Lady Justice and the Company

By Maury Berthon

Stanley Michael Woods is a gifted spy for the Central Intelligence Agency. Authorities are shocked when Stan’s beautiful wife is murdered. Although the evidence doesn’t add up, Stan is arrested for her death. Now, the Agency must put together a skilled legal team to save their man.

There are so many unanswered questions. If Stan used a hammer to murder his wife, why wasn’t he covered in blood? And, why did Stan’s young daughter flee the scene instead of staying with her father? Stan could be guilty, but there is another more ominous option: that Foreign Intelligence Officers murdered Stan’s wife in an attempt to destroy him.

In Maury Berthon’s latest thriller, go behind the walls of the CIA, FBI, and Chinese Intelligence to witness justice being sought on behalf of a talented spy. Stan’s innocence might be hard to prove, though, what with all the lies, intrigue, and political twists of high stakes espionage.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Archway Publishing
• Release date: May 4, 2023
• ISBN: 9781665738545

Maury Berthon

Maury Berthon spent twenty-five years with the Federal Bureau of Investigation working all over the world. He is a licensed attorney and proud Marine who currently lives with his wife Beth, in the New Orleans area. This is his third novel.

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Copyright © 2023 Maury Berthon.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Archway Publishing

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models,

and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3853-8 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-6657-3854-5 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2023902373

Archway Publishing rev. date: 08/18/2023

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1 A Good Deed in the Park

Chapter 2 Trouble for a Spy

Chapter 3 Elusive Motive

Chapter 4 Secret Lawyer

Chapter 5 Murder Discussion

Chapter 6 An Innocent Chat

Chapter 7 Not Quite a Father

Chapter 8 The Bear Stirs

Chapter 9 Prep

Chapter 10 Confused Loyalties

Chapter 11 Similar Purposes

Chapter 12 Ancestral Home

Chapter 13 Somebody Did It

Chapter 14 What Was Our Thinking Here

Chapter 15 The Lady Takes a Peek

Chapter 16 Uncomfortable Search

Chapter 17 Square One

Chapter 18 Back To Court

Chapter 19 Set Back for the Dragon

Chapter 20 Getting a Last Name

Chapter 21 Left Field Twice

Chapter 22 Starting Over

Chapter 23 A Lot Happening

Chapter 24 A Father’s Plea

Chapter 25 Street Entertainment

Chapter 26 Old Friends Call

Chapter 27 Knocking Things Around

Chapter 28 Justice Delayed

Chapter 29 Past Relationships

Chapter 30 Talk Over Cakes

Chapter 31 The Past Comes Present

Epilogue

TO THOSE WHO JUDGE SLOWLY

DO NOT RESENT GROWING OLD, MANY

DO NOT HAVE THE PRIVILEGE

OLD IRISH PROVERB

PROLOGUE

Dag Nguyen, a homicide detective with the Washington, D.C. Metropolitan Police, glanced at and then read from his scribbled notes.

The front door was open, which he thought was strange. He walked in and heard music playing in the den. The house smelled of garlic from last night’s supper of Cuban food. He heard something upstairs and started up to take a look. That’s all he remembers.

The captain from the Homicide Unit looked up from pouring a cup of coffee to make eye contact with Nguyen.

That’s his statement?

So far.

Is he a suspect?

You tell me. His nine-year old daughter comes home and finds him sitting on the stairs. He asks her where her mom is. Then the girl goes upstairs and finds her mom dead in her parents’ bedroom. She starts screaming and somehow manages to call 911 on her cell. Then she runs right past her dad and goes to a neighbor’s house.

What is the ME saying?

Preliminary cause of death is blunt force trauma to the head. She said she’ll give us more later this evening.

Do we have a weapon?

A hammer in the sink of the master bathroom looks good for it.

Any blood on him?

Not that we can see.

Crap. Well, advise him and get his clothes off. I have never seen a hammer job where there was not blood somewhere on the killer. Where is the daughter?

She is downstairs with the neighbor.

Any other kids?

Nope. Only child.

Okay. Get her statement as soon as you can. Has the neighbor been cleared?

Yeah. She is a teacher and we put her at the school all day.

Alright. Let her sit in. In fact, see if we can talk to the girl at the neighbor’s house. A homicide office is no place for a nine-year-old.

The captain, scratching his balding head, thought for a moment.

Something strange here, nine-year-old girl finds her mom dead and runs to a neighbor instead of her dad. We’ll need to explore their relationship and see what that’s all about.

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ONE

A GOOD DEED

IN THE PARK

T he Cooper’s hawk, one of seven species of hawks found in Virginia, circled lazily over the Manassas National Battlefield Park, looking for his dinner. Below, he saw small prey scurrying along on the ground, the same ground where in 1861, and again in 1862, thousands of young men died—some fighting to right a wrong and others fighting to protect a wrong—most knew little about.

