but warm.

She said to him, “No one would believe a village of Jews in the middle of the Ethiopian jungle.” She added, “Or a Roman spa. Or a monastery of Coptic monks.”

“Don’t forget the Jewish princess.”

“Maybe this is a dream.”

With a bit of nightmare, for sure, he thought.

She stayed silent awhile, floating with her eyes closed. She said, “We’re very close.”

“Closer than I thought we’d get.”

“Do you think Miriam will help us?”

“She’s thinking about it.”

Neither of them spoke for a while, then Vivian said, “Thank you for staying with this.”

He didn’t reply.

“You could have left, and I wouldn’t have blamed you.”

“It’s a good story.”

The door opened, and Mercado said, “Oh… sorry…” He asked, “Mind if I join you?” He explained, “I’m a bit rushed for time.”

Vivian did not reply, but Purcell said, “You don’t need to ask. We’re all friends.”

Chapter 45

Purcell, Vivian, and Mercado, all fresh from their communal bath, joined the princess and the colonel for cocktails on the patio. Vivian wore her best khaki pants and green T-shirt, and the two gentlemen wore khakis, top and bottom.

The sun was setting and the night had grown pleasantly cool. The purple African sky above the date palms was magnificent, Purcell thought, and if it wasn’t for Colonel Gann’s Uzi on the table, he could imagine he was someplace else.

Colonel Sir Edmund Gann had gone unnative, and he wore his paramilitary khakis to cocktails, though he’d kept his afternoon sandals.

Princess Miriam wore a purple evening shamma, trimmed with lion’s mane, the sign of royalty in old Ethiopia.

Cocktails were limited to Boodles gin, a half bottle of which Colonel Gann had been saving for a special occasion, and this was it — which pleased Henry. The gin could be had with or without fruit juice.

The cocktail chatter had mostly to do with the Falasha exodus and the local security situation. Gann explained, “Getachu and his army control the Gondar area and the surrounding Simien Mountains. Here, to the south, which is nearly unpopulated, there are counterrevolutionaries operating in the jungle valleys, as I’ve said, as well as the remnants of the Royalist forces.” He further explained, “These two groups have far different agendas — an elected government on the one hand, and a return to an absolute monarchy on the other.” He told them, “I’m trying to get them to pull together to get rid of the Marxists. I explained to both sides how we in Britain have a monarch and an elected parliament. But they’re not understanding the concept.”

Purcell admitted, “Neither do I.”

Cocktails were brief, and they were escorted into the palace, where dinner was served in a room that held a long table which would seat about twenty; suitable for large family meals, except that everyone was gone. The floor, Purcell noticed, was laid with black stone.

The teak table was set simply, though the silverware was real, Purcell noticed, and each piece was decorated with the Lion of Judah. The dishes, too, had the heraldic lion hand-painted on them. The dinner theme, Purcell saw, was lions.

Fading sunlight came through the high louvers, and oil lamps flickered on the table.

On the menu was grilled goat, some sort of root vegetable, and flatbread, with bowls of dates scattered around the table. Fermented fruit juice was poured into bronze goblets that looked like the ones Prince Joshua once owned, and the one that he, Purcell, had overpaid for in Rome.

Two ladies in middle age served the simple meal and kept the fizzy fruit juice flowing. Miriam promised fresh coffee at the end of the meal.

She was an intelligent and interesting lady, Purcell saw, and he could see why the other old goat in the room — Sir Edmund — was taken with her.

Dinner conversation began light, and in answer to Vivian’s question, Miriam explained, “Most of the Solomonic line are Christian, of course, but some are Jewish, and some are even Muslim. The line from Solomon and Sheba is well recorded, but over the centuries, the three religions have influenced the faith of some families.” She added, “The Jews are not the oldest religion in Ethiopia — the pagans are. If you call that a religion.”

Purcell had just learned that the pagan Gallas ate human testicles, but he didn’t know how to work that into the dinner conversation — or if he should try.

Purcell also wanted to ask Miriam why, in her early thirties, she was not married yet with ten kids, but to be more subtle and polite, he asked, “So do you have to marry within the Solomonic line?”

