Damaged Goods

Chapter Eighteen

Nick and I parted ways with mutual promises to stay in touch. The thought of having an unofficial partner or mentor was unfamiliar. I hadn't had to work alongside anyone since my time with the FET. Surely, working with me in the United States couldn't be as potentially deadly as doing that in a war zone.

Before I left Laurel, I called Peter Amelin. He answered on the third ring with a heavily accented "Hello."

I introduced myself and explained the problem, leaving out most of the worrisome details. "Would you be able to determine anything about an object's authenticity from a cellphone photo?"

"Hmmm." It was the lowest C possible on a pipe organ. "In the strictest sense, I can't really authenticate objects from a photo. I would need to use spectroscopic analysis for that. But I could look at the photos and judge whether they have the outward appearance of Svaneti artifacts. It won't tell you much, but I can do that."

"That would be great," I said. "Could we meet today?"

He gave me his address and invited me to come by in an hour or so.

*****

Amelin lived in a brick rambler, not unlike the many brick ramblers on one of the side streets off Randolph Road where it passed Wheaton High School. Passing Wheaton High always made me think of Joan Jett, because she'd gone to school there. Then, she moved to California. Good for Joan.

Amelin's brick rambler had a small front yard with a tall maple tree that had yet to turn color and a row of azalea bushes that weren't in bloom because it was September. It also had the kind of fancy front walk that you get from a landscape architect—an arrangement of irregular-shaped flat stones in a line that curved toward the door. I stepped carefully from stone to stone and managed to make it to the front door without tripping.

Despite the familiarity and quiet of the neighborhood, I felt a nervous tickle in my subconscious that made me itch all over.

One ring of the doorbell and Amelin was there within moments. "Ms. Jensen?" He extended a smooth hand with unusually long fingers—the immaculate hand of a scholar. "It's nice to meet you."

"Thanks for inviting me, Dr. Amelin," I said. "And please call me Erica."

He waved me in. "Then you must call me Peter. Please." Again, the hand waved his permission to enter.

He closed the door behind me and led me from the small foyer into a comfortable living room, furnished in soft grays and blues. It was a living room that merited the name, because it actually looked lived in.

"Tea? Coffee?" he asked.

"No, thanks. This won't take long."

Amelin sat on a blue-gray sofa, which was perpendicular to a matching love seat. I took my place on the end of the love seat nearest him—my cell phone in hand. I put on a smile. Lord knew, I could use the practice.

"I appreciate your taking the time for this," I said, adding, "Peter."

Amelin grinned as if I'd said the funniest thing. "Let's take a look at those photos, eh?"

I brought up the pictures and swiped through them while he watched.

"Hold on," he said, raising his hand. "Two shots back. I'd like a closer look at that one."

I displayed the photo in question and handed him the phone. Amelin peered at the screen. He placed the phone on a small side table at the intersection of our seating.

"One moment, please." Amelin opened a drawer in the side table and retrieved what looked like a photographer's loupe. He picked up the phone again, enlarged the image, eyeballed it, then observed it through the loupe. As he gazed at the photo, I shifted in my seat to keep my back from barking at me.

Finally, Amelin shook his head. "I cannot give a firm opinion on the authenticity of these. But even if they are not real, they might convince an amateur."

"What is it about them that makes you think they might be real?" I asked.

Amelin replaced the phone on the little table. "Excuse me," he said. He rose and left the room. I stared at the photo, then looked around the room and ran my hand along the love seat's cushion. Silky, almost. It was a nice, middle-class room, furnished with an impressionist oil painting and pieces that might have belonged to my grandparents. I continued looking for ways to distract myself from the pain in my back until Amelin returned. He had a magazine in hand, opened to a specific page.

"I collect some of these," he said, holding up the magazine. "A publication for archaeologists and artifacts experts. Occasionally, they feature a subject in my particular field."

He sat down again and showed me the page. "Now, these are actual artifacts recovered by authorities who were investigating a smuggling ring." Amelin handed the magazine to me.

I checked the photo and compared it with my cell phone pictures. I could see what he meant. The resemblance between them was clear.

"So what do you see that suggests they might be fake?" I asked.

Amelin gave me the "aren't you funny" grin again. "It is not a matter of how they look. There is money to be made in selling fake artifacts."

"So, it's just a possibility."

"A distinct possibility." He raised his finger in a professorial manner. "Had you ever heard of Svaneti before?"

"A friend told me about it. It relates to another matter." And let's not go there.

"How likely is it that anyone would have ready access to genuine artifacts from a place like that?" Amelin queried.

"Not likely, unless they knew someone. Had an inside connection."

"There is your answer," he said. "You must find that connection to know whether these are genuine or not."