The Quest: A Novel

word of God. And why did Peter return to Rome?”
    “To die.”
    “I rest my case.”
    Mercado seemed lost in thought, then said, “Look, old man, get a good night’s sleep”—he nodded toward Jean who was still at the bar but settling her bill—“and if you’re still suicidal in the morning, give me a call.” He put his business card on the table and stood.
    Purcell stood and said, “Henry, this is what we have to do. We think we have a choice, but we don’t.”
    “I understand that. And I also understand that you’re not as cynical as you think you are or pretend to be. You are not going to risk your life for a good story—or for a woman. You’re not
that
much of a reporter or that romantic. But if you believe in love, then you believe in God. There may or may not be a Holy Grail at the end of your journey, but the journey and the quest is itself an act of faith and belief. And as we Romans say, ‘Credo quia impossibile.’ I believe it because it is impossible.”
    Purcell did not reply.
    They shook hands and Mercado went to the bar, spoke to Jean, then left.
    Jean walked toward his table, smiling tentatively. Purcell stood, and thought: Good old Henry, up to his old tricks again, sticking me with the bill, the lady, and the next move.

Chapter 16
    R ome was always crowded at Christmas with visiting clergy, pilgrims, and tourists, and even more so this year in anticipation of the pope’s Christmas Eve announcement of the coming Holy Year. The taxi driver was swearing at the holiday traffic and at the foreign
idioti
who didn’t know how to cross a street.
    Purcell had decided to stay in Rome for Christmas and he’d sent a short telex to Charlie Gibson in Cairo telling him that. The return telex, even shorter, had said, YOU’RE FIRED. HAVE A GOOD CHRISTMAS.
    He’d hoped that would be Charlie’s response, and he dreaded a second telex rescinding the first. But if war broke out, as it might after all the Christian tourists left Jerusalem, Bethlehem, and Nazareth, then the Cairo office would want him back. In the meantime, he was free to pursue other matters. Also, as it turned out, Jean needed to get back to England for Christmas, which further freed him to write, and to think about what he wanted to do about the rest of his life.
    He hadn’t called Henry the morning after as Henry had suggested, and Henry hadn’t called him, nor would he ever. So now, three days later, Purcell had made the call to
L’Osservatore Romano
that morning and he had a 4 P.M. meeting with Signore Mercado. It was 3:45 and the traffic was slower than the pedestrians, so Purcell asked the driver to drop him off at the foot of the Ponte Vittorio Emanuele, and he walked across the Tiber bridge.
    It was windy, and the sky was dark and threatening with black clouds scudding across the gray sky, and the Tiber, too, looked black and angry.
    Saint Peter’s Square was packed with tourists and with the faithful who were praying in large and small groups. In the center of the square stood the three-thousand-year-old Egyptian obelisk, and at the end of the square rose the marble mountain of Saint Peter’sBasilica, beneath which, according to belief, lay the bones of the martyred saint, and Purcell wondered if Peter, dying on the cross, had regretted his decision on the Via Appia.
    Purcell did not enter the square, but walked along the Vatican City wall to the Porta Santa Rosa where two Swiss Guards with halberds stood guarding the gates of the sovereign city-state. He showed his passport and press credentials to a papal gendarme who was better armed than the Swiss Guards, and said, “Buona sera. L’Osservatore Romano, Signore Mercado.”
    The man scanned a sheet of paper on his clipboard, said something in Italian, and waved him through.
    He’d been there once before and easily found the press office on a narrow street lined with bare trees. The windows of the buildings cast squares of yellow light on the cold ground.
    He was fifteen minutes late, which in Italy meant he was a bit early, but maybe not in Vatican City. The male receptionist asked him to be seated.
    The offices of
L’Osservatore Romano
were housed in a building that may have preceded the printing press, but the interior was modern, or had been when the paper was founded a hundred years before. Electricity and telephones had been added, and the result was a modern newspaper that published in six languages and was a mixture of real news and propaganda. And not