Whirlwind (12 page)

23

London

T
he Boeing 767 departed London’s Heathrow Airport and cut westward across the night sky toward the southern tip of Greenland.

Destination: Lester B. Pearson International Airport, Toronto, Canada.

From his upholstered leather seat in executive class, Pavel Gromov studied the constellations. Like an ancient soldier, he divined purpose from the stars, vowing to his dead wife and sons that he would achieve his goal.

I will return to Russia with my grandson.

Gromov sipped his vodka and glanced at Yanna Petrova next to him in the window seat. Her face was in her eReader, but more often it was turned to the window. Her attempt to flee from him before their departure in Moscow had been bold but thwarted when the airport security people on Gromov’s payroll alerted him.

“Need I remind you of the consequences if you do not cooperate, Yanna,” he’d warned her when they were alone.

“You’re vile!” she’d spat at him.

She’d barely spoken to him on their Aeroflot flight from Moscow to London. It was the same now, bound for Canada before they entered the United States.

Gromov contemplated the ice in his glass, pleased that he’d moved fast on his plan to find his grandchild. He’d used his connections to secure expertly forged travel documents for both of them. Made from stolen official security papers, they were flawless. They’d come at great speed and great expense. He’d used key sources to ensure corresponding information supporting the counterfeit papers would be found in all the necessary databases.

Matters didn’t go as smoothly with Yanna.

She’d been startled then furious to arrive home and find him waiting alone in her apartment.

“Why are you here? Get out!”

“Fyodor fathered a child.”

“It can’t be true.”

“I learned this from the clinic. Without you I never would’ve known I have a grandchild.”

“But how did this happen?”

“My police sources had informed me that the clinic is involved with a black market network. They used his sperm to impregnate an American woman who gave birth to a baby boy in Texas. You are going with me now to get him.”

“Impossible. You’re insane.”

“Call your office and inform your boss that a relative of yours in the Urals has died and you must travel immediately to Yekaterinburg. Say that you will be away for two weeks. Our flight to London leaves in four hours. Make the call and pack now. It’s hot in Texas.”

Yanna stared at him then looked around her apartment, probably for some way to escape her situation. “You’re a criminal and I refuse to help you!”

Gromov showed her photos on his phone of her parents’ home and her little sister’s apartment. “It is not a decision you are free to make.”

He’d made it clear her family would be killed if she didn’t help him. Overwhelmed with rage and fear Yanna had reassessed her situation, bit back on her anger then made the call and packed.

Now she put down her eReader, buried her face in her hands and began to cry.

“Why? Why are you doing this to me?” she asked Gromov in Russian.

Subduing his voice, he ordered her to keep her voice low.

Yanna turned and bristled at him. “I still cannot accept this. I demand to go home, now!”

Gromov did not respond.

“I could go to prison for what you’re forcing me into,” she said.

“Do as I say and you won’t be arrested.”

“You’ve practically abducted me and are threatening my family if I don’t help you steal someone’s child.”

“No,” Gromov growled through gritted teeth. “I am rescuing the baby stolen from me, from Fyodor, and you! You, Yanna, will be the mother of this child.”

“I do not want this child! It’s not mine!”

“It’s Fyodor’s child. You yearned to have his child. Accept that this is fate. I will provide for you. You will be wealthy beyond anything you could imagine. And with the time I have left, I will help raise the baby.”

“To be a soulless criminal like you?” Yanna stared at him, breathing hard with disgust.

Gromov said nothing.

“Fyodor was right to sever his life from yours,” Yanna said.

Gromov clenched his jaw then he sipped vodka. His Adam’s apple lifted then settled and he blinked several times.

“No,” he said. “Not like me. I’m leaving the
vory
way behind me. Look at all it has cost me. I have paid a price for my sins.”

“So now you seek absolution? You’re an old
vor
trying to slither his way into Heaven through some desperate criminal act of insanity.”

Gromov felt the beginnings of a smile before he sipped more vodka and decided that he liked Yanna Petrova and her moxie.

“Something like that,” he said.

“Suppose you locate this child,” she said, “and suppose through your methods you take custody of him. How are we going to leave the United States and enter Russia with a baby without raising any suspicions?”

“Don’t worry. I’m arranging everything.”

Yanna turned to the window, withdrew into herself and said nothing for the remainder of the flight.

