Page 101 of Hush
“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 thiswasCIA-funded, something went very,verywrong.”
“The CIA can’t work on American soil. They can’tdothis.” 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.”
“Everyonewill 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.”