She stayed silent for a few seconds, then replied, “I was married at sixteen, to a Christian ras, but we produced no heirs, so my husband divorced me. This is not unusual.” She added, “Most of the rasses are now dead, or they have fled, so I have few prospects for marriage.” She looked at her boyfriend and said without cracking a smile, “So I have settled for an Englishman.”

Everyone got a laugh at that, and Gann said, “Could do worse, you know.”

Vivian asked boldly, “Do you two plan to marry?”

Miriam replied, “We have no word for knight, so here they call him Ras Edmund, which makes him acceptable.”

Again everyone laughed, but clearly this was a touchy subject, so the nosy reporters did not ask follow-up questions.

Miriam switched to another touchy subject — her benighted country. “This is an old civilization in the middle stage of history — a medieval anachronism. The Muslims keep harems and slaves. The Christians dispense biblical justice, and men are made eunuchs, and women are sold for sexual purposes. The Jews, too, have engaged in Old Testament punishment. The pagans practice unspeakable rites, including castration and crucifixion. And now the Marxists have introduced a new religion, the religion of atheism, and a new social order, the mass killing of anyone who is associated with the old order.”

Purcell needed another drink after that. When he was first here, in September, living at the Hilton in Addis, he had almost no idea what life was like outside the capital, which itself was no treat. Their trip out of Addis to the northern front had opened his eyes a little to what Ethiopia was about. Gann, however, had known this place since 1941, and Mercado even longer. And yet they’d returned, and in Gann’s case, he found something compelling about this country — something that drew him to it the way some men are drawn to those places on the map marked “terra incognita — here be dragons.” And Signore Bocaccio… he’d forgotten there were better places to do business.

Vivian, like himself, had come here clueless and freelance, but she had discovered that she was chosen by God to be here, which was better than being chosen by the Associated Press.

And then there was Frank Purcell. He needed to think again about why he was still here.

In his mental absence, the subject had again turned to dark matters. Miriam said, “Mikael Getachu’s father worked for my father in Gondar in the weaving shop. My father treated the family well, and paid for Mikael’s education at the English missionary school.”

Purcell informed everyone, “Getachu’s biography says his parents went without food to pay for his education.”

Miriam replied, “They went without nothing.”

Gann said, “Miriam’s brother, David, was actually lured by Getachu to come to Gondar with the promise that Getachu would release two young nieces and a nephew of the family if David would identify and sign over the family’s assets to Getachu.” Gann added, “Getachu knows he can’t violate the ancient sanctity of Shoan, or more importantly the international agreement protecting the Jews during the exodus. But he has sent a message to Miriam saying that if she voluntarily comes to Gondar, then he will release David, and the nieces and nephew.” He added, “The children’s parents, who are Sahle’s sister and brother-in-law, have already been shot.”

Purcell looked at Miriam, who seemed stoic enough on the outside, but he could imagine the conflicts and pain inside her.

Gann said, “Getachu’s goal all along was to get hold of his princess.”

Miriam said bluntly, “He will not have me.”

Vivian was looking at her, but said nothing.

Mercado suggested in a quiet voice, “You should leave here as soon as possible.”

“I will be the last to leave. That is my duty.”

Gann said, “We’re hoping for a UN helicopter pickup here next week.”

Purcell would have liked them all to be on that helicopter, but he knew that would jeopardize not only the Falashas, but also the UN mission. In fact, just their being here did all of that, plus some. He said, “We are leaving at daybreak, and we won’t return until everyone here is safely gone.” He also suggested to Gann, “Set fire to the aircraft so it looks like we crashed and burned. Lots of fuel on board.”

Mercado did not like that, but he understood it.

Gann assured everyone, “I’ll have that done in the morning.”

Miriam wanted to know about Purcell, Mercado, and Vivian, and they filled her in on some of the details, though she seemed to know most of this from her boyfriend, Purcell thought, including the fact that they’d had the pleasure of Mikael’s company.

She warned them, “He has a long memory and a great capacity for cruelty and revenge. Do not fall into his hands again.” She added, “But you know that.”

As for Prince David, Miriam had no illusions that Getachu would be treating him well, but she felt or hoped that after she was out of Getachu’s reach, and she was in Israel, Getachu would release her brother, and the nieces and nephew, under pressure from the Israelis and the UN, and hopefully under orders from his own superiors in Addis. Purcell thought that was a possibility, but he was sure that David, if he ever did arrive in Israel, would be a broken man. As General Getachu himself had indicated, shooting a man is easy; breaking a man is more fun — especially if the man or woman was an arrogant aristocrat, or an annoying journalist.

