- Oct 3, 2018
- 3,165
The chilly wind cut through the narrow streets of Warsaw, the city’s spring bite sharp enough to make Long pull his coat tighter around him. He moved at a steady pace as he scanned the bustling street. The small cafes and boutiques lining the sidewalks were a mix of the old and the new—brightly lit store windows showcasing the latest European fashions, interspersed with more traditional Polish architecture that had somehow survived decades of change. The constant rhythm of the city’s pulse—footsteps, conversations, the hum of passing cars—was strangely soothing. But for Long, it was just noise.
He knew his detail was out there, watching from a distance, just as they had been every day since he’d arrived. Poland was not a very active station historically but his office had become more active after the New Caledonia attacks. Nevertheless, for Long the posting was a familiar feeling—being watched, monitored, but never fully engaged with. Whoever it was, Poles or other intelligence agencies, they usually kept their distance, blending into the shadows of the city.
He paused in front of a high-end clothing store, his hands slipping into his coat pockets as he casually glanced at the display. He took a look at the sleek jackets and tailored suits on display, nothing that particularly caught his attention. But he was looking for something more than just fashion. His eyes flicked past the window, beyond the reflection of the store, into the street beyond it. There. A figure near the bus stop—tall, nondescript. Long noted the posture, the stance. The slight shift of the man’s body when he noticed Long looking. An amateur.
He turned away from the window, his gaze now sweeping across the street at the other potential surveillance spots. A small van parked on the corner, windows tinted just a shade too dark. And the old man with the newsstand—he’d been standing there for hours, glancing at his watch, then at Long, as if he had somewhere else to be but was unwilling to move. A team of Polish Intelligence operatives keeping tabs on him—amateurs, Long thought.
He continued walking, his eyes scanning the street with a detached indifference. His security detail, three men in total, were keeping their distance, each operating under the same protocol. One man trailed slightly behind him, moving with the crowd, not too close but not too far, just within earshot in case anything went wrong. Another was ahead of him, moving down the street, occasionally glancing over his shoulder. The third man was across the street, hidden among the pedestrians somewhere.
He approached his usual spot, a café with its warm lights spilling onto the street like a welcoming glow against the gray afternoon sky. The smell of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air. Long hesitated at the door for a brief moment, his gaze sweeping across the cafe’s interior through the large window. The place was quiet, with only a few patrons scattered at tables. Nothing too unusual. Nothing to make him nervous.
He entered the café without breaking his stride, the bell above the door giving a soft chime as he pushed it open. Inside, the warmth of the café hit him immediately, a welcome reprieve from the icy wind. He made his way to the counter, giving the barista a polite nod as he ordered his usual coffee. His hand slid into his pocket, his fingers brushing over the familiar outline of his concealed pistol.
Robert’s fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee. His dark glasses were perched on the edge of his nose. Long’s eyes flicked over the cafe’s patrons, most of them disinterested locals wrapped in layers of coats, murmuring quietly amongst themselves.
He caught a glimpse of movement through the reflection in the window—a slim figure moving between the scattered pedestrians outside. He glanced down to his watch, taking note of the time.
A woman dressed in an elegant dark grey coat with a beige scarf opened the door to the cafe, the bells chiming as they did for Long when he walked in. Her dark hair fell just past her shoulders. The lady ordered something at the front of the cafe before walking to take her seat. Her heels clicking sharply against the wooden floor. The woman’s approach was casual, almost unremarkable. She held a large handbag in one hand, her other arm hanging loosely by her side. But as she reached his table, there was a brief, calculated shift in her stride—just enough to make it seem like an accident when she bumped into his chair. Too hard for a woman of her figure. Her shoulder collided with his side, and for a fraction of a second, Long felt a jolt of confusion ripple through his body. His coffee cup wobbled dangerously, but she was already leaning down to pick up the hat he had momentarily placed on the table next to him.
"Sorry," she said in English, her tone sweet as she straightened up and held his hat in her hands, offering it to him like an innocent gesture.
For a heartbeat, Long was caught off guard. The woman’s proximity to him had put him in a vulnerable position. "Thank you," Long muttered in Polish, a reflex that slipped out before his mind caught up. He froze for a moment, his breath catching in his throat. She didn’t speak Polish. She’d spoken English. Before Long or his detail could respond the lady had already disappeared into the group of people behind him.
