Dr. Antonosky smiled as he walked down the hall of the building’s most secure wing. It had been years since he’d been inside a hospital.
He’d been surprised it was so easy to get in. Of course, he was a doctor, but the “security officer” had barely glanced at his credentials.
Security! Perhaps he’d report the man when this was over. Zangief, his name tag said. Ridiculous! What kind of name was that?
Antonosky smiled blandly at a nurse bustling past him, pushing a cart of meds. “Excuse me, doctor,” the old buffalo murmured as she went by.
Ah, the nurses hadn’t changed a bit! Still shockingly ugly, every one of them. Why did this sort of work attract only that sort of person?
Why did attractive blondes become only gymnasts, who then moved on to the Duma? He should see if he could get funding for a study of it.
For a moment, he felt a little nostalgic. This place, this very wing, was where he’d begun his experiments. His entire career started here.
“In the secret security wing of a Soviet psychiatric hospital, no one can hear you scream,” he thought, remembering the past with pleasure.
Now, of course, things were different. Now this was the secure ICU, a place where the President’s “special friends” were held for treatment.
“The more things change, the more they stay the same,” Antonosky thought with a chuckle. He glanced at the clipboard he carried.
He’d arrived at the room he wanted, the room where Gerard Depardieu was being treated for injuries he’d suffered at Putin’s inaugural party.
Odd that he would be here, and not at one of the luxurious private hospitals where celebrities and oligarchs usually were taken for care.
Antonosky shrugged and entered the room, where Depardieu lay wrapped in bandages that covered most of his body.
The fixtures were spare, but functional: a single bed, a nightstand, a privacy curtain, a chair, the door to the WC, and a window with bars.
A nurse was standing with her back to the door, fiddling with the patient’s IV line. Her figure was not bad, Antonosky thought approvingly.
Except she seemed to be covered with hair. These nurses! He snorted and approached the patient. “Good day, Mr. Depardieu,” he said briskly.
The actor did not reply. Antonosky reached for the chart hanging at the foot of the bed. “Let’s see what we have here …” he murmured.
The chart was blank. Antonosky blinked in surprise, then replaced it. “So, Gerard,” he said in a friendly tone, “how are you feeling today?”
The actor loudly passed wind. “I’m sorry,” Antonosky replied, “I don’t speak Belgian.” He waited in vain for a laugh at this joke.
Just then, the large nurse rolled her cart into the room. “Time for your meds, Mr. Depardieu,” she said cheerfully.