Chapter 38
Lake Tana was coming up on their left, and beyond the lake were the mountains of Gondar.
Purcell said, “We’ll catch Shoan on the way back.”
Mercado informed him, “You may not see anyone down there.” He explained, “There is a mass exodus of Falasha Jews under way.”
“I heard that. But why?”
“They feel threatened.”
“I know the feeling.” He reminded Mercado, “Gann said the Falashas have a special place in Ethiopian society.”
“Not anymore.”
Vivian asked, “Where are they going?”
“To Israel, of course. The Israelis have organized an airlift.” Mercado informed them, “Every Jew in the world has the right to emigrate to Israel under the Law of Return.”
It seemed to Purcell that everyone who could leave was leaving. Soon the only people left would be the Marxist government, the Russian and Cuban advisors, the peasants, and idiot reporters. And for all he knew, the monks of the black monastery were gone, too, along with the Holy Grail.
Mercado continued, “The Falashas are the only non-convert Jews in the world who were not part of the Diaspora. They are Ethiopians who have been Jewish since before the time of Sheba. Their ethnic origins are here, not Israel or Judea, so the Law of Return does not technically apply to them. But the Israeli government is welcoming them.”
“That’s good. But I hope they’re still in Shoan, because we’re going to put that on our itinerary.”
“I think you’re placing too much hope on Shoan for our mission.”
“We’ll see when we get there.”
At 10:20, Purcell spotted the fortress city of Gondar rising from the hills. It looked like some movie set from a fantasy flick that featured dragons and warlocks. The reality, however, was worse; it was General Getachu’s army headquarters.
The civilian-military airfield was perched on a nearby plateau, and without radio contact, Purcell had to swoop down to see the windsock, and for the tower to see him, making him feel like an intruder into enemy airspace.
The control tower turned on a steady green light for him, the international signal for “Cleared to land.”
He lined up on the north-south runway and began his descent.
Mercado said, “I don’t see a firing squad waiting for us.”
“They’re behind the hangar, Henry.”
Vivian suggested, “Can we stop with the gallows humor?”
As the Navion crossed the threshold of the long runway, Purcell snapped the throttle back to idle, and the aircraft touched down. “Welcome to Gondar.”
He let the Navion run out to the end of the runway as he looked around for any signs that they should turn around, take off, and fly to Sudan, or to French Somaliland, about two hundred fifty miles to the east.
Henry, too, was looking toward the hangars, and at the military vehicles nearby.
The Navion came to a halt, and Purcell taxied toward the hangars.
Vivian lifted her camera, but Mercado said, “You cannot take photos here.”
She put the camera in her bag.
Purcell noticed a C-47 military transport parked near one of the hangars, and he wondered if it was the same one that had blocked him from using the longer runway at the Addis airstrip. The tail number seemed to be the same, but he couldn’t be sure.
He taxied up to the hangar and killed the engine. The cockpit became quiet after four hours in the air, and it was easy now to speak, but no one had anything to say.
Purcell unlatched the canopy and slid it back, letting the cool mountain air into the stuffy cockpit. He said, “Take everything. Leave the carafe.”
He climbed onto the wing, then helped Vivian and Mercado out.
Four men in olive drab uniforms, wearing holsters, were watching them.
They knew the Navion, of course, and Purcell could see they had expected Signore Bocaccio to come out of the cockpit, or maybe Ethiopian pilots who had commandeered the Navion to shoot smoke rockets at the enemies of the state.
Purcell said to his companions, “The good news is that they seem surprised to see us.”
They all jumped down to the concrete apron and walked toward the four military men. One of the men, a captain, motioned them inside the hangar office. He took his seat behind a desk and looked at them.
Purcell noted that the captain was wearing the red star insignia of the new Marxist state, but he had probably worn the Lion of Judah six months ago. Hopefully, this guy was not Getachu’s nephew, and hopefully he spoke the international language of flight, and also believed in the international brotherhood of men who took to the skies. Or he was an asshole.
The captain asked, in good English, “Who are you?”
Purcell replied, “We are journalists from Addis and friends of Signore Bocaccio.”
“What is your business here?”
“We are here to see the ancient city of Gondar.”
“Why?”
“Because it is famous.”
The captain thought about that, then said, “Your flight plan, passports, and credentials.”
Purcell gave him the flight plan, and everyone gave him their passports and press cards. He studied each passport, then checked their names against a typed list. Purcell, Vivian, and Mercado glanced at each other.
The captain looked at their press cards, then handed everything back to Purcell and informed him, “There is a landing fee.”
“What is it today?”
The captain stared at him, then asked, “What do you have?”
“Lire.”
Purcell said to Mercado, “Pay the gentleman, Henry.”
