Princess of Poland

By John Young

Vladimir’s invasion of Ukraine is stalled, and he has devised an operation to shift America’s attention back to the Middle East. An agent for the GRU, Russian military intelligence, has recruited six American Muslims who believe that he is a member of Hezbollah, the terrorist group in Lebanon. They are preparing to attack Washington, D.C. on behalf of Hezbollah. The Russian plan depends on the success of Jadwiga Janda, a gorgeous 30-year-old Polish agent working for the GRU. She arrives in Washington on a mission to learn about U.S. plans for the defense of Poland and the Baltic States. The Russians don’t know, however, that she has had another agenda all along.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John Young
• Release date: Nov 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780578226514

John Young

John Young was a reporter at The Arizona Daily Star in Tucson and the Voice of America in Washington, D.C. He was also a police officer and private investigator in New Mexico. After the 9/11 attacks, he joined the Defense Intelligence Agency, where he trained as a Field Collection Officer. He served in Iraq with the Joint Special Operations Command in 2006 and 2008. He was also an instructor for U.S. Army Intelligence at Ft. Huachuca, Arizona.

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Princess of Poland

John T. Young

Princess of Poland

Copyright © 2022 John T. Young

All rights reserved.

Published by John T. Young

This is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, or events used in this book are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously.

Library of Congress Control Number: TX-u 2087792

ISBN paperback 9781793260888

Published in the United States.

First Edition 2018

Second Edition 2022

Maskirovka:  To prevent an adversary from discovering Russian intentions by deceiving him about the nature, scope, and timing of an operation.

CIA.gov

1

Mystic Bar

Beirut, Lebanon

Charles Turner staggered slightly as he walked out of the Mystic bar in downtown Beirut. He stopped, leaned against a wall and adjusted his tie. As a U.S. Public Affairs Officer, he couldn’t afford to be seen drunk in public. At 34, his career was on the upswing. A promotion and a posting back to Washington, D.C. was imminent. But entertaining foreign dignitaries was part of his job, and he liked to drink. Sometimes a little too much.

He continued down the alleyway toward Hamza Street.  He knew there was a Starbucks just around the corner, and he needed a cup of espresso. That’s what he liked about Beirut. It was exotic, with a touch of America.

Turner didn’t notice the white Toyota Sienna minivan until it stopped next to him and the side door opened. Two men wearing balaclavas stepped out. They grabbed Turner by his arms and without a word, quickly shoved him into the van, which continued down the alley. A few passersby noticed, but none dared intervene. Not in Beirut.

What the hell are you doing! Turner shouted as they bound his arms with plastic cuffs.

The taller of the men placed a strip of duct tape over Turner’s mouth and said, You’ve had too much to drink. We’re going to help you get home.

Turner tried to sit up but the second man pushed him back to the floor of the van. Relax and enjoy the ride, Mr. Turner, he said.

The taller man injected Turner with a dose of ketamine, which caused him to lose consciousness. He slipped a black hood over Turner’s head, but left an opening for him to breathe. The driver, also wearing a balaclava, turned the van left on Hamza Street and continued to Highway 51, where he headed south.

The driver parked behind a dilapidated apartment building a few blocks from the Sahel General Hospital, in the Ghobeiry neighborhood of south Beirut. It was a part of the city that the U.S. Embassy advised Americans to avoid. Two of the men dragged Turner out of the van and carried him through the back door of an apartment, while the driver proceeded to sanitize the inside of the van.

The men sat Turner in a chair and tied his arms to it. Still unconscious, Turner slumped forward in the chair. The men removed their balaclavas and were greeted by three other men who rose from a table, where they had been playing cards.

The front door opened and Sergie Primakov walked into the room.  At age 40, Primakov was tall and athletic, with short blond hair and blue eyes. He was a colonel in the Russian GRU, or military intelligence—a fact unknown to the young Muslims who had captured Turner. The taller man, Haythim Badri, shook Primakov’s hand.

Salaam-Alaikum, Mikhail, Badri said. Peace be unto you.Wa-Alaikum-Salaam, Haythim, Primakov said. And unto you peace.

