Hush

by Tal Bauer

  Mike hung up and turned south, skirting DC and taking the outer loop that would bring them south to Virginia. “Kris needs to see us.”

  “Kris? Does he know something about what’s going on? Something from the State Department?”

  “He… doesn’t work for that State Department.”

  “What other State Department is th—”

  Oh. Of course.

  Mike said nothing. He gunned the accelerator as Tom sat back, squeezing his eyes closed.

  Kris lived in a gated high rise in Crystal City, an urban neighborhood that was practically a redoubt within Arlington, Virginia. The high rises, secured office buildings, and high-end malls all had underground tunnels connecting them. A person could traverse Crystal City and never go above ground. Home to defense contractors and federal enclaves, it was a government nexus of power. Kris’s building was a stone’s throw from marshals’ headquarters and the Pentagon.

  Mike had an access badge for the garage and the residents’ elevators, and he took Tom straight up to the thirty-fourth floor, and to Kris’s unit.

  Kris was waiting in the hallway when they got off the elevator. Arms crossed, he leaned against his doorjamb, face tight and lips pursed. “Get inside.” He waited until all three had trooped in. Etta Mae led the way, following her nose to Kris’s white leather couch. She jumped up and flopped across his blue velvet throw and silk pillows, making herself at home.

  Duffels sat open in front of Kris’s stacked laundry machines, clothes spilling across the floor. Designer threads, cargo pants, and black tactical gear. A disassembled handgun, in the middle of being cleaned, rested on the granite kitchen countertop, next to spread manila folders stuffed with papers marked Top Secret. A batch of photos was laid out, surveillance-style black and whites of what looked like people on a European street.

  Mike didn’t blink and went right to the counter, rifling through the photos and papers. Tom, eyes wide, followed slowly.

  “You heard the news on the way in?” Kris leaned against the counter, elbows braced on the granite. He looked the same, sounded the same—still had the perfect hair, glossy lips, and a-touch-too-dramatic eyes, like they were lined with makeup—but Tom felt like he’d landed in a different universe.

  “Is it true? Did the CIA set this up?”

  Sighing, Kris dropped his head. “I can’t tell. If we did, I don’t have access to that information. I’m not in the director’s trusted circle anymore. But, I can say that when this news broke, it was like a drag queen bitch fight at Langley. Everyone had their claws out, and the director and all the pertinent heads have been at the White House since.”

  “Three Secret Service agents were killed.”

  “I know. Which means if this was CIA-funded, something went very, very wrong.”

  “The CIA can’t work on American soil. They can’t do this.” Tom finally spoke, but he stayed away from the papers and the photos. He wasn’t cleared for this. Mike wasn’t either. What were they doing?

  “The CIA can’t spy on Americans. But this operation, if we funded it, started in Russia.” Kris passed over a folder. “This is what the Russians sent to the White House. The White House will send it to your U.S. Attorney after they go through it. They’ll probably redact a bunch. This is unredacted.”

  “I can’t read this.” He tried to hand it back.

  “Tom. If the CIA planned the killing of the Russian president. If all of this is true. Then you’re in the center of a shitstorm that could get you killed.”

  Mike’s hands grasped the edge of the counter, hard enough to make his arms shake.

  “I’m presiding over this trial, Kris. I can’t read this. I can’t be prejudiced before the trial starts.”

  “Everyone will read this report. Everyone. It will be on CNN, MSNBC, Fox, and everywhere else in an hour. All of your jurors will have read this. You’ll be the only one who waits until it’s entered into evidence.”

  “Then I’ll wait.” He pushed the papers back to Kris. “It’s the right thing to do.”

  “Tom! Don’t be ridiculous!” Kris huffed, flouncing. “Do you have any idea what it would take to get approval for an operation like this? The director, the president, his closest staff. This would have come from the top. A presidential order to assassinate the Russian president using a false flag assassin? Do you honestly think that you’re going to preside over a fair trial?”

  Tom closed his eyes. Ballard’s frantic need to “get them on the same page”, Fink hassling him to let this trial go, give it up and walk away, and the White House breathing down Ballard’s neck. The evidence was there. It all made terrible sense.

