Whirlwind

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 understand?”

She understood.