Empty Promises

by Edwin Dasso

  Jack sighed and sat silently for a couple of minutes, taking an occasional sip of coffee. “Should we call Boone? Tell them to put a halt to this before it starts?”

  Hank shook his head. “Too late for that. And may I remind you that Schanlon and his cronies killed George? Tried to kill you…and Sara. Threatened Amanda. Have been responsible for the deaths of dozens of veterans who went to the VA looking for help.” He shook his head. “Nope—I’m not going to try to stop anything. Not going to feel bad about whatever happens, either. They’re scum, and the world will be a better place without them—if that’s what happens.”

  Jack twisted in his chair, gazing at Amanda and Sasha as they slept in their bunks, then slowly turned back to the table, his eyes downcast.

  “I suppose,” he said, not entirely convinced.

  Chapter 70

  The two American politicians and Schanlon were directed to their seats near the head of the large, opulent dining table in a private room in the rear of the exclusive club in St. Petersburg. The maître’d pulled their chairs out for them and handed them napkins after they were seated. Schanlon looked admiringly around the room, smiling like a kid in a candy store.

  “I’ll tell you what, gentlemen, our Russian friends sure know how to live. I think we’re all going to get along just great!”

  The politicians smiled and nodded as their gazes also flitted about the room.

  * * *

  The intense-looking, burly young man slid the laptop on the table in front of his boss then pressed a key and leaned back, running a hand over his short-cropped hair. The wrinkled, old Russian oligarch scowled as he watched the surveillance video. The Crimean militia troops could be seen slinking around in the dark near where the supracentyl factory was to go into production.

  “The fools don’t even seem to consider that we would have night-vision surveillance!” He shook his head. “It is no wonder we annexed their country so easily.”

  The old man slammed the laptop closed and shoved it away then pulled out his smartphone and hit a button. He once again watched the C-Span video showing Senator Cinch on the Senate floor introducing his bill to return more power to the DEA to monitor and control production and sales of prescription narcotics. He frowned and tossed the phone onto the table then turned to his colleague.

  “So, Pyotr, it would seem there is growing evidence that these rumors we’ve been hearing are true—they are reversing the law we paid good money to have put into place. The DEA will again be allowed to stick its nose in our business.” He waved a hand at the laptop. “And now, the Crimean thugs appear to be preparing to invade our new factory.”

  Pyotr nodded. “Dah.”

  “What do you hear from our moles in that,” he snorted, “militia?”

  “The scuttlebutt is that they are coordinating with the DEA and Interpol to invade and seize the factory. The militia will be used to secure the facility.”

  The old man sighed theatrically. “You have gone to the supracentyl study site on the dark web?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And?”

  “It has all been deleted—the site is completely gone. I had our tech people dig deeper, though. They were able to find one attachment that appears to have been missed when the site was being sanitized…”

  “Was it useful?”

  “Dah. I believe so. It appears to be a memo from Schanlon stating that the studies are to be cancelled…along with further development work on supracentyl.” He punched at a few keys on his laptop and brought up an email, cringing as he slid it in front of his boss. “And this is the note I got from our press contact in D.C. His contact at the DEA leaked that this whole US entourage visit is a scam—a sting operation, as the Americans like to call it—to trap us.”

  The old man read the note himself then growled, his gnarly, old knuckles turning white as he clenched them tightly around his fork. He sighed and shook his head. “It is so hard to know who to trust these days…especially in our line of business.”

  “Dah,” Pyotr responded tersely, nodding.

  The oligarch twisted to him. “I’ve seen enough. You have prepared everything as we discussed?”

  Pyotr nodded once again.

  “Then it is time to proceed. We must make an example of these…thieves so others will not be tempted to follow their example.” He leaned forward and again slammed the laptop closed. “Have we determined how to get the fifty-million dollars back that we gave them for the partnership?”

  There was silence for several seconds. “Nyet,” Pyotr replied hesitantly. “We are continuing to look for ways to find it…”

  The oligarch grabbed the arm of his chair, using it to twist himself to face Pyotr. He crinkled his brow deeply. “And when will that happen?”