  “If you don’t want to read it, I will.” Mike held out his hand. “I have to know. I have to keep you safe.”

  “Look, safe would mean getting as far from this as you possibly can.” Kris held both hands up, pushing the imaginary mess off his kitchen counter. “If the CIA paid Kryukov, who then paid Desheriyev, then who is the defendant here? Who is the prosecution? Suddenly the U.S. government is in the hot seat, but your hotshot U.S. Attorney is supposed to be the Hollywood good guy.” He sighed. “Heads are going to roll, big time. Like you said, three Secret Service agents—Americans, good guys, heroes—were killed. Was the U.S. government complicit?”

  A chill tap-danced down Tom’s spine. He cursed, scrubbing his hands over his face. Mike reached for him, resting his palm on the small of his back. “All right. Walk me through it.”

  Kris laid it all out for them both. The Russians had proof of money being transferred from a dummy account that was a CIA front—and surprise, surprise, they knew that—into an account set up for Kryukov, courtesy of the CIA. Video footage showed him at the bank and funds being withdrawn. Money then went to Desheriyev. Not the full amount, but similar chunks. Enough to imply that Kryukov made a profit from this endeavor.

  “Kryukov is insisting he’s innocent. His attorney has been doing the news circuit tour, claiming that the U.S. government knows more than they’re letting on. Could this be what he’s referring to?”

  “It doesn’t make him look innocent. But it does shift the blame.”

  Tom’s cell phone buzzed. He groaned at the caller ID. “It’s Ballard.”

  “Good luck.” Kris turned away, heading for the couch in the small sitting area and giving Tom a modicum of privacy. He motioned Mike over as well, and Mike reluctantly padded to the couch and Etta Mae.

  Ballard spoke as soon as he answered, shouting over the line. “This is a fucking disaster, Brewer! Jesus Christ! The White House is absolutely shitting themselves.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Jesus fucking Christ. We need to figure out how to handle this. Squash this so it can’t be admitted into evidence. You can bounce this, Brewer.”

  “You want me to bar these documents from the trial?”

  “Yes!”

  “Jesus, Dylan, you’re asking me to break the law! These documents are admissible—”

  “Find a reason for them to be inadmissible!”

  “Renner has been all over the news saying that the government is holding something back. Is this it, Ballard? Is this what you’ve been hiding? Are you trying to get me to break the law with you? You weren’t going to turn this over in discovery—”

  “The U.S. Government does not have to disclose intelligence gathering operations or anything that would reveal sources and methods!”

  “Something has gone very, very wrong, Dylan, and people are dead. Are you helping to find justice or are you complicit in a cover-up?”

  “Fuck you,” Ballard hissed. “You’re going to ruin this whole fucking thing—”

  “The documents are admissible. Federal rules of evidence state they are. They’re self-authenticating. They have a seal from a foreign government, attesting to their authenticity. If Kryukov wants to use it in his defense, he’s allowed.”

  Silence. “How the fuck do you know the documents are sealed?”

  “Don’t call me again,
Ballard. You want to speak to me, you come to my chambers at the courthouse.” He hung up and sagged against the kitchen island.

  Mike was at this side in a half-second, one hand on his back. Even Etta Mae trotted over.

  “You heard all that?”

  “Was kind of hard not to.”

  “I should have given this trial up. I should have walked away. Every day it gets worse and worse.”

  “You’re the only thing keeping this trial honest, Tom. What would happen if you quit?”

  He shook his head. He couldn’t say.

  Kris came back, pulling clothes from his dryer and packing them into his duffel. He started a second load. “You two should stay here. This place is safe, and it’d be difficult for anyone to figure out where you are.”

  Kris’s place was gorgeous, but it was only a studio. A large one, but still. Behind a delicate paper screen off the living room was his bedroom area. A king bed, and on the wall behind it, a mirror that ran the length of the room with soft golden light falling from recessed bulbs in the ceiling above the mirror. There were no decorations, no clutter. Nothing personal at all aside from one framed picture resting on the nightstand: a man in an Army uniform, scowling at the camera.

