The Quest

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.