The lady, Anne, had instructed him to stay in his room, which the hotel had held for him and were billing him for. She didn’t suggest a bath, but she did suggest he call a doctor to his room for a checkup. In answer to his questions about Vivian, Gann, and Henry Mercado, she replied, “Miss Smith is here. The others remain in custody.”
She offered to walk him to the front desk, but he declined, and she handed him his passport and wished him luck.
He walked barefoot in his shamma to the front desk, where the clerk said, “Welcome back, Mr. Purcell,” and gave him his key.
His room had been searched and most of his possessions had been taken, including his notebooks, but that was the least of his problems.
He had waited a full day before calling Vivian, and they met in her room for drinks because they were both confined to quarters, and in any case neither of them wanted to run into their colleagues in the bar, or the security police in the lobby.
Vivian, too, had had her room ransacked and all her film had been taken, which made her angry, but she, too, understood that their real problem was getting out of Ethiopia.
As he’d finished his drink, she’d reminded him, “As I said, nothing is going to happen between us here.”
“I understand.”
Later, in bed, she told him, “When they release Henry…”
“I understand.”
“Sorry.”
“Me too.”
But they didn’t release Henry, and a week later Purcell and Vivian were officially expelled from Ethiopia and found themselves on an EgyptAir flight to Cairo.
Purcell said to Mercado now, “Vivian and I made daily inquiries to the British embassy about you and Gann, and they assured us you were both well, and they were working on your release.” He added, “We were worried about you.”
“And you didn’t want me showing up unexpectedly.”
Which was true, but Purcell stuck to the subject and said, “I was sure they were going to shoot Gann. Or hang him.”
“All’s well that ends well.”
“Right.” Purcell looked out at the Roman wall that surrounded the city. He realized that the bricks of the ancient city wall looked exactly like the bricks of the Italian-built prison in Addis. He pointed this out to Mercado and said, “The Italians know how to build.”
Mercado did not respond.
“Those mineral baths were impressive.”
“Don’t get nostalgic on me, Frank.”
“Henry… have you thought about going back?”
Mercado stayed silent for a moment, then replied, “I have, actually. But it’s obviously too risky.”
“Well, if you decide to go back, let me know.”
“You’ll be the last to know.”
The waiter came by and Purcell ordered two more. He asked Mercado, “Did you hear the news out of Ethiopia today?”
“I did not.”
“Well, a guy named General Banti took over the military council and announced a new government. Same group of thugs in the Derg, but with different leaders, and I’m thinking it may be possible now to go back if these new guys are not as crazy as the last bunch.”
“Speaking of crazy.”
“Just a thought.” He informed Mercado, “The big story is the Mideast. The canal is still closed and Sadat is saying things like, ‘Mideast time bomb.’ He’s pissed off at all the Russian Jews immigrating to Israel. It really looks like there could be another war.”
“If there is, cover this one from Cairo.”
“Right. Those safe-conduct passes to the front don’t work that well.” He smiled, then said, “I hear you’re working for L’Osservatore Romano.”
“Yes. I’m doing some English-language stuff for them on the coming Holy Year. Mostly press releases.”
“Bored?”
“I like Rome.”
“Cairo sucks.” He asked, “Are you working on anything else?”
“You mean like our Ethiopian adventure?”
“That’s what I mean.”
“No, I’m not. But I expected to see something from you about that.”
“I’m holding off,” Purcell replied. “I wanted to speak to you first.”
“You don’t need my permission or my collaboration.”
“I thought we’d do something together.”
“I’m not interested.”
“Really?”
Mercado thought a moment, then said, “If you — we — wrote about this, then not only Getachu but a lot of other bastards and idiots would be smashing through the jungle looking for the black monastery.”
Purcell nodded. He’d certainly thought about that. He said to Mercado, “Getachu may have already found it.”
“Perhaps. But if he did, I think we’d have heard that an important religious object was for sale.”
“A lot of that stuff is sold privately,” Purcell reminded him.
“True. And this one goes to the Vatican.” He added, “Or perhaps the monks have spirited it away.”
“Well, we could go check.”
“Not interested.”
“All right.” He asked Mercado, “Did you report Father Armano’s death to the Vatican?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“I… there doesn’t seem to be any urgency. I’ll get around to it.”
“Your offices are in Vatican City, Henry.”
“I’ll get around to it.”
“Good. Maybe we should go to Berini and look up his family.”
“Why?”
“He asked us to do that. He also asked us to tell his story to someone in the Vatican. Or you can tell your people at L’Osservatore Romano.”
“All right. I’ll do that.”
“I’m not quite understanding, Henry, why you’re sitting on this.”
“Why have you sat on it?”
“I told you. I wanted to speak to you first.” He reminded Mercado, “We made sort of a pact.”
Mercado asked, “What does Vivian think?”
“She wants to go back and find the Holy Grail. That’s what she thinks.”
“Insane.”
“I’m sorry you’ve lost your enthusiasm for this, Henry.”
“I’m sorry you’ve found it.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Try not to do that.”
“It’s a great story, Henry.”
“It seemed so at the time.”
Purcell looked at him and asked, “Have you been snooping around the Vatican archives? Like, on your lunch hour?”
“Yes… to satisfy my curiosity about a few things.”
“Find anything?”
“I’ll get you a pass and you can do your own research.”
“May be a language problem.”
“You can hire translators there.”
“I need to get back to Cairo in a few days.”
“Forgive my curiosity, Frank, but I don’t understand why you’re not going to Geneva.”
Purcell ordered another round, and Mercado did not object.
Neither man spoke for a while, then Purcell said, “I received one letter from Geneva telling me… well, telling me that she felt awful about leaving you in Addis, and that she was feeling guilty because of what happened and how it happened.”
“And well she should.”
“Right. Me too.”
Mercado stared into his drink, then said, “I’ve gotten over this, Frank. Except for the anger. You both behaved badly.”
“We know that.”
“And I did too… that moment in Getachu’s tent… when he asked me—”
“You are forgiven.”
Mercado looked at him. “Thank you for that.”
“Vivian never once mentioned it.”
“I’m sure she thought about it.”
“We all need to move on.” He smiled and said, “Avanti.”
“I need to go.”
“Some news, too, about Prince Joshua. They executed him in Addis.”