The Quest

“Right. Money talks, and the Revolutionary government needs money, so they sold Gann. Works for everyone.” He also informed Mercado, “The bad news is that Gann has to return to Addis after the holidays for a hearing on his appeal or he forfeits his bail.” He smiled. “I don’t think he’ll be making that trip.”

Mercado smiled in return. “If he does, he deserves a firing squad.”

“Two firing squads.”

Mercado said, “It’s important for these people to save face. Before they kicked me out, I got handed a five-year sentence for my association with counterrevolutionaries.”

“Only five? When are you supposed to report back?”

“I’m not clear about that.” He asked Purcell, “How about you?”

“I just did that week in the slammer.”

“Then a week of house arrest in the Hilton.”

“Correct.”

“With Vivian.”

“Correct.”

“You both got off easy.”

“Right.” He reminded Mercado, “You’re the one who got caught sleeping with Gann. Vivian and I didn’t do anything wrong.”

“Well, I’m sure you did in the Hilton.”

Purcell changed the subject. “We should go see Gann in London.”

Mercado kept to the subject, “I didn’t do anything wrong and I spent a month in the foulest prison I’ve ever seen, while you and Vivian-”

“Was it that long? Well, we’ve both been in worse places.”

“Where did you go after you left Addis?”

“I went to Cairo.”

“Alone?”

“No.” Purcell explained, “It wasn’t our choice to go there… or to go together,” which was partly a lie. He said, “Cairo seems to be the dumping ground for people expelled from Ethiopia.” He asked, “Where did they send you?”

“Cairo.”

“I wish I’d known you were there.”

“I was there two hours and took the first flight to London.” Mercado asked, “Why did you stay?”

“I needed a job. So I contacted the AP office, and the bureau chief, Gibson, was looking for a freelancer.” He added, “He’s expecting another war with Israel, and I am a very good war correspondent.”

Mercado didn’t respond to that, nor did he ask why Vivian stayed in Cairo. In fact, she had told Purcell she was excited about photographing the pyramids and all that, plus she wanted to be his photographer if another war broke out. Also, they were in love.

The waiter brought their drinks and Purcell saw that Henry was still drinking gin and Schweppes. Purcell raised his glass and Mercado hesitated, then did the same. Purcell said, “To freedom.”

“And life.”

They touched glasses and sat back in their chairs and watched Rome go by.

Rome, Purcell had noticed, wasn’t as garishly decorated for Christmas as, say, London or New York. He’d like to be in one city or another for the holiday, and he had thought he’d be with Vivian, but that didn’t look likely. Christmas in Cairo would not be festive.

He thought back to Addis. The whole two weeks had a surreal feeling. They’d all been taken from the helicopter in separate vehicles, still in chains, to the grim central prison and kept in separate cells, unable to communicate. Some prosecutor with a loose grasp of English had interrogated him every day and told him that his friends had all confessed to their crimes, whatever they were, and had implicated him.

The prison had an enclosed courtyard, with a gallows, and one or two men were hanged each day. He asked Mercado, “Did you have a room with a view of the hangings?”

“I did. Hoped I’d see you.”

They both smiled.

Purcell lit a cigarette and stirred his drink.

After a week in prison, with no bath or shower, rancid food, and putrid water, a nice lady from the American embassy arrived and escorted him, still barefoot and wearing his shamma, to a waiting car and took him to the Hilton a few blocks away.

The lady, Anne, had instructed him to stay in his room, which the hotel had held for him and were billing him for. She didn’t suggest a bath, but she did suggest he call a doctor to his room for a checkup. In answer to his questions about Vivian, Gann, and Henry Mercado, she replied, “Miss Smith is here. The others remain in custody.”

She offered to walk him to the front desk, but he declined, and she handed him his passport and wished him luck.

He walked barefoot in his shamma to the front desk, where the clerk said, “Welcome back, Mr. Purcell,” and gave him his key.

His room had been searched and most of his possessions had been taken, including his notebooks, but that was the least of his problems.

He had waited a full day before calling Vivian, and they met in her room for drinks because they were both confined to quarters, and in any case neither of them wanted to run into their colleagues in the bar, or the security police in the lobby.

Vivian, too, had had her room ransacked and all her film had been taken, which made her angry, but she, too, understood that their real problem was getting out of Ethiopia.

As he’d finished his drink, she’d reminded him, “As I said, nothing is going to happen between us here.”

“I understand.”

Later, in bed, she told him, “When they release Henry…”

“I understand.”

“Sorry.”

“Me too.”