Miriam suggested to her guests, “Perhaps you can write about what you have seen here. And perhaps you will mention my brother and my nieces and nephew. That could be helpful for their release.”

They all promised they would do that when they left Ethiopia. And they would keep that promise — if they left Ethiopia.

Miriam thanked them, and then painted for them a grim picture of post-revolutionary Ethiopia for their lead story. “The land is laid waste by war, and by locusts and drought, sent by God. Famine has killed too many to count, and millions more hang by a thread. Pestilence is spreading across the land and the people have withdrawn into themselves. Churches are looted and monks lock themselves in their monasteries. All this is punishment by God for what we have allowed the godless men in Addis to do. God is testing us, and we must show him that we remain true to him. Only then will we be saved by God.”

No one spoke, and Gann, Purcell thought, looked both embarrassed and proud of his princess. Clearly, there was a great cultural divide between them, but they were both righteous and decent people, and what separated them was not as great as what divided them. Love conquers all, as Vivian said.

Coffee was served with some sort of concoction of goat’s milk, honey, and almonds.

Miriam said, “Trade with Gondar and other cities has been greatly reduced since the troubles began. So we have only what we have. But that is more than they have in the places where the drought and the locusts have killed the land.” She forced a smile and added, “In any case, we are all going to the land of milk and honey.” She asked if anyone had been to Israel, and Mercado and Purcell had, and they painted a bright picture for Miriam that seemed to comport with what her English knight had already told her.

Purcell had encountered a few former aristocrats or landed gentry and former capitalists in the bars of Hong Kong and Singapore, and in the capitals of Western Europe, and most of them were indignant that they’d been innocent victims of some revolution or another. Almost all expressed a sense of loss, and what they all had in common was a stunned disbelief that the world had changed so much, or had gone so mad. Born to rule or born to great wealth, these refined refugees could not understand or accept that the lowest elements of society — the Getachus — were the most recent mutation of social Darwinism, and that the former lords and masters were the dodo birds in the process of natural selection and extinction.

Princess Miriam, Purcell thought, was a nice person, and he was sure that she and her family had never knowingly hurt anyone. In fact, they’d sent Mikael Getachu, and probably other poor children, to school. But the two greatest scapegoats in the history of the world were the nobility and the Jews — and if you were both, you had a serious problem.

Gann switched to another subject and informed everyone, “Obsidian was quarried in these mountains since ancient times and sent down the Nile on barges to Egypt, where it was prized for its strength and its ability to be polished to a high black luster. We’ve all seen the Egyptian statuary carved from obsidian in museums. It’s difficult to work with, and it is rarely seen as a building material, except in floors, such as the one in this room, which could be a thousand years old.”

Purcell wasn’t sure where this was going, but then Gann said, “The quarries in this area have not been worked for hundreds of years, and they are mostly overgrown and lost to memory. But there are a few that I’ve identified, and on the theory that this black monastery is built of obsidian — which is so heavy that it can’t be transported too far — I think we should have a look around these three ancient quarries which I’ve identified on a map.”

Everyone nodded, except Miriam, who clearly didn’t want to participate in any discussion about finding the black monastery.

It occurred to Purcell that, as Vivian said, they were close, and with some luck and brains they could actually be seeing what Father Armano saw forty years ago — high black walls rising out of the jungle in front of them. But was the monastery now deserted? He suspected that it was, especially after the Jewish elders of Shoan told the monks that they were all leaving. Gone, too, would be the Grail, of course. But if he, Vivian, Mercado, and Gann found the monastery, that would be enough for him and maybe for his companions. The journey would be over, and the Grail — as it had a history of doing — would be gone, but safe from the world which had grown evil.

But if they reached the walls of the monastery and a reed basket was lowered… well, forewarned was forearmed.

Dinner was over, and everyone stood. The long night had begun, and at dawn they would begin their quest for fame, fortune, salvation, a good story, a Grail rescue mission, inner peace, or whatever was driving them into the dark interior.

If, indeed, they had been chosen for this journey, then the answer to why they’d been chosen was waiting for them.