Val Karren - The Deceit of Riches

I closed my eyes to concentrate on moving a wave of pain through my body. Del crouched over me and lifted my shoulder from the floor and put his hand under me. I felt my whole body involuntary recoil in pain from Del’s probing of the wound and I screamed in agony and surprise. I felt like I was going to pass out. His hands were red with my blood.

“Kid, you’ll be okay. It passed through your shoulder,” he said trying to reassure me.

He took off his light jacket and placed it under my shoulder and laid me directly on top of it, tightly packed. He then removed his own button-down shirt, his muscular shoulders and biceps visible under his tee shirt, and wadded it up in my hand and told me to hold it tightly with my left hand over the exit wound. The pressure was initially sharp and painful, then finally soothing. I tried to breathe normally through my clenched teeth. I closed my eyes to concentrate and when I opened them again, Del was gone. I lifted my neck to look for him performing triage on other wounded tourists, but didn’t see him anymore. I looked back to the dead gunmen to my right and into the open eyes and hand of the clumsy tourist. Where Tatyana had been lying next to me I saw the claim tab Del had taken from me at the wardrobe. Pulling my left arm over my body I rolled and stretched with all my might, causing horrible pain in my right arm and shoulder but was able to snatch the plastic triangle and tuck it into my pants’ pocket

The next movement I heard and saw was that of heavily armed police agents wearing helmets, bullet proof vests moving in assault formation through the adjacent hall towards me. They shouted to each other and other colleagues behind them “CHIESTIY!” or ‘clear’, and then more and more footsteps. Voices and cries for help were heard from the injured nearby. As the armed squad entered the room where I laid bleeding and sweating I felt a wave of pain-free relief pass over me and watched the room spin and go black.

It was dark outside my window, but the hall from the nurses’ station glowed fluorescent through the observation window’s thin drapes. I could sense somebody in the room with me but was still too groggy to be alert enough to track him or her. My eyes fluttered open like I was waking from a light sleep. They then rolled back up in my head again and I slept for another few hours.

When I gained consciousness again the sky was lighter but the sun had not yet risen. My shoulder felt heavier than lead. I didn’t dare try to move my right arm. I twitched my fingers out of concern. I moved my head to see my fingers move. I was awake.

A soft feminine voice to my left whispered, “Good morning. How do you feel?”

I slowly turned my head to see a woman, a nurse, changing a fluids bag over my bed. Its tube undoubtedly was inserted someplace into my body. I twitched my left hand and felt the needle in the back of it. Found it.

“May I have a drink of water, please?” I rasped back in English, barely audible.

“Once again?” she hadn’t understood me.

“Water? Give me please some water to drink,” I repeated, but this time in Russian. She returned to the bedside with a cup of water and put a straw in my mouth. It was cold and refreshing. I drank the cup dry.

“Thank you,” I said clearing my throat. Just that small action caused my whole torso to scream at me to “Hold still!”.

She left the room again to take away the cup and straw but re-entered and came to stand at my bedside. She waited to see that she had my attention.

“Do you know where you are?” she asked kindly.

“In a hospital,” I responded with a whisper.

“Do you know why?” she continued.

“No.” I lied and closed my eyes and pretended to need to sleep more.

“Do you know that you are being guarded?” she whispered.

My eyes opened again with a bit of alarm, “By whom?” I asked with a bit more voice, a bit more alert.

“You are in the TsKB, The Kremlin Hospital in Moscow under the guard of the FSO,” she confirmed.

“Not the FSB?” I asked but then wished I hadn’t.

“No, the Federal Security Guards,” she confirmed.

I smiled with relief and asked if I could sleep a while longer. She left the room, closing the door quietly behind her. I watched her pass the observation window and disappear out of sight.

I was woken again by a knock at the door. This time I woke easily as the room was full of light from the sunshine. Out my window I saw acres of nature; woods, grass, walking paths and an endless Russian sky with bright morning clouds. I figured I was about four stories up. The door opened and a doctor in a white coat entered, followed by another man in his mid-thirties, trim and trained, looking bright in the eyes, healthy and robust. He was wearing a sharp dark suit and a conservative dark tie. He came across very formal. He spoke English perfectly. The doctor stood by to observe his patient’s condition.

“Mr. Turner, good morning. I am glad to see you conscious. My name is Major Dobrynin of the FSO. The nurse tells me that she informed you about where you are,” he said to me formally.

“Yes, she told me some things, but to be honest I don’t know what it means,” I admitted honestly.

“What did she tell you, exactly?” the officer asked kindly.

Switching to Russian I repeated as carefully, word for word what the nurse told me.

“Yes, that is correct, you are in the Central Clinical Hospital in the Kuntsevo district of Moscow. This hospital is under the guard of the President’s security guards. All the living victims from the museum shooting on Wednesday have been brought here and will be questioned and protected as witnesses to those events. When you are feeling well enough, I will come again and take your statement about what happened. Do you understand?” His tone was explanatory, not accusatory.

I nodded and asked, “What day is today?”

“It is Friday,” he replied matter of factly. “Do you want to ask your doctor for anything while he is here?”

“No, thank you. I’m fine for now,” I answered.

As they turned to leave the room I asked the major, “Am I under arrest, sir?”

The major stopped and turned again to the bed to speak directly to me. “No, you are not under arrest but you are in protective custody for your own safety.”

“Protection from who, can I ask?”

His reply turned my blood cold. “You witnessed a violent attack by one of Moscow’s most violent mafia groups which killed six FSB agents and thirteen civilians including several foreign nationals. Your safety is being safeguarded from both the mafia gang involved and the FSB, as the agents killed were not acting under official orders at the time. We expect both groups to try to influence your statement and eventual testimony and you are therefore being kept here in this secure location as a matter of both personal and state security.”

I said nothing in return but nodded my head and looked straight ahead to the wall in front of me.

“Does my government know that I am here? Has anybody contacted the American Embassy?” I asked after a brief pause to take in the weight of the situation.

“Yes, a consular has already applied to visit you. We are formalizing his visit as quickly as possible,” and with that reply, he turned and left my room. The doctor looked at me, nodded and closed the door behind him.

Alone again I started to cry. It started deep down in my loins and moved up my abdomen and convulsed my entire body until I was wailing in despair, crying from pain, shedding tears of relief and joy all at the same time. The last ten days had been the making of nightmares and to have survived one mafia group and one round of FSB agents I was now a target all over again. I feared for my freedom and my life as I laid in my hospital bed alone and cried into my pillow.