The Quest: A Novel

“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
    T he 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 hishand and vaulted up onto the wing. Purcell said, “Pick any seat in the rear.”
    “There are no