Timeline (6 page)

These days, all models were made in the computer. The models could be quickly assembled, and easily revised. In addition, they allowed this method for looking at models in the field. The computer was fed mapped coordinates from the ruin; using the GPS-fixed tripod position, the image that came up on the screen was in exact perspective.

They watched the green outline fill in, making solid forms. It showed a substantial covered bridge, built of stone, with three water wheels beneath it. “Chris,” Johnston said, “you’ve made it fortified.” He sounded pleased.

“I know it’s a risk . . . ,” he said.

“No, no,” the Professor said, “I think it makes sense.”

There were references in the literature to fortified mills, and certainly there were records of innumerable battles over mills and mill rights. But few fortified mills were actually known: one in Buerge and another recently discovered near Montauban, in the next valley. Most medieval historians believed such fortified mill buildings were rare.

“The column bases at the water’s edge are very large,” Chris said. “Like everything else around here, once the mill was abandoned, the local people used it as a quarry. They took away the stones to build their own houses. But the rocks in the column bases were left behind, because they were simply too large to move. To me, that implies a massive bridge. Probably fortified.”

“You may be right,” Johnston said. “And I think—”

The radio clipped to his waist crackled. “Chris? Is the Professor with you? The minister is on-site.”

Johnston looked across the monastery excavation, toward the dirt road that ran along the edge of the river. A green Land Rover with white lettering on the side panels was racing toward them, raising a large plume of dust. “Yes indeed,” he said. “That will be François. Always in a rush.”

:

“Edouard! Edouard!” François Bellin grabbed the Professor by the shoulders, and kissed him on both cheeks. Bellin was a large, balding, exuberant man. He spoke rapid French. “My dear friend, it is always too long. You are well?”

“I am, François,” Johnston said, taking a step back from this effusiveness. Whenever Bellin was excessively friendly, it meant there was a problem ahead. “And you, François?” Johnston said. “How does it go?”

“The same, the same. But at my age, that suffices.” He looked around the site, then placed his hand on Johnston’s shoulder in a conspiratorial way. “Edouard, I must ask you a favor. I have a small difficulty.”

“Oh?”

“You know this reporter, from L’Express—”

“No,” Johnston said. “Absolutely not.”

“But Edouard—”

“I already talked to her on the phone. She’s one of those conspiracy people. Capitalism is bad, all corporations are evil—”

“Yes, yes, Edouard, what you say is true.” He leaned closer. “But she sleeps with the minister of culture.”

“That doesn’t narrow the field much,” Johnston said.

“Edouard, please. People are starting to listen to her. She can cause trouble. For me. For you. For this project.”

Johnston sighed.

“You know there is a sentiment here that Americans destroy all culture, having none of their own. There is trouble with movies and music. And there has been discussion of banning Americans from working on French cultural sites. Hmm?”

Johnston said, “This is old news.”

“And your own sponsor, ITC, has asked you to speak to her.”

“They have?”

“Yes. A Ms. Kramer requested you speak to her.”

Johnston sighed again.

“It will only take a few minutes of your time, I promise you,” Bellin said, waving to the Land Rover. “She is in the car.”

Johnston said, “You brought her personally?”

“Edouard, I am trying to tell you,” Bellin said. “It is necessary to take this woman seriously. Her name is Louise Delvert.”

As she climbed out of the car, Chris saw a woman in her mid-forties, slender and dark, her face handsome, with strong features. She was stylish in the way of certain mature European women, conveying a sophisticated, understated sexuality. She appeared dressed for an expedition, in khaki shirt and pants, straps around her neck for camera, video and tape recorder. She carried her notepad in her hand as she strode toward them, all business.

But as she came closer, she slowed down.

Delvert extended her hand. “Professor Johnston,” she said, in unaccented English. Her smile was genuine and warm. “I cannot tell you how much I appreciate your taking the time to see me.”

“Not at all,” Johnston said, taking her hand in his. “You have come a long way, Miss Delvert. I am pleased to help you in any way I can.”