At this time, the hawk had no intention of plunging down to grab a mouse in his talons because of much larger prey he observed in a clearing between two large sets of trees, prey his instincts told him to avoid. Like the smaller prey, they too were scurrying around.

Crying hysterically, the young woman cried out.

Amanda, where are you?

No answer came from the trees.

This time the young woman cried out to a man ahead of her.

Charlie, she was just here. Where could she have gone?

The man, not answering the woman, called out.

Amanda, please come to Daddy.

This plea was only answered by the wind blowing through the park.

The woman, in a panicked run, sprinted past the man, screaming.

Amanda! Amanda!

As she rounded a sharp turn on the trail, she saw an older gentleman walking toward her holding the hand of a small child.

The woman yelled the two names almost simultaneously.

Amanda! Charlie, I found her!

The little girl let go of the gentleman’s hand and held up some wildflowers in her other hand.

Look, Mommy, aren’t they pretty?

The gentleman smiled, I found her just a bit ahead.

The woman, realizing the man spoke with an accent, picked up the little girl.

Thank you, thank you, thank you so much.

The gentleman continued to smile and patted the child on the head.

I suspect she was just trying to surprise you with the flowers.

Arriving, the man took the child from the woman and scolded her.

Amanda, don’t ever scare Mommy and Daddy that way again.

Amanda looked up at her daddy with tears in her eyes and spoke softly.

I’m sorry, Daddy. I was just picking flowers and got lost.

The woman, with tears rolling down her face, looked at the gentleman.

Please tell us your name.

Already walking away, the gentleman looked back.

My name is Peter. I hope you enjoy the rest of your day in the park.

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Continuing to walk, the gentleman came to the stone bridge over a small creek he had been looking for. Crossing the bridge, the gentleman stepped to his right and went down a small embankment toward the slow-moving water. Looking under the bridge, he searched for the stone described to him earlier. Choosing the stone that fit the description, he put his hand on it and confirmed it was loose from the other stones around it. Picking it up he saw the plastic bag under it, which was smaller than he expected. Inside the bag was a canister consistent with the size of a prescription bottle. Opening it he took out a rolled-up piece of paper that was in the bottle, and without looking at it, stuck it into his pocket. He returned the bottle to the plastic bag and placed the bag where he had found it and securely placed the stone back over it. He climbed up the embankment and retraced his steps across the bridge wondering if he would run into the family again.

Normally on such an errand, the gentleman would be looking around as he walked, making sure he was not being watched or followed. Today he did not have that concern. The people who might be watching him were the ones who gave him the directions to the bridge and what to look for upon his arrival there.

Without seeing the family, the gentleman arrived back at the Lincoln Continental he had rented earlier that day. Getting in, he placed a call to a Washington number.

Howard Smyth answered as he sat in his office watching traffic pass on Massachusetts Avenue, which ran in front of the British Embassy in Washington. Listed as the Cultural Affairs Officer at the embassy, Smyth was, in reality, the highest-ranking member of MI6, British Intelligence.

Peter, old boy, how was the park?

I found it beautiful. What a job they do keeping everything so nice. I must admit I am jealous. I’m afraid in Russia the groundskeepers do not do so well. Not that they don’t try, but funding is a constant issue. Another thing that caught my eye were the numerous historical markers. One could spend days in the park trying to read them all.

Smyth found this chattiness from Peter unusual.

No problem finding the package?

Not at all. Our friends gave me excellent directions.

Did you see any opposition around?

To be honest, I was somewhat careless looking for them. Perhaps it is my age.

Smyth laughed at this response.

Peter, don’t be ridiculous. You will be looking around for threats as you are lowered into your grave.

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While the gentleman talked with his old friend, a man and a woman, sitting in a car across the lot from his Lincoln, were watching him. The man was taking pictures while reading aloud the letters and numbers on the license plate on the gentleman’s car. The woman was writing the information down in a small notebook. A child grew restless in the back seat. The woman turned and smiled.

Just a few more minutes, Amanda, and Mommy and Daddy will get you some ice cream.

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The gentleman concluded his call with Smyth after confirming they were still on for coffee Tuesday morning. He reached in his pocket and felt the piece of paper he retrieved at the bridge. He pulled it out and read the words on it. Good job. Hope your feet didn’t get wet fetching this note. The gentleman smiled and returned the paper to his pocket. He looked around one last time at the park and headed toward the exit. In a minute or so the car with the man and woman and Amanda also left the park, not bothering to follow the gentleman.

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After they started out, a tan Yukon along with two other cars fell in behind them. In the Yukon, Greg Sukey, a member of the Special Operations Group (SOG) out of the FBI Washington D.C. field office, was talking to the agent driving.

You know, Theo, I hope my wife never finds out Boris brings their kids to work with them. She’ll want me to throw one of ours in every chance she gets.