His hand shot to his side, carefully checking for any wounds or substances which she could’ve placed onto him. Nothing. He felt a cold sweat at the back of his neck, his pulse quickening.
He reached for his hat, running his fingers along the brim, his gaze flicking briefly over the other patrons. Nobody seemed to care or notice. A slight flicker of movement caught his eye, a man sitting near the window, picking up a coffee he hadn’t ordered…he was another operative, no doubt, tracking his every move. Long didn’t react.
He carefully put the hat back on, his hand brushing against something unusual.
A small folded piece of paper.
Meet me at the basement of the Palace of Culture and Science,
His heart skipped. The note was thin, hidden in the lining of the hat. His mind was already working out who she worked for. It couldn’t be Polish intelligence, they would’ve used official channels. Unless it was an emergency, he thought. Perhaps something to do with the Russians in Syria, or the French…He thought about the cryptic message.
He slipped the note into his coat pocket, deliberately checking his surroundings as he left the cafe, walking past the guy at the counter. The cold air outside of the café hit him immediately as Long stepped onto the Warsaw streets. He adjusted his collar, his mind still racing over the note hidden in the lining of his hat.
Long adjusted his pace slowly as he turned onto the busy street. The Palace of Culture and Science was only a few blocks away. The anonymity of it unsettled him. Whoever had planted it on him, whoever had sent him to that basement, had to know the risks. If they were with Polish Intelligence, this would have been more official—an invitation, perhaps, from one of his old contacts. But that wasn’t the case. The note’s brevity, its secrecy—it was too messy for Polish operatives. Should he tell the Station before he goes. No…he thought. This must be urgent.
Long’s eyes scanned the street, constantly moving, always alert. His security detail was still in play, of course. He could sense them—one of them, a tall man in a dark coat, had crossed the street a moment ago and was now trailing several paces behind, blending into the flow of pedestrians. Another figure moved up ahead, walking past him, not too close, but just enough to keep him within reach.
A group of teenagers were laughing and walking by, their faces illuminated by the orange glow of street lamps. Long’s gaze flicked from side to side, but none of them held any significance to him.
He passed the statue of Copernicus, his boots clicking on the sidewalk, the palace now coming into full view—its Soviet-era grandeur looming above the cityscape.
Long’s thoughts were still on the note. The Palace of Culture and Science. It wasn’t just a landmark; it was a symbol of the old world, a Cold War relic with a history tied to Soviet influence. The thought of a meeting in its basement unsettled him. There were too many places there to hide, too many old corridors and forgotten rooms that could serve as meeting spots for anyone with the right knowledge of the building's forgotten spaces.
His gaze flicked toward the men in dark coats who loitered around the square in front of the palace. As he approached the massive building, he passed a group of tourists standing in front of the palace, admiring the imposing structure. The lobby was bustling with people, the sound of echoes from heels on the marble floor and conversations drifting up into the high ceilings. It was an ordinary scene, if there was such a thing anymore. But for Long, it wasn’t. The noise, the constant activity—it was just a cover. A cover for the deal he was about to walk into.
As he walked inside the building, his brain began to put things together…Russians he muttered under his breath. His thoughts briefly drifted toward Syria, where tensions between Russian and Western forces had been escalating. Was this message some kind of setup? Or was it a trap meant to pull him into something darker?
He glanced at his watch—only ten minutes had passed since he left the café. Time was moving slow, but the tension in his body only increased. His fingers grazed his coat pocket again, feeling the smoothness of the note’s folded edges.
He moved through the lobby, toward the elevators, which would take him to the lower levels. His hand brushed his coat again, checking for any signs of surveillance. His security detail, now scattered to various points outside and around the building, would be far enough away to give him some semblance of privacy. No one would notice the subtle shift in his pace, the tension tightening in his jaw, the careful glance toward the stairwell he’d soon descend.
Long reached the stairs leading down to the basement of the Palace of Culture and Science. He hesitated just for a moment, taking a moment to scan the area again. His team was still following him. His hand brushed his coat again, checking for any signs of surveillance. His security detail found their own way to join Long in the basement.
As Long got down, there he saw a well-built man. Who simply raised his hand, pointing to one of Long’s men. “Stay.” He said calmly in English as he opened the door, allowing Long to enter. Long looked back and gave his men a simple nod. With that, he entered the room, private and away from any prying ears, to see an older looking man…the very one looking at his watch earlier on the street. He turned around and stared at long for a few moments before opening his mouth.