  Pyotr shrugged. “I apologize, sir. It is too early to say—Schanlon was very skilled at hiding the money.”

  The old man scowled at the video feed from the dining room, where Schanlon and his compatriots were laughing and drinking like a group of college frat boys. The old man slammed a fist onto the table.

  “Do it now! I want to watch!”

  Pyotr scrambled out of the room. The old man picked up his glass of vodka and settled back in his chair, his gaze focused on the wall-mounted video screen. He raised the corners of his lips in a small grin as mist started to flow from the air vents in the dining room where the men waited for him. Schanlon and his friends didn’t seem to notice, too busy replenishing their empty glasses of wine. One of the politicians began to cough, holding a hand over his mouth. Suddenly, the gazes all three men started darting about the room as they all began to cough. Looks of panic distorting their faces, they leaped from their chairs and ran to the exit. One of the men grabbed the doorknobs and tried to throw open the doors, but they wouldn’t budge. The men took turns shaking the doors, even kicking them, but they remained locked tight. Schanlon ran back to the table and snatched up a napkin, pressing it over his mouth and nose.

  The oligarch chuckled. “I’m afraid that won’t do you any good, Mr. Schanlon. You, of all people, should know that.”

  Pyotr quietly entered the room, stopping behind his boss to watch the video feed over the oligarch’s shoulder. They watched Schanlon run over to a spot in front of the security camera in the dining room and flail his arms, yelling at the camera.

  “What do you think he is saying?” Pyotr asked.

  “He is saying he is sorry for double-crossing me and that he deserves to die.”

  Pyotr chuckled. “Good one, начальник.”

  The two politicians had collapsed to the floor near the doors. Schanlon soon fell to his knees, holding his middle finger up to the camera just before he flopped forward onto the floor and lay still.

  “I will check to see that they are dead,” Pyotr said after a few minutes.

  The old man turned and clutched his arm, holding onto it tightly as he shook his head.

  “Nyet. The supracentyl seems to work even better than the fentanyl we have used in the past…but let them rot until morning. Just to be sure.”

  * * *

  Next Morning

  The Russian oligarch set his fork on his plate and chewed his eggs as Pyotr approached the private dining table in the old man’s office.

  “I’ve checked myself, Excellency—they are all dead,” Pyotr reported, his head bowed.

  The oligarch picked up his vodka glass, draining it in a single gulp. He set it down and stared thoughtfully at Pyotr then nodded once.

  “Good.” He bowed his head but the corners of his lips twitched upward ever so slightly. “It is such a shame that the natural gas pipes in our old buildings have fallen into such disrepair.” He pinned Pyotr with a stare. “You must tell the Americans we are very sorry for such a horrible accident.”

  “Yes, Excellency.” Pyotr took a step backward. “B-but there is one thing.”

  The old man appraised him through narrowed eyes. “And what might that be?”

  Pyot
r stiffened, standing at attention, focusing his stare into the distance. “Sir, my understanding is that this supracentyl has a very long half-life in the body. When the Americans do an autopsy—and you know they will insist—they will surely discover the drug.” He shot a fleeting glance at his boss. “They will know it was not an accident. Th-there may be repercussions.”

  “Why didn’t you think of this before?” the oligarch thundered.

  Pyotr hung his head. “I-I’m sorry. You had asked that we make an example of them by using their own drug to kill them,” he mumbled, barely audibly. “We were rushed in our planning…”

  Pyotr stood in stony silence as his boss sent dining utensils and plates smashing against the walls. When the oligarch could find nothing else in reach, he frowned and was silent for a couple of minutes.

  “Well, then, we must give our regrets to the Americans that there was a natural gas leak…followed by an explosion and fire.” He turned to Pyotr, smiling deviously. “Yes, that’s it—a natural gas fire—that would reduce them to mere ashes!” He jabbed a crooked finger at Pyotr. “But you will first take the bodies somewhere, and make sure they do become nothing but ashes—I don’t even want to be able to see bones. Nothing!” He had a coughing fit then took a deep breath and turned back to the table, smirking. “And, of course, we will then assist the Americans in any way possible to sift through the ashes of the building to find the remains of their people.”

