Notes: Nocturne in Black and Gold takes place after the events in Echoes of a Violin and Fireflies at Midnight. I've written a short summary of the status of the key players at the beginning of the story for our blog, Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation (a link is in my profile). The post is called "Prelude to a Nocturne." See the notes at the end of the chapter for more information.
Chapter 1: A Mute Violin
Mozzie's Bunker. July 2, 2005. Saturday morning.
"Do you hear any music?" Mozzie turned to peer hopefully at Neal through his glasses.
Neal tore himself away from studying the canvas and rubbed his eyes. "Her strings are still mute."
He and Mozzie had spent the past few hours scrutinizing the Braque painting yet again. The confined atmosphere of Mozzie's bunker at the Aloha Emporium added to Neal's frustrations over Violin and Candlestick. A month ago he'd retrieved the painting from the church in Paris where he and Klaus had hidden it. Mozzie smuggled it into New York, and it had been residing in his bunker ever since.
They'd run every test they could think of on the painting. They'd examined it under filters throughout the entire electromagnetic spectrum with nothing to show for their efforts.
Georges Braque had taken the violin and fractured it for his painting. He believed the process made the violin seem more alive. Neal could attest to that. Not just alive, she was a wraith who followed him around wherever he went. Violins were supposed to sing. This one mocked him by singing "The Sounds of Silence." Was this his karma for having recovered the painting without informing Peter?
Mozzie tapped him on the shoulder. "Your mind is spinning in a rut. It's time to call the tow truck." He walked over to the bookcase and retrieved the Monopoly box. "What we need is a fresh approach."
Neal rested his chin on his propped up elbows and watched as his friend took out the pieces.
Mozzie picked up the wheelbarrow token. "We've eliminated a secret message written in invisible ink. No hidden clues under layers of paint. What does that tell us?"
Neal reflected on his question. "The painting is only part of the solution. We know Adler is looking for it, so we assume he thinks it contains information about the location of a hoard of Nazi-looted art. But by itself the painting is not the answer. We need another piece to the puzzle."
"Precisely. What other clues do we have?" Not waiting for Neal to respond, Mozzie continued unabated as he placed the battleship on the game board. "We have the World War II diary of a German soldier. We have a shipping manifest containing names of paintings which we know were looted by the Nazis and so far haven't been recovered. And we have one other clue—the sheet of equations that was found in the diary. The mysterious fractal formulas."
Neal had discovered the materials in the safe of a shipping company owner named Karl Huber who worked for the criminal organization Ydrus. The team had identified Huber as the son of a Nazi officer who'd served with the Rosenberg task force in charge of confiscated art in Paris. No link had been established between Adler and Huber but it was tempting to speculate that both men were on the trail of a lost shipment of plundered art.
"Have Jones and Travis made any progress with the equations?" asked Neal, hoping they might have a new theory. Mozzie had declared a truce with Jones over the past month. In the interest of picking Jones's brain about U-boats, a subject Jones was rapidly becoming an expert on, Mozzie had decided that a thaw in the cold war between them was warranted. Travis, White Collar's tech expert, and Mozzie had been friends for much longer. Détente was established last winter over a mutual interest in the hunt for extraterrestrial intelligence.
"Travis believes they could be linked to an antenna," Mozzie said. "but the equations are unlike what are currently used in antennas. Still, who knows what some Nazi mad genius may have concocted in his underground laboratory?" He picked up the top hat and placed it on the board. "I leave for France tomorrow. I'll pursue my research there."
"Another job for Gordon Taylor?"
He nodded. "Gordon is proving to be a valuable resource, and not merely because of the generous remuneration he provides for my services. Through his network I'm accumulating a list of former French Resistance fighters. Some of them are shadow-dwellers like me. After the war, they assumed new names. They're unknown to French authorities. I suspect one of them may provide the enlightenment we need." He sat back in his chair and studied Neal, frowning slightly. "You need to take a break. Your brain cells are starting to atrophy. Our violin will regain her voice in due course."
Neal didn't realize he was looking that gloomy. He shook it off. "Will you be back in time for Comic-Con?"
"Of course. How could I miss the West Coast premiere of Yellowface, the Masked Avenger? Just think— in less than two weeks, our video will be viewed by the movers and shakers of Hollywood. I wouldn't be at all surprised if Steven Spielberg or George Lucas stops by to inquire about developing it into a feature-length film." His eyes widened. "They may both come. We'll have a bidding war. Yes, I must brush up on contract law."
