The Quest: A Novel Part 5

"Right," Purcell interrupted, "but let's first get away from this spa before the Gallas arrive for a bath."

Mercado and Vivian stood, and they made their way across the courtyard, then walked through the colonnade, back toward their Jeep.

Vivian asked, "How do we find the army headquarters?"

Mercado replied, "Probably by accident. We just need to drive into the hills and with luck we'll come across an army unit or an outpost." He suggested, "Practice waving your press credentials."

They got back to the lobby of the spa hotel and jumped into the Jeep. Purcell started it up and they drove across the lobby, out to the portico, then down the steps they'd ascended the night before. Purcell continued across the gra.s.s field and onto the narrow jungle road, then turned toward the hills and accelerated.

They were aware that they were in a battle zone and that anything was possible, especially bad things. The Provisional Army forces were supposed to honor their safe-conduct pa.s.s, issued by the Provisional government. The Royalist forces, who'd probably been beaten last night, might not be in a good mood. But their imprisoned emperor, Haile Sela.s.sie, had an affinity for the West, and Purcell thought that the Royalists, all Christians, would treat them well if they ran into them first. But as with all armies, you never knew for sure. What Purcell did know for sure was that the Gallas would butcher them without a thought about their status as accredited journalists.

Purcell tried to focus on the bad road and on the problem of avoiding the Gallas. But his thoughts kept returning to the priest and his story. Father Armano had found the black monastery that the Vatican knew existed. Purcell was sure of that part of the story. After that... well, as Henry Mercado said, it was all medieval myth. The search for the Holy Grail had been going on for about a thousand years, and the reason it was never found was because it never existed. Or it did exist for a brief hour or two at the Last Supper-but it had been cleared with the dishes and it was lost forever. More importantly, it had no special powers; that was a tale spun by storytellers, not historians or theologians. That fact, however, had never stopped anyone from looking for it.

Purcell wondered how many people had spent their lives or lost their lives in a quest to find this thing that didn't exist. He didn't know, but he did know that there might soon be three more idiots to add to that list.

Chapter 6.

Purcell saw that the narrow mountain road hadn't been repaired since the rainy season ended. As they climbed, the jungle thinned, and behind them, through the dust, they could see the ruins of the white spa in the valley. Ahead, red rock formations jutted out from the red earth. There were no signs of the night's battle, noted Purcell, but he caught the faint odor of cordite and ripe flesh drifting down the hills with the mountain winds.

Vivian asked, "Why are we not seeing anyone?"

Purcell glanced at her in the rearview mirror. They had taken the canvas top off the Jeep so they could be identified more easily as Westerners. The wind had sifted dust through Vivian's raven black hair and deposited a fine red powder on her high cheeks. She wore a floppy bush hat to keep the sun off her stark white skin. He said to her, "They will see our dust before we see them."

Mercado stared absently at the winding road. His mind was elsewhere. Since his release from the Russian Gulag, he had made a career of seeking out religious experiences. In his travels as a journalist, he had spoken with Pope John XXIII, the Dalai Lama, Hindu mystics, Buddhist monks, and people who claimed they were G.o.d, or good friends of G.o.d. His life and his writing, up to the time of his arrest, had been anti-Fascist and pro-Socialist. But with the collapse of the former system and his imprisonment by a government of the latter, his life and his writings had also collapsed. Both became stale. Empty.

People had urged him to write about his years in the Soviet Gulag, but he had no words to describe his experience. Or, he admitted, he could not find the courage to find the words.

It was his search for G.o.d that had revived his flair for the written word and his ability to tell a good story.

He had written a New York Times piece on the Dalai Lama fleeing the Red Chinese and living in exile in India, which gained him new postwar fame as a journalist. In 1962, he had gone boldly back to Russia and done articles on religious persecution. He narrowly escaped re-imprisonment and was expelled. There had been some good pieces since, but lately the writing had become stale again.