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As they all left the park, the Cooper’s hawk continued to circle above, still on his quest for dinner.

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In a conference room located in the Kremlin, the investigative committee had just finished their last scheduled meeting. Remaining in the room were two members of the committee which had been formed at the order of the President of Russia to investigate the defection of a highly placed official of the SVR, short for the Foreign Intelligence Service of Russia.

Looking out the window of the conference room, Damir Vasin, chairman of the committee, could see the tourists going in and out of the Saint Basil Cathedral at the north end of Red Square, a cathedral which first held services in 1561. Across the table from him was Denis Popov with the SVR, who up until six months before answered to the defector.

Vasin, whose first name Damir was an abbreviated name derived from the revolutionary slogan, ‘Long Live the Revolution’, had grown to detest the defector while serving on the committee. Coming from the political side rather than the intelligence side of the Russian government, Vasin had limited contact with the gentleman and never considered him a friend. It was hard for him to understand how an individual could do such damage to a country he was sworn to protect, particularly after what he learned during the committee’s investigation. It appeared the gentleman’s motivation was ideological and not monetary. He had a passing thought as he listened to Popov. If I ever did something this treacherous, I would demand to be rewarded for it.

I believe the President will be satisfied with the committee’s final report.

Do you, Popov? I believe he will put it in his toilet and use it if he runs out of paper.

Why do you say that?

Because this report only highlights what fools we were believing in this seditious bastard. It does nothing to get him back to Russia and hanged, after he spends a winter, naked, in Siberia.

Popov laughed, imagining a vision of Vasin’s desired justice for the traitor.

It’s not like he has gone into space. We know where he is. His day of retribution will come.

You are making my point. This report the committee has produced will do nothing to hasten that day. And we know he is not an easy man to take. Remember the two bodies he dropped by the river the night before he left for America?

I remember. But the Bratva were fools to send amateurs to seek their retribution.

Vasin, again looking out on Red Square, said in a reflective tone, In more ways than one. As you are aware, the girl he killed was one of their lieutenant’s daughters. I am told the poor man was so distraught they had to take his gun away before he stuck it in his mouth.

Perhaps we should explore that. He might be the perfect individual for us to send to America to drag Peter back here.

Vasin turned back toward Popov with a dead pan look on his face.

You might be on to something. The only problem is if the man found him, he would more than likely kill him on the spot. Then we would miss all the fun of playing with him before we kill him.

Popov gave a quick glance at his watch.

Well, are we going to sign this report or not? I have a pretty thing waiting for me at the Hotel National and she is not getting any younger.

We’ll sign it and take it to the President tomorrow. I suggest we brace ourselves with a couple of vodkas before we see him.

Why should he be upset? He was as close to Peter as we all were and like us, he was fooled.

Vasin shook his head with a mock look of approval.

Well put, Popov. I cannot wait until you tell him that.

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Who was this gentleman the couple in the park were watching, the FBI had an interest in, and an investigative committee spent three months looking into? He was pure Russian with East Slavic blood running through his veins. He was seventy years old, much too young to be called a child of the Revolution, but still greatly affected by it. His grandmother was pregnant with his father when his grandfather was killed by tsarist guards while taking part in a demonstration outside of the Kremlin, an incident like hundreds of others which helped bring on the Revolution and the eventual murder of the Tsar and his family.

His memories of his grandmother were of a sad woman who spent too much time with vodka every night, trying to get over the loss of the only man she ever loved. Those of his father were of a forever angry man, never knowing his own father, who dedicated his life to the revolution and the bureaucratic agencies that ran it. His agency of choice was the KGB to which he gave thirty years of his life, an agency whose sole purpose was to protect the Revolution and, once that was accomplished, to spread its revolutionary fervor all over the world, whether wanted or not.

At every family gathering the gentleman could remember, the story of his grandfather would come up in some form or another. The love and respect for the Union of Soviet Socialist Republics was always present. He would listen to family members talk about how no other government on earth was as fair to its citizens. He knew the official position of the Soviet government was atheism and would be puzzled when he heard family say it was the only form of government recognized by God.

After graduating from Moscow State University, where he majored in English and Law, he entered a training program with a Saint Petersburg law firm. After a year he stood for the Russian equivalent of the bar exam. Upon passing, he became a member of the Advocate Chamber, granting him the privilege to practice before the Constitutional Court and to appear in court on criminal and civil matters.

Peter found he was not satisfied with the practice of law, and much to the pleasure of his father applied and was accepted into the ranks of the KGB. He was determined to give his all for the state, while always nursing a secret interest in the freedom and decadence the West offered. His curiosity grew as he observed things on foreign assignments: citizens publicly laughing at and ridiculing their governments, a society with complete freedom of religion but certainly not tamed by it, a society whose work ethic was almost unseen in Russia.

