The Quest: A Novel

by Nelson DeMille

  “Well,” said Purcell, “I don’t. And it’s my Jeep.” He added, to soften his words, “It’s not only about the monastery. Father Armano wants us to tell his people and the world what happened to him—if he dies.”

  Mercado said, “It’s actually about the monastery and the relic. But you make a point, Frank.”

  The priest had sat himself up higher in the corner. In the dawning light, his features began to materialize, and he was no longer the shadow of a voice. They stared at him as their eyes became accustomed to the gray light. The priest looked like death, but his eyes were much brighter than they should have been, and his face—what they could see through the dirt and the beard—was rosy. But the rosiness, Purcell knew, was the fever, and the brightness of the eyes was also the fever, and perhaps a little madness too.

  Mercado wiped the priest’s forehead. “Father. We will be moving shortly.”

  The priest nodded, then said, “But I must first finish.”

  Purcell looked at him. He had become real all of a sudden. The voice had a body. Purcell became melancholy and felt a great sadness, not only for the priest but also for himself. He saw himself as he was in the prison camp. The priest’s bearded face brought it back, and he felt uncomfortable with that face. It was the face of all suffering. Indochina had settled into his brain again and he could not cope with it so early in the morning.

  The priest breathed softly and continued. “So, we came upon it. In a deep jungle valley. In a million years you would not find it, but this sergeant was a good soldier, and having found it once by accident, he remembered how to find it again. A rock. A tree. A stream. You see? So we approached the black place. The jungle came up to the walls of the place, and hid it from view, but a tree had fallen and exposed some of the wall. We walked in a circle through the jungle and around the wall, which was of black stone, with a shine like glass, and it was constructed in the old style of the monasteries and had no gate or door.”

  Father Armano asked for more water on his face, and Vivian washed him with a wet handkerchief. Purcell was briefly touched by her compassion; he could see why old Henry had taken a liking to her.

  Father Armano said, “We came around to the place from which we started. There was now a basket there on a rope, as in the old style of the monasteries of the Dark Ages. The basket was not there before, so we took this as a sign of hospitality. We called up to the walls, but no one answered. The basket was large and so we climbed into it… all of us. It was made of reeds, but it was strong. And we all fit—eleven—and the basket began to rise.”

  He stopped, took a long, deep breath, then went on. “The men were somewhat uneasy, but we could see crosses cut into the black stone so we knew it was a Christian place and we were not so much afraid, though I remembered the words of the cardinal about the monks. The basket came to rest at the top of the wall. There was no one there. The basket had been raised with a device of stones and gears and it was not necessary to stand by it once it was started. You understand? So we were alone on top of the wall… We climbed out of the basket, over the parapet, and stepped onto a walk.”

  The priest’s face contorted and he grabbed his stomach with both hands.

  Vivian knelt beside him and said in Italian, “You must lie down and rest.”

  Mercado said, “He’s actually better off sitting up. That’s why he sat up in the first place.”

  Vivian said, “We need to get him to the hospital. Now.”

  Purcell suggested, “Ask him what he wants to do.”

  Mercado asked Father Armano, and the priest replied, “I need to finish this… I am… near the end…”

  Mercado nodded.

  Father Armano took a deep breath and spit blood into his beard. He stayed silent for a time, then began. “Within the walls of the monastery lay beautiful buildings of the black stone and green gardens and blue ponds and fountains. The men were very happy at the sight and asked me many questions, which I could not answer. But I told the sergeant, Giovanni, about the monks and he ordered his men to keep their rifles at the ready. We called down into the monastery, but only the echoes of our own voices answered us. Now everyone was troubled again. But we found wooden steps to the ground. We walked with caution like a patrol because we were uneasy. We called out again, but only our own voices answered, and the echoes made us more uneasy, so we did not call out again, but walked quietly. We walked to the main building… a church. The doors of the church were covered with polished silver and they blinded us in the sunlight. On the doors were the signs of the early Christians… fish, lambs, palms. We entered the church. Inside, we observed that the roof was made of a substance like glass, but not glass. A stone, perhaps alabaster, and it let in the sunlight and the church was bathed in a glow that made my head swim and hurt my eyes. I had never seen such a thing and I am sure there is not such a thing, even in Rome.” He laid his head back in the corner and closed his eyes.