Mercado was as worried about his career as he was about his flagging religious fervor. The two were related. He needed something burning in his gut-like the priest's mortal wound-to make him write well. His current a.s.signment for UPI was to do a series of articles on how the ancient Coptic Church was faring in the civil war. He also had contacts with the Vatican newspaper, L'Osservatore Romano, and they bought much of his output. But there was no fire in his words anymore and his editors knew it. He had almost given up. Until now. Now his brain burned secretly with the experience of the previous night. He felt that he had been chosen by G.o.d to tell the priest's story. There was no other explanation for the string of coincidences that had made him privy to this secret. He remained calm on the outside, but his soul was on fire with the antic.i.p.ation of the quest for the Grail. But that was his secret.

Purcell glanced at him in the pa.s.senger seat. "Are you all right?"

Mercado came out of his reverie. "I'm fine."

Purcell thought of Henry Mercado as his danger barometer. Henry had seen it all, and if Henry was apprehensive, then a s.h.i.tstorm was coming.

Purcell, too, was no stranger to war, and both of them had probably seen more combat and death than the average infantry soldier. But Mercado was a seasoned pro, and Purcell had been impressed with the older man's instinct for survival during the three-day ride through the chaos and violence of this war-torn country. Henry Mercado knew when to bluff and bl.u.s.ter, when to bribe, when to be polite and respectful, and when to run like h.e.l.l.

Purcell thought that despite their imprisonments, both he and Mercado had been mostly lucky as war correspondents, or at least smart enough to stay alive. But Mercado had stayed alive far longer than Frank Purcell. So when Henry Mercado and Vivian had approached him in the Hilton bar, armed with a safe-conduct pa.s.s from the Provisional government, and asked him if he'd like to accompany them to the current hot spot, he'd agreed without too much hesitation.

But now... well, what sounded good in Addis did not look good three days out. Purcell had been in worse places and much tighter situations, but after a year in a Khmer Rouge prison, facing death every day from starvation and disease, and seeing men and women executed for no apparent reason, he felt that he'd used up his quota of luck. Unfortunately, he hadn't come to that realization until he was a day out of Addis Ababa. And now they had reached that point of no return. Avanti.

Purcell lit a cigarette as he kept the wheel steady with one hand. He said, "I'm hoping we hook up with the army. I'm sure they beat the h.e.l.l out of Prince Joshua last night, and I'd rather travel with the winner. The Gallas travel with the losers."

Mercado scanned the high terrain with his field gla.s.ses as he replied, "Yes, but I think the better story is with Prince Joshua." He added, "Lost causes and crumbling empires are always a good story."

Vivian said, "Can we stop speaking about the Gallas?"

Mercado lowered his field gla.s.ses and told her, "Better to speak of them than to them."

They continued on, and Mercado sat back in his seat. He said, "The dangerous thing about a civil war is that the battle lines change like spaghetti bouncing in a colander."

Purcell inquired, "Can I quote you on that?"

Mercado ignored him and continued. "I covered the Spanish Civil War. As long as you travel with one side or the other, you are part of their baggage train. But if you get caught in between or out on the fringes and try to get back in, you become arrestable. You know, Frank, if you had been traveling with the Khmer Rouge, you probably wouldn't have been arrested. I suppose it all has something to do with spy-phobia. They don't like people who run between armies. The trick is to get inside the battle lines without getting shot. If you're challenged by a sentry, you must be bold and wave around your press cards and cameras, as if you had been specially invited to the war. Once you get inside, you'll usually find the top dogs are courteous. But you must never appear to be arrestable. The business of armies, besides fighting, is arrest and execution. They can't help it. They are programmed for it. You must not look arrestable or executable." He asked Purcell, "Do you understand?"

"Why don't you drive, Henry, and I'll pontificate?"

Mercado laughed. "Did I hit a sore spot, Frank? Don't fret. I'm speaking from personal experience."

Purcell thought he was speaking to impress Vivian.

Mercado continued, "There was one moment there in East Berlin when I could have bl.u.s.tered my way out of arrest. But I started to act frightened. And then they became more sure of themselves. From there on, it was all just mechanics. From a street corner in East Berlin, less than a thousand yards from Checkpoint Charlie, to a work camp in the Urals, a thousand frozen miles away. But there was that one moment when I could have brazened my way out of the situation. That's what happens when you deal with societies where the rule is by men and not by law. I had a friend shot by the Franco forces in Spain because he was wearing the red-and-black bandanna of the Anarchists. Only he didn't know it was an Anarchist bandanna. He was just wearing something for the sweat. A handkerchief he had brought from England, actually. They stood him against a wall and shot him by the lights of a truck. Poor beggar didn't even speak Spanish. Never knew why he was being executed. Had he made the appropriate gestures when he realized that it was the bandanna that was offending them, had he whipped it off and spat on it or something, he'd be alive today."