  “I don’t think we’ll fit.”

  Kris arched one eyebrow sky high. “Oh, Tom, I always like squeezing into the middle. But, not right now. I’m out of here as soon as this load is done. You have the place to yourself for a while.”

  “Where are you going?”

  Kris sent him another look. This one clearly said don’t ask silly questions.

  Mike jumped in. “Are you involved in this at all? In any way?”

  Kris hedged his answer carefully. “I’m going to help out the recovery team. We’re standing up a unit to try and get our people out of the Russian prison.”

  “All options sanctioned?”

  “Not yet. Right now, it’s diplomatic. But we’re prepping for everything.” He straightened, fixing Tom with a hard stare. “You’re right about one thing, Tom. This is only going to get worse from here. Every day, in every way. Are you ready for this?” He looked from Tom to Mike.

  “Yes. Whatever it takes,” Mike answered instantly. “Anything. Everything.”

  “It might come to everything.”

  Kris, true to his word, left after the next load of laundry. He dressed in his designer threads for the plane ride to Europe—slim tan pants rolled at the ankles, a loose orange top, tan Gucci trench coat, and his shades. He redid his hair, and Tom spotted him touching up his eyeliner and glossing his lips.

  He’d never, not in a million years, guess there was tactical gear and blackout fatigues in Kris’s duffel.

  Maybe that was the point.

  Mike listened to six minutes of CNN before turning it off. Everything was focused on the bombshell from Russia. Proof of CIA Role in Attempted Assassination screamed from the shout line beneath the anchors, who argued over their guests trying to make sense of everything.

  Tom slowly read through the Russian documents, fighting against the voice in the back of his mind that screamed at him to stop, as Mike typed up his daily report for Winters and then ran back to his place to grab clothes for both of them. They turned in after that, climbing into Kris’s giant bed as Etta Mae snored on the couch. Apparently, butter-soft leather met with her approval.

  “Who is he?” Tom picked up the lone picture frame, staring at the harsh Army officer glaring back at him.

  “Kris’s husband, David. Before he died.”

  “Did he die in the war? Overseas?”

  Mike flinched. “Kind of.” He took the photo and set it down. “It’s not a good story. Not tonight.”

  “Kris said he wasn’t in the director’s inner circle anymore. He used to be?”

  “Yeah. Until David died.”

  “Did you know him?”

  “No. Kris was already a widower when I met him.”

  Tom rolled into Mike’s hold, pressing his face into his neck. Mike stroked his arms, his back. They were naked, but Mike’s touches weren’t sexual. They gave and sought comfort. Tom plastered himself to Mike’s side, slid his thigh between Mike’s. He needed this, arms around him, holding him. A man who wanted to care for him.

  “Tom? Whatever happens… I’m not going anywhere. I’m sticking by your side. I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

  Tom kissed his neck, right over his pounding pulse.

  Chapter 29

  July 6th

  “Lucciano. Come with me.” Winters stood outside the door to Tom’s chambers when they arrived in the morning. He’d clearly been waiting for them.

  Mike shifted his laptop bag and tried to stall. He caught Tom’s gaze, shooting him a slight frown as he turned away from Winters.

  “I’ll talk to you later about the plans for the pre-trial hearing tomorrow.” Tom tried to stake his claim on Mike, as if he and Winters were in a game of tug-of-war. “I want to make sure we’re on the same page and everything goes smoothly when Ballard and Renner are here.”

  “Yes, Judge Brewer. I’ll be back as soon as I’m done.”

  Winters watched silently, his eyes flicking from Tom to Mike and back again. His expression betrayed nothing. Not a hint of emotion crossed his stern face.

  Mike followed Winters down to his command office. Winters didn’t say anything, not a single word, until they were shut in. “Have a seat, Inspector Lucciano.”

  He clutched his coffee cup and set his laptop bag down, waiting while Winters unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat behind his desk.

  “How many days off have you had since full-time protection on Judge Brewer began, Lucciano?”

  Shit. “Sir, I’m fine.”

  “That wasn’t the question.”

