The Quest

  He glanced at Vivian. Her skin, already pale, was now stark white. “Are you okay?”

  She nodded.

  “Henry?”

  No reply.

  Vivian turned in her seat. “Henry? Henry?” She leaned farther into the rear compartment. “Are you all right? Did you get hit?”

  “By what?”

  Vivian watched him awhile, then turned around.

  Purcell kept the throttle open and the Navion continued to climb.

  Mercado asked, “What happened?”

  Vivian replied, “The helicopter… crashed.”

  He didn’t reply.

  Vivian looked at Purcell. “Now what?”

  “Well… the French Somaliland option is again open. But that’s over two hours from here… and the Ethiopian Air Force may be looking for us shortly.”

  Mercado seemed to be fully aware now, and he cleared his voice and asked, “Do you think the helicopter pilot had time to radio anyone?”

  Purcell didn’t think the pilot even had time to piss his pants after the first smoke rocket went over his head. He replied, “I don’t think so. But the helicopter is now obviously out of radio contact, so Gondar will be looking for him, and for us.”

  Mercado stayed silent, then said, “I don’t see that we have any option other than French Somaliland… or perhaps Sudan. How far is that?”

  Purcell glanced at his flight chart. “The Sudan border is less than two hundred miles—maybe an hour-and-a-half flight. But the Ethie Air Force won’t hesitate to pursue over the Sudan border, though they probably won’t pursue over the French territory’s border.”

  Mercado seemed to be thinking, then said, “I will vote for the French border.” He reminded everyone, “We will receive a better reception there than in Sudan.”

  Purcell nodded, then glanced at Vivian. “Your vote?”

  She had already thought about it and said, “Shoan. Can you land there?”

  Purcell thought about that. The single-lane road was too narrow, with towering trees on both sides. The open pastures, however, were a possibility.

  Mercado said, “I’m not sure I’m following you, Vivian.”

  “You are, Henry.” She let them both know, “We are not leaving Ethiopia. We came here to find the Holy Grail.”

  Mercado pointed out, “We are now hunted fugitives. We have just committed murder.”

  Purcell corrected him. “I engaged a hostile aircraft.”

  “Call it what you will, old man, if it makes you feel better as they put the noose around your neck.” He said to Vivian, “We need to get out of here.”

  “We will, when we finish what we came here to do.”

  Purcell was still heading east, toward French Somaliland, and if they decided to change course to Sudan, they had to do it soon, before Sudan became a longer flight than the French territory. He said to Vivian, “You have two choices, and landing in Shoan is not one of them.”

  “How do you know you can make it to a border before the Ethiopian Air Force shoots us down?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Then land. In Shoan. How far is it?”

  “Maybe… twenty or thirty minutes.”

  She pointed out, “Colonel Gann is there. Waiting for us. The black monastery is down there, also waiting for us.”

  Purcell thought about that. Vivian was crossing the thin line between bravery and insanity—or obsession at best. But she made good arguments.

  He was about three thousand feet above the ground and climbing. Airspeed was a hundred miles per hour in the climb, but he could get a hundred fifty in a descent. He banked right and the Navion began turning south.

  Mercado asked, “What are you doing?”

  “We are landing in Shoan, Henry.” To be completely honest, he added, “Or we will die trying.”

  “No!”

  Vivian turned in her seat. “Yes!”

  Vivian and Henry looked at each other for several seconds, and Purcell could imagine Vivian’s green eyes staring into Henry’s soul.

  He heard Henry say, “Yes… all right.” He added, “We have come a long way to find the Grail, and we are too close to turn back.”

  Vivian reached out and touched Henry’s face, then turned in her seat and stared out the windshield as the Navion picked up a southwesterly heading toward Shoan and began descending.

  She turned her head toward Purcell and looked at him until he looked at her. She said softly, “I love you.”

  “You love anyone who gives you your way.”

  She smiled. “What is best for me, is best for us.”

  He didn’t reply.

  They continued their rapid descent and Purcell said, “Shoan, about ten minutes.” He added, “I will attempt a landing.”

