She didn’t reply to that but said, “I have the pass.”
“Good. I’ll take it.”
She gave it to him.
He looked at it, put it in his pocket, and said, “Thanks. See you later.”
She glanced up at the ridge.
He said, “Right. The climb up will kill you. Stay here.”
“I’m coming with you.”
He didn’t respond to that and asked, “How’s Henry?”
“A little better.”
“Good. And how are you?”
“Dizzy.”
He put his hand on her blistered forehead and asked her, “Tongue swollen?”
“A little…”
He took off his bush jacket and draped it over her head. “Okay. Let’s go.”
She followed him as he moved down the ridge.
She said to him, “Colonel Gann saw three Gallas on horseback riding through the tall grass ahead.”
“News I can use.”
They continued on and she said, “I wouldn’t have left him… but he tricked me. Tricked you.”
Purcell didn’t reply.
She said, “He and Colonel Gann thought you’d have a better chance if I were along.”
“You have not increased my chances.”
“In case you got hurt. Or… whatever. Better to send two people on a rescue mission.”
“True.” Unless one of them was an attractive woman.
The ridge flattened and they stopped a hundred feet from the high grass of the plateau. Purcell said to her, “You stay here. If all goes well, I’ll be back with a medic and some soldiers to collect you and get Henry. If I’m not back in, say, two hours—”
“I am not staying here.”
“You will do what I tell you—”
“Frank, if something happens to you, I’m as good as dead here. And so is Henry.”
“Vivian—”
“I can’t get back up that hill, and I will not sit here waiting for the Gallas—or dying of fucking thirst.” She moved toward him and gave him a push on the chest. “Let’s go.”
They continued on and entered the tall grass. Purcell said, “Keep a separation of twenty feet, and if you hear hoofbeats, drop and freeze.”
They walked silently through the elephant grass, which was taller than they were. Purcell could see evidence of the battle that had been fought here during the night—naked bloated bodies lay strewn in the high grass, covered with big green flies. There was no mutilation, and Purcell guessed that it was not the Gallas but the victorious government forces that had carried off the pitiful war spoils from the slain soldiers of Prince Joshua. Fresh graves marked the spots where the government forces had buried their own dead. If he’d hoped to find a canteen of water among the carnage, that hope quickly faded.
They continued on and the nauseating stench of death hung in the hot air. Vultures circled overhead, and one swooped down and landed near a naked body, then bent its long neck and plucked out an eyeball. Vivian, who had come up behind him, let out a stifled cry of disgust.
Purcell rushed toward the vulture and it flew off. They continued on.
The tall grass was beaten down where horses had passed through, and where men had fought and fallen. He saw craters made by impacting mortar rounds that had set the grass on fire, and in the ash he saw jagged shrapnel and burned body parts. Brass shell casings littered the ground.
Purcell tried to imagine what had gone on here during the night, but despite his years of war reporting he could not conjure up the images of men joined in close combat. But he could imagine how Colonel Gann had felt when he realized the battle was lost.
The plateau began to rise toward the base of the high hills and the ground became rocky and the grass began to thin as they continued up the slope.
Somewhere to the west he could hear hoofbeats, and he hoped Vivian also heard them. Ignoring his own advice to freeze and drop, he doubled back and saw her walking toward him. The hoofbeats got louder and she heard them at the same time as she saw him. They both dove to the ground in the thin grass and remained motionless, staring at each other across a patch of open space.
The hoofbeats were close now, and Purcell guessed there were three or four horses, about twenty or thirty yards’ distance. The hoofbeats stopped, and he could hear the rustle of grass as the riders moved slowly, looking for anything of value, and for anyone unfortunate enough to still be alive.
Purcell made eye contact with Vivian and he could see she was terrified, but she remained motionless and resisted the instinct to run.
The Gallas were so close now that he could hear them speaking. One of them laughed. A horse snorted.
After what seemed like an eternity, he heard them ride off.