Neal broke into a laugh. No one topped Mozzie for reviving spirits. "Have you discussed it with Aidan? He owns the rights to the video. It's his production, after all."
"Technically, I suppose, but since I wrote the script, surely I should be listed as co-owner. And, if you'll recall, the video was my concept." The idea had been born shortly after Mozzie had proclaimed himself a champion of bees at the beginning of the year. He'd gone into the organic honey business with Billy Feng, the owner of the Aloha Emporium, and had quickly expanded into the production of honey wines. When Neal's friend Aidan Phillips was looking for a project for his animation course, Mozzie suggested featuring the plight of the endangered Hawaiian yellow-faced bee.
Sometimes it felt like Mozzie was attending Columbia along with Neal. He'd adopted Neal's college friends as his own and often wore Columbia-emblazoned attire when on campus. He'd insisted Neal prepare him several college ID cards with different roles ranging from student to employee to alum. His favorite was his faculty member ID.
But Neal wasn't prepared to let him assume the lion's share of the glory for the video. "How about Richard and I? We prepared the artwork for Aidan to animate and helped voice the characters. Angela, her boyfriend Michael, and Aidan's girlfriend Keiko were also involved. Fiona co-wrote the music with Richard. She deserves a cut as well."
Mozzie rolled his eyes. "I thought you said you'd cast off your white knight image. How can you possibly justify your ex-girlfriend receiving a payment? She already ripped out your heart. She's not getting anything else."
"Fiona simply found someone who's much better suited for her. We're still friends. I talked with her last week."
Mozzie shook his head despairingly. "That's no way for a jilted lover to behave. Still I will be happy to extend my services as agent to all of you—even Fiona. For the proper percentage of course. And I warn you in advance, she'll have to pay the premium rate. No friends-and-family discount for her, the trollop."
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Even with Mozzie's trashing of Fiona, Neal left the bunker at the emporium in a much better mood. His art studio in Watson Hall was a short walk away. He resolved to focus on his art and lay aside all thoughts of the Braque till fresh inspiration struck.
It was not a surprise that Mozzie was in such good spirits. Orders for his new commemorative honey wine, J. Edgar's Private Cellar, were flying in at a faster clip than he could have dreamed. And Mozzie dreamed big. Neal was getting a small cut in the proceeds as well. He'd suggested the wine in honor of FBI Day. On July 26, 1908, the Bureau had been established. The idea of reaping profits off the event was too enticing to pass up. Neal had ensured that the wine wasn't laced with anything toxic and helped design the gift box which resembled an evidence vault.
Was the wine worth the exorbitant price Mozzie demanded? Hardly. But the inflated price tag appeared to contribute to its popularity. Originally Mozzie had intended to distribute the wine only in New York, but he'd been inundated with so many requests from D.C. and the field offices that Billy had hired several additional employees. Last week, Mozzie gleefully reported that the wine was trending in the watering holes of Wall Street. His status as wine mogul was rapidly solidifying.
Unlike many of his fellow students, Neal had retained his studio throughout the summer. He'd been working on two masters. His degree in visual arts would be achieved in May, dependent on a successful final exhibition. His masters in art history had been rolled into the doctorate program. There was no end in sight for it. With no classes in art history to take in the summer, Neal planned to get a head start on his paintings.
He was by no means convinced it would be possible to achieve both degrees while working at the FBI. The doctorate program was designed to be full time. It even came with a cost of living stipend. But Neal didn't want to give up on his job at the Bureau. When offered the chance to apply for the doctorate, he'd debated long and hard if it'd be worth the demands on his time.
Peter and Mozzie—for different reasons—convinced him it was too good an opportunity to pass up. Peter had volunteered to check into a reduced hour schedule for him. Last week they'd developed a thirty-hour per week schedule for September through May. The proposal was now making its way through the convoluted FBI bureaucracy. Hughes had given it his blessing, but the stamp of approval rested with Kramer. The head of D.C. Art Crimes had thrown up obstacles for every request Neal had made over the past year. Would he raise a red flag again? The budget for art crimes was tiny. Neal's offer would save the Bureau money, but Neal wouldn't be surprised if Kramer rejected it simply out of spite.
