The Quest: A Novel

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