He motioned for Vivian to remain still, tapped his watch, and flashed five fingers twice. She nodded.
They waited the full ten minutes, then Purcell stood and Vivian moved quickly toward him. He glanced at the rising ridge about three hundred yards away and said, “We’re going to make a run for that. Ready?”
She nodded, but he could see she was close to collapse.
He took her arm and they began moving at a half run toward the rising ridge of red rock, which he could see was impassable for mounted riders.
They had to stop every few minutes and rest, and Vivian scanned the ground for water. At one rest stop she announced she saw a pool of water that turned out to be a flat rock. Purcell recognized the signs of severe dehydration, which were confusion and hallucination. Water, water everywhere. He thought of all those bloated bodies—ninety-eight percent water… but he wasn’t that desperate yet.
They reached the base of the ridge and continued up the exposed slope of sun-baked rock. Vivian suddenly scrambled away from him and he caught her by the ankle, but she kicked free and continued off to her left.
Purcell followed and saw what she’d seen; a clump of what looked like spiky cactus, nestled between two flat rocks.
She grabbed at the vegetation and brought it directly to her mouth. Purcell did the same and guessed, by the soft viscous flesh of the plant, that it was some sort of aloe. He squeezed some pulp into his hand and rubbed it across his burning face, then did the same for Vivian as she continued to chew on the plant.
Within a minute or two, the aloe plants were eaten and Purcell dug out the shallow roots with his penknife and they ate those as well.
Neither of them spoke for a while, then Vivian said, “Thank God…”
Purcell retrieved his bush jacket, which she’d let fall off her head, and covered both their heads with it as they sat and looked down onto the plateau below. He treated himself to a cigarette.
A few hundred yards away, he could see four Gallas on horseback, riding slowly through the elephant grass, heads down, still looking for the living and the dead.
Vivian followed his gaze and said softly, “Ghouls.”
Purcell looked across the plateau at the mountain they had descended, and where Henry and Colonel Gann were hopefully still alive. Possibly Gann was able to follow their progress through his field glasses, so Purcell waved his arms.
Vivian, too, was waving, and Purcell heard her murmur, “Hang on, Henry.”
Purcell didn’t want to attract the attention of the Gallas, who, if they spotted them, would start taking potshots at them—or they’d dismount and start climbing up the ridge. Assuming the Gallas were in better shape than he or Vivian, they would catch up with them before he and Vivian reached the army lines.
He glanced at Vivian. Her lips were cracked and her face was a mess, but her eyes looked more alert now. Her torn khakis were crusted with sweat salt, but not damp with new sweat. He guessed she had been very near heatstroke, but she should be able to finish the climb. He, himself, felt better. He’d had worse days in the Khmer Rouge prison camp, sick with dysentery and fever… Another interned reporter, a Frenchman, had saved his life, then died a few weeks later.
He asked Vivian, “How are you doing
?”
She stood and moved up the ridge and Purcell followed.
They continued the climb, rock by rock. It would have been an easy climb if they’d had something in their stomachs aside from a few aloe plants. Also, their goal—the government forces—might not be a touchdown if Getachu was playing by his own rules.
Purcell stood on a flat rock, shielded his eyes with his hand, and scanned the jagged slope ahead. Less than two hundred yards up the ridgeline he spotted what looked like a revetment of stones. Then he saw a figure moving among the rocks. He said to Vivian, “I think I see an army outpost.”
They continued up the ridge. As they got closer to the piled stone, Purcell could see at least five men in camouflage uniforms sitting beneath a green tarp that had been strung between tent poles. The men seemed engaged in conversation and didn’t notice that anyone was approaching.
This was the critical moment, Purcell knew, the two or three seconds when the guys with the guns had to decide if you were friend or foe, or something else.
He motioned for Vivian to lie flat behind a rock, then he took his white handkerchief from his pocket and shouted one of the few Amharic phrases he knew. “Tena yastalann!” Hello.
