Vivian looked up at him, “All right… would you like to join us?”
“I’m just the pilot. Also, you have the only two magnifiers.”
Vivian smiled. “I can get another one from the lab guy, but it will cost me.”
“Go for it.”
Vivian and Mercado continued to study the photos, then Mercado stood and said, “I need a break.”
“I’m surprised your old eyes lasted this long.” Purcell stood and took Mercado’s place at the side of the bed, and Mercado sat and looked at Vivian’s pictures of Gondar.
Vivian said, “I have three possible… glints. But I could be looking at ground water, or even moisture on leaves or palm fronds.”
“That is another problem with photographs. They are two-dimensional, and depth of field can only be interpreted from what we know of the image.” He added, “This is not an exact science.”
“Thank you, Frank.”
“Anytime.”
He moved a photograph to the side and noticed something on the bedspread. He looked closer and saw that it was a long, straight jet black hair, and he didn’t need the magnifier to tell whose it was.
He looked up at Vivian, who was bent closely over the magnifier. He glanced at Mercado, who was looking at the Gondar photos. He tried to remember if Vivian had knelt at this side of the bed, but he knew she hadn’t. Not today, anyway.
He had two choices: pick up the hair and bring it to everyone’s attention—or forget it.
He looked again at Vivian. If he asked her what happened here, she would tell him the truth. But he already knew the truth. Or did he? It would not be unlike her to make herself comfortable on a male friend’s bed and chat away while the poor guy was trying to talk his dick down.
On the other hand… but why would she have sex with Henry Mercado? He thought he knew, and thinking back to Henry’s changed demeanor since that morning, he could imagine what Vivian’s purpose was.
Or was he misinterpreting all those images the way he might misinterpret a photograph?
Vivian said excitedly, “I think I see a double image. Two palm fronds that are the mirror image of each other.” She put a circle on the photograph and flipped it to him.
He looked at the circled image under the magnifier and said, “These are not exact doubles. These are two very similar palm fronds.”
“Are you sure?”
“I am sure.”
“Damn it.”
He said to her, “Things are not always what they seem.”
She looked at him, then some instinct, or prior experience, made her look at where his hand was resting on the light yellow bedsheet. She looked up at him again and said, “Sometimes things are what they seem.”
He nodded and went back to his magnifier and the photograph in front of him.
At 5 P.M., Mercado determined that there was nothing else to look at, and he suggested a cocktail in the lounge.
They stopped at the front desk for messages, and the desk clerk gave them a hand-delivered letter-sized envelope addressed to “Mercado, Purcell, Smith, L’Osservatore Romano, Hilton Hotel.” The handwriting was different from the writing on the manila envelope that had contained the maps, but they had no doubt who this was from.
Purcell carried the envelope into the lounge and they sat at a table.
Vivian said, “He’s alive and well.”
Purcell pointed out, “He was when he sent this.”
“Don’t be a pessimist. Open it.”
“We need a drink first.”
Mercado signaled a waiter and ordered a bottle of Moët, saying to his companions, “We’re either celebrating something, or we need to drown our troubles in champagne.”
“I like the way you think, Henry.”
Vivian said, “Out of ninety-two photographs, there are only six circled locations that fit our criteria.” She listed the criteria: “Palm trees, and/or a glint, in a location that is not too close to the fortress or to the spa, or the road, or to any place that would not be a likely location of a hidden monastery.” She continued, “Only one photo has all three—palms, a glint, and a likely location.”
Mercado suggested, “But we may have our criteria wrong.”
“In fact,” said Purcell, “we may have talked ourselves into palms and glints, so we need to look at the photos with a fresh eye in the morning.”
Mercado informed them, “I need to go to work tomorrow to justify our existence here.”
Purcell reminded him, “You’re on the payroll. The rest of us are working for room and board.”
They discussed photo analysis for a while, and their next recon flight over the area.
Purcell looked at Vivian, then at Mercado. There had definitely been a new spring in Henry’s step since that morning. But interestingly, Vivian seemed the same. In fact, at breakfast on the morning of his flight with Signore Bocaccio, which would have been soon after Vivian had sex with Henry, she had seemed herself—as though she’d put the encounter in a file drawer and forgot about it.
And then she’d invited Purcell to have sex with her.
It was possible, however, that nothing of a penetrating nature had happened. He was certain he would not have been happy to see what did happen in Henry’s bedroom, but it might have fallen short of a legal definition of cheating on your boyfriend.
Henry, however, seemed to be happy with whatever had happened, even if the object of his affection didn’t seem so moved by the experience.
He looked again at Vivian, who was chatting happily with her old friend.
In Vivian’s mind, all was now right with her world, and they could all be friends, and continue with their mission here, which to Vivian was far more important than two horny men. No doubt she loved Frank Purcell, and he loved her, so now he had to decide what to do about what she had done.
Two waiters appeared with a wine bucket, fluted glasses, and a bottle of Moët & Chandon, which one of them displayed to Mercado. He pronounced the year magnifique, and told his companions, “This is on the newspaper.”
Purcell suggested, “Tell them you entertained a member of the Derg.”
