The Father’s Code

Flash Fiction by Brian Armstrong

It was a typical frozen night in Russia, the kind for which they were infamous. Anyone who could find a warm place had already done so. Piotr Danko was one of the lucky ones, the land of the czars was more than a land of haves and have nots and few had more than him. Danko, having risen high in the ranks of the Russian mafia, he now has so much power concentrated in his hands that in many circles he was called, “Peter the Great.”

On this night, Danko held court in one of his restaurants, this called Romanov’s. He believed it appropriate since their most famous family member was where he had gotten his moniker. Russians were nothing if not ironic.

The restaurant was crowded tonight, under other normal circumstances that would have been good. More people meant more money, but Danko hardly cared. With chills and a headache, he was in a foul mood. The last thing he needed was to get sick. There was sick and then there was being sick in Russia, the world’s worst place to do it. He wondered if he should not get on a plane to a warmer climate. What was the point in having millions if you remained in Russia during the winter.

“Piotr Aleksandr,” said a voice in the doorway of his office.

The man at the door was short, squat and graying, with a stomach extending over his belt. Leonid was a close associate and his chief bodyguard. That aside, Danko had always found the man hard to look at. Leonid was all the incentive he needed to stay in shape lest he become as repulsive as the man in front of him.

“There’s someone here to see you. He says his name is Alexi Komarov. He claims to have known you as a boy.”

Danko remembered Alexi. He had indeed been a childhood friend, a good one in fact. Since neither has seen each other since then, to call him one now would have been a stretch.

“Send him in.”

The two men may have been the same age, but you would not have known it from appearances. Alexi Komarov may not have looked exactly like a peasant from the Stalinist era, but was close to it. He had white hair, not the kind that made a man look distinguished, but the kind that made him look like the world had beaten the hell out of him. With deep craggy wrinkles and a noticeable stoop, Danko could see that his old friend had lived a miserable life.

“Alexi, it’s been a long time,” Danko said with a touch more formality than he intended.

Komarov hesitated, not knowing how to proceed. Danko knew the man was not paying a social call, not after all this time. Still, it had taken Komarov a great deal of courage to come here. This was always the way of small men approaching great ones.   

“How may I help you, Alexi?”

Still Komarov hesitated. Danko was sympathetic to his old friend, but felt a twinge impatient. If Alexi had come all of this way, he should get on with it.

“Alexi, I’m sure you did not come here to simply stand there and say nothing.”

“No. You are right Piotr Aleksandr. It is my daughter Sonia,” Komarov said.

Now they were getting somewhere.

“She has been taken.”

A kidnapping. Danko saw why Komarov had come to him. He would have done the same in his position. Danko had children of his own and the Devil take anyone who tried to harm them.

“When?”

“Three months ago.”

Three months? If this were indeed a kidnapping, then Alexi had certainly taken his time in doing something about it.

“You see our agreement has expired,” Komarov said.

“Agreement,” Danko said, a statement rather than a question, understanding beginning to dawn on him.

“Explain yourself.”

“Three months ago, I was approached by a man named Igor Bellinsky. A very rich man like yourself, who paid me for the services of my daughter for a month.”

“And how old is Sonia?” Danko asked feeling like he had grit between his teeth.

“She’s twelve.”

“Only a child.”

Komarov nodded. He went on to explain how Bellinsky had taken a shine to his daughter and made a substantial offer to keep her for a month. With his wife having died and being poor, he had gladly taken it. But now, the agreed upon period had lapsed. Bellinsky, not only refused to return Sonia, but had relocated with her here to Moscow.

“He has broken his word, Piotr.”

“And what do you want from me?” Danko asked quietly.

“I want her returned and two extra months pay for having kept her longer than agreed.”

Danko’s mood already dark became darker still.

“After that, if he wants to keep her for a longer time, then I want payment in advance and a firm guarantee as to when she will come home,” Komarov said.

Danko smiled setting his childhood friend at ease. “Of course, Alexi. I guarantee you your daughter will be freed and you will be paid.”

Komarov’s face was a mixture of joy and relief. Piotr was a great man and he had not known what to expect coming here. It was good to see he had not forgotten old friends. The money had been good, more would be better, but it was time Sonia came home. Her holiday was over.

Leonid showed Alexi out and on Danko’s orders ushered another man inside.

The new man was the picture opposite of Leonid. Mid-Thirties, lean and hard.

“I have a job for you Vassili.”

Vassili was a man who knew when to speak, but more importantly, when to listen. One of the reasons Danko liked him.

“I have just spoken to an old friend. It seems his daughter has been taken by a man here in Moscow named Igor Bellinsky. He wants her back or a new firmer agreement if he wishes to keep her longer. Go and retrieve her.”

Vassili knew that meant Bellinsky was not long for this world.

“And the?” Vassili asked recognizing it was his time to speak.

“After you have dealt with Bellinsky, give Alexi his money…and then kill him, too.”

Vassili had expected this.

“Alexi, you see he has broken the Father’s Code. Children expect their fathers to protect them, not deliver them into the hands of someone who will do them harm. Alexi has not only allowed this to happen, but done so willingly. And for what? The equivalent of 30 pieces of silver. A Judas if there ever was one.”

“And the girl?”

“Bring her to me. I will decide what to do then.”

---

Bio: Brian Armstrong grew up in Birmingham, Alabama far from the suburbs where he lives now. Along the way, he lived all over and even managing to graduate college before his alma mater closed its doors for good, showing his impeccable sense of timing. From there, he held a series of jobs he prefers to forget before becoming a free-lance journalist. He is now after many delays returning to his first love of writing fiction. He knows people do not care about author biographies and while he doubts anyone will read his, figures…what the hell.

You can find Brian at his website HERE

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