It’s Sunday evening in Moscow, late January 2019. A nondescript fair-haired man is walking through the Tretyakov Gallery. All of a sudden, he approaches a picture, looks at it carefully, removes it from the wall, and calmly walks off with it under his arm in front of dozens of visitors. No one bats an eyelid. He’s obviously a museum employee.
A few hours later, police raid a small apartment in the suburbs. Almost knocking over a flower pot and a small flag of Russia (heaven forbid), they press that selfsame man head down on the floor. After some time, he is placed in a kneeling position in front of a camera, now sporting a shining black eye.
“Where were you this afternoon?” a male voice behind the camera asks gruffly.
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