by Rick Mofina
“Good to see you, Aleksey. It’s been too long.”
“I am sorry. I’ve been out of touch, taking care of things in Istanbul. I’ve been back for two months now, catching up. I heard about the boys. My condolences, Pavel. No man should have to bury his sons.”
“The price we pay for the lives we’ve lived.”
Gromov knew the sympathy in Aleksey Linevich’s eyes was heartfelt. The two men had been friends since boyhood. They talked for half an hour, until Aleksey’s phone vibrated and he checked the message.
“I must go,” Linevich said, suddenly remembering. “Yes. How stupid of me. The failings of old age, I almost forgot. My wife recently heard a wild rumor about Fyodor.”
“What is it?”
“She belongs to a Pushkin literary group and was at a publisher’s party last week, when she overheard a few women gossiping that, before his death, Fyodor Gromov had a girlfriend and she was pregnant with his child. It’s crazy, I know. Had you heard of this, Pavel?”
Gromov was dazed. He had a grandchild?
“Pavel?”
“No, no, I had not heard this.”
“Well, you know how the hens cluck away. It’s a terrible thing to say and likely untrue.”
As Gromov digested the possibility, hope trickled into his heart.
“Could you possibly find out more for me, Aleksey?”
Gromov’s friend nodded seriously.
“I’ll speak with my wife. I’ll get you more information quickly.”
“Yes, please.” Gromov stood, shaking his friend’s hand, watching him leave before he sat down alone, again. Thinking.
Fyodor, a girlfriend—a pregnant girlfriend? Could it be? No. Most likely, as Aleksey says, it’s bad gossip. But how does such gossip get started? What if it’s true?
I have a grandchild.
16
Moscow, Russia
The Blue River Restaurant was on a narrow side street two blocks from the Arbat pedestrian district. With its few feet of frontage and small shaded windows, it was almost hidden from view.
One could walk by without knowing of its existence.
Its low ceilings and dark paneled walls created a mood of calm privacy for Pavel Gromov, who waited alone for his guest in a far corner in a high-backed booth. After Aleksey Linevich had first told him about the girl that morning, it had taken two hours to provide Gromov details on the young woman and quickly arrange a meeting this afternoon.
A favor for a friend, Aleksey said.
Her name was Yanna Petrova, a twenty-seven-year-old junior editor at Six Mountains Press, a small publisher in Kitai-Gorod. She had the well-scrubbed face of a country girl from the Urals, where she was born. She was attractive with an air of intelligent defiance, Gromov thought, looking into his phone at the image of her driver’s license, a copy of which Aleksey had obtained for him.
When needed, men like Gromov and Aleksey would skillfully play the advantages they’d accrued over the years. Using bribes, fear and grisly acts, they’d purchased favor in every level of the bureaucracy, with police, security and politicians. There was little they couldn’t obtain in the way of goods, documents or information on anyone at any time.
Once Yanna was contacted she was quickly convinced of the wisdom in agreeing to Gromov’s request to meet immediately with him.
A car was sent for her.
While waiting, Gromov considered the idea that he’d been wrong about his son’s sexual leanings. Then he speculated on how far along this Yanna Petrova should be with his grandchild—a child that was his only hope.
Now, as one of his men escorted her through the near-empty restaurant to his booth, Gromov was deflated.
She wore a nicely cut navy blazer, matching pants and a white top.
No signs of pregnancy. Perhaps she’d already had the child?
Gromov stood, they greeted each other formally then he gestured for her to sit in his booth and order something. She requested a glass of orange juice then began twisting the rings on her fingers.
Her face was taut.
“You’re nervous?” he said.
Yanna studied Gromov’s face, only for a moment and said nothing.
“You knew my son, Fyodor.”
“Yes.”
“He kept secrets from me. You’re one of them, so it does not surprise me that we do not know each other.”
“I know who you are and what you are.”
Gromov detected tiny points of disdain prickling at the edges of her eyes. He regarded her for several seconds, deciding if he would tolerate her boldness.
“Why did you bring me here?” she asked. “What do you want from me?”
“I want the truth.”
“About what? I’m not part of your world—neither was Fyodor.”
“I understand that you are, or were, pregnant with his child, my grandchild. I would like to help raise this child.”
Yanna’s face began to crumple with anguish, but she held on, turned away, biting back her tears.
“There is no child. I was never pregnant.”
Disappointment rolled through Gromov, his thoughts taking him away from the restaurant to someplace as cold and dark as a tomb. Several beats of silence passed before he realized that Yanna had started telling him things he did not know about his son.
“I loved Fyodor. I miss him terribly,” she said. “We’d met in a bookstore. We liked each other very much. He was so kind and altruistic. He had a gentle strength about him. He loved hearing about my university years in America. We became good friends and started seeing each other.”
Yanna could clearly read on Gromov’s face that he was misinterpreting things.
“No,” she said. “It was not like you think.”
She looked at him for a long moment.
“Your son was goluboi. He was gay.”
Gromov closed his eyes.