Watson Hall during summer recess resembled a ghost ship. No students in the lounge or milling around the corridors. A few lone spooks like himself worked away in their caves. Normally Neal could count on Richard, whose studio was adjacent to Neal's, to provide a welcome distraction, but he was on temporary assignment in Los Angeles. At first the quiet hadn't bothered Neal. He'd lectured himself that the tomblike stillness was exactly what he needed, right?
That lasted maybe one evening.
The spook in the cave next to his, Bianka, had been his sanity preserver. She was a new student from Hungary and had started early in order to improve her English before classes began. She'd been hesitant to ask for help but Neal was glad to assist. Hungarian was a language he'd never picked up. He asked her to teach him some basic phrases so she wouldn't feel guilty about him tutoring her in English. Mainly she needed practice in conversation, and that was the best way to banish the loneliness of an empty hall as well.
Bianka wasn't around when Neal arrived at his studio, but Peter might drop by. He was coming to the campus midday to discuss the next year's telescope workshops with the head of the program, an astronomy professor named Daniel Leavitt. Peter had mentioned if it weren't too late he'd stop off on the way home.
Neal placed a blank canvas on his easel and changed into his painting t-shirt.
Were the paint pigments in the Braque a clue? Could a message be hidden in those shades of gray and umber?
He brought himself up short. Sneaky violin. He was supposed to be thinking about his own art. With a noisy exhale, he exorcised the violin from his mind as he spread out preliminary sketches on the worktable.
Waterways—that was what he needed to focus on, not a mute violin. He'd decided on rivers for the theme of his master's exhibition and had selected ones that he'd run along during key moments in his life. They would all be night scenes. Whistler had painted a series of nocturnes. Perhaps he would call his night music.
The subject for today was the Rhone as it flowed through Geneva with St. Pierre Cathedral in the background. As Neal got out his supplies he immersed himself in the mood he wanted to capture.
The year was 2003. A frigid night in February. The wind was gusting off the Rhone. He'd jogged along the promenade bordering the river as he debated whether to quit Klaus's crew. They'd just returned from Berlin. Klaus was furious at the heist being blown wide open. They still didn't know the cause. At the last minute, the guard schedule had been changed, but they hadn't realized it until they were already in position. In the ensuing chaos Neal's only focus was to escape. The crew was scattering in all directions. He was running with Klaus. Suddenly Klaus stopped him. Told him to wait while he went ahead. Neal heard a gunshot and raced forward. That's when he saw the guard. A bullet hole in the center of his back. The guard was young. He couldn't have been much older than Neal. The sight of him dead, collapsed on the marble floor . . . The guard was unarmed. There was no need to kill him.
From somewhere Klaus materialized, seized Neal by the arm, and forced him to flee with him. Otherwise Neal would have stayed rooted to the spot till the police came. On the long drive back to Geneva, they'd had plenty of time to analyze the job and discuss what went wrong. As the others reported where they'd been, Neal knew with certainty that only one man could have killed the guard and that was Klaus.
When they returned to the townhouse in Geneva, it was already late in the day. The others went to bed, but Neal couldn't sleep. Instead he headed for the park next to the river. That night he decided that there was only one option that made sense.
Run.
Neal studied the canvas. Why was he having such difficulty? The emotions were still so fresh. Last month they'd discovered that the cybercriminal Azathoth who'd been taunting them for the past nine months was Klaus's older brother Rolf. Many of the actions Rolf had taken could be attributed to him seeking revenge for Klaus's death. Perhaps that was the answer. Neal had too many competing emotions to express them all in one painting.
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Peter set a brisk pace through the university quad. Neal's studio was several blocks south from Pupin Hall where he'd met Leavitt.
His meeting about the upcoming telescope workshops had gone on longer than he'd expected. Last spring Leavitt had launched the program, targeting kids ages ten through sixteen. Travis, who knew the professor from his work with SETI, had persuaded Peter and Mozzie to help out. The kids learned the basics of stargazing and telescopes that semester. This fall they'd begin constructing their own scopes. Peter was particularly looking forward to that project. He'd built his first telescope when he was eleven. The last one he made was when he was in college. As he helped the kids, Peter planned to build his own.
Travis and Mozzie would also help out. Mozzie was a natural at working with the younger ones, and there was an additional benefit: his participation ensured he wouldn't have as much time for his less-than-legal activities. That was not a subject Peter ever discussed with Neal, particularly now that Mozzie often provided assistance on cases. And there was no doubt Mozzie's contacts were invaluable. But Peter yearned for the day Mozzie would retire from his criminal pursuits.
