Whirlwind by Rick Mofina Page A

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
    D r. 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