  “Yes, sir. It will be done.” Pyotr spun on a heel and strode toward the door.

  The old man nodded once then threw his head back and guffawed until he started choking. “Pyotr!” he yelled between gags.

  Pyotr winced then stopped and turned back. “Sir?”

  “Then I want you to bring me my fifty million dollars!” the old man bellowed.

  Chapter 71

  One Week Later

  “That’s it, gentlemen,” Jack said flatly as he regarded the three men sitting with him in the DEA Director’s office.

  Wes and Jack had each called law enforcement officials they knew they could trust. They were now meeting with the director of the DEA and General K. Harrison, the Commander for the Army CID, who was a long-time friend of George Smithson’s. Harrison, Wes, and the DEA director all regarded Jack with knitted brows as he slid his phone from the center of the table back in front of himself. They had just viewed the recording Jack had made back on Senator Cinch’s plane.

  “That would explain a few things I’ve wondered about—like, what was behind Cinch’s efforts to strip us of our capabilities,” the DEA director muttered. “Apparently, being a senator doesn’t require integrity anymore.”

  “And you said you believe they killed George, too?” Harrison asked.

  “I don’t just believe it, General, I know it! They sent me a video clip of him dying!” Jack growled. “Rotten bastards! George never hurt anybody!”

  “But you have no evidence,” he pointed at Jack’s phone, “like that video?”

  Jack cast his eyes downward and shook his head. “No, sir…they were very good at covering their trail. When I checked the day after George was killed, the link where the video had been posted was already gone. I think it was posted on the dark web. They seemed fond of posting things out there.”

  Harrison nodded. “As are a lot of criminals. I’ll get the cyber guys on it—see what they can dig up.”

  The DEA director stood and walked to his desk, perching on the edge of it. “That’s pretty damning evidence—but what do we do with it?” he asked. “Schanlon and Cinch are both dead. And that hitman you say killed Dr. Smithson was tossed out of a plane flying over the ocean.” He glanced quickly at Jack and frowned. “That fact doesn’t leave this room, by the way. Anybody got ideas for next steps?”

  “I do,” Jack said quickly. “It would require you and I obtaining an audience with the secretary of Health and Human Services.”

  “You really think he’s in on it, too?” The director asked.

  “If not him directly, then people who report to him!” Wes quickly interjected. “His Commissioner of Food and Drugs was one of the conspirators on the list we’ve pulled together.”

  The DEA director nodded. “Then I will get that meeting put together ASAP.”

  “Any thoughts for me, Jack?” Harrison asked.

  Jack shrugged. “I think that’s up to you, General. I know George wasn’t active duty any longer, so I’m not sure about your jurisdiction… Maybe some active-duty people were involved in the study?”

  Harrison gritted his teeth. “George was a friend of mine for almost thirty years…and he died trying to protect veterans.” He slammed a fist on the table. “I’ll make a way to get jurisdiction, goddammit!”

  Jack nodded. “I’ll help any way I can, sir.”

  “Good! I’ll likely need your assistance. First thing you can do is get me all of the documentation you’ve pulled together related to the VA-sponsored supracentyl studies. I’ll have my people see if we can find any active duty or reservist names who got supracentyl. And send me a copy of this video, too.”

  “Will do. Speaking of those supracentyl studies, that’s something I’m hoping both of you can help me with. I want to get stricter standards and oversight put in place so this sort of shenanigan can’t be repeated. Especially with veterans.” Jack shook his head then exchanged gazes with both men. “I’m sick and tired of the dirtballs of the world feeling like veterans are their personal playthings—to do with as they wish.”

  Harrison clapped Jack on the shoulder. “Amen, brother.”

  “You two will get back to me soon with your agenda for the HHS secretary meet?” the director asked.

  “We’ll have it to you by the end of the day,” Wes said.

  They all exchanged handshakes, then Jack and Wes left the office.

