What happened to Caleb Cooper?
15
Moscow, Russia
A world away from the devastation in Texas, Pavel Gromov waited in his black Mercedes on the western side of the megacity.
He was at the edge of Filevsky Park, a glorious stretch of nature along the Moskva River favored by Catherine the Great. Parked across the street from the Palatial Elite Hotel, Gromov held a device with a small screen showing live video of a wedding reception taking place on the top floor. The images flowed from a camera his men had covertly installed in the luxury banquet suite.
He waited with the patience of a predator.
Gromov was in his mid-sixties and had the small, piercing eyes of a king cobra. They never betrayed his sadness at all hed lost through the disintegration of the Brotherhood, the vory v zakone. They were a special class of Russian criminals who abided by old rules. But over the years the Brotherhood had fractured, the codes were ignored. Gang turned against gang in territorial wars.
Even Gromov, a powerful old vor-or mobster-and respected businessman with enterprises around the world, whod implored the others to return to the organizations harmony, had paid an unbearable price.
He opened the image on his cell phone and met the happy faces of three men in their twenties, smiling and shirtless during a holiday at the Black Sea. Two of the three displayed their tattoos with pride.
There was Anton, his firstborn, a rock-hard, smart, calculating warrior, partial to Italian tailored suits. Gromov was eager for Anton to assume his mantle until the night two years ago when his body was found on a meat hook in the cooler of a side street butcher shop in Volkhonka.
Dmitri, the middle son, was tightly wound but fiercely loyal and poised to hurt anyone who failed to show Gromov respect. He sought vengeance on his own. Six months after theyd buried Anton, Dmitri was shot fifty times at a traffic stop in Central Moscow.
Six months later to the day, Gromov received a delivery of a gift cake. When he opened the box in his kitchen he found the head of Fyodor, his youngest. Once more, pain penetrated Gromov to the core of his being.
Why Fyodor?
Fyodor had never been involved in the business. Everyone knew. Fyodor never bore a tattoo, never wanted to be part of the vory life. Fyodor was a librarian, a writer who loved the arts. His soft son, who was very secretive and so shy he didnt even have a girl.
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. Gromovs 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 enemys 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 hotels 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 drivers shoulder.
For a few dying seconds the flames reflected on the cars 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 Zelins daughter. She was a beautiful young bride. Her body was found in the street below. Gromovs vengeance tasted of bile. It sickened him to realize what he had become, and he mourned it all.
Gromov could not bear looking at the news picture of Zelins daughter. She was a beautiful young bride. Her body was found in the street below. Gromovs 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 its 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. Its been too long.
I am sorry. Ive been out of touch, taking care of things in Istanbul. Ive 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 weve lived.
Gromov knew the sympathy in Aleksey Linevichs eyes was heartfelt. The two men had been friends since boyhood. They talked for half an hour, until Alekseys 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 publishers 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. Its 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. Its 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?
Gromovs friend nodded seriously.
Ill speak with my wife. Ill get you more information quickly.
Yes, please. Gromov stood, shaking his friends 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, its bad gossip. But how does such gossip get started? What if its true?
I have a grandchild.
16
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 drivers license, a copy of which Aleksey had obtained for him.
When needed, men like Gromov and Aleksey would skillfully play the advantages theyd accrued over the years. Using bribes, fear and grisly acts, theyd purchased favor in every level of the bureaucracy, with police, security and politicians. There was little they couldnt 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 Gromovs request to meet immediately with him.
A car was sent for her.
While waiting, Gromov considered the idea that hed been wrong about his sons 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 shed 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.
Youre nervous? he said.
Yanna studied Gromovs face, only for a moment and said nothing.
You knew my son, Fyodor.
Yes.
He kept secrets from me. Youre 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? Im not part of your world-neither was Fyodor.
I understand that you are, or were, pregnant with his child, my grandchild. I would like to help raise this child.
Yannas face began to crumple with anguish, but she held on, turned away, biting back her tears.