It’s good to see you, Mikhail, Badri said. I was beginning to worry you might not show up. Badri, 22, was 6-foot-1, with a lithe, athletic build.  He had short black hair and a light beard.

I had to make a trip home to Chechnya, Primakov lied. My brothers are still fighting the Russians.

Abbas Burhan, 21, was a few inches shorter than Badri, with a stocky, muscular build.  Like Badri, he wore a light beard and had dark hair. 

I hope you had a chance to kill some Russians, Burhan said. 

Omar Fadil, 20, the driver of the van, entered the room. He was short and stocky.

I checked out the van, he said, It’s clean. Nothing fell out of Turner’s pockets, and I wiped off any fingerprints.

Primakov nodded his approval and looked at the others in the room. Husan Nasir, Jabril Muhammed, and Fatih Hamid were standing around Turner, smoking cigarettes.  All of them were in their early twenties, from Detroit. Like Badri and Burhan, they wore light beards. They were dressed in jeans and t-shirts.

They were Shiite Muslims, sympathetic to the regimes of both Syria and Iran—and to Hezbollah, which controlled much of Lebanon. They viewed Hezbollah and Iran as the vanguard of a new Islamic civilization that would spread throughout the Middle East, transforming the holy cities of Mecca and Medina into Shiite strongholds.

All students at the American University in Beirut, the young Detroit men were eager to support Hezbollah.  They had been radicalized by their imam back in Detroit, who had encouraged them to attend the university and support the Shiite cause. They were radical, but they were naïve and inexperienced.

Using his contacts in the Russian embassy in Beirut, Primakov had identified Badri and his American friends as potential assets and recruited them for a mission to the U.S. When he first approached Badri, Primakov identified himself as Mikhail Petrov, a Muslim from Chechnya.

He knew the country well, because he had fought against the Muslims in Chechnya in the late 1990s, as a young lieutenant in Spetsnaz. When he later transferred to the GRU, he studied Arabic. He was able to persuade the young Americans that, unlike most Chechnyans, he was also a Shiite, not a Sunni Muslim.  In Chechnya, he told them, Sunnis and Shiites were united against Russia and the West.

Are you people ready to return to America? Primakov asked.

We are, Badri said as he walked around Turner, inspecting his bindings. But what about Turner? What happens now?

Our Hezbollah brothers will take care of him, Primakov said. They want to send a message to America, and to all the infidels.

Will they cut off his head on TV, like ISIS? asked Muhammed.

I don’t know what they will do, Primakov said.

Who are these Hezbollah brothers you always talk about? Burhan asked. We’ve only seen a few. The guys who trained us in weapons.

Primakov looked at the Detroit men and nodded. We have to protect them and you, he said. If you are captured, you would not be able to identify the members of our organization, nor could they identify you.

For the past several months, Primakov had taught GRU tradecraft to the young men from Detroit: how to conduct and detect surveillance; the use of clandestine communications, and how to maintain cover. The Americans also learned how to use the AK-47 rifle and RPGs, or rocket-propelled grenades, from GRU operatives who were Eurasian, posing as Hezbollah operatives.

Primakov told the Detroit men they would bring terror to the heart of America, but that he did not expect them to become martyrs.  He did not tell them their chances of survival were about zero.

If we’re going back to America, why did you risk us with this kidnapping? Nasir asked.

My colleagues wanted to test you, Primakov said. We had to know if you were willing to carry out a real operation. Do you understand that you are not to travel together?

We will leave the airport in Beirut on separate flights, Badri said. We then will travel to several cities in Europe, and return to different airports in America.

Primakov stood and offered his hand to each man.  I will see you in America.  Allahu Akbar! he shouted. God is great.

Allahu Akbar! the men responded as they rose to their feet.

As the men from Detroit walked out, Turner remained unconscious, slumped in his chair.

Russian Naval Port

Tartus, Syria

The Russian sailor was apprehensive as Primakov approached his ship. The sailor knew about Primakov’s reputation as an officer in Spetsnaz, Russian Special Forces. He feared him because of his reputation for brutality in Chechnya, where Primakov tortured and slaughtered Muslims. He had also heard other, more disturbing rumors: Primakov was the reincarnation of Chernobog, the ancient Slavic god of darkness and evil who brought calamity and disaster whenever he appeared.