  Purcell, Mercado, and Vivian watched him closely in the dim light. Mercado asked, “Are we doing the right thing? Or are we killing him?”

  Purcell said, “I think he’s accepted death, so we need to accept it.”

  Vivian concurred and added, “He wants the world to know his story… and his fate.”

  Purcell agreed, “That’s what we do best. So I think we need to wake him.”

  Mercado hesitated, then crouched and shook the priest gently.

  The priest opened his eyes slowly. He said, “I can see you all now. This woman is very beautiful. She should not be traveling like this.”

  Purcell informed him, “Women do whatever men do these days, Father.” But no one translated.

  The priest took a deep breath. “So, now we make an end of it. And listen closely.” He pressed his eyes with his shaky hands. “So we walked through the strange light of the church and into an adjoining building. A bigger place it seemed, but perhaps it was the darkness that made it look so. It was a building of many columns. We walked in the darkness, and the soldiers had removed their helmets because they were in a church, but they did not sling their rifles on their shoulders, but held them ready. Though it made no difference. In a second, every column produced a robed monk. It was over in a second or two. Everyone was clubbed to the ground and not a shot was fired. There was very little noise…”

  Father Armano seemed to be failing, but he was determined to go on and spoke quickly. “I wore on my helmet a large cross which was the army regulation. So perhaps this is what saved me. The others were clubbed again and taken away. I remember seeing this, although I was stunned by the blow. But you see, I had left my helmet on, as it was not required of me to remove a head covering in church. You understand? So the steel absorbed the blow and God saved me. The monks dragged me away and put me in a cell.”

  The priest suddenly became rigid, and his face turned pale. His gums bit into his bearded lip, then the pain passed and he exhaled, drew a long breath, and said something in Latin that Mercado recognized as the Lord’s Prayer. He finished the prayer, then he picked up his story in Italian. “A monk’s cell… not a prison… they cared for me… two or three of the Coptic monks spoke some Italian… so I said to them… I said, ‘I have come to see the sacred relic…’ and one who spoke Italian answered, ‘If you have come to see it, you will see it.’ But he also said, ‘Those who see it may never speak of it.’ I agreed to this, though I did not understand that I had sealed my fate…”

  Purcell waited for Vivian’s translation, then commented, “I think he understood that.”

  And in fact, Father Armano added, “But perhaps I did understand… though when I saw the sacred relic, it did not matter…”

  Mercado asked Father Armano, almost casually, “What was it, Father? What did they show you?”

  The priest stayed silent for some time, then said, “So… so they brought me to it, and I saw it… and it was the thing that was written in the letter… and I fell to my knees and prayed, and the monks prayed with me… and the pain of the blow
to my head vanished… and my soul was at peace.”

  Father Armano smiled and closed his eyes, as though reliving the peace that had filled him then. His body shook, then he lay motionless.

  Mercado felt for a heartbeat and Purcell felt for a pulse. They looked at each other, and Mercado said, “Dead.”

  They waited for more light so they could bury him.

  Vivian remained at the priest’s side, holding his hand, which was still warm. She felt something—his fingers tightening the grip on her hand. “Henry.”

  “Yes?”

  “He’s… squeezing my hand.”

  “Rigor mortis. Let go, Vivian.”

  She tried to pull her hand out of the priest’s grip, but he held tightly. She pressed her cheek on his forehead which was still burning with fever. “Henry… he’s alive.”

  “No—”

  The priest suddenly opened his eyes and stared up at the sunlight coming through the open ceiling.

  Purcell quickly gave him water and they knelt beside him. Mercado said, “Father—can you speak?”

