Chapter Thirty-Three
I took a moment to absorb what he’d just said. If it were true, it could explain a few things.
“Mind if I get up?” Agent Phipps asked, his tone mildly aggrieved.
Pulled from my thoughts, I tucked the gun back into my waistband and helped him to his feet.
“Have a seat.” I tried to reassure the agent with an amiable tone. Or at least a reasonable facsimile of one. “Would you like a drink?”
“This won’t take long,” he assured me. The words “assuming you let me talk” remained unspoken.
After we’d re-settled onto the sofa, Phipps continued. “Slava Kandinsky deals in smuggled artifacts for the Russian mob. Antiquities trafficking turns profits in the billions yearly. Terrorists have been tapping this market for years—long before the nine-eleven attacks. In fact, loote