Before she died in the cancer ward all those years ago, his wife had tried to tell him about Fyodor, but he’d refused to listen. Now he found himself nodding at this young woman’s confirmation of what he had long felt to be true. But it had never changed his love for Fyodor, and he was condemned to live with the regret of never having told him that.
“Yes.” Gromov cleared his throat. “I know.”
“You should also know that I am rozovaya, a lesbian.”
Gromov lifted his hand slightly from the table, in a gesture of acceptance, inviting her to continue.
“I wanted a child,” Yanna said.
She then told Gromov how months before Fyodor was killed, she’d asked him to be the donor father of her baby.
“In my eyes, he was the best human being in the world,” she said. “I was over the moon with joy when he agreed.”
Yanna and Fyodor kept the matter secret and went to a clinic in Moscow.
“The procedure failed. I never became pregnant.” She paused. “Then he was killed.”
A long sorrowful moment passed as Gromov sat there absorbing the revelation. With each passing second he grieved what he’d lost, refusing to accept that there was nothing he could do about it. Again and again Gromov told himself that it was impossible to go back in time and erase his sins. He could not undo the past.
No, he thought, but it was still within his power to shape the future.
“Tell me, Yanna, what is the name of this clinic?”
She hesitated, but not for long.
“The Rainbow Clinic, off Leninsky Avenue.”
Gromov reached for his phone and began making a series of calls.
Soon, he would know all he needed to know about the clinic to ensure they would not refuse his request to cooperate.
17
Moscow, Russia
>
Dr. Irina Aprishko removed her glasses and massaged her eyes after reading lab results at her desk in the Rainbow Clinic.
Looking forward to the weekend and the start of her vacation, she exhaled, replaced her glasses and saw that Olga Kotov, her assistant, was at her doorway, bag in hand, ready to leave.
“The others have gone for the day, Doctor. You’re the last one here.”
“I’m still expecting that late appointment.”
“Ah, yes, Mr. Ryazansky. So insistent when he called. Would you like me to stay?”
“No. I’ll meet him then I’ll close up. Thank you, Olga. Good night.”
After her assistant left, the doctor locked her reports in one of the steel file cabinets against the wall then went to the window. The clinic was in a yellow two-story building on a quiet tree-lined street not far from Leninsky Avenue, a busy artery in Southwest Moscow. As she gazed at the street the doctor grew curious about this Ryazansky.
Why was he so insistent to meet now, simply to discuss the clinic’s services? She’d offered to tell him over the phone, but he rejected that. She’d offered to set up a formal appointment with other staff, but he rejected that too, insisting on meeting now with her, given that she was the only executive member of the clinic at the office today.
Who was this Ryazansky? She’d checked the clinic’s files. He was not a donor or patient. Was he a potential investor? She had to admit, business from the clinic’s operations, had been very good.
Or was he a cop?
She hoped he was not a cop—that would not be good. It could get complicated.
She removed her glasses, tapping one arm to her teeth to help her think, when the front door security bell sounded. She went to the empty reception desk and on the small video monitor saw two men in suits. Using the intercom she asked them to identify themselves.
“Gennady Ryazansky, with my associate, Viktor Zhulov, here to see Dr. Aprishko.”
She buzzed them in. Seconds later, two men were standing in the reception area where the doctor greeted them.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me at the end of the day,” Ryazansky said.
“My pleasure. Let’s talk right here. The sofa’s comfortable, and since the other staff members are gone for the day, our privacy is assured.”
“Certainly, but first, is it possible for Viktor to use your restroom? It was a long drive from downtown.”
“Of course.” The doctor smiled at Viktor. “Down the hall, to the left.”
Watching him leave, she noticed the scar on his cheek and the tentacle of a tattoo creeping above his collar. Then she turned back to Ryazansky, who seemed to regard her with a degree of iciness. Who were these men? Usually she met with young couples, or a young woman, or young man.
“So tell me, again, Mr. Ryazansky,” she said as they sat, “what’s your interest in our clinic? I’m a little unclear about your situation.”
“Before I go into specifics, I’d like to know about your policies and procedures concerning your services.”
“Very well.”
Aprishko gave an overview of how the experts at the clinic treated patients for infertility, using state-of-the-art technology. How the clinic also offered surrogacy arrangements and full services concerning surrogate motherhood with a global network of legal services. The clinic also offered in vitro fertilization and sperm donation services.
“Above all, our most important policy is absolute confidentiality.”
“Thank you.” Gromov reached into his chest pocket and produced a folded sheet of paper for the doctor. It showed the colored copies of driver’s licenses of Fyodor Gromov and Yanna Petrova, along with neatly printed dates.
“My name is Pavel Gromov,” he said.
“I thought it was Ryazansky? I’m not sure I can help you under this—”
“Please, stay seated,” Gromov said. “Let me continue and it will all become evident. The man pictured here is my son...the woman is his girlfriend. You’ll see dates noted—they are the dates they visited this clinic to use his sperm to impregnate her. Unsuccessfully.”
Aprishko looked at the sheet.