  He nodded, then said in a weak voice, “I have seen it… it was very bright. It was the sun in Berini. I went home… it was so beautiful…”

  No one responded.

  “My sister, Anna… you must go to her and tell her. She wishes to hear from you.”

  Mercado said, “We will go to her.”

  He nodded, then seemed to remember what he needed them to know. He licked his cracked lips and spoke. “So then… I was taken into the jungle and given over to some soldiers of the emperor’s army. I thought I was being released… being exchanged, perhaps, for Ethiopian prisoners who were held by our army… but I was taken to a local ras, a prince named Theodore who kept a small garrison in the jungle…” He paused in thought, then continued, “That was almost forty years ago. And last night I walked out of that fortress.” Father Armano looked at Mercado, Purcell, and Vivian and said, “So now you know it, and I can rest in peace. You must go to Berini and tell them what happened to Giuseppe Armano. And go also to the Vatican. Tell them I found the black monastery… and saw the relic.”

  Purcell felt that he had missed something in the story or the translation. He looked at Vivian, but she only shrugged.

  Mercado asked, “Father, what was in the monastery?”

  Father Armano looked up. “You will never find it. And you should not look for it.”

  “What was it that you saw?”

  Father Armano did not reply directly, but said, “My head was bleeding from the blow of the club. The iron helmet took the blow, but still I cut my head somehow. They touched some of it to my head and the pain was gone and the wound healed immediately… and the monks said I was one of the blessed. One who believed…”

  Purcell listened to the translation and said, “Maybe he didn’t understand the question, Henry.”

  Mercado let out a breath of exasperation. “Frank—” He turned to the priest. “Please tell us what it was, Father.”

  The priest smiled. “Of course you want to know what it was. But it has caused so much suffering already. It is blessed and cursed at the same time. Cursed, not of itself, but cursed because of the greed and treachery of men. It should stay where it is. It is meant to stay hidden until men become less evil… The monks said this to me.”

  “What was it?” asked Mercado firmly.

  He asked for water. Vivian gave him all he wanted, and he drank too much of it, but no one stopped him. The priest closed his eyes, then said in a soft voice, “The Holy Grail… the sacred vessel which Christ himself used at the Last Supper… It is filled with his most precious blood. It can heal mortal wounds and calm troubled souls. If you believe. And the lance that the Roman soldier, Longinus, used to pierce the side of our Lord… it hangs above the Grail, and the lance drips a never-ending flow of blood into the Grail. I have seen this, and I have experienced this miracle.” He looked at Mercado. “Do you believe this, Henry?”

  Mercado did not reply.

  The priest said, in a surprisingly clear voice, “If you find it, you will believe in it. But I would advise you to leave here. Go to Rome, to the Vatican, and tell them I found it, and that it is safe where it was. And then forget all that I have said.” He asked, “Will you do this?”

  No one replied.

  “And go to Berini.” Father Armano blessed them, then recited the Lord’s Prayer in Latin and closed his eyes.

  The sun was yellow now and small birds, nesting in the cavernous lobby ceiling, flew around the ruined vaults overhead and made morning noises at the new sun.

  They knelt around the old priest and spoke to him, but he did not answer, and within the next quarter hour he died peacefully.

  Vivian bent over and kissed the old priest’s cold forehead.

  Chapter 5

  Henry Mercado retrieved a short spade from the Jeep, and Frank Purcell carried the body of the dead priest, wrapped in the blanket, into the courtyard of the spa.

  Vivian chose a spot in the overgrown garden near the dry fountain, and Purcell dug a grave deep enough to keep the jackals from the body.

  Purcell, Mercado, and Vivian lowered the body into the grave and took turns filling it with the red African earth. When they were done, Mercado said a short prayer over the grave.

  Vivian wiped her sweating face, then picked up her camera and took photographs of the unmarked grave and the surrounding ruins. They had agreed not to make notes of this encounter, in case they or their notebooks fell into the wrong hands, and Purcell wasn’t sure Vivian should be taking pictures, but he said nothing. She said, “We can show these to his family.” She added, “They may want to bring the body home.”