A shot rang out and Purcell threw himself on the ground. More shots rang out and Purcell realized the shooting was coming from behind him—the Gallas—then return fire started coming from the soldiers. He put his hand on Vivian’s back and pressed hard to keep her from moving.
The exchange of gunfire lasted a few minutes, then abruptly stopped.
Purcell whispered to Vivian, “Don’t move.”
She nodded.
He raised his body slightly and craned his head around the rock to see if the Gallas were behind them. He didn’t see any movement below and he turned his head toward the army outpost. An arm’s length from his face were two dark feet in leather sandals. He looked up into the muzzle of an AK-47.
The soldier motioned with the barrel of his gun for him to stand.
Purcell got slowly to his feet. Keeping his hands up, he smiled and said to the man dressed in camouflage fatigues, “Amerikawi. Gazetanna.”
Vivian was also standing now and she asked, “Capisce Italiano?”
The soldier understood the question, but shook his head. He kept his automatic rifle pointed at them, but glanced down the ridge to see if the Gallas were still coming.
Purcell motioned up the ridge and said in English, “Okay, buddy, we’re here to see General Getachu.”
Vivian added, “Giornalista. Gazetanna.” She tapped her camera. “General Getachu.”
The soldier stared at her.
Two more soldiers in cammies came down from the gun emplacement carrying their Soviet-made AK-47s. The three men began conversing in what sounded like Amharic. As they spoke, they kept glancing at Vivian, who Purcell thought looked awful, but maybe not to the soldiers.
Vivian tapped her pants pocket to indicate she had something for them, then slid out her passport and press credentials.
One of the soldiers snatched the items from her hand and stared at the press credentials, which were written in several languages, including Amharic. He then opened Vivian’s passport, which Purcell knew was Swiss—a good passport to have—and flipped through it.
Purcell drew his American passport and press credentials from his pocket along with the safe-conduct pass wrapped in plastic. One of the soldiers took the documents from him and all of them gave a look, though it appeared that none of them could read even Amharic.
Purcell pointed to the safe-conduct pass and said, “Signed by General Andom.” He added, “Brezhnev is numero uno. Power to the people. Avanti.”
One of the soldiers looked at him, then motioned for him and Vivian to walk up the ridge. The soldiers followed.
On the way up, Vivian asked, “Are we going to get a bullet in the back?”
Purcell remembered the executions he’d seen in Cambodia; the victims were almost always naked so that their clothes wouldn’t he ruined. Also, the women were usually raped first. He suspected it was the same here. “No,” he replied. “Reporters can be shot only by the general.”
They reached the gun emplacement and Purcell could see an 81-millimeter mortar surrounded by piled stone. A fire pit held the charred wooden remains of ammunition crates and the blackened bones of small animals.
They stopped and Purcell said, in Amharic, “Weha.”
One of the soldiers indicated a five-gallon jerry can, which Purcell lifted and poured over Vivian’s head and clothes to bring down her body temperature. She took the can and did the same for him, saying, “Spa, Ethiopian style.” A soldier handed them a canteen and they drank.
Vivian smiled at the soldiers and thanked them in Amharic: “Agzer yastallan.”
Purcell gave the soldiers his last pack of Egyptian cigarettes and they all lit up. So far, so good, he thought, though Vivian’s gender was a complication.
One of the soldiers was talking on a field radio, then he said something to his companions. The soldier who seemed to be in charge handed them their documents and motioned them up the ridge.
Before anyone changed their minds, Purcell took Vivian’s arm and they continued unescorted up the mountain.
Vivian said, “I think we’re all right.”
“I think I could have done this on my own.”
“Me too.”
He didn’t reply and they continued on in silence.
Finally, she said, apropos of something she was thinking, “Go to hell.”
“Already here.”
She asked him, “Are you married? Girlfriend?”
“No.”
“I can’t imagine why not.”
“Can we save this for the Hilton bar?”
“I don’t ever want to see you again after this.”
