“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.”
“Have him send it to our e-mail address,” Chris said. “You take a look at it.”
He clicked the radio off. Bellin was looking at his watch, clucking again, then looking at the car, where Johnston and Delvert were standing, their heads almost touching as they pored over papers. “I have appointments,” he said mournfully. “Who knows how long this will take?”
“I think,” Chris said, “perhaps not long.”
:
Twenty minutes later, Bellin was driving off with Miss Delvert at his side, and Chris was standing with the Professor, waving good-bye. “I think that went rather well,” Johnston said.
“What’d she show you?”
“Some land-purchase records, for the area around here. But it’s not persuasive. Four parcels were bought by a German investment group about which little is known. Two parcels were bought by a British attorney who claims he’s going to retire here; another by a Dutch banker for his grown daughter; and so on.”
“The British and the Dutch have been buying land in the Périgord for years,” Chris said. “It’s nothing new.”
“Exactly. She has some idea that all the purchases could be traced to ITC. But it’s pretty tenuous. You have to be a believer.”
The car was gone. They turned and walked toward the river. The sun was higher in the sky now, and it was getting warm.
Cautiously, Chris said, “Charming woman.”
“I think,” Johnston said, “that she works too hard at her job.”
They got into the rowboat tied up at the river’s edge, and Chris rowed them across to Castelgard.
:
They left the rowboat behind, and began climbing toward the top of Castelgard hill. They saw the first sign of castle walls. On this side, all that remained of the walls were grassy embankments that ended in long scars of exposed, crumbled rock. After six hundred years, it almost looked like a natural feature. But it was in fact the remains of a wall.
“You know,” the Professor said, “what she really doesn’t like is corporate sponsorship. But archaeological research has always depended on outside benefactors. A hundred years ago, the benefactors were all individuals: Carnegie, Peabody, Stanford. But these days wealth is corporate, so Nippon TV finances the Sistine Chapel, British Telecom finances York, Philips Electronics finances the Toulouse castrum, and ITC finances us.”
“Speak of the devil,” Chris said. As they came over the hill, they saw the dark form of Diane Kramer, standing with André Marek.
The Professor sighed. “This day is completely wasted. How long is she going to be here?”
“Her plane is at Bergerac. She’s scheduled to leave this afternoon at three.”
:
“I’m sorry about that woman,” Diane Kramer said, when Johnston came up to join her. “She’s annoying everybody, but we’ve been unable to do anything about her.”
“Bellin said you wanted me to talk to her.”
“We want everybody to talk to her,” Kramer said. “We’re doing everything we can to show her there are no secrets.”
“She seemed mostly concerned,” Johnston said, “that ITC was making land purchases in this area.”
“Land purchases? ITC?” Kramer laughed. “I haven’t heard that one before. Did she ask you about niobium and nuclear reactors?”
“As a matter of fact, she did. She said you’d bought a company in Nigeria, to assure your supply.”
“Nigeria,” Kramer repeated, shaking her head. “Oh dear. Our niobium comes from Canada. Niobium’s not exactly a rare metal, you know. It sells for seventy-five dollars a pound.” She shook her head. “We offered to give her a tour of our facility, interview with our president, bring a photographer, her own experts, whatever she wants. But no. It’s modern journalism: don’t let the facts get in your way.�
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Kramer turned, and gestured to the ruins of Castelgard all around them. “Anyway,” she said. “I’ve taken Dr. Marek’s excellent tour, in the helicopter and on foot. It’s evident you’re doing absolutely spectacular work. Progress is good, the work’s of extremely high academic quality, recordkeeping is first rate, your people are happy, the site is managed well. Just fabulous. I couldn’t be happier. But Dr. Marek tells me he is going to be late for his—what is it?”
“My broadsword lesson,” Marek said.
“His broadsword lesson. Yes. I think he should certainly do that. It doesn’t sound like something you can change, like a piano lesson. In the meantime, shall we walk the site together?”
“Of course,” Johnston said.
Chris’s radio beeped. A voice said, “Chris? It’s Sophie for you.”
“I’ll call her back.”
“No, no,” Kramer said. “You go ahead. I’ll speak to the Professor alone.”
Johnston said quickly, “I usually have Chris with me, to take notes.”
“I don’t think we’ll need notes today.”
“All right. Fine.” He turned to Chris. “But give me your radio, in case.”
“No problem,” Chris said. He unclipped the radio from his belt and handed it to Johnston. As Johnston took it in his hand, he clearly flicked on the voice-activation switch. Then he slipped it on his belt.
“Thanks,” Johnston said. “Now, you better go call Sophie. You know she doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
“Right,” Chris said.
As Johnston and Kramer began to walk through the ruins, he sprinted across the field toward the stone farmhouse that served as the project office.
:
Just beyond the crumbling walls of Castelgard town, the team had bought a dilapidated stone storehouse and had rebuilt the roof, and repaired the stonework. Here they housed all their electronics, lab equipment and archival computers. Unprocessed records and artifacts were spread out on the ground beneath a broad green tent adjacent to the farmhouse.
Chris went into the storehouse, which was one large room that they had divided into two. To the left, Elsie Kastner, the team’s linguist and graphology expert, sat in her own room, hunched over parchment documents. Chris ignored her and went straight ahead to the room crammed with electronic equipment. There David Stern, the thin and bespectacled technical expert on the project, was talking on a telephone.
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