Free The Quest: A Novel by Nelson DeMille Page B

“Frank, how did you know he was a Royalist?”
    Purcell slid back in the seat and put the Jeep in gear. “I didn’t.”
    Mercado climbed out of the ditch and crawled into the passenger seat. “That was a bloody stupid chance you took.”
    “But you weren’t taking any chances at all.” Purcell moved the Jeep slowly up the road.
    Mercado, trying to explain his dive into the ditch, said, “I thought he was a Galla.”
    “I could see that he wasn’t.”
    “Do you even know what a Galla looks like?”
    “Actually, no.”
    They drove closer to the man, who they could now see was wearing a sash of green, yellow, and red—the colors of Ethiopia and of the emperor.
    Purcell said, “Well, we’re now in the Royal Army.”
    Mercado replied, “Good. This is where the story is.”
    Purcell reminded him, “The Provisional government forces could have gotten us back to Addis. Prince Joshua probably can’t even get himself out of here.”
    “We don’t know what the situation is.”
    “Right. But I know that your safe-conduct pass from the Provisional government won’t do us much good with the prince.”
    Mercado didn’t reply for a moment, then said, “I’ve actually met Haile Selassie here in ’36, then again when he was in exile in London.” He assured Purcell and Vivian, “I will tell that to Prince Joshua.”
    Vivian, who knew Henry Mercado better than Purcell did, asked, “Is that true, Henry?”
    “No. But it will get us royal treatment.”
    Vivian said, “That’s why I love you, Henry.”
    Purcell advised, “Don’t look arrestable.”
    They were within twenty meters of the soldier and they waved to him. He didn’t return the greeting, but he pointed to the right.
    Mercado said, “He wants us to take that small path.”
    “I see it.” Purcell swung the Jeep to the right and gave a parting wave to the tattered soldier on the rock. The smell of the dead began to permeate the air, although they saw no bodies yet. Purcell navigated the Jeep up the narrow path that looked like a goat track.
    Mercado pointed to a flat area ahead. About a dozen bodies lay ripening under the sun. A soldier with an old bolt-action rifle walked toward them. Purcell wove around the dead bodies and drove the Jeep toward the man, who was looking at them curiously.
    Mercado stood up and yelled a few Amharic words of greeting. “
Tena yastalann!
”
    “That’s the stuff, Henry,” said Vivian. “Ask him how his kids are doing at Yale.”
    “I did.”
    The man approached the Jeep and Purcell stopped. Mercado waved his press card and said, “Gazetanna,” as Purcell held out a packet of Egyptian cigarettes.
    The soldier wore a shredded
shamma
and bits and pieces of web gear. He smiled and took the cigarettes. Purcell lit one for him. “Ras Joshua.”
    The man nodded and pointed.
    Purcell moved the Jeep farther up the hill through grass thatcame up to the windshield. There was little evidence of military activity and few physical signs of the night’s artillery barrage. As in most third world armies, Purcell knew, the weapons of modern war were more for the sound and the fury than anything else. The artillery barrages were small compared to modern armies, and most of the ordnance went wide of the mark. The real killing was done in a manner that hadn’t changed much in two thousand years—the knife, the spear, the scimitar, and sometimes the bayonet of the rifles without ammunition.
    They continued on and Purcell realized he was in the middle of the prince’s headquarters. Low tents, much too colorful for tactical use, sprang up out of the high grass and bush. Ahead, down a small path, Purcell could make out the green, yellow, and red flag of Ethiopia emblazoned with the Lion of Judah. As he drove toward it, the bush around him came alive with soldiers. No one spoke.
    “Wave, Henry,” said Vivian. “Invite them all to your country place in Surrey. That’s a good chap.”
    “Vivian, keep still and sit down.”
    Purcell