  Vivian said, “That’s all I ask of you.” She let him know, “You can do it.”

  “We are about to find out.”

  He cut his power and began a gradual descent toward the village, which was now visible in the distance.

  If he let his imagination go, and if he excluded the surrounding jungle, the fields of Shoan could be upstate New York where he first learned to fly as a young man. His mother had said flying was dangerous and urged him to pursue something safer, like writing.

  “I am glad to see you smiling.”

  “I used to write for my high school newspaper and the hometown weekly. I majored in journalism in college. My mother wanted me to have a safe job.”

  She smiled and said, “I’ve read only one article that you wrote. Are you any good?”

  “My mother thinks so.”

  “I lost my parents when I was twelve. A plane crash.”

  “Sorry.”

  “Maybe I should have picked a better moment to say that.”

  Purcell didn’t know how many moments they actually had left, but he said, “We have a lot to tell each other in Rome.”

  She unpinned the Saint Christopher medal from the fabric over the windshield and stuck it on his shirt. “Christopher saved a child from a river, and though he was a big and strong man, the surprising weight of the small child almost made him stumble and fall into the raging water, but he would not let go of the child—and when they reached safety, the child revealed to him that he was Jesus who carried the weight of the world.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  He eased the throttle back and continued their descent.

  Chapter 44

  Purcell looked for an open pasture among the hundreds of acres of orchards and planted fields. He thought he needed about a thousand feet of unobstructed, mostly level terrain, but stone and wooden fences separated many of the fields, and trees grew in most of the pastures.

  Purcell wanted to do a wheels-down landing, but if the ground was too wet, rocky, or potholed, he might have to do a belly landing, though he had the rocket pod to contend with.

  Most importantly, he had too much fuel on board—about half a tank—and he couldn’t risk staying in the air to burn it off. He instructed Vivian and Henry to clear the aircraft quickly after it came to a stop.

  He circled around the periphery of the fields, and he could see a few people near the village looking up at him. Hopefully, Gann was one of them.

  Vivian asked, “Do you see a place to land?”

  “Only one. That pasture ahead.”

  Mercado asked, “Is that long enough?”

  “I’ll make it long enough.”

  The pasture was slightly sloped, and he decided to land upslope so that the land came up to meet the Navion, and the aircraft would slow sooner uphill and hopefully come to a stop before he ran out of pasture.

  He lined up the aircraft with the pasture, which looked to be about a thousand feet long. He now noticed there was a stone fence at the end of the rise, but no trees or water holes.

  He had no idea what the winds were doing, but it didn’t matter; this was the landing strip, and upslope was the direction.

  Purcell lowered his landing gear and flaps and p
ulled back on the throttle. His airspeed was barely sixty miles per hour, and he estimated his altitude at five hundred feet, then four, three… He looked out at the approaching pasture of short brown grass. The goats had scattered, but now he could see rocks and sinkholes. “Hold on.”

  He cut the power back to idle, pulled the nose up, and the Navion touched down hard and bounced high, then down again and up again across the rocky pasture. He shut down the engine and applied the brakes. Up ahead he could see the stone fence. He worked the rudder, making the aircraft fishtail, and he began to slow, but the stone fence was less than a hundred yards away, then fifty yards.

  “Frank…”

  “Brace!”

  He kicked the rudder hard, causing the Navion to go into a sideways skid. He expected the landing gear to collapse, but the old bird was built well and the gear held as the wheels traveled sideways across the grassy pasture. The Navion came to a jolting, rocking halt less than twenty feet from the stone fence.

  Vivian said, “Beautiful.”

  Mercado said, “Good one, old boy.”

  Everyone grabbed their canvas bags that held the maps, camera, and film, as Purcell slid the canopy open and scrambled onto the wing. Vivian followed quickly and jumped to the ground, followed by Mercado. Purcell joined them and they put some distance between themselves and the Navion in case it decided to burst into flames.

  Purcell stood looking at Signore Bocaccio’s aircraft, which landed a bit better than it flew. Vivian unpinned the Saint Christopher medal from Purcell’s shirt, kissed it, then shoved it in his top pocket.