"He'd have screwed up someplace else and gotten shot."

"Perhaps. But never look arrestable, Frank."

Purcell grunted. There had been one moment there, back in Cambodia... a French-speaking Khmer Rouge officer. There were things he could have said to the officer. Being an American was not necessarily grounds for arrest. There were Americans with Communist forces all over Indochina. There were American newsmen with the Khmer Rouge. Yet he had blown it. Yes, Mercado had hit a sore spot.

Purcell came around a curve in the road and said, "Well, you have a chance to prove your point, Henry. There's a man up ahead pointing a rifle at us."

Vivian sat up quickly and looked. "Where?"

Mercado shouted, "Stop!"

Purcell kept driving and pointed. "You see him?"

Before Mercado or Vivian could reply, the man fired his automatic weapon and red tracers streaked high over their heads.

Purcell knew the man's aim couldn't be that bad, so it was a warning shot. But Mercado dove out of the Jeep and rolled into the ditch on the side of the road.

Purcell stopped the Jeep and shouted to him, "You look arrestable, Henry!" He stood on his seat and waved with both arms. He shouted, "Haile Sela.s.sie! Haile Sela.s.sie!" He added, "Ras Joshua!"

The soldier in the dirty gray shamma lowered his rifle and motioned them to approach.

Vivian peeked between the seats. "Frank, how did you know he was a Royalist?"

Purcell slid back in the seat and put the Jeep in gear. "I didn't."

Mercado climbed out of the ditch and crawled into the pa.s.senger seat. "That was a b.l.o.o.d.y stupid chance you took."

"But you weren't taking any chances at all." Purcell moved the Jeep slowly up the road.

Mercado, trying to explain his dive into the ditch, said, "I thought he was a Galla."

"I could see that he wasn't."

"Do you even know what a Galla looks like?"

"Actually, no."

They drove closer to the man, who they could now see was wearing a sash of green, yellow, and red-the colors of Ethiopia and of the emperor.

Purcell said, "Well, we're now in the Royal Army."

Mercado replied, "Good. This is where the story is."

Purcell reminded him, "The Provisional government forces could have gotten us back to Addis. Prince Joshua probably can't even get himself out of here."

"We don't know what the situation is."

"Right. But I know that your safe-conduct pa.s.s from the Provisional government won't do us much good with the prince."

Mercado didn't reply for a moment, then said, "I've actually met Haile Sela.s.sie here in '36, then again when he was in exile in London." He a.s.sured Purcell and Vivian, "I will tell that to Prince Joshua."

Vivian, who knew Henry Mercado better than Purcell did, asked, "Is that true, Henry?"

"No. But it will get us royal treatment."

Vivian said, "That's why I love you, Henry."

Purcell advised, "Don't look arrestable."

They were within twenty meters of the soldier and they waved to him. He didn't return the greeting, but he pointed to the right.

Mercado said, "He wants us to take that small path."

"I see it." Purcell swung the Jeep to the right and gave a parting wave to the tattered soldier on the rock. The smell of the dead began to permeate the air, although they saw no bodies yet. Purcell navigated the Jeep up the narrow path that looked like a goat track.

Mercado pointed to a flat area ahead. About a dozen bodies lay ripening under the sun. A soldier with an old bolt-action rifle walked toward them. Purcell wove around the dead bodies and drove the Jeep toward the man, who was looking at them curiously.

Mercado stood up and yelled a few Amharic words of greeting. "Tena yastalann!"

"That's the stuff, Henry," said Vivian. "Ask him how his kids are doing at Yale."

"I did."

The man approached the Jeep and Purcell stopped. Mercado waved his press card and said, "Gazetanna," as Purcell held out a packet of Egyptian cigarettes.

The soldier wore a shredded shamma and bits and pieces of web gear. He smiled and took the cigarettes. Purcell lit one for him. "Ras Joshua."

