Chapter 1: Old Friends
White Collar Division. September 17, 2004. Friday afternoon.
"So, if three numbers are the same, I'd have to pay Jones $30, but then I'd collect $50 from the rest of you. Like to try it again?" Neal Caffrey scooped up the dice and prepared to roll them. The small group of people gathered around his desk launched into a feverish scribbling of numbers on slips of paper.
"Hold on a minute. Let me run the numbers." Jones pulled out his calculator and tapped madly through the probabilities.
"Hey, no fair," Diana slammed back. "Give me a chance to win back my money."
"Isn't using a calculator cheating?" Tricia asked, eyeing Jones suspiciously.
Peter laughed as he looked down at the bullpen. The agents didn't stand a chance. Neal would win all their lunch money and then some, and they wouldn't even mind. Quite a transformation from what it was like when he joined White Collar nine months ago. Peter remembered all too well the initial unease the agents had felt about having a criminal become a member of their team. But Neal had worked hard at gaining their respect, and it was gratifying to see how that distrust had now changed into acceptance. Of course, the Caffrey charm offensive hadn't hurt either.
Neal had even managed to calm Peter's nerves. His inner Neal radar used to be constantly on, monitoring for any trouble. In the beginning Peter had been on high alert for a skeleton from Neal's past to reappear or for an entanglement in some scheme of Mozzie's, or any other in a long list of pitfalls. But Peter's radar had been turned off for months now. Next item on the agenda: curb that reckless streak.
Heading down the stairs, he mocked the group, "How much is Neal taking you for this time?"
"Why, Peter, I was simply instructing them in the finer points of the Bird Cage. Think of all the money you saved by not needing to hire an instructor. And, frankly, I'm shocked that Quantico didn't do a better job in training them." Neal managed to convey both disarming innocence and shocked dismay in precisely the correct proportions to have everyone burst out laughing.
"Right, you're a regular Samaritan. Well, to spare the others from being fleeced entirely, let's call it quits for the week. It's close enough to five o'clock for me."
Responding to their enthusiastic thanks, Peter waved them off. "Just remember this next time I call you in on the weekend."
"Have any plans?" Neal asked Peter as they headed for the elevator.
"It's going to be a weekend of putting my feet up, watching baseball, and relaxing," Peter replied. "Elizabeth is out of town visiting her parents, so I won't have to fight her for the remote. She left me a long list of honey-does which I'll probably ignore, plus a well-stocked fridge which I'll definitely not ignore. How 'bout you?"
"Saturday classes for me. But this weekend is special. My baroque painting seminar—the one taught by Sherkov—is meeting at the Met. The Dutch Baroque Masters exhibit is currently going on and we'll be discussing some of the works. I will dazzle and amaze the group by lecturing on a painting by Vermeer, The Woman in Blue Reading a Letter. If you get bored of baseball, I could probably arrange for you to sit in."
"Sorry but baseball and boredom are two words that never go together."
"Okay, DiMaggio, see ya Monday."
Metropolitan Museum of Art. September 18, 2004. Saturday noon.
Neal arrived at the museum early. His seminar was scheduled to start at two o'clock, but he wanted to have some time to himself first. Being able to use his Columbia ID to get in free at the Met was a perk he never got tired of. And that his ID was not a forgery but genuine, how unbelievable was that? If his aunt Noelle hadn't finagled a way for him to apply by going through that monumental series of exams, it simply wouldn't have been possible. After all, he didn't even have a high school diploma, let alone a bachelor's. How'd he survived the torture of those exams still seemed like a miracle. He'd never crammed so hard in his life. Without Peter, he would have self-destructed.
Neal paused in the museum's Great Hall. He really should do more to thank Noelle and Peter. Wonder what they would think if he invited them to the grad school's Family Day? Neal grinned to himself. That could be fun. He'd have to look into it.
Neal headed up the main staircase to the second floor where the nineteenth and early twentieth century European paintings galleries were located. Old habits die hard. It was difficult not to take note of the fire escapes, the security cameras. Where were the guards stationed? How were the paintings attached to the walls? What were the likely escape routes? That process had become so natural, it was like breathing. Would that ever change? Maybe it shouldn't. After all, wasn't that part of what made him a valued consultant?
