"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 Perigord 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 Andre 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."