Primakov believed in using fear and superstition to motivate his subordinates. He had planted the rumor that he was the reborn Slavic Satan—the Darth Vader of Slavic mythology.

He bounded up the gangplank of the Bright Star, a Liberian-registered freighter docked at the Russian naval port in Tartus. He was greeted on deck by the sailor, who instinctively began to salute before he caught himself. Dressed as a commercial seaman, he nodded to Primakov, who glared at him.

You idiot! This is supposed to be a commercial ship, and you are not in the Russian Navy! Primakov barked.

Sorry sir, the sailor said, as he unwittingly began to stand at attention, then stepped back as Primakov dismissed him with a glance and walked on board. Primakov deliberately slowed his breathing as he crossed the deck and approached Badr Fahd, who wore the khaki dress uniform of a Syrian Army Colonel.

Is the package aboard? Primakov asked Fahd, who had a trim mustache and short black hair, barely visible under his officer’s field hat, with a red band and gold braid. He was a head shorter than Primakov. Fahd began to offer his hand but withdrew it after Primakov failed to respond.

It arrived last night, Fahd said. I had it placed in a shipping container in the hold.

Primakov noticed Fahd’s annoyance at his deliberate lack of courtesy. Russians could never treat their Syrian counterparts as equals, he believed. Russia maintained its power and influence in the Middle East not only because it supplied the Arabs with weapons, but because the Arabs feared them. Fear was the basis for respect. It was a relationship born of necessity, however, and the Russians had to pretend there was a sense of unity. It was a mutually shared hypocrisy; atheists and Muslims working together for world peace.

Primakov’s arrogance was bolstered by an agreement signed between the Russian and Syrian governments in Damascus in January 2017. It allowed Russia to expand its naval facility at Tartus, Moscow's only naval foothold in the Mediterranean. The pact granted Russia the right to keep up to eleven warships, including nuclear-powered vessels, at Tartus for the next forty-nine years. It was a victory for Russian leader Vladimir Putin, who desperately wanted to restore the Russian Empire.

Russia was struggling to conquer Ukraine, but Primakov was confident that Putin would continue his march across eastern Europe.  Poland and the Baltic states were next. To accomplish his goals in Europe, Putin had told Primakov, it was necessary to distract the United States.

Show me, Primakov said, as though accusing Fahd of lying. Fahd shrugged and walked toward a companionway leading to the lower decks. In the cargo hold, Fahd removed a padlock and opened the door of a metal shipping container labeled Agricultural Machinery. Fahd entered the container and opened a black Pelican case, which contained two aluminum canisters.

Each canister was about the size of a SCUBA dive tank. Primakov noted the thick insulation surrounding the tanks, which were sealed and tightly strapped inside the case. He had selected the Pelican case because it was durable and common. And less likely, he thought, to attract attention from customs officers.

Make sure this compartment stays locked, Primakov said. I believe you know the consequences if these tanks leak.

Of course, Fahd said. I have no desire to be a martyr.

When will you arrive in Virginia? Primakov asked.

Within two weeks, Fahd said. After our trip to Mozambique. I assume that your man will meet us in Virginia, as planned?

If he doesn’t, you better have a good story for the U.S. Customs officials, Primakov said. Did you secure the proper documents from your government?

Fahd showed his new identification to Primakov. I’m now a First Officer in the Cyprus merchant marine. 

Primakov returned Fahd’s identification and said, Don’t be late.

2

Polonia Palace Hotel

Warsaw, Poland

The taxi, a Skoda Octavia sedan, stopped at the entrance of the Polonia Palace Hotel in downtown Warsaw. A uniformed attendant opened the passenger door. British Brigadier General James Fairchild stumbled out and offered his hand to Jadwiga Janda, whose long auburn hair cascaded to her shoulders, framing her Slavic face. She gracefully stepped out of the taxi and smiled at Fairchild, who wore a tweed jacket and dress slacks but could not entirely conceal his military bearing, Janda thought—even when he had too much to drink.