  He heard a noise behind him and turned to see a Land Rover coming toward them. The vehicle stopped a distance away and the door opened. Colonel Gann, wearing a white shamma and sandals, came out of the driver’s side and walked toward them. He called out, “Was that a landing, or were you shot down?”

  Mercado replied in the same spirit of British lunacy, “Just dropping in to say hello.”

  Gann smiled as he continued toward them. “Just in time for tea.”

  Gann’s hair was now very short, Purcell noticed, and jet black, and he’d lost his red mustache somewhere, and also lost his riding crop if he’d had one. Also gone was his prison pallor, replaced by a nice tan.

  Gann walked up to Purcell. “Good landing, actually. Frightened the goats a bit, but they’ll get over it.”

  “So will I.”

  Gann flashed his toothy smile, then took Vivian’s hand. “Lovely as always.”

  “You look good in a shamma.”

  “Don’t tell.” He took Mercado’s hand. “Is Gondar closed today?”

  “It is to us.”

  “Well, you must have a good story to tell. But first meet my friend.” He waved at the Land Rover, and the passenger-side door opened.

  A young woman wearing a green shamma came out of the vehicle, and they all followed Gann as he walked toward the lady.

  Gann announced, “This is Miriam.”

  She nodded her head.

  Purcell looked at her. She was about early thirties, maybe younger, with short curly black hair. Her features were distinctly Semitic, though her skin was very dark, and her eyes were a deep brown. All in all, she was a beautiful woman.

  Gann introduced his friends who’d dropped in unexpectedly, and she took each person’s hand and said, “Welcome.”

  Gann didn’t say this was his girlfriend, but it was, and that explained a few things. Always cherchez la femme, Purcell knew.

  Gann asked his visitors, “Are you being pursued?”

  Purcell replied, “Possibly by air.”

  “All right then… we will bury the aircraft in palm fronds.” He looked at Miriam, who said in good English, “I will see to that.”

  Gann let them know, “Miriam is… well, in charge here.” He explained, “She’s a princess of the royal blood.”

  Purcell had had a few experiences with Jewish princesses, but he understood that this was different.

  Mercado said to Princess Miriam, “We are sorry to intrude, your highness.”

  “Please, I am just Miriam.”

  Mercado bowed his head in acknowledgment.

  Purcell reminded everyone, “Sir Edmund actually invited us.”

  Gann replied, “I did, didn’t I? Glad you understood that. Well, here you are. So let’s be off.” He opened the door of the Land Rover for his princess, and said to everyone, “If the aircraft doesn’t blow up, your luggage will be along shortly.”

  Purcell, Mercado, and Vivian squeezed into the rear of the Land Rover. Gann got behind the wheel and turned toward the village, saying, “I’m afraid Shoan will look a bit deserted, as you may have noticed when you flew by a few days ago. Most everyone has gone to Israel. Just a dozen or so left, and they’ll be heading off soon.”

  No one responded to that, and Gann put his hand on Miriam’s shoulder and said, “But they’ll all be back. You’ll see. A year or two.”

  Miriam didn’t reply.

  They entered the small village of about fifty stucco houses, and except for the tin roofs and unpaved streets, Purcell thought he could be back in Berini. No church, however, but he did see the building on the small square that he’d seen from the air, and indeed it was the synagogue, with a Star of David painted in blue over the door.

  The square was deserted, and so was the narrow street they turned down, which ended at the edge of the village. Purcell saw the large house he’d also seen from the air, which turned out to be the princess’s palace.

  Gann stopped the vehicle under a stand of tall palms and said, “Here we are.”

  Everyone got out and Gann opened a small wooden door in the plain, windowless façade. Miriam entered, then Gann waved his guests in.

  It wasn’t that palatial, Purcell saw, but the whitewashed walls were clean and bright, and the floor was laid with red tile. Niches in the walls held ceramic jars filled with tropical flowers. They followed Miriam and Gann through an open arch into a paved courtyard where the round pool that Purcell had seen from the air sat among date palms. Black African violets grew beneath the palms, and bougainvillea climbed the walls of the other wings of the house.

