Chapter 1: Flying Solo
White Collar Division. New York. August 23, 2004. Monday noon.
"This time last year I was in Paris," Neal Caffrey said with a sigh as he eyed his chicken salad sandwich unenthusiastically. "I'm willing to admit that with the heat wave going on outside, our breakroom does possess certain advantages, but somehow it lacks the charm of a West Bank café. Perhaps we could add an espresso machine in here," he added hopefully.
"You should count yourself lucky," Peter said as he retrieved his deviled ham sandwich from the fridge. "You could have been spending the day in the surveillance van instead of enjoying the ambiance of our breakroom."
"Thank you, Peter, for pointing that out. I'm sensing a new appeal to our office decor. We can hold off on the espresso machine for a while. Perhaps a simple mural on the wall—"
"Besides, if you were in Paris, think of the opportunities you'd be missing," Peter continued, warming up to the subject as he sat down at the table. "For one thing, you wouldn't be able to study at Columbia. Isn't pursuing a master's in art better than clambering over rooftops and being chased by Interpol?"
"I'll take that under advisement. Once classes start I'll get back to you."
"Not getting butterflies, are you, Caffrey?" Clinton Jones had come into the break room with his lunch bag and joined them at the table. "You do realize your evenings of leisure are shortly going to come to a blistering halt, not to mention your Saturdays and any other free time you once possessed."
"Don't remind me," Neal said with a groan. "I still have two weeks of freedom left, but orientation has already begun."
"And then there are the papers, the countless hours of research," Jones added, obviously enjoying himself.
"Don't pile it on too thick," cautioned Peter. "I don't want him changing his mind."
"No chance of that," Neal scoffed as he helped himself to a yogurt. "After all the testing and paperwork I had to go through, I'm not backing out now. I'm meeting with my advisor after work to go over my schedule. Classes begin on the seventh of September."
"How are you getting on with your advisor? Sherkov was his name, right?"
"Yeah, Ivan Mikhailovich Sherkov," Neal said, rolling his hand with a dramatic flourish. "Sherkov has been quite an introduction to the art program. At our first meeting we bonded over baroque art, then he discovered I speak Russian and proceeded to invite me and another student over to his place for borsch. He even brought out a samovar for tea. After that, of course, we needed to toast the upcoming year with pepper-flavored vodka. I can tell that having him for an advisor is going to be an adventure in itself."
Jones shook his head in disbelief. "You liberal arts types have all the luck. He's a lot more colorful than any of the advisors I had."
"Let's just say, Sherkov understands the creative thought process that is necessary for an artist," Neal replied loftily.
"How many courses do you plan on taking to keep this creative thought process going?" Peter asked.
"There's a required lecture and I've also applied for two seminars. In addition, I'll be working on my studio pieces for the exhibition in May. Did I tell you they've assigned me my own studio with 24-hour access?"
"Impressive. And a good thing. Your loft is too cramped for all the art you'll be working on."
"You got that right. June will be relieved not to have my paint fumes waft through her house. I'm lucky I live so close to Columbia, but even so, the commuting back and forth between classes, studio, and work is going to keep me hopping."
"Beats leaping over fences in my book!" Peter said contentedly. "My evenings are going to be much more relaxing with you moonlighting as a student than when you were off pulling heists."
Columbia University. August 23, 2004. Monday evening.
When Neal exited the subway at the Columbia University station, he was early for his meeting with Sherkov. It gave him an opportunity to continue his explorations of the Morningside campus. As he strolled through the quad, he still found it difficult to believe that he belonged there. That he would be at Columbia as a legally enrolled student, not a con artist pretending to be one, still seemed unreal.
Last December he was well along on his chosen path to become a renaissance criminal. A chance meeting with Peter in St. Louis changed that trajectory when Peter recruited him for his team. Then in April his aunt Noelle had facilitated his application to graduate school at Columbia in their art history and visual arts programs. He'd been accepted and now was on his way to obtaining a dual master's. Unbelievable.
To have all these new opportunities was exhilarating, but he also couldn't help but feel that they came at a price. Nine months ago he had no strings and no commitments. Nine months ago he could do whatever he wanted, go wherever he pleased (as long as it wasn't too close to the FBI or Interpol), and set his own schedule. As Mozzie would say, he was a free man with no need to play by the rules. He didn't have all these deadlines, all these expectations.
Still there was something to be said for actually belonging on a university campus, even if it wasn't in Paris.