She placed a hand on his arm to steady him as they entered the hotel and walked toward the elevators, past a row of potted palm trees. With its Parisian architecture and elegant decor, the Polonia was a bit too pretentious, Janda thought, and she didn’t care for its history; German officers lived there during World War II.  She could imagine the Germans bringing Polish women into the hotel and up to their rooms. Janda casually looked around the lobby, hoping nobody recognized her. How could I explain this to my friends?

As they continued toward the elevator, Janda was also looking for anyone who might recognize Fairchild, a member of the United Kingdom’s Joint Delegation to NATO. He could not afford a scandal that might end his career and his marriage. Was she worth the risk to Fairchild, Janda wondered, or did he, like many middle-aged men, need to reassure himself he still had what it takes? His motivations notwithstanding, she had to protect him.  So she could use him.

Her conquest of Fairchild had not been difficult. A reporter for Radio Polskie, Janda had no difficulty obtaining an invitation to a party at the British embassy. She had watched Fairchild as he drank too much, then casually introduced herself as a reporter and asked a few questions about NATO. Taking him aside, Janda had quietly suggested a rendezvous at a quiet restaurant, and they had left separately. He had continued to drink during dinner, while Janda sipped her wine and poured more for him. After teasing him with her eyes and bending over to allow him to view her bosom, Janda suggested they go to her room at the Polonia Palace for another drink.

As they entered her room, Janda laid her purse on a table and moved to the bar.  She hoped he would pass out before he tried to seduce her.

Would you care for a drink? she asked.

Moving up behind Janda, Fairchild kissed her neck and began to unbutton her blouse. Janda turned around and let him continue, while kissing him and unbuttoning his shirt.

Perhaps later, he said, as he removed her blouse and fumbled with the zipper on her skirt as he kissed her.

You have no patience, she said, as she began to unbuckle his pants. 

You’ve been driving me mad all evening, Fairchild said as he steered her toward the king bed. He hurriedly unsnapped her bra and nearly tore off her panties. Fairchild did not attempt any foreplay. He pushed Janda down on the bed and entered her, quickly reaching an orgasm.  Exhausted, he rolled over and sighed. Janda rolled her eyes and propped herself up on one elbow, smiling at him, trying to hide her contempt.

I must apologize for my crude behavior, he said.  I had far too much wine over dinner tonight.

It is not a problem, Janda said.  I know you are under a great deal of pressure, with your job.

You have no idea, Fairchild said. Our exercises here with the Polish Army are driving the Russians insane.

We are very concerned about the Russians, she said. After what they did to Poland during World War Two. And what they are now doing in Ukraine. We could be next.

Fairchild laughed as he turned and looked at Janda. I don’t think the Russians will invade Poland again, he said. Not if they knew what we have planned for them.

Janda was about to ask about those plans when Fairchild fell asleep. He was soon snoring. You bastard, she thought, glaring at him. I put up with you all evening. And this is all I get.

She got up and quickly put on her clothes. Before leaving, Janda picked up a vase of flowers on a table in front of the bed. She quietly closed the door as she left the room and turned right, walking to the room next door.

Janda knocked twice, and the door was opened by Primakov.

You should have made him talk more before sex, Primakov complained after he closed the door. He took the vase of flowers and sat down at a table while he removed a small camera hidden in one flower.

Next time, perhaps you should sleep with him, she said, walking to the bar. Janda opened a bottle of scotch and poured herself a drink. She sipped it as she turned and looked at Primakov, who laughed as he unplugged his laptop and put it into a case.

Sleep well, general, Primakov said as he looked toward the adjacent room. You now belong to me.

I assume that your Sony wireless transmitter is working? she asked.

Of course, he said. 

That is why you use computers and equipment made in Japan, she said.  Russian technology is inferior.

Primakov glared at her, then smiled and said, What we can’t make, we steal.

He closed the computer case, walked up to her, and ran his hand through her hair. You made a choice, he said. Nobody forced you to become involved with me. Or my government.

