“No… when Doctor Mato came to get me, I ran out—”
“Well, everything is gone, including your camera.”
“Damn it…”
“That’s all right. Getachu has it all.”
“That bastard. That’s my camera, with thirty pictures—”
“Vivian, that is the least of our problems.”
He could see that she was distraught over Mercado’s arrest, and now was becoming indignant over the confiscation of her property. This was all understandable and would have been appropriate in Addis, but not here at the front.
She needed a reality check before they saw Getachu, so Purcell steered her around to the far side of the headquarters tent and said, “That is what General Getachu does to Royalists. We don’t know what he does to Western reporters who annoy him.”
She stared at the hanging men. “Oh… my God…”
“Ready?”
She turned away and nodded.
They approached the guarded entrance of the headquarters tent. Two soldiers carrying AK-47s became alert and eyed them curiously. They’d already sent the woman away, and they wondered why she’d returned. One of the men made a threatening gesture with his rifle, and the other motioned for them to go away.
Purcell said to them in the Amharic word that all reporters in Ethiopia knew, “Gazetanna.” He added, “General Getachu.” He tapped his left wrist where his missing watch should be, hoping they thought he had an appointment.
The two soldiers conversed for a second, then one of them disappeared inside the tent. The remaining soldier eyed Vivian’s ointment-splotched face, then her legs beneath the shamma.
Vivian said softly, “I’m frightened. Are you?”
“Check with me later.”
The soldier returned and motioned for them to follow.
They entered the pavilion, which Purcell noticed was much larger than Prince Joshua’s. He noticed, too, that there were no ceremonial spears or shields in this sparse tent — only field equipment, including two radios on a camp table. Coleman-type lamps barely lit the large space.
The tent was divided by a curtain, and the soldier motioned for them to pass through a slit. It was darker in this half of the tent, and it took them a few seconds to make out a man sitting behind a field desk. The man did not stand, but he motioned toward two canvas chairs in front of his desk and said in English, “Sit.”
They sat.
General Getachu lit a cigarette and stared at them through his smoke. A propane lamp hung above the desk illuminating his hands, but not his face.
As Purcell’s eyes adjusted to the dim light he could see that Getachu wore a scruffy beard, and his head was bald or shaven. A tan line ran across his forehead where his hat had sat, and his skin was naturally dark, but further darkened by the sun.
Purcell had seen a photograph of General Getachu in an Ethiopian newspaper, and he’d noted that Getachu had the broader features of the Hamitic people and not the Semitic features of the aristocracy or the Arabic population. In fact, that was partly what this war was about — ancestry and racial differences so subtle that the average Westerner couldn’t see them, but which the Ethiopians equated with ruler and ruled. Indeed, he thought, the Getachus of this country were getting their revenge after three thousand years. He couldn’t blame them, but he thought they could go about it in a less brutal way.
He had dealt with the newly empowered revolutionaries in many countries, and what they all had in common was xenophobic paranoia, extravagant anger, and dangerously irrational thinking. And now he was about to find out how psychotic this guy was.
Getachu seemed content to let them sit there in his office while he perused the papers on his desk. Also on Getachu’s desk was Vivian’s camera, his wallet and watch, their passports, and their press credentials, but he couldn’t see what would have been their safe-conduct pass, issued by the Provisional Revolutionary government. It occurred to Purcell that Getachu had chosen to deal with that inconvenient document by destroying it.
Getachu lit another cigarette and took a drink from a canteen cup. He looked at them and asked with a slight British accent, “Why are you here?”
Purcell replied, “To report on the war.”
“To spy for the Royalists.”
“To report on the war.”
“Spies are shot. If they are lucky.”
“We are reporters, certified by the Provisional Revolutionary government, and we have a safe-conduct pass issued by the Derg and signed by General—”
“You have no such thing.”
Vivian said, “We do.” She asked, “Why have you arrested our colleague?”
He looked at her and said, “Shut up.”
Again, Getachu let the silence go on, then he said, “You two and your colleague were in the Royalist camp.”
Purcell replied, “We got lost. On our way here.”
“You met your colleague Colonel Gann.”
“He is not our colleague.”
“You fled with him to escape the Revolutionary Army that you say you were trying to find.”
“We fled to escape the Gallas.” Purcell also pointed out, “We climbed this mountain to find you.”
Getachu did not reply.
Purcell didn’t think he should bother to explain the actual circumstances of what had happened. General Getachu had drawn his own conclusions, and though he probably knew they were not completely accurate conclusions, they suited his paranoia.
Purcell said, “We are here to report on the war. We take no sides—”
“You have a romantic notion of the emperor and his family, and of the rasses and the ruling class.”
Purcell thought that might be true of Mercado and maybe Vivian, and certainly of Colonel Gann, but not of him. He said, “I’m an American. We don’t like royalty.”
“So do you like Marxists?”
“No.”
Getachu stared at him, then nodded. He said, “Colonel Gann has caused the death of many of my men. He has been condemned to death.”
Purcell already guessed that, but he said, “If you spare his life and expel him, I and my colleagues promise we will write—”
“You will write nothing. You are all guilty by association. And you are spies for the Royalists. And you will be court-martialed in the morning.”
Purcell saw that coming, and apparently so did Vivian, because she said in a firm, even voice, “My colleague, Mr. Mercado, is an internationally known journalist who has met frequently with members of the Derg and who has interviewed General Andom who is your superior. It was General Andom who signed the safe-conduct pass—”
“General Andom did not give Mercado — or you — permission to spy for the counterrevolutionaries.”
Purcell tried another tack. “Look, General, you won the battle, and you’ve probably won the war. The Provisional government has invited journalists to—”
“I have not invited you.”
“Then we’ll leave.”
Getachu did not reply, and Purcell had the feeling that he might be wavering. Getachu had to weigh his desire and his instinct to kill anyone he wanted to kill against the possibility that the new government did not want him to kill the three Western reporters. In any case, Colonel Gann was as good as dead.
Purcell had found himself in similar situations, each with a happy ending, or he wouldn’t be here in this situation. He recalled Mercado’s advice not to look arrestable, but he was far beyond that tipping point. He wasn’t quite sure what to say or do next, so he asked, “May I have a cigarette?”
Getachu seemed a bit taken aback, but then he slid his pack of Egyptian cigarettes toward Purcell along with a box of matches.
Purcell lit up, then said, “If you allow me access to a typewriter, I will write an article for the International Herald Tribune and the English-language newspaper in Addis, describing your victory over Prince Joshua and the Royalist forces. You may, of course, read the article, and have it delivered to my press office in Addis Ababa along with a personal note from me saying that I am traveling with General Getachu’s army at the front.”