  Purcell didn’t think that after forty years there was anyone in Berini who would want to do that. But it was possible, and nice of Vivian to think of it.

  Mercado looked at the grave, then said to his companions, “I somehow feel that we killed him with our prodding… and all that water…”

  Purcell replied, “He was a dead man when we found him, Henry.” He added, “We did what he wanted us to do. We listened to him.” He reminded Mercado, “He wanted us to let his people know what happened to him. And we’ll do that.”

  Vivian sat on a stone garden bench and stared at the grave. She said, “He also wanted us to know about the black monastery… and the Grail. He wanted us to go to Rome… the Vatican, and tell them that Father Giuseppe Armano had found what they sent him to find.”

  Purcell glanced at Mercado and he was sure they were both thinking the same thing: They weren’t going to break this story to the Vatican. At least not now. In fact, Father Armano himself had suggested that the Grail was safe where it was, meaning leave it there.

  Mercado sat beside Vivian, looked around at the crumbling faux-Roman spa, and said, “This is a fitting place to bury him.” He asked, “Well, what do we think about what Father Armano said?”

  No one replied, and Mercado prompted, “About the black monastery… and the Holy Grail?”

  Purcell lit a cigarette. “Well… I think his story was basically true… I mean about the cardinal, the pope, his war experiences, and the monastery. But he sort of lost me with the Lance of Longinus dripping blood into the Holy Grail.”

  Mercado thought a moment, then nodded and said, “I’m supposed to be the believer, but… you know, in the Gulag, there was a prisoner who said he’d been sent there for trying to kill Stalin. But he was actually there for pilfering state property—twenty years. But you see, he needed a crime big enough to fit the sentence, instead of the other way around.”

  No one responded, so Mercado continued. “We don’t know what Father Armano did to spend forty years in a cell. But I think he convinced himself that he was there because he’d seen what he wasn’t supposed to see.”

  Vivian said, “But his story was so full of detail.”

  Mercado said to her, “Vivian, if you had forty years to work on a story, you would get the details down quite well.” He ad
ded, “He wasn’t actually lying to us. He had just deluded himself to the point where it became truth in his own mind.”

  Purcell wiped his face with his sleeve. The sun was a brutal yellow now. He asked Mercado, “Where do you think the story became delusional?”

  Mercado shrugged, then replied, “Maybe after the Lake Tana part. Maybe he had been captured by the Ethiopian army and they put him in jail as a prisoner of war.”

  Purcell asked, “But why lock him up for forty years? The war with the Italians ended within a year.”

  Again Mercado shrugged and replied, “I don’t know… the local ras, Prince Theodore, had captured an Italian enemy… a priest who they didn’t want to kill… so they threw him in jail and forgot about him.”

  Purcell pointed out, “But when the Italians won the war, the prince would have given Father Armano to them to curry favor, or for a price. Instead, they kept him locked in solitary confinement for four decades. Why?”

  Mercado conceded, “I suppose it is possible that Father Armano did find and enter this black monastery, and maybe the monks did kill the Italian soldiers who were with Father Armano, and that’s why the monks handed him over to the Ethiopian prince and had him put away for life—so he couldn’t reveal what they’d done, or reveal the location of the monastery.” He added, “They silenced a witness without killing him. Yes, I can see that happening if the witness was a priest.”

  Purcell suggested, “So maybe what the priest said is all true—except for the part about the Holy Grail and the lance dripping blood.”

  Mercado replied, “That’s very possible.”

  Purcell asked, “So should we look for this black monastery?”

  “It would be a dangerous undertaking,” said Mercado.

  “But,” said Purcell, “worth the risk if we’re actually looking for the Holy Grail.”

  “Yes,” agreed Mercado, “but the Holy Grail does not actually exist, Frank. It is a legend. A myth.”

  “I thought you were a true believer, Henry.”

  “I am, old boy. But I don’t believe in medieval myths. I believe in God.”