The man nodded and pointed.

Purcell moved the Jeep farther up the hill through gra.s.s that came up to the windshield. There was little evidence of military activity and few physical signs of the night's artillery barrage. As in most third world armies, Purcell knew, the weapons of modern war were more for the sound and the fury than anything else. The artillery barrages were small compared to modern armies, and most of the ordnance went wide of the mark. The real killing was done in a manner that hadn't changed much in two thousand years-the knife, the spear, the scimitar, and sometimes the bayonet of the rifles without ammunition.

They continued on and Purcell realized he was in the middle of the prince's headquarters. Low tents, much too colorful for tactical use, sprang up out of the high gra.s.s and bush. Ahead, down a small path, Purcell could make out the green, yellow, and red flag of Ethiopia emblazoned with the Lion of Judah. As he drove toward it, the bush around him came alive with soldiers. No one spoke.

"Wave, Henry," said Vivian. "Invite them all to your country place in Surrey. That's a good chap."

"Vivian, keep still and sit down."

Purcell stopped the Jeep a respectable distance from the tent with the imperial flag. They all climbed out, waved friendly greetings, and smiled. Some of the soldiers smiled back. A few, however, looked gruff and mean, Purcell noticed, like infantry soldiers all over the world fresh out of battle. They didn't like relatively clean and crisp-looking outsiders walking around. Especially if the army had been beaten. A beaten army was a dangerous thing, Purcell understood, much more dangerous than a victorious one. Morale is bad, respect for superiors is bad, and tempers are rotten. Purcell had seen this with the South Vietnamese Army as the war was being lost. Mercado had seen it all over the world. The embarra.s.sment of defeat. It leads to rape, pillage, and random murder. It's a sort of catharsis for the soldiers who can't beat the other soldiers.

They walked quickly toward the prince's tent, as though they were late for a meeting. Purcell worried about the equipment, but any attempt to carry it with them or to make prohibitory gestures toward the Jeep would have invited trouble. The best thing was to walk away from your expensive possessions as though you expected that they would all be there when you returned. Vivian, however, took one of her cameras.

The prince came toward them. There was no mistaking him. He was young, about forty, and very tall. He wore a European-style crown of gold and precious stones, but he was clad in a lionskin shamma with a c.u.mmerbund of leopard. He also carried a spear. His aides, who walked behind him, were dressed in modern battle fatigues, but wore lions' manes around their necks. They had obviously put on all the trappings for the Europeans. Mercado knew this was a good sign.

The prince and his entourage stopped. The beaten-down track through the high gra.s.s was lined with curious soldiers.

Mercado stepped up his pace and walked directly to the prince and bowed. "Ras Joshua." He spoke in halting Amharic. "Forgive us not announcing our coming. We have traveled a long distance to be with your army-"

"I speak English," the prince responded in a British accent.

"Good. My name is Henry Mercado. This is Frank Purcell, an American journalist. And our photographer, Vivian Smith." He bent at the waist again as he took a step to the side.

Vivian came up beside Mercado, who whispered, "Curtsy." She curtsied and said, "I am pleased to meet you." Purcell nodded his head in greeting and said, "Thank you for receiving us."

"Come," said Prince Joshua.

They followed him to his tent and entered. The red-and-white-striped pavilion was sweltering and the air smelled sour. The prince motioned them to sit on cushions around a low wood-inlaid table that looked like a European antique with the legs cut down. This, thought Purcell, was as incongruous as everything else in the country.

Ethiopia, he had discovered, was a blend of dignity, pageantry, and absurdity. The antique table with the shortened legs said it all. The battle fatigues with lions' manes maybe said it better. The country was not a mixture of Stone Age, Bronze Age, and modern, like most of Africa below the Sahara; it was an ancient, isolated civilization that had reached towering heights on its own, long before the Italians arrived. But now, as Purcell could see, the unique flavor of the old civilization was dying along with the old emperor.

Mercado asked, "Would you like to see our press credentials?"

"For what purpose?"

"To establish-"

"Who else could you be?"

Mercado nodded.

Prince Joshua inquired, "How did you get here?"

Purcell answered, "By Jeep, from Addis Ababa."