The Quest

Purcell said, “Here’s another subject. When we begin our search for the black monastery, we should not drive from Addis to the north again. Agreed?”

Vivian agreed. “I would not do that again.”

“So,” Purcell said, “at some point, after we’ve finished our aerial recon, and when we think we have a few possible locations for the black monastery, we need to fly to Gondar, ditch the aircraft, and buy or rent a cross-country vehicle to go exploring.” He pointed out, “From Gondar to the area we need to explore is about four to six hours-rather than three or four days cross-country from Addis.”

Mercado agreed. “Gondar should be our jump-off point.”

They continued on in silence. Purcell followed the Blue Nile north and maintained his airspeed and altitude.

Vivian announced, “I need to go.”

Mercado passed her the empty water carafe. She said, “Close your eyes. You too, Frank.” She pulled down her pants and panties and relieved herself.

Purcell said, “My turn. Close your eyes, Henry.” He unzipped his fly.

Vivian offered, “I’ll hold it for you so you can fly.” She laughed. “I mean the carafe.”

Purcell suspected that Henry was not amused. He held the wheel with his left hand and himself with the other, and Vivian held the carafe for him.

“Finished.”

She snapped the hinged lid of the carafe in place and passed it to Henry, who also used it. Indeed, Purcell thought, they would be in close quarters in the days and weeks ahead with many more close bonding moments. It was good that they were all friends.

At 8:32, Purcell spotted Lake Tana, nestled among the hills. The altimeter read eleven thousand eight hundred feet, and the lake looked like it was about six thousand feet below, which put the lake’s altitude at about a mile high. In the hazy distance, about twenty miles north of the lake, would be Gondar.

He pointed out the big lake to his passengers and said, “We’ve made good time, so we may be able to snoop around for an hour.”

Purcell began his descent. Within half an hour they were about a thousand feet over the terrain, and the altimeter read sixty-three hundred feet above sea level.

He made a slow banking turn over the lake’s eastern shore, and Henry, who had a map spread out in the rear, said, “I can see the monastery of Tana Kirkos that Colonel Gann mentioned. See it on that rocky peninsula jutting into the lake?”

Vivian saw it and took a photo through the Plexiglas.

Mercado said, “Somewhere along that lakeshore is where Father Armano’s battalion made camp, almost forty years ago.”

The lake was ringed with rocky hills, which Purcell knew was very defensible terrain for Father Armano’s decimated battalion. The monastery of Tana Kirkos, he thought, was also defendable because of its position on a rocky peninsula. The black monastery, however, was safe because it was hidden. Even from up here.

He made another slow banking turn and said, “We will see if we can find the spa.”

Mercado peered through the canopy with his binoculars and Vivian had her nose pressed against the Plexiglas. “There! See it?”

Purcell lowered his right wing and reduced his airspeed. Below, off his wingtip, he could clearly see the white stucco spa complex and the grassy fields around it. He saw the main building where they’d parked the Jeep and found Father Armano, and he spotted the narrow road that they’d driven on to get there. He wondered again why he’d turned off that bush-choked road at exactly that spot.

Vivian said excitedly, “There’s the sulphur pool!”

Purcell stared at the pool, then glanced at Vivian. A whole confluence of events had come together down there on that night, and from up here, in the full sunshine, it was no more understandable than it was in the dark.

Vivian said, “It looks so beautiful from here.” She took several pictures and said, “We will go back there to find Father Armano’s remains.” She reminded them, “The Vatican needs a relic.”

Purcell had no comment on that and said, “We will continue our walk down memory lane.”

He turned the aircraft north and said, “The scene of the last battle.”

Below were the hills where the last cohesive Royalist forces, led by Prince Joshua, had camped and fought, and died. Purcell dropped to two hundred feet. All the bright tents of the prince’s army were long gone, and all that remained were scattered bones and skulls in the rocky soil.

Mercado said, “A civilization died there.”

Purcell nodded.

The hills still showed the cratered shell holes on the bare slopes, and those scars and the bones were all the evidence left of what had happened here while he, Vivian, and Henry were bathing at the Italian spa. If they had arrived a day earlier-or a day later-who knows?

They flew farther north to Getachu’s hills. The army had decamped long ago, and only the scarred earth of trenches and firing positions remained to suggest that thousands of men had been there.