But now he needed to focus on why he'd come. His own works were going to be exhibited at the end of the year. Granted, not at the Met, but the art gallery at Columbia wasn't to be sneezed out. Sitting down on a bench in front of a Matisse still life, Neal pulled out his sketch pad. As he began to sketch, fire escapes, exams, and all other extraneous thoughts faded away. The crowd of visitors became inconsequential. He was in his own world. The Matisse, his pencils, and the paper were the only things that mattered . . . .
"Time to rejoin the seventeenth century!" No mistaking that booming voice. Neal looked around to see his advisor, Ivan Sherkov, grinning down at him. "I noticed you sketching on my way to the gallery. Think you can manage to pull yourself away?"
Glancing at his watch, Neal was astonished to see it was almost time for the seminar to begin. "Sorry, wouldn't want to be late—I've been looking forward to this," he said, hastily stowing his pencils and sketches.
Neal and Sherkov set off together for the Dutch Baroque Masters exhibit, which was housed in the special exhibition area next to the paintings wing. A long line of visitors was waiting to gain admittance, but they could bypass the crowd and walk through a side entrance. Space had been cordoned off for the seminar group.
There were ten students in his class. Five of them had been scheduled to speak, each one having selected a different painting on display. Neal spoke last:
"This painting by Vermeer depicts a young woman absorbed in reading a letter. Clad in a blue night jacket, all the other colors in the painting are secondary to its radiant lapis lazuli blue. The effects of light are extraordinary. Notice how the shadows on the wall are pale blue, and the woman's skin is painted with pale gray rather than flesh tones. As is typical with Vermeer, the painting abounds in symbols and hidden meanings: the map, the pearl necklace on the table, the letter itself . . . ."
As he spoke, some of the museum visitors gathered in the back to listen. Neal enjoyed making a presentation. He fed off the reactions and facial expressions of his audience. As he talked, he surveyed not only his seminar group, but also the museum visitors standing behind them. The young couple holding hands, the elderly man with a beard, the Chinese teenager, the tall man in a turtleneck. Neal did a double take. Was that? Surely not. But he was the spitting image.
Neal finished his remarks and was kept busy answering questions posed by Sherkov and members of his group for several minutes. The first chance he had, he scanned the crowd, but he couldn't find him. Was it really him or just a freakish resemblance? Puzzling.
The seminar concluded, everyone gathered up their notebooks. Neal went back to his seat for his and that's when he saw it. A small origami leopard peeked out from his sketch pad. Neal pocketed it and after chatting with the other students for a few minutes headed off.
Once he was away from the exhibition crowd, he stopped to unfold the leopard. A short, hastily scrawled message was inside: "La Palette—5 p.m."
So it was him. How long has it been? Two years give or take. The last time was in Berlin, for the Nationalgalerie job. What a disaster that was—he had hoped that chapter of his life was closed forever. Did he really want to reopen it?
But two years is a long time. Klaus may have changed as much as he had. And wasn't it his duty to find out why he was in New York and particularly why he was at the Met? It would take finesse. Klaus knew him so well, he'd have to be en garde to give the impression that he was still the Neal he remembered. But this was a summons he simply couldn't ignore.
It was already 4:30 p.m. He'd have to hustle to make it.
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
La Palette was a small bistro and wine bar on East 79th and Third Avenue. A local favorite, its walls were covered with contemporary art. The owner, an artist himself, had established a policy where an artist could offer a painting to the bistro, and if it were accepted the artist would get sixty percent off all tabs for as long as the painting was exhibited. Some paintings rotated out, but others stayed on permanent exhibition. Neal had one on permanent display and was good friends with the owner, Jacques Legault.
Promptly at 5 p.m., Neal strolled in and waved a breezy greeting to Jacques who was behind the bar. The bistro was already packed and most seats were taken. Glancing around, he saw a familiar face in the back. As he walked up, Neal didn't need to force the broad smile. "Welcome to my side of the pond, Klaus!"
"Neal, come over here!" Klaus exclaimed and gave him an enthusiastic hug. "It's been a while—too long!"
As they sat down at the table, Neal was able to get his first good look at him. Klaus hadn't changed much in the past two years. Tall, with sandy-brown hair, his steel-blue eyes looked as piercing as ever.
"Couldn't believe it was really you at the museum," Neal said. "Not that I'm not delighted to see you, but the Klaus I know used to proclaim loud and often that the New World was a plague to be avoided. As I recall, 'a miasmic pit of bourgeois mediocrity' was your favorite expression for my home. What made you change your tune?"