Mercado looked both relieved and annoyed. He took a fifty-thousand-lire note out of his wallet and gave it to the captain.
The captain asked, “How long are you here?”
“A few hours.”
“A long flight for a few hours in Gondar.”
Vivian replied, “I am a photographer.” She tapped her camera bag. “We are taking preliminary photographs today, and if our newspaper likes them, we will be back to do a photographic essay of the ancient city.”
The captain stared at her, and he seemed to be processing that information. He asked Purcell, “What other business do you have here?”
“None.”
“Do you know anyone here?”
“No one.” Except General Getachu, of course, but that wasn’t worth mentioning.
The captain looked at them for a long time, then said, “If a military situation develops, the Provisional Revolutionary Air Force has the right to make use of your aircraft, as I am sure Signore Bocaccio told you.”
“We understand.”
“Are you here to report on the war?”
“Not today.”
“What is your next destination?”
“Addis.”
The captain informed them, “Your fuel tanks will be filled in your absence and you will pay for the fuel in Western currency.” He reminded them, “You will file a flight plan for Addis, and there will be a takeoff fee.”
“I understand.”
“You will see me—Captain Sharew—before you take off.”
“All right.”
“You may leave.”
They walked toward the door.
They turned and Purcell saw that Captain Sharew was looking at their flight plan. He said to Purcell, “It has been over four hours since you left Addis.”
“We had headwinds.”
Captain Sharew pointed to the C-47 outside his window and informed them, “That aircraft left from the same airstrip after you. He arrived two hours ago and reported no headwinds.” He asked, “Did you deviate from your flight plan?”
“Actually, I misread the chart, and I’m unfamiliar with the terrain, so I was lost for about an hour.”
“So, headwinds and lost. You are an unlucky pilot.”
“Apparently.”
“I will be taking note of your total fuel consumption from Addis.”
“Note that we started with only three-quarters fuel.”
“Perhaps someone at Addis will remember that.”
“I’m sure they will.”
The captain kept staring at them, then said, “You may leave.”
They turned and exited the hangar.
Mercado said, “He is not buying headwinds and lost, Frank.”
Purcell had spotted the small commercial aviation terminal from the air, and as they walked toward it to get a taxi, he assured everyone, “My explanation, as a pilot, was logical and believable.”
Vivian replied, “I think my explanation as a photographer for what we’re doing here for two hours was more believable than your explanation about what took us over four hours to get here.”
“You’re a better liar than I am.”
Mercado also reminded them, “They may borrow our aircraft while we’re gone.”
“They’ll return it if it doesn’t get shot down.”
Vivian asked, “Is there a hotel in this town?”
Mercado replied, “There were a few good ones last time I was here.”
“When was that?”
“Nineteen-forty-one.”
They reached the passenger terminal and entered through the rear. The small, shoddy terminal building looked deserted, and Vivian asked, “Are there any commercial flights to Addis?”
Mercado replied, “There used to be one a day. Now, from what I’ve heard, perhaps one a week.”
Purcell observed, “Obviously we missed that one.”
Vivian said, “We could get stuck here.”
Purcell replied, “That would be the least bad thing that could happen here.” He noted that the only car rental counter was closed and he suggested, “While we’re in town, let’s see if we can find a cross-country vehicle to rent.”
They exited the front of the terminal, where a single black Fiat sat at the taxi stand. Mercado woke the driver and they climbed in, with Mercado in the front. “Gondar,” he said.
The driver seemed confused, as though he hadn’t had a customer since the revolution.
Purcell said to Mercado, “Give him twenty thousand.”
“That’s about fifteen dollars, Frank. He makes about a dollar a day.”
“That’s more than L’Osservatore Romano is paying me. Let’s go.”
Mercado reluctantly gave the driver a twenty-thousand-lire note, and the man stared at it, then started his car and drove off.
On the way down the plateau, Mercado attempted a few words of conversation with the driver in Amharic, Italian, and English.
Vivian said to Purcell, “I don’t think we should fly the Navion back here. That would be one trip too many.” She suggested, “We’ll take the commercial flight here when we’re ready to begin our journey.”
“We need one more recon flight to check out anything that looks interesting on your photographs.”
“I’m not even sure we’re getting out of here.”
“We have been chosen to get out of here.”
She didn’t reply.
As they climbed the steep, narrow road toward the walls of the city, Mercado turned and said, “This driver was actually waiting for a Soviet Air Force general.”
Vivian laughed. “Then why did he take us?”
Purcell replied, “Because Henry gave him a month’s pay.”
Mercado said, “Nothing has gone right today.”
Purcell disagreed. “I didn’t crash, and we didn’t get arrested.”
“The day is not over.”
