On Fire
Page 84
By mid-morning everybody who had anything to do with just about anything showed up at the Policji Komenda Komisariat II on sunny, snowy Pomeranian Street. The Long Market station fits well into its historic neighborhood, tucked out of the way behind four quaint townhouse façades that neatly disguise it. However, one set of doors for four townhouses gives it away. So do the arched driveways under the townhouses on either side that give way to a police parking lot behind the building.
Burris and Martinez get out of a cab. Before them is ranged a cavalcade of police vehicles strewn up and down the street. Angle parking in front of the building , usually reserved for citizens, is taken up by police vehicles. Spaces that the Komisariat pays to reserve for its use by the front of the church, which are across the street, are also fully occupied. The street, Pomeranian, is crowded with people, all of whom are hauling wounded, dying or captured drones from the insides or the tops of cars and trucks. The police and their technicians carry them carefully across the slippery street, often in pairs, sometimes in groups, but always awkwardly through the front doors of the station. There are so many people circulating in and out the front of the station that an officer has appointed himself the official holder of the door.
Pomeranian Street maintains its two way status with difficulty this morning. Everyone is parked over the curb and significantly onto the sidewalk. There is only passage left for typical euro-cars to travel in both directions on the cobblestone street, and at that very carefully, while crawling past. The morning has hit a peak of activity with cars and people everywhere, forcing Burris’ cabbie, when faced with the problem of how to get out, to back his way down the street.
Burris and Martinez pick their way across and through the chaos.
The Gdansk Commander had not been impressed with the credentials of either American, and as a result the two of them had been forced to call a cab rather than hitch a ride with the military to the station. Burris had watched the leader’s face fall when his drone force took a drubbing from the upstart group of hacked and hijacked drones. The Commander’s resulting surliness had easily transferred its dyspepsia to Burris. Not helping Burris is Martinez, who continues to act as if he always knows too much.
“Oh yeah?” Burris replies gruffly to something Martinez has just said, even though he wasn’t paying attention.
“Yeah. The uniform police at this station are called City Guards. They have no arrest or investigative powers. They’re also called the Policji. The other non –uniform police here are the national police and they’re called the Policja. They do have arrest power.”
“Good to know. But we also have Polish Internal Security and a unit of the Army here. It’s a cluster,” says Burris, leaving his thought unfinished. Burris nods to the man who holds the door open for them.
The station is modern with unblemished white walls and bright, overhead LED panels. The two men face a wide set of grey stairs with stainless steel handrails leading to a reception area similar to a dentist’s office. The stairs are filled with knots of police immersed in conversation with one another.
They shoulder past all the officers to the landing. To one side is a room entered through an archway that is open over the main stair. To the other side several stairs lead up a short hallway to the police station’s offices. The hallway is littered with captured drones and several techies, none of whom looks old enough to be out of high school.
The waiting room has a long white counter at the rear, a kind of podium with a blue front. Behind it are two officers, both on the phone. A mix of local and national police stand very close to an older Chinese national. The man has black as coal slicked back hair and a heavy wool overcoat. Chung Yao sits on one of three white plastic pedestal chairs lined up on the sides of the room, on a cushion of blue, the color matching the front panel of the counter.
Yao had surveyed Dai Gu with disgust at the Airport. Not only had Gu let everyone get away, but the man had pulled his weapon, virtually guaranteeing that he would be shot by the Polish soldiers who greeted the plane. He took a hit in the shoulder and was hauled off to the hospital. Now Yao sits forlornly and avoids looking at the other Chinese man in the Police station’s waiting room.
Hui Lee watched as Dai Gu received first aide at the airport. Yao was much luckier. He was only roughed up by the Polish guard. Dai Gu and Chung Yao are detained by Polish authorities, and for all intents and purposes Hui Lee is now in charge of them, stuck with them rather, and the blizzard of government paperwork that will come with them. Lee considers whether it might not have been better to be shot by a drone himself.
Burris can understand very well what’s happening with the Chinese, so he steps over to the side stairs, with Jose Martinez following, and enters the side room that opens up and looks out over the entry. It has only a glass panel railing separating it from the stairs. Noise from police on the stairwell combines with the noise from a group of national police who are in the small room. Surrounded are the three bereft Russians: Sergei, the kid, and the big guy. The three are hemmed in, downcast, and completely flummoxed by the language barrier. Their fates are unclear, but not attractive and they seem to know it.
In the middle of this stands the Commander. He abruptly raises his voice, yelling at several well-dressed civilian officials, using a virulent invective.
Ciaran Burris can’t figure out what they are saying to each other.
“What’s going on?” he asks Martinez.
“I haven’t the slightest,” the younger man answers.
Chapter 85