  Gann indicated a grouping of teak chairs and they sat.

  A female servant appeared and Miriam said something to her and she left, then Miriam said to her guests, “I can offer you only fruit drinks and some bread.”

  Purcell informed her, “We have about a hundred pounds of coffee beans in the aircraft. Please consider that our houseguest gift.”

  Miriam smiled, turned to Gann, and said something in Amharic.

  Gann, too, smiled, and Purcell had the feeling that Colonel Gann had briefed the princess about his friends.

  Vivian said, “This is a beautiful house.”

  “Thank you.”

  Purcell went straight to the obvious question and asked Gann, “So, how did you two meet?”

  Gann replied, “I was a friend of Miriam’s father back in ’41. Met him in Gondar after we kicked out the Italians.” He explained, “The Falashas own most of the weaving mills and silver shops in Gondar, and the bloody Fascists took everything from them because they are Jews, and arrested anyone who made a fuss about it. I found Sahle in a prison, half dead, and gave him a bit of bread and a cup of gin. Put him right in no time.” He continued, “Well, Sahle and I became friends, and before I left in ’43, I came to Shoan to see the birth of his daughter.” He looked lovingly at Miriam. “She is as beautiful as her mother.”

  Vivian smiled and asked Miriam, “Are your parents… here?”

  “They have passed on.”

  Gann said, “Miriam has an older brother, David, who unfortunately went to Gondar on business a few months ago, and has not returned.” He added, “He is said to be alive in prison.” He added, “Getachu has him.”

  The servant returned with a tray of fruit, bread, and ceramic cups that held purple juice. Everyone took a cup and the servant set the tray on a table. Miriam spoke with the woman,
then said to her guests, “The aircraft is being hidden, and your luggage has arrived.” She also assured Mr. Purcell that the coffee beans were with the luggage, and coffee would be served later.

  Gann raised his cup and said, “Welcome to Shoan.”

  They all drank the tart juice, which turned out to be fizzy and fermented.

  Gann said, “You must tell me everything.”

  Purcell replied, “Henry is good at telling everything.”

  Mercado started with their separate arrivals in Addis, and his finding Signore Bocaccio and his aircraft. Gann nodded, but he seemed to know some of this, and Purcell was impressed with the Royalist underground, or whatever counterrevolutionaries Gann was in touch with.

  Mercado then described their aerial recon, and Vivian’s wonderful photography, and remembered to thank Gann for the maps, but forgot to compliment Purcell on his flying. Purcell noted, too, that Henry didn’t tell Sir Edmund that he, Henry Mercado, had recently fucked Frank Purcell’s girlfriend. But that wasn’t conversation for mixed company, though Henry might mention it later to Sir Edmund, man to man.

  Purcell looked at Gann, then at Miriam, then at Mercado and Vivian. He hoped he was as lucky when he hit sixty. He thought, too, of Signore Bocaccio with his Ethiopian wife and children. If all went well—which it would not—they’d be in Rome in a few weeks; he, Vivian, Henry, Colonel Gann, Miriam, and the Bocaccio family, sitting in Ristorante Etiopia, drinking wine out of the Holy Grail. That was not going to happen, but it was nice to think it.

  Henry was getting to the good part—the part where Frank Purcell shot down an armed Ethiopian Air Force helicopter. Henry said to Purcell, “Perhaps you’d like to tell this, Frank.”

  Purcell understood that this was a good story for a bar, far away from Ethiopia. But here, it was not a good story. In fact, he had put them all in mortal danger. Though in Ethiopia, that was redundant.

  “Frank?”

  “Well, I think this chopper was looking for us, and I think our old friend General Getachu had sent him. So the game was up, one way or the other, and we—I—decided to take this guy out.”

  Gann asked, “Do you have weapons with you?”

  “No.” He explained about the rocket pod, and his creative use of the smoke markers. He didn’t go into detail, but he did say, “I rode in a lot of Hueys in ’Nam, covering the war, and I saw them using smoke rockets.” He added, “Looked easy.” He also explained, “We were dead anyway. Or worse than dead if we landed in Gondar.”