The Quest

by Nelson DeMille

  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 his hand and vaulted up onto the wing. Purcell said, “Pick any seat in the rear.”

  “There are no seats.”

  “Sit on the bean bags.”

  Mercado climbed unhappily into the rear as Purcell reached down for Vivian and pulled her up. She squeezed into the cockpit and crossed over to the right-hand seat.

  Purcell got in and slid the canopy closed. “All right, Henry, there is a seat belt back there.”

  “I’m working on it.”

  Purcell fastened his belt and Vivian did the same. He said, “The time written on our flight plan is six thirty-eight. We are supposed to be in Gondar in under three hours. Anything longer will raise questions from the guy who takes our flight plan at the other end. But we need to make some unauthorized detours, so it might be after ten when we land. I will blame headwinds.”

  Mercado asked, “What if they know there are no headwinds?”

  “They only know what is reported to them by other pilots who have landed. And I don’t think there is much traffic from Addis to Gondar.”

  Purcell opened Signore Bocaccio’s chart and glanced at it. He said, “What I will do is run her up to twelve thousand feet, and try to get a hundred and fifty out of her. When we see Lake Tana, I will go as low and slow as I can around the areas where we think the black monastery could be located.” He added, “We’ll also take a look at the spa and the thing marked incognita. Vivian will take wide-angle photos, then at some point we need to climb to six thousand feet, which is Gondar’s elevation. With luck we will land in Gondar no later than ten A.M.”

  Vivian said, “If anyone asks, what are we supposed to be doing in Gondar?”

  “We’re doing an article on the ancient fortress city.”

  Mercado said, “That’s a stretch, Frank.”

  “Okay. We’re looking for an interview with General Getachu.”

  Vivian said, “I like your first idea better.”

  Purcell reminded them, “We’re reporters. We have no idea what we’re doing.” He looked at his watch: 6:52. “Ready?”

  Vivian said, “If you are, I am.”

  He turned on the master switch, then pulled the wheel, and Vivian was startled when the wheel in front of her moved in concert with his. He pushed on the rudder pedals, and hers moved under her feet. He said to her, “This is dual control, but that does not mean that two of us are going to fly this. Keep your hands off the wheel and your feet off the pedals.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  He pumped the throttle a few times, then hit the starter. The engine coughed, and a black puff of smoke billowed out from under the cowl. The propeller went by once, twice, and the engine caught.

  Vivian noticed a Saint Christopher medal that Signore Bocaccio had pinned to the headliner above the windshield. She touched it, and said, “Patron saint of travelers. He will watch over us.”

  “Good.”

  Purcell looked at the disarrayed and mostly inoperative gauges. Under the control panel was a new switch, marked in English, “Safety,” and “Fire.” A separate red button was the actual trigger for the smoke rockets. A round, clear plastic sighting device was mounted in front of him on a swivel near the windshield. He had noticed that there were still four smoke rockets left in the pod. According to Signore Bocaccio, this was not unusual; the Ethiopian ground crews minimized their workload. Signore Bocaccio had advised Purcell not to demand that the rockets be taken out. He also advised him not to fire them for sport.

  Purcell glanced at the distant windsock, then released the handbrake and rolled toward the runways. He saw that a C-47 was sitting on the edge of the long runway that he had used with Signore Bocaccio the previous day. He had no time to wait for the C-47 to move, so he taxied to the shorter runway, which Signore Bocaccio had said was all right to use, depending on winds, fuel load, and cargo load. The fuel gauge said full, but Vivian was light and Mercado had skipped breakfast.

  Purcell taxied to the end of the shorter runway. The noise level in the cockpit was tolerable and speech was possible if they raised their voices. He asked, “Everyone okay?”

  Vivian nodded. Mercado did not reply.

  Purcell checked the flight controls and the elevator trim position. He did a quick engine run-up and noticed that the magneto drop was neither good nor bad. He’d go with it.

  He cycled the propeller through its range, then wheeled onto the runway, where the ground fog had mostly blown off. He lin
ed up the nose on what was once a white line. The expanse of broken concrete was a little disturbing. He hesitated, then pushed the throttle in and the Navion began its run.

  The aircraft bounced badly over the broken concrete. The control panel vibrated, the Plexiglas canopy rattled, and the controls shook in his hands. The thumping sound of the nose gear strut filled the cabin as it bottomed out. He glanced at Vivian and saw that she was playing with her camera.