Johnston continued to hold her hand. She continued to smile at him. This went on for ten seconds more, while she said that he was too kind and he said on the contrary, it was the very least he could do for her.

:

They walked through the monastery excavations, a tight little group: the Professor and Miss Delvert in the front, Bellin and Chris following behind, not too close, but still trying to hear the discussion. Bellin wore a quiet, satisfied smile; it occurred to Chris that there was more than one way to deal with a troublesome culture minister.

As for the Professor, his wife had been dead for many years, and although there were rumors, Chris had never seen him with another woman. He was fascinated to watch him now. Johnston did not change his manner; he simply gave the reporter his undivided attention. He conveyed the impression that there was nothing in the world more important than she was. And Chris had a feeling that Delvert’s questions were much less contentious than she had planned.

“As you know, Professor,” she said, “for some time now, my newspaper has been working on a story about the American company ITC.”

“Yes, I’m aware of that.”

“Am I correct that ITC sponsors this site?”

“Yes, they do.”

She said, “We have been told they contribute a million dollars a year.”

“That’s about right.”

They walked on for a moment. She seemed to be trying to frame her next question carefully.

“There are some at the newspaper,” she said, “who think that’s a great deal of money to spend on medieval archaeology.”

“Well, you can tell them at the newspaper,” Johnston said, “that it’s not. In fact, it’s average for a large site like this. ITC gives us two hundred and fifty in direct costs, a hundred and a quarter in indirect costs paid to the university, another eighty in scholarships, stipends, and travel and living expenses, and fifty for laboratory and archiving costs.”

“But surely there is much more than that,” she said, playing with her hair with her pen, and blinking rapidly. Chris thought, She’s batting her eyes at him. He’d never seen a woman do that. You had to be French to pull it off.

The Professor appeared not to notice. “Yes, there is certainly more,” he said, “but it doesn’t go to us. The rest is reconstruction costs for the site itself. That is separately accounted, since as you know, reconstruction costs are shared with the French government.”

“Of course,” she said. “So the half million dollars your own team spends is in your view quite usual?”

“Well, we can ask François,” Johnston said. “But there are twenty-seven archaeological sites being worked in this corner of France. They range from the Paleolithic dig that the University of Zurich is doing with Carnegie-Mellon, to the Roman castrum, the fort, that the University of Bordeaux is doing with Oxford. The average annual cost of these projects is about half a million dollars a year.”

“I did not know that.” She was staring into his eyes, openly admiring. Too openly, Chris thought. It suddenly occurred to him that he might have misjudged what was happening. This might simply be her way of getting a story.

Johnston glanced back at Bellin, who was walking behind him. “François? What would you say?”

“I believe you know what you are doing — I mean, saying,” Bellin said. “Funding varies from four to six hundred thousand U.S. Scandinavians, Germans and Americans cost more. Paleolithic costs more. But yes, half a million could be an average number.”

Miss Delvert remained focused on Johnston: “And for your funding, Professor Johnston, how much contact are you required to have with ITC?”

“Almost none.”

“Almost none? Truly?”

“Their president, Robert Doniger, came out two years ago. He’s a history buff, and he was very enthusiastic, like a kid. And ITC sends a vice president about once a month. One is here right now. But by and large, they leave us alone.”

“And what do you know about ITC itself?”

Johnston shrugged. “They do research in quantum physics. They make components used in MRIs, medical devices, and so forth. And they are developing several quantum-based dating techniques, to precisely date any artifact. We’re helping with that.”

“I see. And these techniques, they work?”

“We have prototype devices in our farmhouse office. So far they’ve proven too delicate for field work. They’re always breaking down.”

“But this is why ITC funds you — to test their equipment?”

“No,” Johnston said. “It’s the other way around. ITC is making dating equipment for the same reason ITC funds us — because Bob Doniger is enthusiastic about history. We’re his hobby.”

“An expensive hobby.”

“Not for him,” Johnston said. “He’s a billionaire. He bought a Gutenberg Bible for twenty-three million. He bought the Rouen Tapestry at auction for seventeen million. Our project’s just small change.”

“Perhaps so. But Mr. Doniger is also a tough businessman.”

