Timeline by Michael Crichton Page B

“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