“I always do.”
The headwaiter popped the cork, which caused some heads to turn, then filled the flutes.
Henry held up his glass and proposed, “To us, and to Sir Edmund, and to our journey.”
They drank and Vivian said, “Ooh. I love it.”
Mercado suggested, “We will take a bottle with us on the road, and pop it when we see the black monastery in the jungle.”
Purcell warned him, “That might be the last alcohol you ever see.”
“Nonsense. The monks drink wine.”
They finished their glasses and Mercado refilled them.
Purcell said, “Okay, one more flight to Gondar, and on the way we will check out whatever we’ve circled on the photographs. With any luck, we will be able to narrow the circles down to a few, or we will see something else that may be of interest. In any case, we will land in Gondar and go to the Goha Hotel. We’ll shop for provisions without attracting too much attention, then we will spend the night, then get in the Land Rover with the driver and security man, and tell them we are hiking. We’ll get dropped off near the spa, tell the driver to meet us there in six hours, and we are off on our quest. First stop is Shoan.”
Mercado and Vivian processed all that, and Mercado said, “I think we should go first to the places in the photographs that are possibly what we’re looking for.”
“I don’t want to traipse around the jungle for a week or two.” He reminded Mercado, “That is rough country, old man, and I don’t just mean the terrain. We want to minimize the walking, and not use up our provisions.”
Mercado replied, “I’ve done this sort of thing before, Frank.”
“Good. Then you agree.” He continued, “The Falashas may be more helpful than those photographs.”
“They may be the opposite of helpful—or they may all be gone.”
V
ivian said, “Our first objective should be the spa.” She reminded them, “We said we’d bring back a relic… a bone of Father Armano.”
“You carry the bone.” He also said, “I will call Signore Bocaccio tonight about the availability of the plane. I’d like to go tomorrow.”
Mercado thought about that, then asked, “Are you saying that we’re leaving the aircraft in Gondar?”
“Well, it’s not going to fly itself back.” He assured Mercado, “I’ll telex Signore Bocaccio from the Goha and let him know he can pick up his plane in Gondar, and keep our security deposit.”
Neither Mercado nor Vivian replied.
“I don’t think we’ll be needing Mia one way or the other after we leave Gondar on our journey.”
Again, no one responded.
Purcell further explained, “There is no reason for us to return here. We don’t need any more photographs developed, and it is time we moved forward—before we get shut down by the authorities or by something outside our control.” He looked at Mercado and Vivian. “Caesar crossed the Rubicon and burned his bridges behind him. And that is what we will do tomorrow.”
Mercado said, “We should see what Sir Edmund has written to us. That may influence what we do next.”
“Let’s first have our own plan.”
“All right, Frank. We have a plan. Now please open the envelope.”
Purcell glanced around to see if anyone was paying too much attention to them, then tore open the envelope. He extracted a single piece of paper and looked at it.
Vivian asked, “What does it say?”
“It is… a poem.” He smiled, then said, “Titled, ‘The Explorer.’ ”
Mercado said, “That’s Kipling, if you don’t know.”
“Thank you.” He read, “Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind the Ranges—Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you. Go!”
He looked up at Mercado and Vivian.
They stayed silent, then Vivian asked, “Is that it?”
“That is it—except for the signature.”
Mercado asked, “Did Sir Edmund sign it?”
“Actually, no, and neither did Rudyard Kipling.” He glanced at the signature and said, “It is signed, I. M. N. Sloan.”
“Who?”
“You gotta say it fast, Henry.”
Vivian said, “I am in Shoan.”
Purcell passed the note to her. “You win.”
She looked at it, then gave it to Mercado.
Purcell said, “We will join Sir Edmund in Shoan.”
Mercado had a dinner date and left them in the lounge. They sat without speaking for a while, then Vivian said, “I don’t want dinner. Let’s have a bottle of wine sent to our room.”
Purcell replied, “You can have one sent to your room.”
She didn’t reply.
He stood and said, “Good night.”
“Frank…”
He looked at her in the dim light and he could see tears running down her face.
She looked at him. “Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“I’m sorry.”
“We will all stay friends, until we leave Ethiopia.”
She nodded.
He turned and left.
Chapter 42
The Navion was available the next day for an overnight stay in Gondar and a return to Addis on the following day. Signore Bocaccio met them at the airport at noon to collect his rental fee and deliver the news. “This is unfortunately your last flight.” He explained, “This is causing me worry.”
“I’m the one flying this thing.”
Signore Bocaccio smiled, then said seriously, “I want no trouble with the government.”
“I understand.”
He advised, “You, too, should be careful with the government. They will be curious about your flights to Gondar.”
“We are journalists.”
“There is a commercial flight once a week. So perhaps they will want to know why you need my aircraft.”
“We don’t want to spend a week in Gondar.” Purcell asked, “How does that sound?”
“To me, it sounds good. To them… who knows?” He motioned toward Vivian and Mercado, who were standing near his aircraft. “You are nice people. Please be careful.”
“We’re not actually that nice.” Purcell paid him in dollars for the two-day rental and informed him, “Some of your coffee was stolen in Gondar.”