  “Sir—”

  “Judge Brewer has never stayed in the suite at the Hyatt you set up for him. We’ve rotated the agents assigned there down to one, and they’re just on-call. Have you been providing round-the-clock protection, Inspector?”

  “I… have, yes, sir. Judge Brewer wanted to keep a lower profile. He asked to go to a friend’s house, and I’ve been staying there with him.” Not quite a lie. Not quite the truth either.

  “So in all this time, you have had no days off. No nights off. Full time protection with no relief.”

  “It’s fine, sir. Judge Brewer and I work well together. I’m doing great.”

  “You’re well outside of regulations, Lucciano. You know that. Protective agents need relief and rest, or they are not effective.”

  Silence.

  “The trial is fast approaching, and Judge Brewer needs you to be on your A-game. You need a break.”

  “Sir—”

  “You’re done, Lucciano! Go home. Get some rest. Villegas will take over for you.”

  “For how long?” He shouldn’t let that tone creep into his voice, but damn it! He couldn’t lose Tom, couldn’t pass his protection off to Villegas. Not now, not after everything.

  “Twenty-four hours to start. Report to me tomorrow morning.” Winters eyeballed him, glaring. “Understood?”

  Fuck. “Yes, sir.”

  “Where is Judge Brewer staying now? You’ve kept him on the move and have redacted his specific location from your reports. Villegas will need a handover from you. Brief him before you leave.” Winters’s eyes narrowed. “I want you out of the building in thirty minutes. Asleep within the hour.”

  Fat chance. “Yes, sir. Is Villegas here?”

  “Waiting for you in his office.”

  Villegas was sitting on his desk, smirking, when Mike walked in. “Whoa, someone got a tan.” He had a folder open with all of Mike’s daily reports. Some of them—every report filed from their weekend at the beach—were outright fiction. “These are pretty lean, Lucciano. You don’t even detail Brewer’s location. This is why we couldn’t find him when we needed to.”

  “I’m being extra cautious.”

  “Keeping vital data from us? Your teammates?” Villega
s snorted. “Sounds like you’re hiding something. From us.”

  He grabbed the folder out of Villegas’s hands and scrawled Kris’s address on the inside flap. “He’s staying here. With one of his friends.”

  “Do you have the keys?”

  “No.” Yes. He did. But he was going up to Tom’s chambers and giving them straight to him. He’d be damned if Villegas was going to have total access to Kris’s place. “Judge Brewer has the keys.”

  Villegas glared at him. “What about routes into DC? What have you driven?”

  He sketched out his routes around the north and east of DC. “I get him into the courthouse at six AM each day.” He hesitated, but scribbled another note. “Here’s the kind of coffee he likes.”

  Villegas’s eyebrows rose. “You’re pulling out all the stops for this guy.” He smirked again. “Gotta crush, Lucciano? You like your guys older, don’t you?”

  “Shut the fuck up. I don’t have to take this shit from you.”

  “Whoa! Jesus! Can’t take a joke? This is why I don’t fucking like you. You’re impossible to talk to!”

  Mike ground his teeth together. He and Villegas were like oil and vinegar, or two pieces of sandpaper rubbing against each other. They never came together right. “Whatever. Try not to be an asshole to Judge Brewer. Just keep your mouth shut around him.”

  “Thanks for your vote of confidence.” Villegas took the folder back and stood, standing right in Mike’s personal space. He stared Mike down. “Look. You’re acting shifty. I know you’re covering something up. Whatever it is you’re doing, I’m going to find out.”

  “Back up, Villegas. Before I make you back up.”

  Villegas kept staring, not moving, before he finally stepped to the side.

  Mike turned and stormed out, fleeing, really. He felt Villegas’s eyeballs pierce his shoulder blades with every step.

  He raced up to the fourth floor, praying he wouldn’t run into Winters. Meeting up with Tom when he’d been ordered to leave wouldn’t look good. Luckily, he only saw Danny, Tom’s clerk, flipping through a law book and scribbling in notepad that he leaned against the wall. “Hey, Mike,” Danny called out, not looking up. “Judge Brewer is in chambers. Said to tell you to come right in.”