“I believe, from my understanding of your procedures,” Gromov said, “that this clinic would have preserved and still possess my son’s sperm. My son is now deceased and I want his sperm to make further attempts at a grandchild.”
The doctor blinked several times. “Mr. Gromov, my condolences for your loss. It is a terrible thing to lose a child. But I’m afraid I cannot help you. First, as I said, patient confidentiality is absolute, so I cannot even confirm that these two people were patients. Second, it is stated in our contracts that, for clinical purposes, sperm becomes the property of the clinic but is not used other than for the purpose intended by the provider.”
Gromov’s face registered nothing. He said nothing. His eyes shifted from the doctor, who suddenly wondered why Gromov’s associate had taken so long. When she turned her head she saw Viktor standing behind her. He’d removed his jacket, revealing a shoulder holster and the grip of a gun. Aprishko’s jaw tightened when he passed her wallet to Gromov. She’d left it in her bag, in the drawer of her desk. This man had gone into her office and stolen it.
“What is he doing? What are you doing?”
Viktor stepped to the doctor and slapped her face once, as Gromov, indifferent to the assault, studied her wallet’s contents.
“This would be your home address?” Gromov held up Aprishko’s license and other cards.
Her heart racing, the doctor tasted blood in the corner of her mouth. Through her tear-filled eyes she saw stars.
“And this would be your daughter?” Gromov held up a photo of a girl about twelve years old beaming for the camera. “And this is your husband?” Gromov held up another photo of a smiling man.
He let several moments pass in silence.
“Listen carefully, Irina Aprishko. Before I came here, I learned where you live and where your family lives. I know from my sources that this clinic is involved in illegal activities. Is that not correct? Do not lie.”
The doctor looked at him, glanced at Viktor, tears rolling down her face. She nodded slowly.
“Good, now everyone here is being truthful. We will not hurt you, or your family, if you help me. Do you want to help me?”
Another nod.
“You are going to tell me if you have preserved or used my son’s sperm.”
They went to Aprishko’s office. Her shaking fingers made several errors as she typed on her keyboard, submitting codes to search the confidential files for Fyodor Gromov and Yanna Petrova.
The doctor confirmed that attempts to impregnate Yanna Petrova with Fyodor Gromov’s sperm had failed, the file was closed and none of Fyodor Gromov’s sperm was preserved at the clinic. However, through the other leg of their business, it had been used without Fyodor’s knowledge or consent to successfully impregnate a woman, a young American woman, by the name of Remy Toxton. The records indicated that she would have been due to deliver about now.
“A boy,” the doctor said. “We have all of her personal information here, including a scanned copy of her passport.”
Gromov stared at the photograph of Remy Toxton, the mother of his grandson.
“Give me all of her information,” he said.
A printer came to life. All documents were collected and passed to Gromov.
“Listen carefully, Doctor. When we leave, you will call police and tell them you were robbed by two men. They took your wallet and struck your face. They have your address and you’re fearful they may harm your family. Make sure they take down a report. If you do this, Irina, and never speak to anyone about our visit, no harm will come to you. Do you understand?”
She nodded.
“I’ll have people watch you. Do you under
stand?”
She understood.
18
Dallas, Texas
“They’re complete strangers. I never saw them before in my life, but the woman seemed kind of forward, kind of infatuated with Caleb.... Then we saw them in the center, I mean they were just there in all the craziness....”
Kate pressed the pause button, stopping the interview she’d recorded at the shelter earlier that morning with Jenna Cooper. Her fingers raced over the keyboard as she transcribed quotes for her story.
It was 2:45 p.m. and Kate needed to finish writing before starting her night shift at the bureau, per Dorothea’s instructions. The thought of it made her angry, but Kate had pushed all the crap over the Mandy Lee incident aside and concentrated on Jenna Cooper’s tragedy.
Reviewing the circumstances, she considered the little more she’d learned about the helpful mystery couple, their demeanor, appearance and actions. Kate also considered the general points listed about a missing-persons investigation noted in the brochure from the Missing Person Emergency Search System that Frank Rivera had given her. And she drew on her own experience as a seasoned crime reporter. These facets had fed her growing belief that there might be more to Caleb Cooper’s disappearance than first thought.
What if these people had kidnapped the baby? Or maybe they were disoriented and wandered off? It was all just a little strange.
Kate removed her earbuds and went to Dorothea’s office. The editor stood at her desk.
“There you are. Good,” Dorothea said. “Here’s a list of what I want. Tommy’s working on it, too.”
Kate scanned the items on the page Dorothea gave her, all information, data and stats on tornadoes.
“Graphics? You want me to gather content for graphics?”
“Our subscribers around the world can’t get enough. And once Chuck gets in, we’ll talk about what happened this morning and our concerns.”
“You mean with Mandy?” Kate glanced around the newsroom, saw Tommy Koop, the news assistant, looking at a wall map, pretending not to hear them, but didn’t see Mandy. “Will she be there, too?”
“No. She’s still out on assignment. I’ve already spoken to her.”