“It is there to be stolen.”
“Right.” He suggested to Signore Bocaccio that he meet them at the Hilton for dinner on their return from Gondar so that the Signore Bocaccio could release their security deposit.
“But you must let me buy you dinner, and I will keep the security deposit for the down payment on Mia.” He smiled.
Purcell returned the smile and suggested, “Seven P.M., but check at the desk for a telex from us in case we are delayed getting out of Gondar.”
The Italian looked at him. “Be careful.”
“See you then.”
Signore Bocaccio would actually be dining alone, but he had their two-thousand-dollar security deposit to keep him company—and also to pay for his commercial flight to Gondar to retrieve his aircraft.
Purcell was about to say arrivederci, but then said to Signore Bocaccio, “I have seen expats and colonials all over the world waiting for the right time to leave a place that has become unfriendly.” He advised him, “That time has arrived.”
Signore Bocaccio, the owner of coffee plantations and other things in Ethiopia, nodded. “But it is difficult. This is my home.” He told the American, “I love Africa.”
“It doesn’t love you anymore.”
He smiled. “It is like with a woman. Do you leave the woman you love because she is having difficulties with life?”
Purcell did not respond.
Signore Bocaccio informed Purcell, “My wife is Ethiopian. And my children. Would they be happy in Italy?”
“I saw many Ethiopians in Rome.”
“Yes, I know.”
“At least take a long vacation.”
“As soon as I leave, the government will take all I have.”
“They’ll take it anyway.”
“This is true… so perhaps a long vacation.” He smiled. “I will fly to Rome with my family in Mia.”
“Bad idea.” He suggested, “Bring your wife to dinner.”
“That is very kind of you.”
They shook hands and Signore Bocaccio wished them, “Buona fortuna.”
“Ciao.”
Purcell had already filed his flight plan for Gondar, and as a repeat customer with fifty thousand lire clipped to the form, he got his red stamp without attitude. The duty officer had written 12:15 as the departure time on the form, and that was fifteen minutes ago, so Purcell said to his flight mates, “Let’s hit it.”
Mercado and Vivian had loaded the luggage, which contained more than they needed for an overnight in Gondar, and most of what they needed for a few weeks in the bush, including a bottle of Moët for when they found the black monastery. Henry had also sent a hotel employee out early in the morning with three hundred dollars and a shopping list that included three backpacks, flashlights, and other camping equipment, all of which could be found in Addis’s many secondhand stores that were bursting with items sold by people who were getting out or who needed hard cash to buy food. The young hotel employee had found nearly everything on the list, including a compass. The only thing they needed now was food, which they could buy in Gondar, and luck, which could not be bought anywhere.
Purcell jumped on the wing and helped Mercado up, then took Vivian’s hand and pulled her onto the wing. They looked at each other a second, then she released his hand and climbed into the cockpit and over to the right-hand seat.
Purcell got in, hit the master switch, and checked his flight controls, then pumped the throttle and hit the starter. The engine fired up quickly, and he checked his instrume
nt panel. Oil pressure still low.
Mercado said, “It’s a bit tight back here with the luggage.”
Vivian said to him, “Do not disturb the pilot when he is doing his pilot stuff.”
Purcell said, “Seat belts.”
He released the handbrake and brought the Navion around. He saw Signore Bocaccio standing beside his old Fiat, waving to them. He returned the wave, then slid the canopy closed and taxied toward the end of the longer runway, which was clear of traffic this afternoon.
Vivian asked him, “Do I need to pray to Saint Christopher?”
He didn’t reply.
Vivian had been trying to engage him in light banter all morning, but he wasn’t in the mood. She’d been good enough not to call him in his room last night, or knock on his door, and he was fairly certain she hadn’t spoken to Mercado about the new sleeping arrangement because Henry seemed himself.
Purcell ran the engine up, checked his controls and instruments again, then wheeled onto the runway. “Ready for takeoff.” He pushed the throttle forward and the Navion began its run.
The aircraft lifted off and Purcell began banking right, north toward Gondar. To his right lay Addis Ababa, a city he would probably never see again, or if he did, it would be from a prison cell—unless they gave him the same view of the courtyard and gallows.
Purcell steered the Navion between two towering peaks, then glanced back at what he hoped was his last look at Addis Ababa.
Henry, as it turned out, had not gone to the press office that morning, but he’d sent a telex from the hotel to L’Osservatore Romano telling his editors that the team was going to Gondar for a few days to report on the Falasha exodus.
Purcell, Vivian, and Mercado had spent the morning in Henry’s room, giving the photos a last look and marking the terrain maps with a few more suspected hiding places for the black monastery. The other suspicious thing in Mercado’s room, the strand of black hair, was still there. Henry should speak to the maid. But they would not be returning to their hotel rooms ever. It was time, as Colonel Gann suggested, to go and find it.
Regarding where to go next if they did find it, Colonel Gann, in the maps he’d sent them, had included contiguous terrain maps from Gondar and Lake Tana to French Somaliland on the coast. Clearly Gann was suggesting an exit plan for them.