  “That went well,” Wes said as they walked down the busy hall of the federal office building.

  “Yep.”

  “Lotta work ahead of us.”

  “Yep.”

  “But at least the ringleader has been eliminated.”

  “I sure as hell hope so.”

  Wes arched an eyebrow and shot a quick glance at Jack. “By the way, I really liked the idea those Crimeans came up with about that whole U.S. business envoy visiting Crimea being part of an international sting operation. The leak from the DEA that named those Russian oligarchs really made it believable. The part about Schanlon planning on walking away with the Russian investment money was brilliant! Icing on the cake.”

  “Or the last nail in his coffin.” Jack turned to Wes. “You think your cyber hacks will be able to find that money the Russians gave Schanlon?”

  Wes nodded. “Yep.”

  Chapter 72

  Three Days Later

  The Secretary of Health and Human Services, Harry Thorn, puffed his cheeks out as he blew out a long breath. He set the sheet of paper he’d just reviewed on top of the stack of other documents he’d looked at. He pulled a hanky from a pocket and mopped his face and brow then turned his gaze to the floor, remaining silent for several minutes.

  “You said these are my copies, Dr. Bass?” Thorn set a hand on top of the stack of papers.

  “Yep—I’ve got plenty of others.”

  “That almost sounded like a warning…”

  “Take it any way you want. You just need to understand that this is obviously,” Jack pointed at the piles of manuscripts , “well-documented.”

  “And we’ve got copies on our secure server,” the DEA director said.

  Thorn’s shoulders sagged. “Got it.”

  “I hope you do, Mr. Secretary,” the DEA director said as he stared intently at the HHS secretary.

  “We’re also aware you’re a friend and past colleague of some the people who are involved.” Jack shrugged. “I hope you can understand if I’m a little leery of where your allegiances might lie regarding helping us.”

  “So…you’re implying I’m involved, too?”

 
“Don’t know. Don’t really care at this point.” Jack tapped the stack of papers with a finger. “I do know for certain that your Commissioner of Food and Drugs is involved. He was trying to get supracentyl pushed through FDA approval without adequate testing—at the expense of some unsuspecting veterans involved in the studies.”

  “I…can help—"

  “Stop!” Jack yelled. “Save your breath about making any empty promises. I’ve had too many of you clowns inside the beltway blowing smoke up my ass over this thing.” He jabbed a finger in the man’s direction. “The only thing I’m interested in now is what actions you take!”

  Thorn started to raise his index finger to Jack.

  Jack held his hand up like a traffic cop. “Don’t bother getting indignant.”

  “And be aware that my agency is opening an investigation,” the DEA director said. “Drug trafficking and bribery result in a lot of years behind bars. I’d suggest you cooperate.”

  Thorn slowly lowered his finger, hung his head, and groaned.

  “You also might keep in mind what has happened to many of the men who were involved in this little charade—they’re dead!” Jack stated.

  “Is that a threat?” Thorn snarled.

  “Not at all. Just a reminder. It seems there are some pretty unforgiving partners involved in this deal. We don’t really know who the ringleader is. They may still be after blood.”

  Thorn tugged at his collar as he stared at Jack.

  “I wouldn’t feel very safe if I was you.” Jack arched an eyebrow and stared pointedly at the man. “I’d hate to see the Russians connect some dots—some dots that lead right to you. I’d imagine there’d a set of crosshairs not far behind those dots.”

  Thorn’s jaw worked, but no words came out.

  The DEA director crossed his arms and glared at the secretary. “I second that opinion, Dr. Bass.”

  Thorn looked at the federal agent and swallowed then sighed dramatically. “Okay. What do you want me to do?” he asked in a resigned tone.

  “We want you to continue to push the proposal Cinch put on the Senate floor,” Jack said. He pointed a thumb at himself. “I had the very unpleasant experience of being unwittingly exposed to supracentyl.” He turned to look at the DEA director briefly then turned back to the secretary. “I still feel the effects—and they aren’t pleasant. That drug should never be released.”