Damaged Goods

Phipps rose suddenly and took a step toward me. “Listen,” he started.

He didn’t get far. The minute he rose, so did a memory from Afghanistan. The flashback came on suddenly as the blackout had occurred with Gorilla Man at Terry’s place. My current stress level was clearly eating at me. An image of a shadow that loomed during a residence check in Kandahar played like a movie. I moved back a step and chopped Phipps’ temple with the side of my hand. This stunned the man enough to let me kick out and slam my foot into his groin. He doubled over, gasping, and collapsed to the floor, grazing the coffee table as he did, snapping me from the past to my present condition, back injury and all. I’d pay for that later.

On instinct, I pulled the gun and trained it on him. “Don’t move.”

Phipps looked up at me and again raised a hand. “I’m sorry. They warned me about this. But attacking a federal agent isn’t your best choice here. But I’m aware that you served in the military. I hope that’ll give you more incentive to cooperate.”

Heat radiated up my face, as shame and embarrassment overwhelmed me.

“Have we done this before?” I asked.

Phipps shook his head. “Not us, but another agent looking for a fellow named Terry Morris.”

Another agent? I remembered Gorilla Man. Sorry, dude.

But Two-Bit Terry? “What’s your interest in him?”

“Following a lead,” he non-answered the question. “I’m more interested in Kandinsky.”

“And what’s so interesting about him?”

“He’s been linked with terrorists.”

I went from squinting to frowning. “Are you saying that Slava Kandinsky was a terrorist?”

“Not exactly. He wasn’t a terrorist, but he was dealing with them.”

“So he was supporting terrorists?”

Phipps shook his head. “Worse than that. He was ripping them off.”

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 in a mildly aggrieved tone of voice.

Pulled back to reality, 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 mafia. Antiquities trafficking turns profits in the billions every year. Terrorists have been tapping this market for a very long time—long before the 9/11 attacks. In fact, looted artifacts are a major funding source for fundamentalist terrorist groups.”

By now, my head was spinning with possibilities. “What was Kandinsky’s role in this business?”

“We think Kandinsky served as middleman between traffickers and interested resellers. You wouldn’t believe his client list. We’re talking everything from major auction houses and museums to ISIS and Hezbollah.”

I put two and two together. “Kandinsky was skimming from the profits made from resellers?”

Phipps nodded.

“So how can I help you?” I asked.

“You can start by telling me who you work for. Why are you investigating Kandinsky?”

I gave it a moment’s thought. What did I owe Blaine? The man had tossed me aside like a used tissue. Even so, I hesitated to simply tell all. Particularly since Blaine suspected Kandinsky of stealing from him.