Did you ever love me? she asked. Or was I just another woman you decided to seduce and recruit?

Primakov turned his back and walked to the bar. He poured himself a glass of vodka and said, I wanted to make love to you the moment I met you. And I knew you could be an effective agent.

Janda followed him to the bar and faced him. But did you ever really love me?

Primakov shrugged. I’m not sure I’m capable of such an emotion, he said. I think I was in Spetsnaz too long.

Is that why you no longer make love to me? she asked.

We now have a business relationship, Jadwiga, he said. It is not a good idea for us to be involved romantically.

Janda slammed down her drink and backed away from Primakov, glaring at him.

So what does all of this make me? she asked.  Am I just a whore for the Russian government?

You like the money I give you for these assignments, he said. And you still work as a broadcaster for Radio Polskie, he said.

Primakov took an envelope from his jacket and tried to hand it to her. She angrily shook her head no, so he laid the envelope on the coffee table, picked up his laptop and walked toward the door. Before he opened it, Primakov turned and looked at her.

You must continue working your American target, he said.

Do I have a choice? she asked.

You can stop at any time, he said. But if you do, I will send videos of your best performances to your superiors at Radio Polskie—and to the Polish authorities.

After Primakov left, Janda picked up the envelope and opened it. She counted the money, put it in her purse, and poured herself another drink. She sipped the scotch as she moved toward the window, which overlooked Jerozolimskie Avenue. A few blocks away, she saw the Palace of Culture and Science.

She smiled as she recalled her years in the drama club at the University of Warsaw. Her professors had encouraged her to become an actress. She had natural talent, they had told her. What would they think of her current performance?

Janda looked at herself in the mirror, turning sideways. Almost thirty, she thought, and I can still pass for twenty-five. But she was maturing in appearance.  Almost time for a new role.

She opened her purse and removed her cell phone.  She stopped the record button and played back her conversation with Primakov. After listening to it, she attached the file to an email and sent it. Primakov still had no clue about who she really was and why she worked for him.

3

Hala Mirowska Market

Warsaw, Poland

John Lewis parked his black Ford Expedition near the Hala Mirowska Market and began walking through the myriad of open-air stalls, where Poles sold fresh fruits, vegetables, sausages, yogurt, baked goods, bread, nuts, quinoa, and spices. Lewis, an American in his mid-thirties, walked past several stalls protected from the sun by blue and green canopies, where fresh flowers were sold. He selected a bouquet of a dozen red roses and paid the clerk. As he turned from the vendor he almost bumped into Janda. She wore a skimpy sundress that did little to hide her svelte figure.

I love fresh flowers, she said. Are those for me?

Lewis smiled and handed her the roses.  You spoiled my surprise, Jadwiga, he said. I was coming to your apartment.

In Poland, a man does not give flowers to a woman unless he has feelings for her, she said. Do you have feelings for me, John?

Lewis gently brushed back her hair, leaned over and kissed her. Janda responded by putting her arm around his head and pulling him closer, returning his kiss with passion.

Can you do that again, while I think about it? Lewis asked.

Janda smiled and said, You are incorrigible, she said. Would you like to go to my apartment for a cup of tea?

I’m not much of a tea drinker, he said. But I would like to go to your apartment.

Lewis returned to his Ford with Janda, and they drove to Brzozowa Street, located only a block from the Vistula River, near Warsaw’s New Town, an area teeming with markets and restaurants, located near museums. He parked in the rear lot of a four-story brown brick apartment complex. As he opened the passenger door for Janda, Lewis was approached by two Polish men in their early twenties.

Give me your wallet, said one of the men, who was tall and stocky, with long hair and a scruffy beard. He flipped open a knife. The second man, who was shorter and just as disheveled, leered at Janda.

You can have my money, Lewis said as he took out his wallet. Just put away the knife.

As Lewis handed over his money, the smaller man looked at the U.S. diplomatic plates on Lewis’s Ford and said, Like I told you, American men are pussies. He smiled at Janda and said, Maybe you want to come with us. We can have a good time, just the three of us.

Perhaps you should crawl back into your sewer, she said.

Lewis, who was an inch over six feet