The Quest: A Novel (62 page)
Read The Quest: A Novel Online
Authors: Nelson Demille
Tags: #Literature & Fiction, #Genre Fiction, #Action & Adventure, #United States, #Mystery; Thriller & Suspense, #Thrillers, #Suspense, #Historical, #Fiction / Action & Adventure, #Fiction / Thrillers / General, #Fiction / Thrillers / Historical, #Fiction / Thrillers / Suspense
It was 5:30, and Henry was late as usual, but Purcell saw Vivian coming down the path. She spotted him, smiled, waved, and quickened her pace.
He stood and they hesitated for a moment, then hugged and did an air kiss.
He said, “I’ve saved a seat for you.”
She smiled and sat, and he sat at the far end of the bench. He put out his cigarette.
She asked, “Can I have one of those?”
“You shouldn’t.” But he held out his Marlboros and she took one. He leaned toward her and lit it with a match that flickered in the wind.
She inhaled and let out a stream of smoke and breath mist. “It’s cold.”
“Spring is coming.”
They both stayed silent awhile, then realizing they might never have another moment alone on a park bench, or anywhere, she said, “He needs me.”
He didn’t reply.
“And you don’t.”
“I think we’ve had this conversation.”
“If I change my mind, can I come back?”
He was supposed to be tough and say, “No.” But he said, “Yes.”
“But you’ll be taken by then.”
Again he didn’t reply.
“Can we remain friends?”
“You don’t have to ask.”
They stayed silent and Purcell looked across the dark, windy park at the Ethiopian College.
Vivian saw where he was looking and said, “I still haven’t developed any of the photographs.” She asked, “Are you going to write about… our quest?”
He thought that the world did not need to know what he, Vivian, and Mercado knew. Nor did the monks need the world to know. “I think we should all close the book on Ethiopia and move on.”
She nodded. “That is our beautiful and sad secret.”
“Right.”
She asked him, “Would you ever go back?”
“If I found the right photographer.”
She laughed, then asked him, “How are your job prospects?”
“Probably better than yours.”
She smiled.
“I’m looking for something in the States.” He stayed silent a moment and said, “It’s been a long time since I’ve been home.”
“Let me know how I can contact you.”
“Will do.” He glanced at his watch. “Must be a late-breaking story on the Holy Year.”
She smiled again and said, “Why don’t you come to dinner with us?”
“Thanks, but I really do have to meet someone.”
“How long will you be in Rome?”
“I leave tomorrow.”
She looked at him.
“I’m going to London tomorrow to meet Colonel Gann’s family. He has an ex-wife who was fond of him, and two grown children.”
“That’s very nice of you.”
“The British embassy still has no word on the body.”
“He’s in heaven, Frank.”
“Right.” He asked her, “Did Henry get that skull to the right people?”
“He did.” She suggested, “Maybe we could meet in Berini.”
Purcell didn’t know who she meant by “we.” He said, “I’ll let you know when I’m going.”
“I’ll be your translator.”
He smiled at her. They both stayed silent, then he asked her, “Tell me again why they let us go.”
“Because they knew we were chosen.”
“So was Father Armano, and he spent forty years in a cell.”
“The Falashas are all gone from Shoan, and the monks were leaving the black monastery with the Grail.”
“Right.” It was more than the monks thinking they were chosen.
He looked again at the Ethiopian College where a group of monks were entering, and he thought back to the black monastery, which was now abandoned. The monks had packed a dozen donkey carts, and presumably taken the Holy Grail and the Lance of Longinus with them, though Vivian somehow got the impression that the Lance was spectral, and appeared by itself wherever the Grail was.
In any case, the monks had taken them—he, Vivian, and Henry—with them, and when they reached the monastery of Kirkos on Lake Tana, their three uninvited guests were put in a small boat with two oarsmen who rowed them across the lake to the mouth of the Blue Nile. The oarsmen left them, and the boat continued on in the swift current of the river with Purcell at the helm, across the border into Sudan until it reached Khartoum, where the American embassy helped get the three refugee reporters on a flight to Cairo.
Purcell had chosen to stay in Cairo for a few days to visit his apartment and see some people at the AP office. Henry and Vivian had gone on to Rome. And when Purcell had joined them, he discovered, not to his complete surprise, that Henry and Vivian were at the Excelsior together.
As he’d thought, and as he’d always known, Henry and Vivian were better suited for each other. But better is not best, and though
he was angry—and hurt—he was also concerned about Vivian. He still liked Henry, but not as much as Henry liked himself. He would have told Vivian this—as a friend—but she might think it was coming from a jealous ex-lover. So he wasn’t going to say anything now.
He said to Vivian, “I meant to ask you—what were we chosen for?”