Neal, on the other hand, was a major success story. He'd turned his life around and was putting down roots, not just in New York City but at Columbia. Peter relished the thought that he could visit Neal in his studio and not be concerned about what secrets he might be hiding.
That hadn't been the case last summer. His cousin Henry had disappeared off the grid for months while working on a scheme to take down a crooked music publisher. Henry cut nearly everyone out of the loop, including Neal. As a result, Neal developed his own secret agenda to help his cousin. No one saw fit to include Peter in their plans. The cousins were keeping secrets not just from their families and friends but from each other as they crisscrossed the country.
All ended well, mainly due to Neal's realization he couldn't succeed on his own. When he brought in the FBI, he learned a valuable lesson in the advantages of teamwork. Over the past several months, the team had confronted the challenges posed by Azathoth, Ydrus, as well as a host of other criminals and in the process built up an admirable track record.
Like last summer, Neal would be leaving for the West Coast in a couple of weeks. But instead of taking off on some private agenda, he'd be flying with Peter, El, and his college friends to San Diego to participate in Comic-Con.
This was a summer where Peter didn't have to worry about what Neal and Henry were up to. Not that there weren't challenges. Rolf Mansfeld was still on the loose. Peter had a stack of other investigations to manage and limited resources to tackle them all, but all the members of his team were on the same page.
Peter stopped to pick up two cups of java at the local coffee shack before entering Watson Hall. This was his first time to visit Neal's studio since the end of the semester and he was surprised at how empty the building felt. Did the lack of students bother Neal? His cousins were both away. Angela was conducting field work in West Virginia for her ethnomusicology doctorate. Henry had left Thursday for an extended business trip to South America. Peter was glad El had suggested holding a Fourth of July barbecue for the team.
Last year they'd held a barbecue in June but Independence Day made even more sense. Their townhouse was not far from the East River which was the site for spectacular fireworks. Barges on the East River lit up the sky, and the fireworks were easily visible from their backyard.
Neal was sketching at his worktable when Peter arrived. A large canvas containing a few preliminary outlines was on his easel. Neal looked up and smiled as he sniffed the air, apparently happy for both the interruption and the drinks. He peppered Peter with questions about the telescope workshops while they had their coffee.
"I gather your painting's not going well?" Peter remarked. "You're not normally curious about the details of telescope mirror grinding."
Neal glanced at the canvas. "I restarted it several times and scratched each attempt. Now it's back to the drawing board, literally."
Peter picked up a photo lying on the table. It showed a city at night. The lights were reflected in a body of water. "Is this your inspiration?"
Neal nodded. "That's Geneva. The Rhone is in the foreground. St. Pierre's Cathedral is on the hill."
"And why, may I ask, are you drawing inspiration from Geneva?"
"I selected rivers that I'd run along during various stages of my life for the exhibition. Geneva's turned into my Waterloo. Perhaps it's because everything about that period has become so muddled."
Peter could well imagine his feelings. It was only last month that Rolf had been identified as Azathoth. Instead of having been killed in a car accident five years ago, he was believed to have undergone plastic surgery. Rolf assumed the identity of Alistair Chapman and worked for years as the creative director at a major special effects company, Scima Workshop.
But the evidence was not sufficient to pass muster in a court of law. Chapman had been identified as Rolf based on DNA samples and behavioral clues but disappeared before they could apprehend him. The team had identified a plastic surgeon living in Salzburg who had likely performed Rolf's transformation, but local officials had repeatedly denied access to his files. In response, Peter and Hughes had taken the extraordinary step of green-lighting a hack attack on the doctor's computer. Travis and Aidan Phillips, who had developed the anti-malware program to counter Rolf's attacks, were now working to decrypt the files. Peter wasn't feeling muddled. He was frustrated. Every time they made a step forward, another door was slammed in their face.
And Neal? Was he feeling guilt more than anything else? The discovery that their arch-enemy was the brother of the man Neal had once considered his mentor and who had viewed Neal as a younger brother was not a good scenario. Rolf was a constant reminder to Neal that he'd unmasked Klaus to Peter. That action set in motion the chain of events which led to Klaus's death at the Metropolitan Museum of Art.
Neal was smiling at him. "I can see those brain cells working. You're stewing that I chose Geneva because of Klaus, aren't you?"
