St. Petersburg—Pseudo-cops!” we thought: bandits who pretend to be police. We’re about to be robbed! At the same time, I thought: no, we’re about to be robbed by real cops of the corrupt variety. The four of us in that deserted alley made a huge commotion.
Bob pointed to the entrance we had come from and shouted “You’re police? Okay, over there!” I shouted “in the public area!” and they shouted in Russian. We had no idea what they wanted. We carried a $1,000 digital still camera, but no video equipment and, thankfully, no hidden video equipment, which might have been considered illegal.
As our captors escorted us back to the art market alley entrance we heard the bleeping of police radios and saw police equipment under their shirts. Yet, knowing they were real cops did not put us at ease. We were still four agitated, confused, and rather scared people, unable to communicate. My thoughts were, get to a public place so we won’t be ripped off; find Mohammed to translate.
The cops allowed us to lead them into public view, or they led us. Just outside the alley gate, in the art market, we saw Mohammed on the ground with a gun to his stomach. Four other plainclothes cops had him surrounded. Everyone was yelling and a crowd had gathered. Mohammed was the only one capable of translating for us and he was beside himself, terrified and at gunpoint. As soon as we arrived he was hauled up and shoved against a wall, the gun still at his belly.
My reaction was to grab onto Mohammed. I hugged him, trying to show the cops that he didn’t do anything wrong to us, that he was our friend. Bob tried to reason with the cops, but none spoke English. Then six uniformed cops joined the fracas and our concern escalated. How far could this thing go, and what is it? For a few minutes, the uniforms were more interested in the plainclothes than in the civilians. With machine guns pointed, they demanded IDs from the plainclothes officers and scrutinized them intensely.
Mohammed had told us the previous day that because of his looks, he is frequently stopped and challenged by the police. With everyone still shouting and confused, including him, we couldn’t find out if this was one of those “challenges.” Why did Mohammed have a gun in his stomach? Why were we hauled into this business?
Bob dropped the name of an ex-KGB officer we know, with no idea where it would lead. Like a silent fart mysteriously clearing a room, the officers scattered and disappeared. The only Russian sounds we could dredge up turned out to be powerful, indeed.
“What is the accusation?” I asked Mohammed, several times before he quieted and paid attention.
“They think I robbed you,” he said.
This is part 3 of 5. Part 1 — Video in Part 2
It doesn’t happen to everyone, John. And where do you live? Athens? If so, you’re probably more street-savy than most people, especially those from small towns who don’t travel often. Or maybe you look tough… or mean?
I have been many times in St. Peter, never got robbed or felt uncomfortable. People were always friendly and polite and my wallet in place. Maybe pickpockets and other small criminals are looking for Americans only because they are not familiar to this type of small crime.
Is that picture taken outside Ede and Ravenscroft’s shop on the Nevski Prospekt? The only reference I can find to ‘Dom Mertens’ is to a real estate company working with them and referencing a shop of theirs on the NP by that name.
No. 2 was a cliffhanger (with Pauline tied to the RR tracks). We got over that without the need of the Calvary , but what happens now? Get on with it.
Write! Write! Write!
A terrifying experience. However, your room clearing metaphor is hilarious! You have the magic touch of telling a story with both tension and humor, a pleasure to read.
Oh goodness. I think at this point I would have questioned whether this was such a good idea. Maybe you can pass that name around in case any of the rest of us need it. ;)