Rick Mofina - Whirlwind

“Where’re you headed, sir?”

“New York City.”

“What’s the purpose of your visit?”

“I am taking a holiday, to visit the museums, maybe see a show on Broadway.”

“Where were you born?”

“Moscow, Russia.”

“Russia?”

“I moved to Canada as a young man to study and became a citizen.”

“Did you live in Canada’s capital, Toronto?”

Gromov looked at the agent. He was being tested. “Apologies, but I must correct you. Canada’s capital is Ottawa. That is where I live.”

“That’s right, I forgot. And what do you do in Canada?”

“I’m a semiretired professor of eastern European studies at Carleton University.”

The agent stamped Gromov’s passport and returned it with the customs card.

“Welcome to the United States.”

As was the case in Toronto, a driver holding a sign-this time the name was Budarin-met them at baggage claim at the Newark Airport, collected their luggage and led them to a new Lincoln.

When they pulled away from the airport, Yanna turned to Gromov.

“Where did you learn English?”

He looked at the horizon.

“Here.”

Their car gathered speed and merged into the rivers of traffic flowing along the New Jersey expressways as they headed for New York City. Soon the span of the majestic George Washington Bridge emerged with Manhattan’s glorious skyline, pulling Gromov back in time.

He was seventeen when he’d left home to journey across Europe and found work in Rotterdam on a freighter that sailed the world. When they’d docked in New York Gromov jumped ship. He worked illegally on the waterfront, learning English and every aspect of importing, exporting, smuggling and illicit global trafficking. He stayed for eight years, making lifelong friends and establishing business networks worldwide, before returning to Russia. He ran into some trouble, landed in prison for several years where he enriched members of the Brotherhood with his expertise on America. When he got out, he built his empire in Moscow while he maintained his alliances in the United States.

The Lincoln worked its way through Midtown traffic until it reached the Grand Hyatt next to Grand Central Terminal. They checked into a suite with separate rooms, showered, then met a man for dinner in the hotel’s restaurant.

His name was Yuri Korzun.

He was about the same age as Gromov, a barrel-chested man with short white hair and sharp black eyes. He took Gromov’s hand in both of his and shook it warmly.

“Welcome back to New York, Pavel. It does my soul good to see you, old friend,” Korzun said. “My condolences for your losses.”

“Thank you. Good to see you, Yuri.”

Korzun pulled out a chair for Yanna.

“Yuri,” Gromov said, “this is Yanna Petrova. She was a very good friend of my youngest boy, Fyodor. She’s like a daughter to me and has agreed to help me here in America.”

Barely concealing her animosity, Yanna managed to smile at Korzun.

“Yanna,” Gromov said, “Yuri Korzun and I knew each other as teenagers working here on the docks.”

“Welcome to New York, Yanna. It’s unfortunate you cannot both stay longer and see more of the city.”

“Yes, unfortunate,” she said with a bite in her voice.

Over dinner the men caught up on each other’s lives and those of people they’d known while Yanna took in the view of the Chrysler Building and tried to comprehend her surreal predicament. As the meal wound down over drinks, the men discussed Gromov’s case.

“Your friends in this country would be honored to help you with anything you need at any time. Just contact me,” Korzun said.

Gromov nodded in appreciation.

“We’ve alerted our people in Justice, State, Immigration and other departments,” Korzun said. “We can provide you with the necessary documentation when you’re ready to leave the country with your grandson, Pavel.”

“Thank you, Yuri.”

Korzun reached into his inside jacket pocket, first for bifocals then for a few pages folded together. He reviewed them quickly before passing them to Gromov.

He nodded and looked at them.

“Her name is Remy Toxton,” Korzun said. “Her boyfriend is Mason Varno. He’s an ex-convict and two-bit drug dealer. He drives a pickup truck and works as a carpenter. Here’s their latest information.”

Yanna moved her chair to look over Gromov’s shoulder at photos of Remy and Mason. The woman who’d carried Fyodor’s child looked so young. Gromov studied the pictures and documents the way a grand master contemplates an opening strategy.

“Pavel, I’m curious,” Korzun said. “Why not have us go to these baby sellers and deal with them directly to find the girl? We can be very persuasive.”

“I want to go directly to the mother without warning so there’s no possibility of complications. I’ll make it fast and uncompromising. Nothing will stand in the way of me finding her and my grandson. Like you, I can be persuasive.”

Korzun smiled. “A Delta flight direct to Houston leaves from LaGuardia in the morning.”

Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

Caleb Cooper was screaming.

One-hundred-decibel, nerve-shredding wailing.

Remy tried everything to make him stop, but Mason was the one who needed calming. He was causing the upheaval, rampaging through their belongings again, looking for dope or reasons to stay pissed off at her.

His fit of rage was a repeat of yesterday’s explosion after their brush with death on the freeway. Mason had lost his mind, took the baby and stomped into the field to do God knows what. It was all that Remy could do to talk him down, persuade him to give up the baby and get back in the truck.

The incident had not only shaken them, it had intensified Mason’s cravings and inflamed his fears that they were being pursued, to the point that Remy’s brain began throbbing with the onset of a spell.

“Mason, I swear if you don’t stop it my head is going to explode!”

Remy was cradling the baby, but in her agitated state her attempts to rock him turned into rigid bouncing, which worsened matters.

Mason had ransacked her clothes and the baby things. Then he grabbed the bigger suitcase they’d packed from their apartment. Zippers whizzed, he opened it and rifled through it.

“Mason. Mason, listen to me- Shh-shh.” Remy raised her voice over the baby, punctuating her sentences with attempts to stop Caleb’s screeching. “I don’t have your stuff. Shh-shh. Did you check the truck?”

Mason ignored her and went to the window.

Last night, to assuage his suspicions, they’d packed up, with Remy grabbing extra soap and shampoo, then moved from their motel and into this fleabag dump, the Tumbleweed Dreams Motel, on the west side of the Metroplex. Standing at the window taking inventory of the parking lot, Mason rubbed his lips then ran his hands through his hair, tugging at it when he’d reached a decision.

He marched to Remy’s night table and seized her purse.

“What the fu- Mason! What’s wrong with you?” Remy stood, baby in her arms, and shot out one hand to reclaim her bag.

Mason turned, dumped the contents on the second bed, pushing Remy off until he found the card for the surrogate agency with penned names and cell numbers. He held it before Remy’s face.

“Call them now!”

Remy snatched the card back. Mason surrendered her bag and with one hand Remy began scooping her things back into it.

“I told you I will call them when it’s time.”

“What the hell are you waiting for?”

“For the idiot mother to stop searching for her baby.”

“She’s never going to stop. What mother would? We’re running out of time. Call the agency, close the deal and we’re done.”