The Quest

Purcell nodded. Henry’s time in the Vatican Library and his request for access to the Ethiopian College were well within his needs as a reporter for L’Osservatore Romano. On the other hand, if someone in the Vatican hierarchy was putting the pieces together-including Henry asking to go back to hell with the same reporter and photographer he’d been with in prison-then a picture was taking shape. Actually, two pictures: one that looked like a reporter doing his job, and one that looked like a reporter who was getting nosy about something he wasn’t supposed to know. The thing that would put the picture in focus would be Henry’s notifying the Vatican of Father Armano’s death, saying in effect that he’d heard the dying words of Father Giuseppe Armano, who once had a papal letter in his pocket telling the good father to grab the Holy Grail from a Coptic monastery.

Mercado asked, “What’s on your mind, Frank?”

“Our cover story.”

“The beauty of our cover story is that it is real.”

“Right.” Up until the point where they went off into the jungle. And even then, they were on assignment, though not necessarily for L’Osservatore Romano.

Also, Purcell thought, Henry was driving this bus with a lot more enthusiasm than he’d shown at Harry’s Bar. He’d been touched by the Holy Spirit, or he just smelled a good story-the Holy Grail of stories. Plus, of course, Henry wanted to make up for his past poor performance in Ethiopia. It was important to him that neither Vivian nor Frank Purcell thought he had lost his nerve. Henry should take his own advice about going to Ethiopia for the right reasons.

Henry seemed to be done with business, and he inquired about their trip to Tuscany, and Vivian provided most of the answers. Henry said it sounded like a wonderful trip, and added, “If you are still here in the spring, or the fall, Tuscany is at its best.” He further advised, “But stay away in the summer. It’s overrun with Brits.” He smiled and said, “The Italians call it Tuscanshire.”

Henry continued with his travel advice, and it occurred to Purcell that he might be lonely. He obviously knew people in Rome, including his colleagues at the newspaper as well as every bartender and waiter on the Via Veneto. And there was also the mysterious lady whose name was not Jean. But Purcell could detect the loneliness-he’d experienced it himself. In a rare moment of empathy, Purcell understood that Henry had lost more than a lover in Ethiopia-he’d lost a friend. Or, considering the age difference, he’d lost a young protégée-someone he could teach. Or was it manipulate?

He looked at Vivian as Henry was going on about Perugia or something, and it seemed to Purcell that Vivian had lost the stars in her eyes for Henry. In fact, Vivian, like himself, had been transformed by her experience in Ethiopia. She had seemed then, to him, a bit… immature, almost childish in Addis and on the road to the front lines, not to mention the mineral baths or Prince Joshua’s tent. But she’d grown up fast, as people do who’ve been traumatized by war. He knew, too, that the encounter with Father Armano had affected her deeply, as had her recent romantic complications. It was a mature decision to get herself to a nunnery, and though he loved the woman who’d left him in Cairo, he liked the woman who’d met him in Rome.

Henry, on the other hand, seemed to be regressing. But Purcell was not going to underestimate the old fox.

Henry had moved on to Milan, and Vivian was nodding attentively, though her eyes were glazing over.

It occurred to Purcell, too, that Henry must hear time’s wingèd chariot gaining on him. So for Henry, a return to Ethiopia was a no-lose situation; if he died there, he wasn’t missing much more of life. But if he returned-with or without the Holy Grail-he would have stories to tell for the rest of his life. Hopefully to a nice woman, but anyone would do.

For Vivian and Purcell, however, the timeline was different. Especially for Vivian. Henry Mercado was at the end of that timeline, while he, Purcell, was somewhere in the middle, and Vivian was just beginning her life and her career as a photojournalist. By now, she’d figured out that it wasn’t easy or glamorous, but it was exciting and interesting. Unfortunately, the exciting parts were dangerous and the interesting parts had nothing to do with the job. And it was often lonely.

He didn’t know if Henry had ever had this conversation with Vivian, and he would advise against it in any case. Frank Purcell was not going to give her The Lecture. She’d figure it out on her own. Meanwhile, Vivian thought they had something together, and they did, but the future was something else. He’d had a few Vivians in his life, and the odds were that Vivian would have a few more Frank Purcells in her life, and maybe one or two more Henry Mercados.

Or Ethiopia would join them together forever, one way or the other.

“Frank?”

He looked at Henry.

“Are you mentally attending?”

“No.”