“Yes.”

“Do you really think he supports you out of personal interest?” Her tone was light, almost teasing.

Johnston looked directly at her. “You never know, Miss Delvert, what someone’s reasons are.”

Chris thought, He’s suspicious, too.

Delvert seemed to sense it as well, and she immediately reverted to a more businesslike manner. “Of course, yes. But I ask this for a reason. Isn’t it true that you do not own the results of your research? Anything you find, anything you discover, is owned by ITC.”

“Yes, that’s correct.”

“This doesn’t bother you?”

“If I worked for Microsoft, Bill Gates would own the results of my research. Anything I found and discovered, Bill Gates would own.”

“Yes. But this is hardly the same.”

“Why not? ITC is a technical company, and Doniger set up this fund the way technical companies do such things. The arrangement doesn’t bother me. We have the right to publish our findings — they even pay for publication.”

“After they approve them.”

“Yes. We send our reports to them first. But they have never commented.”

“So you see no greater ITC plan behind all this?” she asked.

Johnston said, “Do you?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “That is why I am asking you. Because of course there are some extremely puzzling aspects to the behavior of ITC as a company.”

“What aspects?”

“For example,” she said, “they are one of the world’s largest consumers of xenon.”

“Xenon? You mean the gas?”

“Yes. It is used in lasers and electron tubes.”

Johnston shrugged. “They can have all the xenon gas they want. I can’t see how it concerns me.”

“What about their interest in exotic metals? ITC recently purchased a Nigerian company to assure their supply of niobium.”

“Niobium.” Johnston shook his head. “What’s niobium?”

“It is a metal similar to titanium.”

“What’s it used for?”

“Superconducting magnets, and nuclear reactors.”

“And you wonder what ITC is using it for?” Johnston shook his head again. “You’d have to ask them, Miss Delvert.”

“I did. They said it was for ‘research in advanced magnetics.’ ”

“There you are. Any reason not to believe them?”

“No,” she said. “But as you said yourself, ITC is a research company. They employ two hundred physicists at their main facility, a place called Black Rock, in New Mexico. It is clearly and unquestionably a high-technology company.”

“Yes. . . .”

“So I wonder: Why would a high-technology company want so much land?”

“Land?”

“ITC has purchased large land parcels in remote locations around the world: the mountains of Sumatra, northern Cambodia, southeast Pakistan, the jungles of central Guatemala, the highlands of Peru.”

Johnston frowned. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. They have made acquisitions in Europe, as well. West of Rome, five hundred hectares. In Germany near Heidelberg, seven hundred hectares. In France, a thousand hectares in the limestone hills above the River Lot. And finally, right here.”

“Here?”

“Yes. Using British and Swedish holding companies, they have very quietly acquired five hundred hectares, all around your site. It is mostly forest and farmland, at the moment.”

“Holding companies?” he said.

“That makes it very difficult to trace. Whatever ITC is doing, it clearly requires secrecy. But why would this company fund your research, and also buy the land all around the site?”

“I have no idea,” Johnston said. “Especially since ITC doesn’t own the site itself. You’ll recall they gave the entire area — Castelgard, Sainte-Mère and La Roque — to the French government last year.”

“Of course. For a tax exemption.”

“But still, ITC does not own the site. Why should they buy land around it?”

“I will be happy to show you everything I have.”

“Perhaps,” Johnston said, “you should.”

“My research is just in the car.”

They started together toward the Land Rover. Watching them go, Bellin clucked his tongue. “Ah, dear, dear. It is so difficult to trust these days.”

Chris was about to answer in his bad French when his radio clicked. “Chris?” It was David Stern, the project technologist. “Chris, is the Professor with you? Ask him if he knows somebody named James Wauneka.”

Chris pressed the button on his radio. “The Professor’s busy right now. What’s it about?”

“He’s some guy in Gallup. He’s called twice. Wants to send us a picture of our monastery that he says he found in the desert.”

“What? In the desert?”

“He might be a little cracked. He claims he’s a cop, and he keeps babbling on about some dead ITC employee.”