“I’ve thought about it. I think we were chosen to give some meaning to Father Armano’s life. I think God blessed him, and sent him to us so he could die with peace in his heart.”
“Okay. But why us?”
She smiled at him. “There must be something special about us.”
“There was—we were the only ones around.”
“Don’t start being cynical again.” She asked him, “How can you be cynical after what you saw?”
“I’m not sure what I saw.”
“I am.”
“I envy you.”
“Open your heart, Frank.” She reminded him, “If you believe in love, you believe in God.” She asked him, “Do you believe in love?”
“You shouldn’t have to ask that.” He looked at his watch again. “I have to go.” He stood. “Tell Henry I said good-bye. And tell him I’ll see him next time I’m in Rome.”
She stood, too, and they looked at each other.
He thought she was going to suggest that he walk with her along the path, toward Henry’s office. But she didn’t.
He said to her, “I wish you all the happiness in the world.”
“I wish you God’s peace and God’s love.”
“You, too.”
“We have a bond that can never be broken.”
“We do.”
There wasn’t much else to say, and he didn’t want it to be awkward or emotional, so he said, “Take care,” turned, and walked away.
This was the first time his sense of loss was not made easier by a sense of relief. In fact, he felt as though he were walking away from life.
Purcell knew never to look back, but this time something made him look back. She was standing near the bench, watching him.
He took a few more paces, then turned and looked at her again, and she was still looking at him.
He walked back to where she was standing, and she came to meet him.
They stopped a few feet from one another and he saw she had tears in her eyes.
He asked her, “Where’s Henry?”
“I told him not to come.”
He nodded.
She reminded him, “You said you’d take me back.”
He’d thought it was a moot question, but apparently it was not.
She smiled. “Are you taken?”
“No.”
“You are now.”
He didn’t know what to say, so he asked, “Would you like to take a walk?”
She put her arm through his and they walked through the Vatican park.
She reminded him, “You said we’d return to the Capitoline Hill.”
“Right.” He asked her, “Are your things in my room at the Forum?”
“I’m not that presumptuous.” She let him know, “They’re in the lobby.” She also let him know, “We have been chosen for each other. Believe it.”
“I believe it.”
I’d like to first thank Rolf Zettersten, publisher of Center Street, for taking an early and earnest interest in my idea, pitched in a bar, of me rewriting and he republishing
The Quest
. It’s not often that good decisions are made during cocktails, and less often does that idea survive the sober light of day. I am grateful for Rolf’s enthusiasm and long friendship.
Rolf assigned a longtime friend of mine, Kate Hartson, as my editor. Kate read the original version of
The Quest
and immediately saw what needed to be done—more sex. Or, more romance. She helped guide my fictitious characters through their relationships and emotional turmoils while nudging the author toward a happy ending. Much gratitude to Kate for all her help and patience as I missed every deadline but the last.
Many thanks to my assistant Patricia Chichester, who loved this book even while we were both bleary-eyed from late nights spent writing, typing, rewriting, and retyping. Patricia’s careful and quick work on all aspects of the manuscript, including research and working closely with Kate Hartson, made this book possible.
Thanks, too, to my assistant Dianne Francis, who also burned the midnight oil to keep the office running, and who became Nelson DeMille while I was locked in my writing cell. Thank you, Dianne, for keeping the world at bay.
Another good decision, made over vino at a long lunch, was my joining up with Jennifer Joel and Sloan Harris, literary agents extraordinaire, at International Creative Management Partners. Jenn and I go back many years, and Sloan had not had the pleasure of my company until we met at that fateful lunch. We all clicked, and I’m happy and proud to be represented by true professionals.
No writer should try to read a publishing or movie contract, or
try to deal with the U.S. Copyright Office. I have been fortunate to have as a friend and attorney David Westermann, who won’t let me sign my name to anything he hasn’t read and revised—including his checks. Thanks, Dave, for your good counsel.
When I first wrote
The Quest
in 1975, my childhood friend Thomas Block, who was a young pilot for Allegheny Airlines, helped with the flying scenes. Thirty-eight years later, I asked the still young US Airways retired Captain Block to take another look at the flying scenes in the book, which he did. He assured me that he had gotten it right the first time, and that the principles of flight had not changed all that much in the past thirty-eight years. I thanked Tom in 1975 for his time and advice, so I don’t need to do it again—but I will. Thanks, Tom.
And last, but never least, I thank my young bride, Sandy DeMille, who said to me, when I was having doubts during the rewriting of
The Quest
, “This is some of the best writing you’ve ever done.” That set the standard, and I remembered those words every time I sat down to face a blank page. As Ovid said, “Scribire iussit amor”—Love bade me write.
E
MILLE
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