Sherkov's office was along a back corridor in one of the oldest buildings on campus. The room was lined with floor-to-ceiling bookcases which were stuffed with books and journals. Prints and photographs were stacked high in perilously unstable heaps of dizzying proportions on the side tables. An antique walnut desk was next to the window which looked out on the quad below. Comfortable leather armchairs invited visitors to linger.
Ivan Sherkov looked well-suited for his surroundings. He possessed a ruddy complexion, rotund proportions, and a genial disposition. He had a mane of unruly white curly hair and dressed irrespective of the season in his trademark tweed jacket and corduroys. Although he'd lived in New York long enough to lose most of his accent, his deep bass voice was still reminiscent of an amiable Russian bear.
Neal had chosen him to be his advisor based on his expertise in western oil paintings, and the two had immediately hit it off. During their first meetings, the conversations had been extensive and wide-reaching on a range of topics from art to Europe, gastronomy to chess.
Today's meeting was to finalize Neal's schedule for the first semester starting in September. Sherkov had good news. He'd been accepted into his first choices for seminars: Egyptian Art in the New Kingdom and Dutch Baroque Painting.
"I'm delighted you chose my course on Dutch Baroque Painting. The timing is excellent as the Met will be hosting an exhibit on Dutch Masters this fall. I'm curious, though, as to why you chose the Egyptian course."
"Painting, sculpture, metallurgy—all were developed to such a high degree in this period." Neal paused as he reflected on the question. "I confess to being fascinated by the mystery that surrounds Egyptian art. Ancient tombs buried under the sands continue to be discovered as the dunes shift. Items looted long ago are found in a dusty corner in a bazaar. Ancient hieroglyphs hint at treasures waiting to be found. It's not only the art, but the stories behind them."
"Yes, the stories behind the art . . . ." Sherkov got up from his desk and walked over to the window. He looked out at the quad, but his thoughts appeared elsewhere.
After a minute he turned to Neal and said, "Could you stay a little longer? Since you enjoy mysteries, I have one I'd like to discuss with you. It relates to your work at the FBI."
Neal grew tense as he braced himself for what might come. Had someone raised a flag over his less than scholarly activities for the past several years? This had been gnawing at him for a while. Although he had never been charged with a crime, the speculation about him on Interpol had been extensive. Nothing had come up during the application process, and he was confident that the background information provided by the Marshals would stand up to inspection, but still . . . .
"Of course," he said with an easy smile as he relaxed into the armchair. "I'm in no hurry."
"This is not something I would normally talk about with a student; however, the FBI recommended you so highly on your application, I know I can trust you to be discreet."
Neal inwardly sighed in relief. Whoa, kudos to Peter. He must have pulled out all the stops on that letter of recommendation I asked for. I'm going to have to find a way to read it.
"You don't have to worry on that score. What does this concern?"
Sherkov returned to his chair. Clasping his hands over his stomach, he said, "Last Saturday an acquaintance of mine, an antique dealer by the name of Boris Trifonov, contacted me. He said that a woman had come to his store to ask him to appraise a family heirloom. He didn't want to give many details about the heirloom over the telephone … I should explain, Boris is very secretive by nature. He sees enemies everywhere, Bolsheviks hiding behind coat racks." Sherkov sighed. "He can be very trying."
Neal winced in sympathy. A Russian Mozzie. "Yes, the paranoia of friends can be a challenge," he agreed.
Sherkov nodded. "You know of what I speak. Nevertheless, I was finally able to coax out of him that Boris believes this heirloom to be a Fabergé egg; moreover, not just any egg but one of the lost imperial eggs. I assume you're familiar with them?"
"Yes, of course. I believe there are eight imperial eggs now listed as lost." Excited, Neal leaned forward as he considered the implications of one being rediscovered. "An imperial egg would be an incredible find. Do you know which one he thought it might be?"
"No, and he would not provide a description, but he did make an appointment. He was to come to my office Saturday evening at six and show it to me. And this is the mystery—he never arrived, even though I waited for several hours."
"Did you try reaching him on his cell?"
Sherkov shook his head with a smile. "Boris Trifonov is old school, my friend. He doesn't believe in cell phones. He distrusts computers as agents of the KGB. Sometimes I wonder if he fully accepts electricity."
"Did you try his house?"
"I don't have his home phone number, but this morning, I called his store and spoke with his assistant. She informed me he doesn't work there on Mondays." Sherkov frowned. "I hesitate to bring in the police. Quite possibly there is nothing wrong. He may have just changed his mind. If I involve the police at this stage, Boris would no doubt be greatly offended. On the other hand, he may have had an accident. Or there may be some other force at play. What do you advise?"