“Sorry you feel that way.”
“And we don’t need you to look for the black monastery.”
He didn’t reply and they continued on toward the top of the mountain.
Purcell thought about Father Armano, the black monastery, and the so-called Holy Grail. There was no Holy Grail, but sometimes his editors or other war correspondents described a story as the Holy Grail of stories—the story that would win a Pulitzer, or a National Journalism Award, or at least the admiration of their colleagues and a few drinks in a good bar.
He glanced at Vivian, and thought of Henry Mercado. Could he let them go without him? What if they died? What if they didn’t and they found something? He wished he had something better to do with his life.
Chapter 9
Purcell and Vivian sat side by side on a cot inside the medical aid tent. Vivian’s face was covered with white ointment and she wore a reasonably clean gray shamma, as did Purcell.
The army doctor sat in a camp chair and smoked a cigarette. Purcell also smoked one of the doctor’s cigarettes, while Vivian finished the bowl of cooked wheat that Dr. Mato had brought.
Vivian said in Italian, “Thank you, Doctor. You have been very kind.”
The big Ethiopian smiled. “It was nothing. You are both fine. Continue to rehydrate.” He added, “You may keep the ointment.”
Vivian translated for Purcell, then she asked the doctor, “Any word on our colleague?”
Doctor Mato replied, “As I said, we have sent ten armed men and a mule. I’m sure your colleague will be joining you shortly.”
Vivian nodded, and again translated for Purcell.
The doctor stood. “I have many sick and wounded. Excuse me.” He left.
Purcell said, “I’m sure Henry is enjoying the mule ride.”
She nodded absently, then said, “I hope they reach him in time.”
He didn’t reply.
She continued, “I worry about the Gallas.”
“The Gallas,” said Purcell, “attack the weak and the dying. Not ten armed soldiers.”
She looked at him, forced a smile, and said, “You do know how to con a worried lady.”
He
smiled in return, though he found himself for some reason annoyed at her worry about Mercado, justified as it might be. He stood and looked around the aid tent. His and Vivian’s personal possessions were in neat piles at the foot of their cots, but their clothes and boots were gone, and he didn’t see any native sandals for either of them. He said, “I’m going to take a look around.”
She stood. “I’ll go with you.”
“Be here when they bring Henry in.”
She hesitated, then nodded, and said, “Find a toothbrush.”
As he began walking, he could see soldiers lounging under jerry-rigged tarps, eating, talking, and smoking, which was what soldiers did when they weren’t killing other soldiers. In any case, they didn’t seem that interested in the white guy walking around barefoot in a gray shamma—though a few did point to him. If Vivian had been with him, the soldiers may have shown more interest.
He passed a long open-sided tent marked with a white medical cross, and inside the tent he could see men lying close together on the dirt floor, mostly naked and bandaged. An overpowering stench came from the tent, and he could hear the moaning and crying of men in pain. Human misery. War, pestilence, famine, and civil strife. Ethiopia had it all.
In the distance, on a low hill, he noticed a big pavilion-style tent that flew the revolutionary red-starred flag of the new Ethiopia. That must be the headquarters, and when—or if—Henry arrived, they’d all go over there and see if General Getachu was in a good enough mood to offer them a helicopter ride to Addis—after they interviewed the victorious general, of course. There wasn’t much frontline reporting in this war, and based on the events of the last forty-eight hours, he could see why.
Near the hill, he saw a windsock, indicating a helipad, though there was no helicopter there. He pictured himself in Getachu’s helicopter, with Mercado and Vivian, high above the heat and stench of this place. The helicopter was the magic carpet of modern war, and if they left here by noon tomorrow, they could be in the Hilton bar tomorrow night, answering questions from their colleagues about their excursion into the interior of this benighted country. The etiquette was to modestly downplay the big dangerous adventure, but make it interesting enough to keep everyone’s attention, and keep the drinks flowing. He thought about how to mention finding the dying priest without giving away the whole story.