"I may have been overly harsh," Klaus acknowledged with a grin. "Europe is becoming a bore and a change of scene has a certain appeal. This watering hole, for example, is not devoid of charm. It's very possible I may decide to stay a while." He beckoned a waiter over and ordered a bottle of Chateau Margaux and a cheese board. When the waiter left, he asked, "Isn't that your painting over the sideboard on the right?"
"You have a good eye," Neal said with a nod.
"Your talent was always easy for me to recognize."
Neal smiled. "I heard rumors that you were in Brussels recently. A Rubens was stolen from the Old Masters Museum there a couple of months ago. A very daring robbery, I'm told."
"Such a pity. That work was one of Ruben's finest and a huge painting. Whoever pulled it off must have been a genius," Klaus said smugly. "But what about you? I haven't heard anything about you in it must be over a year." He poured Neal a glass of wine. "I would have contacted you as soon as I arrived, if I'd known you were in town."
"I've been keeping a low profile," Neal explained. "Have a couple of long cons going."
"Two at once? You always were an over-achiever. Does one of them include lecturing at the Met?"
Neal spread some Camembert on a slice of bread. "I wondered when you were going to ask about that. That's a complicated one. Involves my posing as a grad student at Columbia." Changing the subject, Neal asked, "But what about you? What brought you to the Met?"
"That's one of the reasons I wanted to meet with you. When I saw you in the gallery, I couldn't believe my good fortune. You see I'm here for your painting, for The Woman in Blue."
"You're serious?"
"Quite serious. I have a buyer who has taken quite a fancy to that woman. In fact he's so infatuated with her that he's offered me substantially over what would be the standard price. That's what got me started thinking that I should expand my horizons."
"But to hit the Met—the risks are enormous."
"Of course, but that's what makes this doubly attractive. You can't fool me, Neal. I know how reckless you are. Were you planning to steal it yourself?"
Neal reached for another slice of French bread. "No, I have something else going."
"How about a little extracurricular activity? This won't take long, and since you're such an expert multitasker…"
Neal considered. What would be the best way to play this? It was essential to keep Klaus talking and find out what he was planning. "What do you have in mind?"
"I knew you'd be intrigued." Klaus swirled the wine in his glass, studying Neal. "I already have the job worked out, and the elements are in place, all except one that is. I need to have an expert forgery made of The Woman in Blue, one that will pass close inspection. No one can do that as well as you. I had someone else lined up, but the chance of working with you again . . ." and Klaus gestured with his hand. "It would be just like the old days, bro. Are you interested?"
"Perhaps, but I'd need to know a lot more—exactly what you're planning and how it'll be executed."
"You're not thinking of Berlin, are you? This won't be like that, Neal, I promise you. I regret that as much as you do."
"I believe you, but still…" Neal sat back in his chair and steepled his fingers as he considered.
Klaus poured Neal another glass of wine. "You can stop the pretense. The Neal Caffrey I know couldn't resist a job like this. Naturally, the reward will be substantial. You know I'm always very generous."
Neal took a sip of his wine. "It's tempting, I'll grant you that. Can I let you know tomorrow?"
"That'll be acceptable, but no later. I can hold off till 10 a.m. But I know you'll make the right decision." Klaus smiled broadly as he clinked glasses. "Here's to renewing our partnership, bro!"
"To old friends—cheers!"
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Neal left the bistro shortly afterwards, having promised to call Klaus by 10 a.m. The street outside seemed quiet and peaceful compared to the boisterous revelry going on inside. The evening air was refreshingly cool. Taking a deep breath, Neal decided to walk home. He could have taken the subway, but it would be too bright and noisy for the mood he was in. Seeing Klaus had not been as straightforward as he had thought. Their conversation had brought back a flood of memories and feelings he hadn't expected and now somehow he had to make sense of them all.