"And is he why you're having issues with the painting?"
He shrugged. "I don't deny I have been thinking about Klaus, but that's the point. Professor Stockman has drilled into me the need to transfer those emotions onto canvas. Seeing them as art should enable me to be more objective about them, right?"
"It's a good theory. Do you think it'd work for me, too?"
"More paint-by-number masterpieces like the one in your parents' basement?" He laughed. "Probably not, but finger paints might do the trick. I'll set you up with an easel."
Peter had closed the door when he walked in, an action which was now automatic. Their conversations so often drifted off to questions about cases, it was only prudent. He was glad when he heard a knock at the door. Even though Watson seemed deserted, there were others present.
When Neal opened the door, Peter saw a pretty blonde standing in the doorway. She was dressed casually in jeans and a paint-splattered t-shirt with her long hair tied back in a loose ponytail. Peter would have said she wore no makeup, but he'd learned from El that was really just a woman's artful way of pretending not to wear makeup. Whatever. With makeup or not, she was a looker.
Neal made the introductions. Her name was Bianka Kaldy, a new student from Hungary. She spoke fluent English but with a heavy accent.
"Neal and I were discussing studying to music," she said, handing Neal a disc. "This is a CD of Haydn's string quartet music."
Neal thanked her. "I'd mentioned how I used Mozart to survive my course in computational art."
"And I had tried the same technique at my university in Budapest, but had used Haydn. Neal lent me a CD on Mozart and we're going to compare results."
"I didn't think there were any courses in the summer," Peter said.
"None in art," she agreed, "but the American Language Program at the university offers English classes for international students."
Neal smiled. "Don't let her fool you, Peter. Her English is excellent."
"Hah! Tell that to the shopkeeper who can't understand what I'm talking about."
"I like your accent," Peter said gallantly. "It's charming."
"I shall quote you to the next shopkeeper who orders me to speak English when I already am."
"Not bad," Peter remarked appreciatively to Neal after she left. "I'm glad you're not the only one here. This is probably Bianka's first Fourth of July. You're welcome to invite her to the barbecue. It would just be a group of friends."
"You realize who you sound like, don't you?" Neal commented, eyeing him skeptically.
Peter groaned inwardly. He knew he shouldn't have tried. This was work best left to the pro in the family.
"Your counterpart in Diana's stories used practically the same words when he tried to fix Neal Carter up with a date." He shook his head. "I knew El was a matchmaker. Et tu, Brute?"
Snagged again. Recently, both he and Neal had caught themselves acting like their alter-egos. Last spring Diana had started writing fanfiction stories featuring him and Neal in an attempt to manipulate Azathoth, who was a fan of the horror writer H.P. Lovecraft. The strategy certainly seemed to be working on Peter. He hoped it was equally successful with Rolf. "Why are you so sure El's a matchmaker?"
"Diana has you admit it in her stories. And if Diana wrote it, it must be true. As you no doubt recall, I promised I'd hold her as my guide in all things so she wouldn't exact revenge on my character."
"And how has that worked out for you?"
"Not bad. I survived the last story, didn't I?"
"Barely, thanks to yours truly, and don't think I didn't notice you deflecting neatly away from my question."
"I appreciate the offer, but if I take Bianka to a White Collar event, you know Jones will start razzing me about the new woman in my life. Soon everyone in the office will be asking questions about her and offering unwanted advice. If I say we're just friends, they'll mock me."
"I understand." Neal had used that line for months before acknowledging he and Fiona were much more than that.
"It's only been a few weeks since Fiona and I broke up. Let's wait a while longer before you rev up the matchmaking machine, or at least till I get the painting of the Loire done."
"You're painting Amboise, the scene of the crime, too?"
He shrugged. "I refer you to the Stockman therapy technique that I'm using for Klaus."
"Is it equally successful?"
"I'm happy to report that the prognosis for the Loire is more favorable. Fiona and I have talked several times. We've decided to avoid recriminations and have declared a no-fault breakup."
"That's good news, and I'm glad you have Bianka for company. You must miss having your friends around."
"Aidan's kept his studio as well. I'm meeting him tomorrow. He's added some new lines for Yellowface, the Masked Avenger, which I need to record. Comic-Con is less than two weeks away."
Prentis Hall, Columbia University. Sunday afternoon.