“Mr. Long, I apologize for the methods used to make this meeting possible.”
Odinson
He knew his detail was out there, watching from a distance, just as they had been every day since he’d arrived. Poland was not a very active station historically but his office had become more active after the New Caledonia attacks. Nevertheless, for Long the posting was a familiar feeling—being watched, monitored, but never fully engaged with. Whoever it was, Poles or other intelligence agencies, they usually kept their distance, blending into the shadows of the city.
He paused in front of a high-end clothing store, his hands slipping into his coat pockets as he casually glanced at the display. He took a look at the sleek jackets and tailored suits on display, nothing that particularly caught his attention. But he was looking for something more than just fashion. His eyes flicked past the window, beyond the reflection of the store, into the street beyond it. There. A figure near the bus stop—tall, nondescript. Long noted the posture, the stance. The slight shift of the man’s body when he noticed Long looking. An amateur.
He turned away from the window, his gaze now sweeping across the street at the other potential surveillance spots. A small van parked on the corner, windows tinted just a shade too dark. And the old man with the newsstand—he’d been standing there for hours, glancing at his watch, then at Long, as if he had somewhere else to be but was unwilling to move. A team of Polish Intelligence operatives keeping tabs on him—amateurs, Long thought.
He continued walking, his eyes scanning the street with a detached indifference. His security detail, three men in total, were keeping their distance, each operating under the same protocol. One man trailed slightly behind him, moving with the crowd, not too close but not too far, just within earshot in case anything went wrong. Another was ahead of him, moving down the street, occasionally glancing over his shoulder. The third man was across the street, hidden among the pedestrians somewhere.
He approached his usual spot, a café with its warm lights spilling onto the street like a welcoming glow against the gray afternoon sky. The smell of freshly brewed coffee lingered in the air. Long hesitated at the door for a brief moment, his gaze sweeping across the cafe’s interior through the large window. The place was quiet, with only a few patrons scattered at tables. Nothing too unusual. Nothing to make him nervous.
He entered the café without breaking his stride, the bell above the door giving a soft chime as he pushed it open. Inside, the warmth of the café hit him immediately, a welcome reprieve from the icy wind. He made his way to the counter, giving the barista a polite nod as he ordered his usual coffee. His hand slid into his pocket, his fingers brushing over the familiar outline of his concealed pistol.
Robert’s fingers wrapped around a steaming cup of coffee. His dark glasses were perched on the edge of his nose. Long’s eyes flicked over the cafe’s patrons, most of them disinterested locals wrapped in layers of coats, murmuring quietly amongst themselves.
He caught a glimpse of movement through the reflection in the window—a slim figure moving between the scattered pedestrians outside. He glanced down to his watch, taking note of the time.
A woman dressed in an elegant dark grey coat with a beige scarf opened the door to the cafe, the bells chiming as they did for Long when he walked in. Her dark hair fell just past her shoulders. The lady ordered something at the front of the cafe before walking to take her seat. Her heels clicking sharply against the wooden floor. The woman’s approach was casual, almost unremarkable. She held a large handbag in one hand, her other arm hanging loosely by her side. But as she reached his table, there was a brief, calculated shift in her stride—just enough to make it seem like an accident when she bumped into his chair. Too hard for a woman of her figure. Her shoulder collided with his side, and for a fraction of a second, Long felt a jolt of confusion ripple through his body. His coffee cup wobbled dangerously, but she was already leaning down to pick up the hat he had momentarily placed on the table next to him.
"Sorry," she said in English, her tone sweet as she straightened up and held his hat in her hands, offering it to him like an innocent gesture.
For a heartbeat, Long was caught off guard. The woman’s proximity to him had put him in a vulnerable position. "Thank you," Long muttered in Polish, a reflex that slipped out before his mind caught up. He froze for a moment, his breath catching in his throat. She didn’t speak Polish. She’d spoken English. Before Long or his detail could respond the lady had already disappeared into the group of people behind him.
His hand shot to his side, carefully checking for any wounds or substances which she could’ve placed onto him. Nothing. He felt a cold sweat at the back of his neck, his pulse quickening.
