Rick Mofina - Whirlwind

Gromov knew that his enemies murdered his boys, even gentle, innocent Fyodor, to cause him maximum agony, to ensure the end of the Gromov name, to eliminate him completely. Anton and Dmitri had married but had not yet started families. Gromov’s bloodline ended with him. His enemies wanted him to die an anguished old man with no one to assume his throne.

Gromov knew who was responsible. He waited and he planned. Over time he exacted his vengeance, killing his enemies one by one using methods that cast suspicion firmly on other enemies.

Let the jackals devour themselves.

Today, the last and biggest guilty enemy would pay.

Gromov glanced at his wedding surveillance screen. Now they were wheeling out the multitiered wedding cake. Good . There was laughing, drinking. Joy filled the room. Now, his enemy’s daughter and her new husband gripped the knife to cut the cake. All smiles and love everlasting.

Gromov lifted his head casually to peer over his glasses at his cell phone with the care of a veteran surgeon. He pressed numbers on his cell phone, its keypad chiming softly. The photograph of his three dead sons vanished from the screen as the detonation code appeared.

Now.

Gromov pressed Send.

He blinked and glanced up to the hotel’s top floor in time to feel a slight concussion thud wave, hear the full explosion as the fireball streaked from the suite propelling debris and bodies to the street below.

Gromov studied the scene the way a coffin maker studies a fresh cut piece of wood. Satisfied, he tapped his driver’s shoulder.

For a few dying seconds the flames reflected on the car’s gleaming black body as it glided into the night.

Late the next morning, Gromov sipped tea while reading a newspaper at an outdoor café on Gorky Street.

Screaming across the front page was an article on the deaths of thirty-three people in the bombing of a wedding party. The attack killed the target, Igor Zelin, a feared crime boss.

Gromov could not bear looking at the news picture of Zelin’s daughter. She was a beautiful young bride. Her body was found in the street below. Gromov’s vengeance tasted of bile. It sickened him to realize what he had become, and he mourned it all.

Above everything, he grieved for himself, for his loss of a direct bloodline. For Gromov had dreamed that one day his grandson would establish a legitimate business, one in which Russians did not kill other Russians. Something noble that would endure.

But that dream had been taken from him.

He gazed up at the distant spires of the Kremlin.

What was left for him?

Yes, he had money, he had power, but it meant nothing without his sons, without a legacy. Now, old age and death awaited him. And after Gromov died there would be nothing.

A shadow passed over his table and a huge man sat across from Gromov, revealing familiar gold crowns when he smiled at the headline.

“They say it’s obviously the work of the Chechens.”

“It could be,” Gromov said.

“Zelin had made many enemies.” The big man winked.

“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.

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.”