Aidan's studio was north of the Columbia campus. Like the building it was in, his workspace was a different world from the traditional setup Neal had. Whereas Neal's studio was stuffed with easels, art supplies, and canvases in various stages of completion, Aidan's looked like a computer lab. But for an artist who was also a skilled programmer at a cybersecurity company, it made sense. Aidan had become interested in the visual arts when he was an undergrad at MIT. At Columbia he worked exclusively in digital media.
Neal and Aidan worked solid for hours on Sunday with only a quick break for lunch. Aidan's quest for perfectionism was worse than Neal's on a forgery. Well, maybe the equivalent. Neal heaved a sigh of relief when Aidan finally took off his headphones and pronounced himself satisfied with the results.
"I lost track of how many times you made me record that twenty-second segment," Neal grumbled. "You must have used every sound effect in your arsenal. Are you trying to be the next Peter Jackson?"
"Better not say that. If recording you could do the trick, I'd keep you here for the next week." Aidan began shutting off the equipment. "I still can't believe I'll be showing at Comic-Con."
"It should have sunk in by now. The way the judges raved at your video at the sci-fi convention, it was obvious you'd win first prize. Mozzie's already dreaming of movie deals."
"He may not be so far off base."
"You mean you've already been approached?" Neal asked, stunned.
"Not quite but close enough. And it's thanks to Keiko. She has a cousin who works for Hotaru Productions, one of the largest animation studios in Japan. Toma is attending Comic-Con along with several other representatives from their company and wants to meet with me. He thinks Hotaru may be interested in the video."
"To develop as a . . . ?"
Aidan shrugged. "Comic book, cartoon . . . He wasn't specific, but I'd be happy with anything. Keiko returned to Japan at the end of the term to attend a friend's wedding. Without breathing a word about it to me, she took a copy of the video along expressly to show to Toma. She probably knew I would have insisted on multiple revisions." Aidan chuckled as he admitted, "I never thought she could be so devious."
"It's the sweet, innocent ones who can make the best con artists." At first glance, Aidan's girlfriend was the least likely person in the world to pull a scam. Neal remembered how shy she was when they first met last September. They'd helped each other become familiar with the university. Neal had also felt out of place, but his jitters were nothing compared to hers. And now he could claim partial credit for Aidan and Keiko's happiness since he had introduced her to Aidan.
"You should talk with Mozzie," he reminded Aidan. "He already has plans to be your agent, and his skills as a lawyer are not to be sneezed at."
"I'm counting on it. Mozzie reviewed the contract my company has with the FBI. I'm sure he already believes he's on retainer." Aidan rolled his chair away from the video-editing console and stretched his legs in front of him. "I hope to investigate other opportunities as well while I'm at Comic-Con. Richard thinks he can get me an interview with Scima."
"I thought Richard was working on game development."
"He is, but the facility where he works also handles film productions. It's second in size only to their headquarters in London."
"You'd move to L.A.?"
"In a heartbeat. Or San Francisco. George Lucas's production company, Industrial Light & Magic, is there. I could make the sacrifice." Clearly Aidan was in the grips of Comic-Con fever. He was so excited that his face was turning almost as red as his hair.
"What about your cybersecurity company? Would you quit?"
Aidan shook his head. "That shouldn't be necessary. You combine your art with working at the FBI. I don't see why I couldn't work on visual effects during the day and also keep a hand in programming. I could work remotely, doing just the jobs that interest me, like the software we developed to combat Azathoth's security system malware. In fact I could make a strong case to my company that we need a representative on the West Coast. Playa Vista, where Scima is located, is considered to be another Silicon Valley. We could open a branch office, focusing on West Coast and Asia. You know the West Coast museums have been slow to adopt our software."
Neal nodded. "Travis complained about it at Friday's briefing."
"You proved my point."
Once they finished outlining Aidan's future career path to their mutual satisfaction, Neal rose to leave.
"You need to see these first," Aidan said, stopping him. "Keiko brought them by yesterday." He removed the lid from a large cardboard box on the floor.
Neal peered inside. "The t-shirts came!" Keiko had taken Richard's design of the bee avenger and converted it into a t-shirt design. She'd ordered more than enough for everyone who had participated in the video along with their friends who were going to Comic-Con. Neal picked up t-shirts for Angela and Michael and for those who'd be at the barbecue. Michael wouldn't be at Comic-Con. He was saving his vacation days to visit Angela in West Virginia, but they could both wear their t-shirts in a gesture of solidarity.