He reached for his hat, running his fingers along the brim, his gaze flicking briefly over the other patrons. Nobody seemed to care or notice. A slight flicker of movement caught his eye, a man sitting near the window, picking up a coffee he hadn’t ordered…he was another operative, no doubt, tracking his every move. Long didn’t react.
He carefully put the hat back on, his hand brushing against something unusual.
A small folded piece of paper.
Meet me at the basement of the Palace of Culture and Science,
His heart skipped. The note was thin, hidden in the lining of the hat. His mind was already working out who she worked for. It couldn’t be Polish intelligence, they would’ve used official channels. Unless it was an emergency, he thought. Perhaps something to do with the Russians in Syria, or the French…He thought about the cryptic message.
He slipped the note into his coat pocket, deliberately checking his surroundings as he left the cafe, walking past the guy at the counter. The cold air outside of the café hit him immediately as Long stepped onto the Warsaw streets. He adjusted his collar, his mind still racing over the note hidden in the lining of his hat.
Long adjusted his pace slowly as he turned onto the busy street. The Palace of Culture and Science was only a few blocks away. The anonymity of it unsettled him. Whoever had planted it on him, whoever had sent him to that basement, had to know the risks. If they were with Polish Intelligence, this would have been more official—an invitation, perhaps, from one of his old contacts. But that wasn’t the case. The note’s brevity, its secrecy—it was too messy for Polish operatives. Should he tell the Station before he goes. No…he thought. This must be urgent.
Long’s eyes scanned the street, constantly moving, always alert. His security detail was still in play, of course. He could sense them—one of them, a tall man in a dark coat, had crossed the street a moment ago and was now trailing several paces behind, blending into the flow of pedestrians. Another figure moved up ahead, walking past him, not too close, but just enough to keep him within reach.
A group of teenagers were laughing and walking by, their faces illuminated by the orange glow of street lamps. Long’s gaze flicked from side to side, but none of them held any significance to him.
He passed the statue of Copernicus, his boots clicking on the sidewalk, the palace now coming into full view—its Soviet-era grandeur looming above the cityscape.
Long’s thoughts were still on the note. The Palace of Culture and Science. It wasn’t just a landmark; it was a symbol of the old world, a Cold War relic with a history tied to Soviet influence. The thought of a meeting in its basement unsettled him. There were too many places there to hide, too many old corridors and forgotten rooms that could serve as meeting spots for anyone with the right knowledge of the building's forgotten spaces.
His gaze flicked toward the men in dark coats who loitered around the square in front of the palace. As he approached the massive building, he passed a group of tourists standing in front of the palace, admiring the imposing structure. The lobby was bustling with people, the sound of echoes from heels on the marble floor and conversations drifting up into the high ceilings. It was an ordinary scene, if there was such a thing anymore. But for Long, it wasn’t. The noise, the constant activity—it was just a cover. A cover for the deal he was about to walk into.
As he walked inside the building, his brain began to put things together…Russians he muttered under his breath. His thoughts briefly drifted toward Syria, where tensions between Russian and Western forces had been escalating. Was this message some kind of setup? Or was it a trap meant to pull him into something darker?
He glanced at his watch—only ten minutes had passed since he left the café. Time was moving slow, but the tension in his body only increased. His fingers grazed his coat pocket again, feeling the smoothness of the note’s folded edges.
He moved through the lobby, toward the elevators, which would take him to the lower levels. His hand brushed his coat again, checking for any signs of surveillance. His security detail, now scattered to various points outside and around the building, would be far enough away to give him some semblance of privacy. No one would notice the subtle shift in his pace, the tension tightening in his jaw, the careful glance toward the stairwell he’d soon descend.
Long reached the stairs leading down to the basement of the Palace of Culture and Science. He hesitated just for a moment, taking a moment to scan the area again. His team was still following him. His hand brushed his coat again, checking for any signs of surveillance. His security detail found their own way to join Long in the basement.
As Long got down, there he saw a well-built man. Who simply raised his hand, pointing to one of Long’s men. “Stay.” He said calmly in English as he opened the door, allowing Long to enter. Long looked back and gave his men a simple nod. With that, he entered the room, private and away from any prying ears, to see an older looking man…the very one looking at his watch earlier on the street. He turned around and stared at long for a few moments before opening his mouth.
“Mr. Long, I apologize for the methods used to make this meeting possible.”
Odinson