* * *

After Gromov and Yanna’s plane landed at Toronto’s Pearson International Airport, they proceeded to the checkpoint for passport control and immigration. As Canadian citizens they entered the country easily, collected their bags then proceeded to the ground transportation section where they were met by a driver holding a small cardboard sign bearing the handwritten name Popovich.

Inside the luxury sedan, the driver took all of Gromov’s and Yanna’s counterfeit documents and gave them each a large envelope with new Canadian documents, passports, airline tickets and plastic ID cards under new names.

Reviewing her new Canadian identity, Yanna gave up trying to gauge just how connected Gromov actually was. It frightened her, for he seemed to have friends in very high levels of security around the world.

The city’s skyline, dominated by the needlelike CN Tower, rose before them as their car sped along Toronto’s expressways. They traveled some fourteen miles southeast to the heart of the city and a central airport known as the Toronto Island Airport.

They boarded a twin-engine turboprop operated by a small commercial airline for a ninety-minute direct flight to Newark.

Walking through the terminal, they got in line for U.S. Customs. Yanna went first. For a fleeting moment while standing at the desk, she wanted to divulge everything to the Americans, plead for mercy and a return flight to Moscow. Glancing over her shoulder, she felt the heat of Gromov’s eyes on her and the full force of his threat.

If I make it home, it will be to mourn my family.

Yanna proceeded as normal and was cleared for entry. Upon entering the United States, she resigned herself to enduring her ordeal until the end, praying that she would return home to her ordinary life.

When Gromov got to the desk, the agent took his Canadian passport, cracked the spine and inserted it into the passport reader. He checked the photo to ensure Gromov matched it. Then he looked at Gromov’s customs card.

“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.”

24

Dallas–Fort Worth Metroplex, Texas

C
aleb 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.”

“I will do this my way. It’s been working so far, hasn’t it?”

“The longer we wait, the riskier it gets. We’re running out of time and money. The agency’s likely got people looking for us ever since we left. You signed a contract with them, took a lot of money then disappeared without delivering a baby. And there’s a chance that police are looking for this baby, too, since it’s been in the news.”

It was all true, but Remy pursed her lips.

“And,” Mason added, “how the hell are you going to pass off this five-month-old baby as a one-month-old? Even the doctor at the shelter thought he was big for three months.”

“Stop being so negative, Mason. It’s all going to work out,” Remy said. “We just need to wait a little bit, then we’ll have our money, then we’ll start the life we’ve been dreaming of, the life we deserve. Trust me, babe.”

“I can’t
wait a little bit
. Things are slipping away. I just want to get our cash and get the hell out of here.”

“We just need a bit longer.”

“You know what I think, Remy? I think the truth is you don’t want to give this baby up.”

She didn’t say anything.

“I think that after losing your baby, you’re going through something. You’re getting attached to this one and you’re delaying things because deep down you want to keep him.”

“That’s not true.”

Mason got his gun from his bag, pulled the slide back and released it. The gun clicked as it chambered a round from the magazine into the barrel.

“It’s not going to happen.” Mason pointed his gun at the baby.

“Mason, no!”

“We’re not keeping that kid under any circumstances, Remy. Is that clear?”

“Put the gun down, Mason! Stop being an asshole!” Without blinking Remy shoved the gun aside. “If we lose this child, we lose everything.”

Mason stood there for several seconds until he cooled down, then he lowered his hand, removed the magazine and the round, tossing them with the gun on the bed.

The baby’s crying forced Remy to shift her attention. She put him on the bed and started preparing a bottle for him when there was a knock on the motel room door.

The chain was up and the door was bolted. Mason went to the peephole. A fish-eyed view of the manager in his stained T-shirt filled it.

“What is it?” Mason asked.

“You gotta keep it down in there—people are complaining. If I get any more shit, I’m calling the police.”

Mason shook his head.

“Yeah, we got it. Sorry, buddy,” he said.

Mason went to the bed, collected his gun and magazine.

“Mason, wait. What are you going to do?”

“Something I should’ve done a long time ago. I’m taking charge of our situation.”

“Mason!”

“Don’t do anything or call anybody. I’ll be back.”

He waited at the window for the manager to clear the front walk then, ignoring Remy’s pleas, he left her alone with the baby.