The Ritz-Carlton, Marina del Rey, California. Sunday, July 3, 2005
Marta Kolar pulled her car up to the portico at the Ritz-Carlton and handed the key to the waiting attendant. Let someone else park the car. She felt like splurging. The long months of preparation were drawing to an end.
Rolf had made an excellent choice for his hotel. It was only two miles from the Scima campus which meant she didn't have to battle the infamous L.A. traffic to see him. In the two months she'd been at her new position, Marta had learned that in California location was everything. It was what made her value the tiny shoebox of an apartment Scima had arranged for her. That hadn't been the case when she first saw it, but the apartment's proximity to Scima made it prime real estate. In any case, she'd only have a couple more weeks to endure it and the congestion. Rolf had promised that after Operation Capriccio was concluded, she could return with him to the castle in Hungary.
Anya's home in the mountains north of Budapest was not only an impregnable fortress for Ydrus but it had also become Marta's safe haven. She still felt like she was living in a dream world. She'd risen in just a few years from being a lowly programmer in Prague to one of Anya's closest associates. As head of Ydrus, Anya called herself Python. For Marta she'd chosen the name Diamondback. Marta liked the name so much, she'd had a tiny diamondback rattlesnake tattooed on the small of her back. Anya had a tattoo of a small python on of her fingers which was readily disguised by a ring. Marta's was also easily concealed. She'd now hidden her identity as well.
Marta rode the elevator up to Rolf's suite. Pausing at the entrance, she listened to the strains of piano music coming from inside. Those dark and somber chords had to be Rachmaninov. She'd once told Rolf it reminded her of an approaching storm. He'd looked at her with fresh eyes after that.
Anya had warned her he'd changed. Would she recognize him? She knocked on the door. The music stopped and a moment later he opened it.
Her mouth dropped in amazement. "Is that you?"
He smiled approval at her reaction. "Come in, my pet."
The man who greeted her at the door looked nothing like Chapman. Rolf was transformed. Younger and more virile. So much sexier . . . His dark angular face reminded her a little of Sean Connery. But the eyes were the same as when he was Alistair Chapman—mesmerizing. So dark, they looked black. Anya might be enchanted by Klaus's blue eyes but not her. She could lose herself in Rolf's espresso gaze. Who was she kidding? She already had.
He beckoned her to take a seat. "My appearance pleases you, I see. Rolf has been dead for so long, I decided I could safely regain my former appearance. You see before you Rolf Mansfeld with the plastic surgery stripped off."
For as long as she'd known him, he'd always looked like Chapman. She used to think it was because of the power he wielded that she found him irresistible but no longer. "Did Bergeron perform the surgery?"
"No, I used a surgeon in Italy. Bergeron's usefulness has been compromised now that he's on Interpol's radar." He stroked his chin. "A few bruises are left, but in general I'm pleased. When I go out, I wear a beard as does Klaus. A simple procedure but quite effective."
"You're retaining your English accent?"
"I've grown fond of it. I see no need to change." He sat down opposite her. The armchairs were in front of the French patio doors which opened onto a private terrace overlooking the Pacific Ocean. Marta gazed around the room. It reminded her of a luxurious version of Napoleon's field office in gold and navy. Masculine and opulent. Even the furniture seemed neoclassical.
"Your new appearance suits you," he said, pouring her a glass of wine from the wine bucket next to his chair. "Should I call you Katja?"
"Please. Marta Kolar has been put on a shelf to be resurrected at a later time."
"That's wise. You're less likely to slip up. Katja Visser. Short and sweet, my pet. You'll do."
"When will Klaus arrive?"
"In a couple of hours. You've performed all the checks?"
She nodded. "We'll have no recurrence of what happened at the Met in May."
"Good." A brief smile flitted across his face. "I've already informed Kramer to be prepared. It's unfortunate he won't be able to record Peter's expression when he receives the request. I'd enjoy having it as a memento." He sipped his wine for a moment. "Earlier this year, we came close to eliminating Kramer. Now he's become a key element to our operation. I knew my instincts were right." He turned to her. "Anya called yesterday to report on her sister's progress. Bianka and Neal have become friends. As we instructed, Bianka is proceeding slowly, but she's confident Neal is already interested in her."