  The Navion ate up the runway at the rate of fifty miles per hour, then sixty. The end of the runway was shrouded in fog, but he knew it was also the end of the flat-topped hill that he’d noticed when he’d flown over it with Bocaccio. Purcell saw that the land dropped away to his sides into fog banks. He was on a ridge and there was no aborting this takeoff anymore.

  “Frank!”

  It was Mercado, but there was nothing to discuss.

  Vivian looked up from her camera, but said nothing.

  Purcell glanced at his airspeed indicator and noticed that the balky instrument read zero. The throttle was fully open, but Mia showed no signs of lifting.

  The runway suddenly ended and Vivian let out a startled sound, then reached out and put her fingers on Saint Christopher.

  The control wheel felt light in Purcell’s hands and the Navion hung for a moment, as though trying to decide whether to fly or drop into the valley.

  The nose dipped down, and Purcell pulled back slowly on the wheel and pulled the hydraulic landing gear lever. Mia lifted slightly. The adjoining hill went by off his left wing, and he noticed that it had more elevation than the Navion. The sound of the landing gear banging into its wells gave Vivian a start, and Mercado said, “Oh!”

  The aircraft began to climb. Purcell glanced at the altimeter. He was at seventy-eight hundred feet, which was not good considering he had started at seventy-nine hundred. Around him, the mountains rose ten and twelve thousand feet and seemed to hem him in. A peak rose up to his front.

  The aircraft continued to climb, and at twelve thousand feet he relaxed a bit. He turned to a northwesterly heading and asked, “Mind if I smoke?”

  No one seemed to mind, so he lit up. He asked, “Anyone need that carafe?”

  Vivian replied, “Too late for that.”

  Purcell asked, “How you doing, Henry?”

  No response.

  Vivian turned her head. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.”

  “Would you like some water?”

  “I’m fine.”

  Vivian asked Purcell, “Did you do that yesterday?”

  “Yesterday we used the longer airstrip.”

  “Can we do that next time?”

  “We can.”

  “How did the landing go?”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Can I have a puff?”

  He handed her the cigarette.

  They continued on a northwesterly heading and Purcell said to Mercado, “You should familiarize yourself with those terrain maps.”

  “I thought you had them.”

  “Are you joking, Henry?”

  “Oh… here they are.”

  Vivian laughed.

  Purcell settled back and scanned the instrument panel. He was happy to see that the airspeed indicator was now working.

  Mercado said, “The next time, I will volunteer to be the potential survivor.”

  “Happy to shed the takeoff weight.”

  They continued on and Purcell looked out his left side. It was a beautiful country from the air. This is what God had given the human race. In fact, the earliest remains of a human ancestor, over three million years old, had been found in the Awash Valley. And since then, it had been a long, hard climb toward… something.

  Vivian snapped a picture of him, then of Henry sitting on the coffee bean bags in the rear. Henry took her camera and said, “Turn around.”

  She turned, smiled, and Mercado took a picture of her.

  Vivian said to her companions, “We have begun our journey.”

  Mercado replied, “We almost ended it on takeoff.”

  Vivian assured him, “I felt Saint Christopher and the angels lifting our wings.”

  Purcell was about to say something clever, but when he thought about that takeoff, there was no aeronautical reason why it should have happened.

  Vivian again touched the Saint Christopher medal over the windshield. “Thank you.”

  “How about me?”

  “Next time, use the longer runway.”

  They continued on in silence as Ethiopia slid by beneath their wings. Somewhere down there, Purcell thought, was the thing they were looking for. And maybe that thing was waiting for them.

  Chapter 37

  An hour out of Addis, Purcell spotted the great bend in the Blue Nile. He banked right and followed it north. Their airspeed was one hundred fifty, and the flight so far had been smooth except for some mountain updrafts. The smell of the coffee beans in the burlap bags was pleasant.

  Purcell had been thinking about the logistics of their quest, the devils that were in the details. He said to Vivian, “If there is any problem when we land in Gondar, they may confiscate your film. And if they see we’ve been shooting wide-angle photos of the terrain, we will have some explaining to do.”

  “I will hide the exposed rolls on my person.”

  “They may look at your person.”

  Mercado confided to them, “I once hid a roll of film in a place where the sun does not shine.”

