"Finally," Chris said. "It's coming up."
The liquid crystal display showed an outline in bright green. Through the transparent display, they could see the ruins of the mill, with the green outline superimposed. This was the latest method for modeling archaeological structures. Formerly, they had relied on ordinary architectural models, made of white foamcore, cut and assembled by hand. But the technique was slow, and modifications were difficult.
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 Franois. Always in a rush."
"Edouard! Edouard!" Franois 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, Franois," Johnston said, taking a step back from this effusiveness. Whenever Bellin was excessively friendly, it meant there was a problem ahead. "And you, Franois?" 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 Franois," 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.