Although now long removed, the gentleman understood the need for the Iron Curtain. The leaders in the East knew the masses would never be satisfied with communist dogma if they had the opportunity to sniff the aroma of the West. Unlike most of his comrades with the government, the gentleman made no effort to suppress these thoughts, choosing instead to entertain them.

As a young man he fell in love with a lovely Russian girl. They would often talk about marriage and children, talk that tragically ended when the young girl fell through some ice and drowned while skating on a small pond near Moscow. To say he never recovered from this would be too dramatic. He always enjoyed the company of women but never met another one he was prepared to give his heart to.

As was common in his work, the gentleman had many aliases, so many in fact, his true name was never used and could only be confirmed by checking old records stored in the cellar of KGB headquarters. This was fine with him and eventually he just started using the name Peter when he introduced himself. In the event people asked for more, they would just get a sly smile, or sometimes a Just Peter, and nothing else.

After the fall of the Soviet Union, Peter stayed with the KGB. To soften the history and future of the organization, the name was changed to Foreign Intelligence Service (SVR). But Peter knew the name change was cosmetic. The mission was the same: gather advantageous intelligence for the new nation of Russia and strive to undermine western governments in any way possible. None of this bothered Peter since he saw similar tactics being used against Russia by Western intelligence services.

What did start to disturb him was how politicians of this new country started to game the system, leading to unimaginable corruption. He tried to turn his back to what was going on, but at times found himself tempted to enrich himself as others were doing. Fighting this temptation is what led him to further observe life in the West. Not one to be naïve, he knew Russian officials did not hold the monopoly on corruption. Almost daily in the Western press there would be stories of political corruption. But also in the stories you found there was at least a modicum of accountability, even if only meagerly applied.

His last duty station, before he decided to offer his services to the West, was London. With no ties to anyone in Russia who could be harmed by his actions, he finally made up his mind. It came one night in his flat not far from Piccadilly Circus.

Not completely taken in by the West, he still thought it would offer him a better opportunity for a productive life than Russia did. At first his thoughts ran toward a straight up defection; wholly turning his back on the only country he had called home. He could move to Florida and set up residence in the other Saint Petersburg. Perhaps take up with a rich widow and learn the intricacies of shuffleboard.

Then a few nights later, after his bedtime vodka, perhaps a little more than usual this night, his thoughts turned in a different direction. With some help from his vanity, it suddenly came to him he was too important just to roll over and let the West rub his belly for the rest of his life. He was too valuable for such a move. What he now considered was for him retaining his position with the SVR, giving the West eyes into the organization.

And that is precisely what he did. He contacted the British Secret Service and after dancing with them over a period of time, settled in and became one of their top spies, all the while growing into a position of significant importance within the SVR. His rising position put him in contact with the highest officials of the Russian government. If not for events, somewhat brought on by himself, he would still be there today. But after almost being killed one night along the Moskva River, in what was an attempt of revenge against him, he pulled up stakes and headed west, landing in Washington, D.C., where one afternoon in a park he helped a little girl named Amanda.

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TWO

TROUBLE FOR A SPY

F BI Supervisory Special Agent (SSA) Harold Crockett, who ran one of the three Foreign Counterintelligence squads in the Washington Field Office was studying a document while drinking his morning coffee in his office. Crockett was forty-five and had been in the FBI for fifteen years. Before going with the Bureau, he had been a fourth-grade schoolteacher in Macon, Georgia. On more than one occasion, after a frustrating day running his squad, he would go home and tell his wife, Peggy, that he still worked with children. Agents under him primarily concentrated on the Russian community in the D.C. area.

Have you seen the SOG log from yesterday on the Manassas surveillance?

Henry West, Crockett’s primary relief supervisor and most senior agent on the squad, looked at his copy.

Yeah. It looks like that family team is active again. I hate SOG had to spend their Sunday afternoon in Manassas and not get anything new.

Don’t feel too bad for them. Remember they pulled in Sunday differential pay which is a healthy piece of coin.

I know. It still would have been nice if they could have identified a new group covering the drop. SOG has been on the family team so many times, Sukey tells me they are talking about getting the little girl something for her birthday.

Crockett laughed.

Let me know if they do. I’ll chip in.

Still looking at the log, Crockett thought for a moment.

Looks like the old Russian guy did his job. His interaction with the family team could not have gone better.

He probably was doing drops when you and I were still putting on zit medicine and trying to find somebody to buy us beer.

Did I ever tell you, when I was fifteen I had a fake ID that said I was twenty-three? I never wanted for beer. I’m glad the Bureau background missed that youthful transgression.

Smiling, West asked, So, do you want to use the old guy again?

Sure. Since he is available let’s use him as much as we can.

The phone on Crockett’s desk rang.

Crockett. Hey, Peggy. What’s up?

Listening