  “Don’t tempt me, Henry.” He added, “We don’t want the film found on us.” He suggested, “Maybe the coffee bags.”

  Mercado replied, “The ground crew at Gondar will help themselves to a bag or two.”

  Purcell noticed a taped rip in the headliner above the windshield where the Saint Christopher medal was pinned. He pulled back the tape and said, “We can also put the maps in there.”

  Mercado pointed out, “Even if there is no trouble in Gondar, the authorities will do a thorough search of the cockpit when we leave the aircraft, and they will probably find that.”

  Purcell did not reply.

  Mercado continued, “If we deny any knowledge of the maps or the film, which together may look suspicious, then Signore Bocaccio will be down at police headquarters in Addis answering questions, while we are answering questions at Getachu’s headquarters in Gondar.”

  Purcell thought about that. Henry made some good points. “What do you suggest?”

  “I say we take a chance that there will be no problems at the Gondar airfield, and we should carry the exposed film and maps with us.” He added, “If there is a problem in Gondar, it is already waiting for us, and the film and the maps will be the least of our problems.”

  Purcell’s instincts still told him not to carry around incriminating evidence in a police state. Especially with prior arrests hanging over their heads. But Henry Mercado had been at this game far longer than Frank Purcell. And there seemed to be no good choices.

  Vivian said, “I will carry my exposed film in my bag.” She added, “Naked is the best disguise. As soon as you try to hide something, you get in trouble.”

  Mercado commented, “You should know.”

  Vivian ignored him and continued, “Frank will carry the maps.” She pointed out, “It’s not as though we’re carrying guns or a picture of the emperor.”

  Purcell nodded. “Okay. We land in Gondar and take our things with us. I need to give our flight plan to the officer on the ground, then we take a taxi to town.”

  Mercado, too, had some thoughts about their destination. “If Getachu somehow knows we have returned to his lair, I believe he will not reveal himself to us. He will watch to see what we are doing back in Ethiopia.”

  Purcell replied, “I don’t think he’s that bright. I think he acts on his primitive impulses.”

  “We will find out in Gondar.”

  Vivian asked, “Can we change the subject?”

  Purcell said, “Here’s another subj
ect. When we begin our search for the black monastery, we should not drive from Addis to the north again. Agreed?”

  Vivian agreed. “I would not do that again.”

  “So,” Purcell said, “at some point, after we’ve finished our aerial recon, and when we think we have a few possible locations for the black monastery, we need to fly to Gondar, ditch the aircraft, and buy or rent a cross-country vehicle to go exploring.” He pointed out, “From Gondar to the area we need to explore is about four to six hours—rather than three or four days cross-country from Addis.”

  Mercado agreed. “Gondar should be our jump-off point.”

  They continued on in silence. Purcell followed the Blue Nile north and maintained his airspeed and altitude.

  Vivian announced, “I need to go.”

  Mercado passed her the empty water carafe. She said, “Close your eyes. You too, Frank.” She pulled down her pants and panties and relieved herself.

  Purcell said, “My turn. Close your eyes, Henry.” He unzipped his fly.

  Vivian offered, “I’ll hold it for you so you can fly.” She laughed. “I mean the carafe.”

  Purcell suspected that Henry was not amused. He held the wheel with his left hand and himself with the other, and Vivian held the carafe for him.

  “Finished.”

  She snapped the hinged lid of the carafe in place and passed it to Henry, who also used it. Indeed, Purcell thought, they would be in close quarters in the days and weeks ahead with many more close bonding moments. It was good that they were all friends.

  At 8:32, Purcell spotted Lake Tana, nestled among the hills. The altimeter read eleven thousand eight hundred feet, and the lake looked like it was about six thousand feet below, which put the lake’s altitude at about a mile high. In the hazy distance, about twenty miles north of the lake, would be Gondar.

  He pointed out the big lake to his passengers and said, “We’ve made good time, so we may be able to snoop around for an hour.”

  Purcell began his descent. Within half an hour they were about a thousand feet over the terrain, and the altimeter read sixty-three hundred feet above sea level.

  He made a slow banking turn over the lake’s eastern shore, and Henry, who had a map spread out in the rear, said, “I can see the monastery of Tana Kirkos that Colonel Gann mentioned. See it on that rocky peninsula jutting into the lake?”