No wonder Rolf was in such a good mood. All their decisions were having the predicted results. It had been Klaus's idea to use Bianka. Last fall when Neal was working with them in New York, Klaus had visited Neal's studio on campus. While there, he'd met a shy Japanese student whom Neal had befriended. Bianka had been coached to appeal to Neal's chivalrous side in a similar fashion, and it was working.
"What's the status of Operation Capriccio?" Rolf asked.
"We're on hold, awaiting Klaus's arrival. When will I be able to interview him?"
"Beginning on Tuesday, he'll be at your disposal."
"Good. We'll have to make the preparations at night," she warned. "I won't be able to leave during the day. Have you decided if you'd like to proceed with Operation Counterpoint?"
"Is your code ready?"
"It is, but to implement it, I won't be available for anything else over the weekend."
He pondered for a moment as he gazed out at the ocean. "Yes, go ahead. You'll have the evenings to work with Klaus. That should give you ample time. Our doctor, Herr Penfold, promises success, and the research I've conducted substantiates his claims. Still, the lack of independently confirmed documentation is a concern. This weekend will be the perfect opportunity for our experiment, and Neal's friend makes an ideal candidate. Have you met Richard?"
She nodded, setting down her glass. "He's not on my team, but I've consulted with his group on their project. I've kept my contact with him to a minimum as you recommended."
"Good. There's no chance he would recognize you but there's no need to draw any attention to yourself. Once the experiment is finished, it won't matter. How long will you need for Counterpoint?"
"I'll notify Penfold to finalize the program. Since it's already written, there are only a few adjustments to make. The procedure itself will take fourteen hours. I'll schedule it for Saturday. Richard lives alone, so I don't foresee any difficulties. Sunday I'll monitor him for its effectiveness. When he returns to work on Monday, I'll run further tests."
"Make sure to finish the evaluation by the thirteenth," he cautioned. "Any adjustments must be finalized before Bastille Day on Thursday." A slight smile etched his lips. "Ironic, isn't it, that as the French celebrate their independence, Neal will lose his freedom."
She raised her glass to him. "And he won't even realize it."
Notes: Thanks for reading! You're all invited to the Burke Brooklyn Barbecue next week in Chapter 2: Fireworks in the Sky. Rolf also has a celebration planned, and it includes a message to Neal and Peter. I'll post chapters weekly on Wednesday.
This story is part of the Caffrey Conversation AU, created by Penna Nomen, and I'm delighted that Penna has once more agreed to act as beta editor for Nocturne in Black and Gold. If you'd like to see photos of the cast members and other visuals, visit the Nocturne in Black and Gold board at our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site where both Penna and I pin illustrations for our stories. I'll update the board with additional pins when I post a new chapter. This week's pins include cast members, locations, and the paintings mentioned in this chapter.
Penna and I share a blog, called Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation where we post about our stories and adventures in writing. We also have summaries for all the stories we've written. FanFiction doesn't allow links in notes, but I've added links to both our blog and our Pinterest site in my profile.
Background on the Caffrey Conversation AU for new readers: This series was created by Penna Nomen and begins with her story Caffrey Conversation. Our blog has a list and short summaries for all the stories in chronological order. The primary difference from canon in that Neal was never sent to prison and the characters are several years younger. The personalities of canon characters (Elizabeth, Mozzie, Diana, Jones, Hughes, June, and Sara) are the same.
Peter recruited Neal in 2003 when he was 24. In the fall of 2004 he entered Columbia University's graduate program in art as a part-time student. In the spring of 2005 Peter and Neal were appointed to the Interpol art crimes task force. The work on the task force is part time and places additional emphasis on art crimes for the White Collar team. In canon, Neal's only relatives to be mentioned are his father and mother. In ours, his mother Meredith has a twin sister named Noelle who is a psychologist. Noelle married Peter's older brother Joe during the 2004 Christmas holidays. Henry Winslow is Noelle's son and nearly three years older than Neal. He works at a private investigation and security company named Winston-Winslow (usually referred to as Win-Win). Neal has one other cousin, Angela, who is the daughter of Noelle and Meredith's deceased brother. Working with the White Collar team are two non-canon characters: Travis Miller, a technical expert, and Tricia Wiese, a profiler. Neal's friends at Columbia include fellow grad students Richard and Aidan. Pins for the entire cast and locations are on our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site.
Disclaimers: White Collar and its characters are not mine. Any references to real institutions, people, and locations are not necessarily true or accurate.