"How well do you know Trifonov? Is his failure to make the appointment very unexpected?"
"My dealings with him have been primarily at art receptions. Our discussions were about art and antiquities and little else. This is the first time he's asked to meet me."
"I could go by his store. He may be there on Tuesday, and the mystery will be easily solved. He may have decided it was a forgery."
"Very true. Boris is an expert on Russian antiquities. It is conceivable that he examined it at greater length and concluded it was not worth the trouble of bringing it by."
After obtaining Trifonov's work address and telephone number, Neal headed back to his loft. He debated calling Peter, but opted not to disturb him. Peter had looked so cheerful at the thought of quiet evenings at home. Neal smiled to himself. He guessed he could occasionally allow Peter one or two evenings off. Besides, he had research to do. Pouring himself a glass of wine, he pulled out his laptop and got to work.
White Collar Division, New York. August 24, 2004. Tuesday morning.
When Peter arrived at the office on Tuesday morning, he was startled to see to see Neal already hard at work, his desk littered in papers and photographs.
"Morning, Neal." Peter paused and looked more closely at the wreckage of his desk. "Did I miss a BOLO?"
"Oh, it's probably nothing . . . ."
"Or?"
"Or it could be a lost treasure worth millions of dollars," Neal concluded triumphantly. "Yes, while you were having a relaxing evening at home with Elizabeth, your hard-working consultant was researching a case for us—the case of the missing Fabergé egg."
"All right, I'll bite—you got my attention. Give me a couple of minutes then fill me in." Peter smiled to himself as he went upstairs. This should be good.
A few minutes later, Neal arrived at Peter's door, armed with papers and coffee.
"Weren't you at Columbia last night?" Peter asked as he warily watched his desk disappear under Neal's materials.
"I met with my advisor as scheduled," Neal assured him. We talked about my classes and then he laid an egg on my lap."
"A likely story."
"This actually is all because of you. I'd no idea you'd praised me so highly in your recommendation. Sherkov mentioned how he had the utmost confidence in me because of it. You really should let me read it so I know how best to live up to your expectations."
"Oh, I don't think we need go there. Why don't you tell me about this egg on your lap?"
Neal then launched into an account of the events of the previous evening. "According to what I've been able to find out, Trifonov has been living in New York since 1980. He lives alone and has never had any problem with the police. His store is on the Upper East Side, and is renowned for being the best source on the east coast for valuable Russian antiquities."
Peter studied his photo—a lean, haughty face with sparse gray hair and an aquiline nose stared back at him.
Neal continued, "If someone had what they thought might be a Fabergé egg, it would be perfectly logical to approach Trifonov about it."
"Do we know anything about the egg?"
Shaking his head, Neal said, "Not yet. There are only fifty-two imperial Fabergé eggs which are known to have been produced, and of those eight are lost. This potentially could be one of the lost eggs and immensely valuable—fetching perhaps twenty million dollars or even more at auction."
Peter put down the photo and sipped his coffee. "This isn't much of a case, Neal. A missed appearance at a meeting. A possible Fabergé egg, but no proof. No evidence of fowl play."
Neal said with a groan, "Couldn't help yourself, could you?"
Peter grinned. "Nope, not when something like this get tossed in my lap."
"Could we at least go to the antique store? Trifonov may be there and can clear up the mystery. Perhaps the egg is in the store and I could examine it."
"Not today—I've got a full schedule already." Noting Neal's look of disappointment, Peter held up a hand. "But I will approve you going to the antique store, but just the store. Report back afterwards and don't go off on your own chasing Russian ghosts or phantom eggs. By the book—got it?"
"You can count on me, Peter," Neal said breezily as he swept up his materials.
"Exactly, that's what I'm afraid of," Peter shot back and somehow didn't find Neal's sly grin in response very comforting. "Just keep it out of the papers, okay?"
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Neal was elated as he left the Federal Building. Peter was letting him follow up his own lead unsupervised by an agent. Plus, since it was FBI-sanctioned work he could expense the taxi fare. Not a bad start to the day.
He arrived at the antique store on the Upper East Side at 10:30 a.m. and paused to survey what he could see of the interior through the display windows. The showroom was small but luxurious. The glass showcases were filled with fine jewelry and snuffboxes. Malachite and gold vases sparkled on the tables. Oil paintings from the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries lined the walls. Entering the store was like stepping back in time to an elegant Saint Petersburg shop in the nineteenth century.
