Damaged Goods

“Thanks. I owe you,” he said, before disconnecting.

Nick pushed the notepad toward me. “A retired Russian archeologist who came here shortly after the Wall fell. The Berlin Wall.”

“I know my history,” I snapped. Oops. Rude. “I mean, thanks.”

“No problem,” he assured me.

I scanned the scrawled note, and the name Dr. Peter Amelin emerged from the looping handwriting, along with a number I could just barely make out.

“Are you still sure you want me as a sponsor?” I asked.

He nodded. “Do me a favor. Go into your recent calls.”

So I did. “Save your number?” I guessed.

“Exactly,” he said. “Now I have your number and you have mine.”

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.