The Quest: A Novel (42 page)

Purcell wanted to tell her that if they found the black monastery, she might find out what that’s like.

More importantly, he had confirmed another detail of Father Armano’s story. Also, they’d fixed a few points of this tale—the east shore of Lake Tana, the spa, and the fortress. Now all they had to do was find the black monastery which they believed was in this area.

He looked at the thick, unbroken carpet of jungle and rain forest below. He’d once ridden in an army spotter plane in Vietnam, and the pilot had told him, “There are enemy base camps under that triple canopy. And thousands of men. And we can’t see anything.”

Right. Which was why the Americans defoliated and napalmed the jungle. But here, there were hundreds of thousands of acres of thick, pristine jungle and rain forest, and there could have been a city under that canopy and no one would ever see it. Also, they had only a vague idea where to look.

Mercado was having similar thoughts and said, “This is a rather large area of jungle.”

“You noticed?”

“A clue might be that old map we saw in the Ethiopian College.”

“Henry, please.”

“And the stained glass window at the Hilton.”

“You’re sounding oxygen-deprived.”

“What they have in common is that they show palm trees. And if you look, you won’t see many clusters of palms down there.”

Purcell glanced out the canopy. True, there weren’t many palm trees, but… that wasn’t a very solid clue. He said, “Okay, we’ll keep an eye out for palms. Meanwhile, we have about a half hour before we
need to head for Gondar, so I’ll make ascending corkscrew turns and Vivian will begin shooting everything below as we climb.” He suggested to her, “Try to overlap a bit—”

“I know.”

“Good. Up we go.” He pushed in the throttle and the Navion began to climb. Purcell said to Mercado, “Use the field glasses, and if you see any abnormalities below, bring it to my and Vivian’s attention.” He told them, “I’m going to slide open the canopy so Vivian can get clear shots.” He unlatched the canopy and slid it open a few feet, and the roar of the engine filled the cabin.

Vivian unfastened her seat belt, leaned forward, and pointed her camera through the opening.

They circled the area east of Lake Tana—the forested land that matched up with Father Armano’s story, which began on the east shore of the lake and ended at his fortress prison. The lakeshore was known, though not the exact location of the priest’s starting point along the eighty-mile shoreline. And the fortress was no longer incognita. What
was
incognita, however, was everything under that jungle canopy, including the black monastery.

Purcell looked down at the land below. There seemed to be no man-made break in the green carpet of jungle. But they knew that.

Vivian, believing in Henry’s inspiration about the palm trees, took lots of photos of palm clusters. There were a few small ponds below, and she also focused on them because the priest had mentioned a pond within the walls of the monastery.

As for the tree, the stream, and the rock, as Gann had pointed out, there were lots of trees, and a rock would not be visible unless it was huge, or sat in a clearing. Purcell and Mercado saw streams on the map, but they were not visible through the thick jungle.

Purcell thought about the Italian Army cartographers who’d created dozens of terrain maps based on their aerial photography. They’d spotted the fortress, and a few other man-made objects on their photographs that they’d transferred to their maps. But they had not spotted the black monastery, or anything else they might have labeled “incognita.”

Needle in a haystack. Monastery in a jungle.

The key, he thought, might be the village of Shoan. He looked at his watch. It was almost 10
A.M.
and they needed to head for Gondar, or they’d be unexplainably late on a flight from Addis.

He let Vivian take a few more photos, then shouted, “That’s it!” He slid the canopy closed and latched it. The cockpit became quieter, but no one spoke. If they were disappointed in their aerial recon, they didn’t say so.

Purcell picked up a northwesterly heading and began climbing to Gondar’s elevation.

He had no idea what awaited them in Gondar, away from the relative safety of the capital. But if their last trip to Getachu territory was predictive, their search for the Holy Grail could be over in half an hour.

He had enough fuel to turn around and go back to Addis, but then he’d have no explanation for this flight.

He said, “We land in about twenty minutes.”

No one replied, and he continued on.

L
ake Tana was coming up on their left, and beyond the lake were the mountains of Gondar.

Purcell said, “We’ll catch Shoan on the way back.”

Mercado informed him, “You may not see anyone down there.” He explained, “There is a mass exodus of Falasha Jews under way.”

“I heard that. But why?”

“They feel threatened.”

“I know the feeling.” He reminded Mercado, “Gann said the Falashas have a special place in Ethiopian society.”

“Not anymore.”

Vivian asked, “Where are they going?”

“To Israel, of course. The Israelis have organized an airlift.” Mercado informed them, “Every Jew in the world has the right to emigrate to Israel under the Law of Return.”

It seemed to Purcell that everyone who could leave was leaving. Soon the only people left would be the Marxist government, the Russian and Cuban advisors, the peasants, and idiot reporters. And for all he knew, the monks of the black monastery were gone, too, along with the Holy Grail.

Mercado continued, “The Falashas are the only non-convert Jews in the world who were not part of the Diaspora. They are Ethiopians who have been Jewish since before the time of Sheba. Their ethnic origins are here, not Israel or Judea, so the Law of Return does not technically apply to them. But the Israeli government is welcoming them.”

“That’s good. But I hope they’re still in Shoan, because we’re going to put that on our itinerary.”

“I think you’re placing too much hope on Shoan for our mission.”

“We’ll see when we get there.”

At 10:20, Purcell spotted the fortress city of Gondar rising from
the hills. It looked like some movie set from a fantasy flick that featured dragons and warlocks. The reality, however, was worse; it was General Getachu’s army headquarters.

