The Quest

“They are patient.” He thought a moment, then said, “Or, more likely, they and the recent popes have lost interest in this because they no longer believe in the existence of the Holy Grail.”

“It’s a hard thing to believe in, Henry.”

“It is. But-”

“You believe it because it is impossible.”

“I do.”

They reached the Ethiopian College, a Romanesque-style structure that Mercado said was built in the 1920s when the college was moved from the five-hundred-year-old monastery of Saint Stephen. Purcell saw a number of black-robed, dark-skinned monks going in and out of the main entrance, and he couldn’t help but recall Father Armano’s story of the monks in the black monastery who’d greeted him and the Italian soldiers with clubs. “Is this place safe, Henry?”

Mercado smiled. “They’re good Catholics, old man. Not Copts with clubs.”

“Good.”

But he saw that Mercado crossed himself as he entered, so he did the same.

Mercado confessed, “I haven’t been here before, but we have permission and we have an appointment and we are on time.”

They stood in the large antechamber and waited.

A tall, black, and bald monk came toward them and Mercado greeted him in Italian. They exchanged a few words, and Purcell could tell that there seemed to be some problem, notwithstanding their appointment.

Purcell suggested, “Tell him all we want to do is see the map that shows the black monastery.”

Two more monks appeared from somewhere and the discussion continued. Finally, Mercado turned and said to Purcell, “They are refusing entry. So I’ll need to go through channels again.”

“Try a different channel.”

“All right, let’s go. I’ll work this out.”

They exited the Ethiopian College and walked down the path through the gardens.

Purcell asked, “What was that all about?”

“Not sure.”

“When you asked permission, to whom did you speak?”

“I spoke to a papal representative.” He explained, “The pope is considered the special protector of the college.”

“Doesn’t look like that place needs any outside protection.”

Mercado didn’t respond.

“So what did you tell this papal representative?”

“The truth, of course.” He added, “That I had just returned from Ethiopia and I wanted to do some research on a series of articles I was writing for our newspaper about the Coptic and Catholic churches in post-revolutionary Ethiopia.”

“Which is the truth, but not the whole truth.”

Mercado did not reply and they continued to walk back toward the Vatican Library, or, Purcell hoped, the offices of L’Osservatore Romano, or, better yet, lunch. He said, “I assume you didn’t mention the black monastery.”

“It didn’t come up.”

Purcell thought about this. If Henry were actually in league with someone or some group here in the Vatican who wanted him to look for the Holy Grail, then there must be another group here who didn’t want him to do that. Or the only people here whom Henry Mercado was working for were his editors at L’Osservatore Romano, and he, Purcell, was seeing conspiracies where there were only bureaucratic screwups or miscommunication. He wasn’t sure, but at some point, here or in Ethiopia, he’d know what, if anything, Henry was up to.

Mercado said, “Just as well. When Gann gets here, we’ll have this all straightened out, and I’m sure Colonel Gann can read a map far better than you or I.”

“Good point.”

“Would you like to go back to the library? There’s more.”

“The monk locked the door.”

“He’ll open it.”

“Let me buy you lunch.”

“All right…”

“The Forum.” Purcell explained his restaurant choice: “I’m waiting for a telex.”

Mercado looked at him and nodded.

They exited the Vatican through Saint Peter’s Square and hailed a taxi on the Borgo Santo Spirito, which took them to the Hotel Forum.

Purcell said, “Go on up and get us a table by the window, and a good bottle of wine.”

Mercado hesitated, then walked to the elevators.

Purcell went to the front desk and asked for messages. The clerk riffled through a stack of phone messages and telexes and handed him a sealed envelope.

He opened it and read the telex: ARRIVING FIUMICINO TONIGHT. WILL TAXI TO CITY. HOTEL UNDECIDED. WILL MEET YOU AT FORUM BAR, 6 P.M. I MISS YOU, V.

He put the telex in his pocket and walked to the elevator.

Well… no mention of Henry. Hotel undecided. Don’t meet me at the airport. See you at six. I miss you.

And, Purcell thought, I miss you too.

He rode up to the Forum restaurant and found Henry speaking on the maître d’s phone. Henry motioned to a table by the window, and Purcell sat.

Mercado joined him and asked, “Any messages?”

“No.”

Mercado looked at him and said, “It’s all right.”

He wasn’t sure what that meant, but he nodded.

“I ordered the same amarone.”

“I thought we drank it all.”

“Do you feel that you are intellectually and spiritually prepared to go on this quest?”

“I do, actually.”

“And do you think Vivian will come with us?”

Purcell reminded Mercado, “You seem to think that the Holy Spirit has told her to go. So ask him. Or her.”

Mercado smiled.

Purcell suggested, “Let’s talk about something else.”