Donovans 01 - Amber Beach

size of his hand. In bright light it would have been a rather thin yellow. The amber was unpolished, still in its oxidized, opaque “shell.”
    He set the piece down, put his own briefcase on the table, and opened it. Honor got a quick glimpse of a heavy needle, a lighter, various bottles and implements whose uses she couldn’t guess, and a black gun whose purpose she understood all too well. The top half of the case held what looked like samples of amber in see-through compartments.
    Jake pulled out a tightly stoppered bottle, put a drop of fluid on the pale surface of the stone, and pushed the stopper in firmly again. The penetrating smell of ether curled up. He waited a few moments, then touched the surface.
    “New Zealand copal,” he said dismissingly. “You’re wasting my time.”
    He tossed the piece to Resnikov, who caught it with an easy, quick movement of his hand.
    “It isn’t amber?” Honor asked, surprised.
    “Not for a million years,” Jake said. “Amber is fossil resin. That piece is way too young to qualify.”
    “How can you tell?”
    “Ether makes copal sticky. It doesn’t do a thing to true amber.” He looked toward Resnikov. “If your employers can’t do better than that, they don’t need me. They need a decent source.”
    Resnikov smiled gently. “Patience, my very American friend. These people do not know you as I do. They insisted that I, er, show your gaits.”
    “Do you mean they want me put through my paces?” Jake asked dryly.
    “Is that the idiom? Put through paces . . . very nice. They hope to hire you for the smallest possible price, you understand.”
    “American dollars, British pounds, German marks, Japanese yen, Russian rubles?”
    “A more fitting coin. Amber.”
    “They’ll pay me in amber?”
    Resnikov nodded, making light run like pale water over his blond hair. “The amber will be from items such as I have with me now.”
    Jake’s black eyebrows rose. “Interesting. If I settle for a fraud, I’ll get paid in kind.”
    “But of course. Is it not always so?”
    “What happens if I prove to be very, very expensive?” he asked.
    “They will wail. They will scream. They will pay.”
    Jake grunted. “I hope you have something a hell of a lot better than copal.”
    With a thin smile, Resnikov brought out something wrapped in dark, soft cloth, set it on the table, and gestured for Jake to go to work.
    Jake unwrapped the cloth quickly but carefully. A piece of jewelry lay inside. The oval cameo was several inches long, opaque, somewhere between butter and cream in color, and had a nice satin shine. A woman’s face was carved in relief. A delicately wrought Victorian silver setting displayed the brooch very nicely.
    “I don’t have an ultraviolet lamp with me,” Jake said, balancing the brooch on his palm, “but I suspect this will fluoresce white.”
    “Truly?” Resnikov asked.
    Jake weighed the brooch and said only, “Do you object to a hot needle?”
    “No. You will be careful, of course.”
    Setting the piece aside, Jake took a lighter and a sturdy steel needle from his briefcase. Flame leaped. He held the tip of the needle in the fire. When he was satisfied that the metal was hot enough, he turned the brooch over and touched the needle to an inconspicuous edge of the stone, where the tiny mark wouldn’t show. Immediately the bitter scent of burned milk bit into his nostrils.
    “As I thought,” he said. “Casein.”
    “What?” Honor asked.
    “Imitation amber made of milk protein and formaldehyde. It’s a third again as heavy as the real thing.” He ran the ball of his thumb lightly over the carving, appreciating its fragile lines. “Very nicely crafted. Probably a hundred years old. Is it for sale?”
    “Why?” she asked, before Resnikov could answer. “You just said it’s a fake.”
    “Half the items in museums are fakes. This,” Jake said, rubbing his thumb over the brooch again, “is an artfully carved bit of history from the time before plastic made counterfeiting amber easy and cheap. It would fit right into my collection.”
    “Of fakes?” Honor asked in disbelief.
    Resnikov laughed out loud.
    Jake’s smile showed as a flash of white against his short, dense beard. “Not all of my collection is fake.”
    “You are too modest,” Resnikov said. “Your collection of antique carved amber is one of the finest in private hands.”
    “What else do you have in the case?” Jake asked.
    Shaking his head, the Russian