The civilian-military airfield was perched on a nearby plateau, and without radio contact, Purcell had to swoop down to see the windsock, and for the tower to see him, making him feel like an intruder into enemy airspace.

The control tower turned on a steady green light for him, the international signal for “Cleared to land.”

He lined up on the north-south runway and began his descent.

Mercado said, “I don’t see a firing squad waiting for us.”

“They’re behind the hangar, Henry.”

Vivian suggested, “Can we stop with the gallows humor?”

As the Navion crossed the threshold of the long runway, Purcell snapped the throttle back to idle, and the aircraft touched down. “Welcome to Gondar.”

He let the Navion run out to the end of the runway as he looked around for any signs that they should turn around, take off, and fly to Sudan, or to French Somaliland, about two hundred fifty miles to the east.

Henry, too, was looking toward the hangars, and at the military vehicles nearby.

The Navion came to a halt, and Purcell taxied toward the hangars.

Vivian lifted her camera, but Mercado said, “You cannot take photos here.”

She put the camera in her bag.

Purcell noticed a C-47 military transport parked near one of the hangars, and he wondered if it was the same one that had blocked him from using the longer runway at the Addis airstrip. The tail number seemed to be the same, but he couldn’t be sure.

He taxied up to the hangar and killed the engine. The cockpit became quiet after four hours in the air, and it was easy now to speak, but no one had anything to say.

Purcell unlatched the canopy and slid it back, letting the cool mountain air into the stuffy cockpit. He said, “Take everything. Leave the carafe.”

He climbed onto the wing, then helped Vivian and Mercado out.

Four men in olive drab uniforms, wearing holsters, were watching them.

They knew the Navion, of course, and Purcell could see they had expected Signore Bocaccio to come out of the cockpit, or maybe Ethiopian pilots who had commandeered the Navion to shoot smoke rockets at the enemies of the state.

Purcell said to his companions, “The good news is that they seem surprised to see us.”

They all jumped down to the concrete apron and walked toward the four military men. One of the men, a captain, motioned them inside the hangar office. He took his seat behind a desk and looked at them.

Purcell noted that the captain was wearing the red star insignia of the new Marxist state, but he had probably worn the Lion of Judah six months ago. Hopefully, this guy was not Getachu’s nephew, and hopefully he spoke the international language of flight, and also believed in the international brotherhood of men who took to the skies. Or he was an asshole.

The captain asked, in good English, “Who are you?”

Purcell replied, “We are journalists from Addis and friends of Signore Bocaccio.”

“What is your business here?”

“We are here to see the ancient city of Gondar.”

“Why?”

“Because it is famous.”

The captain thought about that, then said, “Your flight plan, passports, and credentials.”

Purcell gave him the flight plan, and everyone gave him their passports and press cards. He studied each passport, then checked their names against a typed list. Purcell, Vivian, and Mercado glanced at each other.

The captain looked at their press cards, then handed everything back to Purcell and informed him, “There is a landing fee.”

“What is it today?”

The captain stared at him, then asked, “What do you have?”

“Lire.”

“Fifty thousand.”

Purcell said to Mercado, “Pay the gentleman, Henry.”

Mercado looked both relieved and annoyed. He took a fifty-thousand-lire note out of his wallet and gave it to the captain.

The captain asked, “How long are you here?”

“A few hours.”

“A long flight for a few hours in Gondar.”

Vivian replied, “I am a photographer.” She tapped her camera bag. “We are taking preliminary photographs today, and if our newspaper likes them, we will be back to do a photographic essay of the ancient city.”

The captain stared at her, and he seemed to be processing that information. He asked Purcell, “What other business do you have here?”

“None.”

“Do you know anyone here?”

“No one.” Except General Getachu, of course, but that wasn’t worth mentioning.

The captain looked at them for a long time, then said, “If a military situation develops, the Provisional Revolutionary Air Force has the right to make use of your aircraft, as I am sure Signore Bocaccio told you.”

“We understand.”

“Are you here to report on the war?”

“Not today.”

“What is your next destination?”

“Addis.”

The captain informed them, “Your fuel tanks will be filled in your absence and you will pay for the fuel in Western currency.” He reminded them, “You will file a flight plan for Addis, and there will be a takeoff fee.”

“I understand.”

“You will see me—Captain Sharew—before you take off.”

“All right.”

“You may leave.”

They walked toward the door.

“Wait!”

They turned and Purcell saw that Captain Sharew was looking at their flight plan. He said to Purcell, “It has been over four hours since you left Addis.”

“We had headwinds.”

Captain Sharew pointed to the C-47 outside his window and informed them, “That aircraft left from the same airstrip after you. He arrived two hours ago and reported no headwinds.” He asked, “Did you deviate from your flight plan?”

“Actually, I misread the chart, and I’m unfamiliar with the terrain, so I was lost for about an hour.”

“So, headwinds
and
lost. You are an unlucky pilot.”

“Apparently.”

“I will be taking note of your total fuel consumption from Addis.”

“Note that we started with only three-quarters fuel.”

“Perhaps someone at Addis will remember that.”

“I’m sure they will.”

The captain kept staring at them, then said, “You may leave.”

They turned and exited the hangar.

Mercado said, “He is not buying headwinds and lost, Frank.”

Purcell had spotted the small commercial aviation terminal from the air, and as they walked toward it to get a taxi, he assured everyone, “My explanation, as a pilot, was logical and believable.”

Vivian replied, “I think my explanation as a photographer for what we’re doing here for two hours was more believable than your explanation about what took us over four hours to get here.”

“You’re a better liar than I am.”

Mercado also reminded them, “They may borrow our aircraft while we’re gone.”