A customer was already in the store being shown antique rings by a saleswoman. The saleswoman appeared to be in her late 40s, her dark hair pulled back in a bun and wearing a severe black dress. Judging by her proud demeanor, Neal suspected that if he introduced himself by flashing his consultant's badge, he would most likely be dismissed out of hand and would not able to find out anything. Ditching his initial plan to channel his inner Agent Burke, he decided on a more oblique approach.
Strolling over to the paintings, Neal proceeded to study them. Some of the oils, mainly neoclassic and romantic works, were particularly fine. Neal was contemplating a seascape when the saleswoman came up to him.
"Your art collection is quite impressive," Neal remarked. "If I'm not mistaken, this work is by Ivan Aivazovsky."
"Why, yes," the woman beamed as she answered in a thickly accented voice, "I am pleased monsieur is familiar with our Russian Romanticists. It is such a pity that they are not very well-known outside of Russia."
"I have long been an admirer," Neal plied his most charming smile, and matched his tone to hers. "Ivan Sherkov recommended your store to me. Are you acquainted with him?"
"But of course, monsieur. Mr. Sherkov often comes to our store."
"Ivan Mikhailovich and I are colleagues." Close enough to the truth—surely Peter would let that one pass. "When we spoke yesterday evening, he suggested I come here. Would it be possible for me to speak with Mr. Trifonov?"
"I regret that Mr. Trifonov has not yet arrived. Perhaps I could help instead? I am his assistant, Vera Bok."
"Alas, Ivan Mikhailovich had a message he wanted me to give to Mr. Trifonov personally. Do you know when he might be available, Miss Bok?"
"Please call me Vera," she murmured. "Unfortunately, no. He was supposed to be here this morning, but I have not yet heard from him."
"That is a shame. I was so hoping to meet him. You see he'd arranged to meet with Ivan Mikhailovich on Saturday but didn't arrive. Ivan Mikhailovich is quite concerned. You don't think he may have become ill?"
Vera's eyes widened in dismay. "Oh, I had not thought of that!"
"He might have had a heart attack and be lying in his apartment in need of help."
"I could check. You see his apartment is just over the store. I have a key which I may use in emergencies."
"Would you like me to accompany you? It might be safer for you." Neal's voice oozed solicitous concern as he spoke.
"That is very kind of you, monsieur!" Vera said gratefully.
Vera led the way to the back of the store, where the second floor was reached by means of a narrow stairway. Trifonov's apartment shared the second floor with a large storage area. Knocking timidly on the door, she called out, "Boris Yurovich?" but there was no answer. She tried again, this time rather more forcefully. They waited a few moments longer and then she used her key to open the door. The apartment was musty and dark with an air of genteel decay. It was crowded with antique furniture, bric-a-brac, and books. Catching Neal's attention was an open book on a small round table by a wingback chair. Approaching the table, he scanned the book without touching it. They checked all the rooms, but the small apartment was devoid of fallen bodies.
As they returned downstairs, Vera rationalized, "He must be away on a trip and neglected to tell me."
Not wishing to distress her, Neal agreed, "That's most likely what happened. No doubt you'll be hearing from him soon. But this really is a pity. Ivan Mikhailovich had told me about an object that had been left for appraisal on Saturday. Mr. Trifonov was going to discuss it with him. Do you think I might be able to see it, Vera?"
"I do not see any difficulty with that, monsieur, since you and Mr. Sherkov are such good friends. We keep a log of items for appraisal. You say it was brought here on Saturday?"
"Yes, that's right."
Vera examined the log, which contained only one entry for the entire week: "golden hen and stand." The date was for last Saturday, August 21.
"Items for appraisal are kept in the back storeroom. I will retrieve it for you, monsieur."
As soon as she left, Neal quickly took a photo of the log entry. But he needn't have hurried. It was several minutes before she returned.
"This is indeed strange," exclaimed Vera. "I looked everywhere but could not find it. I cannot imagine what might have happened."
"This is most unfortunate. Were you there when it was brought in?"
"No, according to the log, Mr. Trifonov handled it personally." She added worriedly, "Nothing like this has ever happened before."
Just then Neal's phone vibrated. It was Peter.
"Where are you, Neal?"
"I'm at the antique store, why?"
"I need you back at Headquarters ASAP. Trifonov has just been found—dead."
Notes: Thanks for reading! Special thanks to the amazing Penna Nomen who is acting as beta-reader and chief muse for this story. She had great suggestions for this chapter.
If you'd like to see visuals for the story, visit The Golden Hen board of our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site.
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.
Disclaimers: White Collar and its characters are not mine. Any references to real institutions, people, and locations are not necessarily true or accurate.