Val Karren - The Deceit of Riches

“The doctor says it would be very good if you could get up and walk a bit,” the nurse said as she was busy changing the dressings on my shoulder.

“I will give it my best try,” I said as she pulled the bandages tight across the wound. I winced. I remember Lara having done the same with my battered ribs to offer support to the bruised muscles.

“Sister? Did the police leave any of my belongings?” I asked quietly.

“You can call me Nelya. Yes, they are in your bedside drawer,” she said in a friendly way and reached to open the drawer for me.

I saw immediately my passport, plane ticket, wallet and wrist watch. I wondered about the claim tab.

“I had a bag checked at the museum and had a claim tab. Do you maybe know where that tab is?” I inquired with concern.

“No, I am sorry. Your clothes are in the closet, but you will need new shirts as they were blood soaked — and had holes in them,” she looked at me with pity.

“Would you maybe ask the right people? I had an address book in that bag that I need. I have some people to inform,” I politely asked.

“I’m sorry, but you are not allowed to contact anybody. I cannot let you use a telephone or have any communication that you are alive. It’s for your security,” she apologized.

I stood up from the bed slowly with the help of my left hand to steady myself when I got to my feet. The room tilted just a little bit. I stumbled half a step backward. Nelya caught me with a hand on the small of my back and helped to steady me. After a few shuffles across the floor, my balance came quickly. The dressing the nurse had prepared stabilized the wounded shoulder and with that, I was able to move rather well. Nelya accompanied me downstairs to walk in the gardens for ten minutes through the pine groves and past flower beds and ponds. I was in wonder that such a calm, peaceful place so isolated from the din of the city could exist anywhere near Moscow. What a far cry these grounds were from the building site of the Kazan regional hospital I had experienced a year earlier. I felt somewhat ashamed of myself for enjoying the luxury and individual attention I was receiving from nurse Nelya as I remembered the old man bleeding from his head, begging for a simple pillow while he lay dying in the corridor. The disparity of privilege between citizens of the same city seemed to me repulsive and evil.

Upon returning to my room, Nelya and I were met by two men waiting with the door open. On our entry, they both stood up from their chairs and greeted us with smiles and a nod. Nelya helped me back into the bed and exited quickly without speaking. Both men were dressed alike in light colored wool suits with brilliant white shirts and silk ties, tightly cinched at the neck. They wore decorated wing tips and carried leather-cased notebooks. They didn’t have to open their mouths for me to understand that they were from the American Embassy.

“Hello, gentlemen. Thank you for coming to see me,” I said politely. “I assume you know my name already.”

“Yes, we are happy to see you up and about, Mr. Turner. My name is Brett Richardson from the US State Department. I am the consular for citizen services here in Moscow,” the first man introduced himself and approached to shake my hand, “and this is the embassy’s chief of security, Ben Arkadin.”

Ben nodded from his chair, seeing that shaking hands was not a pleasant experience for me with my right arm wrapped up tight against my chest.

“Mr. Turner, we are of course very sorry that you got caught in the crossfire of that horrible attack on Wednesday and we are here to help you in any way we can,” Mr. Richardson pledged.

“Again, thanks for coming to see me. Can you give me any idea of when I will be released so I can go home?” I asked directly.

“We understand that that is a matter for the Russian police and the prosecutor’s office. Once they are satisfied with your statement we understand they will allow you to leave. They may ask you to testify as a witness in an inquest, but that is not even for sure. You are just one witness of many,” Richardson replied, but actually told me nothing.

Mr. Arkadin addressed me with a different sharpness from his chair. “Mr. Turner, we’ve come about a different matter. We hope that you might be able to clear up a few questions for us today. Our security personnel photographed you on Wednesday afternoon lunching on the Arbat Street with a person named Delmore Santander who is a mercenary and arms dealer to the world’s regimes who are, let’s say, not friends of the United States of America, and certainly not to our mission here in Russia. Can you explain to us how you know this man and what your meeting was about?”

I could not believe what I was hearing. My mouth went suddenly very dry and I stammered my surprise and disbelief at what I was hearing.

“I don’t know anybody by that name,” I answered half choking.

“Do you recognize these photographs? This is you in the photo, correct?” Arkadin handed me a photograph taken from behind when Del and I were sitting at the open cafe eating lunch, trying to navigate our way through mafia and FSB dragnets.

‘Yes, that is me with Mr. Del Sanning of the CIA. You could say he was trying to recruit me to work for the agency. I told him to shove it where the sun doesn’t shine,” I said handing the photograph back to Mr. Arkadin.

“How did you come into contact with him if I may ask?” Mr. Richardson asked.

“I became acquainted with him many months ago during my studies in Nizhniy Novgorod. He was there as a businessman with the agency, trying to build a hotel. He only told me the truth when we met for lunch here in Moscow. I didn’t know before that,” I answered truthfully.

“Mr. Turner, what is your purpose for being in Russia?” Mr. Arkadin asked in a suspicious tone.

“I am studying history, language and literature,” I answered innocently.

“What was the reason for your visit to Moscow then?” he questioned further.

“A cultural excursion to the Tretyakov gallery. Mr. Sanning invited me for lunch when I told him I would be in Moscow at the same time as him,” I was now lying but hid my discomfort under the pain of my wound.

“Do you know where this man is now?” pointing to the photograph.

“No sorry. He was traveling on business and I didn’t know the rest of his plans,” I improvised

“Are you aware of any dealings he may have had with arms producers while in Nizhniy Novgorod? You understand the significance that this city has for Russia’s aviation sector,” he asked and implied in one sentence.

“No, not really. I am just studying linguistics,” I lied again.

“Why do you believe Mr. Santandar works for the CIA and was trying to recruit you?” Arkadin pushed.

“He said my language skills were some of the best he had seen, above that of American agents and thought I could be trained to best serve our country with that skill,” I wasn’t lying this time.

“Did he tell you that he works for the CIA?” Richardson interrupted to ask.

I paused to reflect for a moment, “No, he never confirmed that. I even asked him straight-up, but he told me that he was not free to confirm such an answer to me. It sounded plausible to me,” I said honestly shrugging my left shoulder.

“If you have any further contact with him, you should inform us immediately,” Arkadin insisted.

“I can’t imagine that I will ever see him again. He doesn’t have any of my contact details in the USA where I will be going as soon when I am free to leave,” I affirmed.

“Do you need any travel documents, Mr. Turner or other support to leave Russia?” Richardson inquired.

“No, I have my passport with me and a valid return ticket. I’m good. I just need to get healthy enough to travel,” I answered.