Walking west past the Met, Neal entered Central Park. He knew the route through the park so well he didn't have to think about where he was going. When he arrived at Turtle Pond in the center of the park, he decided to linger. An owl could be heard off in the distance, its low hoots coming from the trees on the far side of the pond. The moon was reflected on the shimmering surface of the water. It was beautiful and peaceful. Looking into the pond, Neal let his mind journey back to Geneva where he'd first met Klaus, to the friendships, the heists…
The mansion was dark when Neal finally returned home. June was off visiting one of her daughters. Just as well—he was in no mood to talk. When he entered his loft, he emptied his backpack of sketch pad and notebook, pausing when he took out his sketches. Seemed like ages ago that he'd made them. He should be working on his exhibition pieces now, not reliving history. Or should he? He'd originally planned to spend part of Sunday at his studio at Columbia, and now?
Neal poured himself a glass of wine and sat at his table. Across from him was a print of The Woman in Blue propped up on his easel. He had put it there to work on his presentation, and now she was a constant reminder of Klaus's proposal.
Neal contemplated her as he sat. Swirling the wine in his glass, he revisited the conversation in the bistro and his history with Klaus. Klaus had said he knew what the old Neal was going to do. But how would the new Neal handle it?
Neal sat and drank and studied the painting. He'd said it was full of hidden meanings. Maybe the solution to his dilemma was also concealed inside. If the map on the wall in the painting was supposed to reveal the path to follow, it was too vague to decipher. What was contained in the letter she's reading? Did it have the answer?
Nothing else was working—he might as well ask her.
"Excuse me, but are you as confused as I am? And I thought this would be simple—hah! One thing at least is clear. I'm not working for Klaus again. I already made that decision when I renounced that life. I couldn't do that to Peter, and you wouldn't be very happy either. Some knight in shining armor I'd be. So you can go ahead and cross that one off your list.
"But what you don't realize is what a good friend Klaus was to me during a time when I was spinning out of control and badly needed help. Couldn't I simply turn him down and pretend I hadn't met him?
"But what would happen then, you ask? Klaus would steal you—you wouldn't like that I bet. If the theft were discovered, my team, including yours truly, would be called in to investigate, and I wouldn't like that. Klaus might be captured. I don't think the FBI knows of my connection to him, but Interpol might. In any case, if Klaus were questioned, his past history with me could come to light and I'd be charged as an accomplice.
"On the other hand, if Klaus did manage to escape having left a forgery in your place, the forgery would be discovered. Who knows who he would have hired, but certainly not someone who could do justice to you. I'd be the lead suspect, and for an inferior work. That sucks big time. Klaus would probably stay in New York, and so the nightmare would never end. Where would we end up? You'd be stolen and my life would be ruined. I think we can safely scrap that option."
Neal leaned forward and rested his chin on his hands as he considered the implications of what he'd just said. He was distilling it down to a few options and there weren't many left.
"What if I sold out Klaus and told Peter?" he addressed the painting once more. "Would I then be a Judas after everything Klaus had done for me? And even if I told Peter, we'd still know nothing about his plans. Even with my help, you'd still be stolen and the FBI wouldn't be able to catch him. You'd be lost to the world.
"How about if I work undercover and paint the forgery in order to catch him? That would give the FBI the best chance of success. Conning Klaus won't be easy. Still, the chance to paint the forgery and save you—now that would be a double play that Peter would like. That's what you want me to do, isn't it?"
Neal poured himself another glass of wine. Nothing like advice from a painting he thought ruefully. Wonder if she has any words of wisdom on how to tell Peter all this? Peter would probably rain fire and brimstones upon him for not having disclosed anything about Klaus during the confession he made for immunity. Would he even be trusted to go undercover? He might be suspected of conning the FBI in a devious scheme of double-cross.
Neal groaned and ran both hands through his hair. Lecturing himself to get a grip, he knew there was only one decision that made any sense. Let the consequences fall where they may.
Looking at his watch, he was surprised that it was only 10 p.m. He felt like he'd been up all night. At least he wouldn't be waking him up. He picked up his cell phone.
Notes: Thanks for reading! If you'd like to see a photo of The Woman in Blue by Vermeer as well as other visuals, visit The Woman in Blue board of our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site where both Penna Nomen and I pin illustrations and resources for our stories.
Penna and I share a blog, called Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation, where we post about our stories and adventures in writing. [FanFiction doesn't allow links in notes, but I've added links to both our blog and our Pinterest site in my profile.]
The Caffrey Conversation AU begins with Caffrey Conversation (where Peter recruits Neal in 2003) by Penna Nomen. She and I both write stories. Our 'verse differs from canon in that Neal was never sent to prison and the characters are several years younger. The personalities of canon characters are the same.