Damaged Goods

So, I went into a credit database to see what I could find. Believe it or not, there was a long list of David Kandinsky’s. At least twenty, scattered here and there around the country. Imagine how many more there might be outside the United States.

There had to be a way to narrow down the possible sons of Slava Kandinsky. I realized once the cops found out about Kandinsky’s death, they’d find a way to contact his next of kin. Quite likely, they would end up contacting David. Or Slava’s wife or ex-wife. I decided to let the cops do the work and somehow get the intel from them later.

Before I left for Kirov’s office, I checked myself in my full-length mirror. My black slacks, matching jacket, and pin-striped button down shirt looked professional. My dark, shoulder-length hair was behaving for once and framed my face nicely. I checked my teeth. Nothing gross stuck in there, so I grabbed the file and walked out to my car.

The drive to the University of Maryland College Park campus was unusually free of traffic. I made it there in record time, which was lucky given the amount of time it took to find a parking spot.

Kirov’s office was in LeFrak Hall, a colonial-style, red-brick building typical of others on campus. I parked my car a few hundred miles from the building and did a long march across the wide green slope criss-crossed by paths that fronts the campus. Once I reached the building, I took the stairs to the second floor, per Kirov’s instructions, and managed to find his office. I knocked on the door and heard a deep voice call, “Come in.”

Kirov stood behind his desk. He was tall, with ink-black hair and dazzling blue eyes. I judged him to be in his early 50s. The professor had a cozy office decorated with dark wood furniture and a multi-colored Persian rug. Bookshelves lined the walls, and I half expected to see a fire in an open fireplace.

“Come on in. Have a seat,” he said, his voice booming. “I assume you’re Erica Jensen?” We exchanged the usual niceties, and then I chose a guest chair that faced his desk and retrieved a writing pad from the file and a pen from my shoulder bag.

Kirov eased into his high-back chair and spread his arms wide. “How can I help you today? You said something on the phone about Russian mobsters, right?”

I explained once again about the letter I’d found and my questions about the Russian mob and the use of the Georgian language.

“Ah, yes,” he said, steepling his fingers. “May I see the letter?”

I fished it from the file and handed it to him.

He frowned as he read it. “Interesting. This is written in a weird combination of Russian and Georgian.”

“So I’ve been told,” I said, eager to get to the heart of the matter. “Could you read it aloud?”

“I can give you the gist.”

Kirov gave a reading that was virtually identical to Terry’s.

“Thanks,” I said. “Does the Russian mob have any connection to Georgia?”

“The Russian mafia makes connections wherever and however it suits their purpose,” he said, putting the letter down. “If they found a way to make a profit through a former Soviet nation, they’d do it.

He paused, frowning at the letter, as if in disapproval. “Have you ever heard of a place called Svaneti?”

“No. Never.”

“I ask because the letter is so oddly written. As I said, neither Russian nor Georgian. As if the author wasn’t sure how to express himself or herself to the recipient.” He raised a finger, as if to begin a lesson. “Svaneti is an unusual place for several reasons. For one thing, it’s located way up in the Caucasus Mountains. Very few people live there, let alone go there. Plus, Svan is a dialect of Georgian. It’s an oral language only and nearly dead.”

“You know a lot about the Russian culture,” I observed. “Did you learn all this as a criminologist?”

“I know this as one who focused on Russian studies before attending law school,” he answered. “I’ve had a life-long fascination for my genealogical roots and my forebears’ culture.”

I hummed assent and nodded. “So, what else makes this Swameti interesting?”

Kirov gave me a mock glare. “It’s Svaneti,” he said, mildly. “It’s a medieval village, walled in like a fortress. The Svans were known as fierce warriors for centuries, dating back to the sixth century AD. In the early eleventh century, Svaneti became a duchy within Georgia. When the Mongols invaded Georgia, Svaneti became a safe house for Georgian artifacts. Because the village is so high up in

the mountains and the paths there so difficult to traverse, the Georgians in the lowlands moved precious icons, jewels, and manuscripts to Svaneti to keep them out of enemy hands.”

I perked up. “Any possibility the Russian mafia might deal in smuggling such items into this country?”

He smiled like a pleased tutor. “More than a possibility. I wouldn’t doubt it for a moment.”

Chapter Twelve

Professor Kirov turned out to be a gold mine of information. He also seemed eager and happy to share. I settled in for a lecture.

“You see,” Kirov continued. “Smuggling artifacts—or cultural property, as it’s generally called—is among the top ten most profitable crimes. And the United States is one of the top markets for illicit cultural property of all kinds. You’re probably aware that the Washington area has quite a few museums.”