Disclaimer: White Collar is the property of Jeff Eastin and USA television and is merely being borrowed for non-profit, recreational purposes. No copyright infringement is intended.
Rating: T
Summary: Peter has to work undercover, but his allies are unreliable. Neal wants to help, but is apparently expected to stay out of the situation.
Author's note: When I started this story, White Collar was still on the air! It has taken me over four and a half years to complete. For that length of time, you might expect an immensely long story, but this is more a reflection of the fact that my writing time is now mostly confined to vacations, so it is no longer than usual. I hope there are people out there who are still reading White Collar! I was encouraged last summer when I went for a hike in Utah wearing a WC t-shirt and was stopped by four different people who expressed their love for the show.
This can be considered an AU. In my head canon, seasons 5 and 6 do not exist.
The story is completely written, but not fully betaed. I will post as fast as possible, but at a pace that will not stress out my wonderful beta, Nonny. It is a monumental task for her to insert all the missing commas, so please be patient!
Subterfuge Ch1
All was right in Neal's world as he sauntered out of the elevator on the 21st floor on a brisk Monday morning in late fall. He was swinging his hat jauntily between two fingers. The strong wind that had threatened to forcibly remove it had tousled his hair and reddened his cheeks but had left his mood unruffled. With the warmth of the memory of a wonderful weekend, even the prospect of mortgage fraud couldn't dim his spirits. Under the guise of research for a fairly cold case, Peter had taken him out of his radius to the Omni Fine Art Museum and then had let him wander around to his heart's content while Peter took El out for lunch at a local restaurant. The jewel in the crown of this wonderful weekend had been the discovery of his favorite Gevrey-Chambertin at a remarkably discounted price at his local wine cellar.
As he pushed open the glass doors, the wattage of the smile he bestowed upon the White Collar staff was correspondingly dazzling. An automatic glance up the stairs showed him that Peter's office was empty, so with only the slightest sigh of resignation that he would pass off as a mere exhalation, he seated himself at his desk and pulled forward a file of paperwork.
Creatively embellishing the dry official forms with details that concealed rather than highlighted his own slightly less than legal contributions to the case kept Neal busy until he was distracted by his need for coffee. FBI sludge did not truly meet that definition, but he'd learnt to tolerate it until something actually containing arabica beans was available. He cast another glance upwards, but Peter hadn't miraculously teleported in, or tiptoed surreptitiously past, while Neal's attention had been focused on his prose.
It wasn't as if Peter's absence had suddenly hit him. Devoid of Peter's steadfast presence, the atmosphere of the FBI building resonated on a less friendly frequency. Peter had never treated Neal as just another tool in the FBI arsenal. From the beginning of their partnership, even when Neal was freshly released from prison, Peter had seen him as a person, as more than his skill set or his criminal record. He'd folded Neal neatly into the family he'd created in the White Collar unit. However, there were plenty of people who liked to remind Neal that he was the red-headed step child. Unsurprisingly, Neal's unparalleled success in his partnership with Peter, and the latitude it had won them, had generated many detractors, and he trod warily outside the White Collar department. There was nothing too overt, and his time in prison had taught him to accept petty harassment without resorting to a higher authority, so he'd never told Peter about the subtle taunts. However, he definitely preferred it when Peter was around to cast his invisible shield of protection.
Neal slipped his cell phone out of his pocket and poked a couple of buttons in the faint hope of finding a missed message, but it remained blandly uninformative. His good mood was melting rapidly at the edges like ice cream left out on a hot day. An artless stretch gave him an excuse to look around and see if Peter's non-appearance was causing concern elsewhere in the department, but everyone looked appropriately occupied, mostly by work, but in a couple of places by gossiping among colleagues. He eyed Diana working diligently at her desk and planned an approach, detouring to the sludge machine. He poured himself a mug and one for Diana, just the way she liked it. There wasn't a single person in the room whose coffee and pastry preferences weren't known to him. In the world of business, including the FBI, coffee was the perfect entree, a conversation starter and social lubricant.
He sauntered casually over to Diana, placing the cup down with a gesture of one bestowing a gift before hitching his rear end onto one corner of her desk.
"What do you want, Caffrey?" She didn't glance up, and it occurred to him that while she might be the most informed member of the room, but she was also the least likely to be receptive to his blandishments. He liked a challenge.
"You look thirsty," he said in his most innocent tone.
There was a moment of silence, then Diana pursed her mouth in an effort not to react, but a strong tic broke through. She allowed a reluctant grin to cross her face, threw down her pen and looked up at him consideringly. "Okay, you have my attention."
"I was merely admiring the precision of your penmanship. You see the way your j…"
She slapped his hand away but without any real irritation. "Keep your forging digits away from my paperwork, Neal." At his wide-eyed expression of hurt, she sighed. "Peter got called into a meeting at the DOJ with Hughes. I don't know what it's about or how long it will last." She picked up her pen again. "Next time you want to know something, just ask."
Neal unhitched himself with a graceful shimmy. "Now where would be the fun in that?" The truth was that such a simple expedient hadn't occurred to him. In his world, information was currency, acquired by guile or charm, siphoned away from its possessor, and it was not to be squandered. He returned to his desk only partly satisfied, the information gained not very enlightening. He didn't like the feel of this development. It sounded serious, and Peter either hadn't known of it beforehand or he'd kept it from his CI. The small paranoid part of Neal, that was nurtured as a family friend by Mozzie, wondered if any part of the meeting was about him, and he scoured his brain and new case files for any cause for concern, any past crime that might have bobbed up to the surface like a bloated corpse. His conscience, while offering little reassurance, did insist there was nothing DOJ-worthy in his recent activities.
A more comforting part of his brain reminded him that Peter's job involved far more than being a handler to a trouble-prone CI, and that this meeting probably concerned something more mundane and administrative. Feeling suddenly motivated to prove his worth to the department, Neal settled down with some cold cases. In a sudden excess of zeal, he worked through lunch and was touched when Jones dropped a ham and gruyere panini on his desk with a reminder that he needed to eat. It fueled a discovery that the art heist he was investigating was probably actually insurance fraud since the artwork in question was a forgery.
It was well after lunch that Peter and Hughes finally returned. Neal made his living from reading people, and he'd studied Peter with particular care and attention, learning to recognize the subtlest twitch or tic. From the instant he laid eyes on his partner, he knew that something was wrong. There was tension in the set of Peter's shoulders, an uncomfortable line that spoke of more than bureaucratic stress. However, the frown lines marring his forehead faded as he caught Neal's gaze. He gave a slight shake of his head and the smallest smile to indicate that there was nothing imminent to worry about, and Neal settled back into his chair.
His instincts clamored to follow his partner up the stairs, but that head shake had counseled patience. The two senior agents disappeared into Hughes' office for another conference. Whatever was said in the room, it didn't do anything to relieve the cloak of stress that enveloped Peter, weighing him down. He emerged from the meeting tight-lipped, the taut set of his jaw a clear message to Neal that his handler was unhappy with the proceedings.
Peter called a team meeting, but he mentioned nothing about the DOJ meeting, focusing on the briefing for their new case, which involved an identity theft ring. Neal listened to every word said and offered his own ideas and suggestions, but his attention was focused primarily on Peter's demeanor not his words. His shoulder muscles, which had been clenched in sympathy with Peter's, started to relax as the normality of the situation appeared to ease the tightness of Peter's stance. Before long, the team had isolated the probable source of the information used for the thefts, and they were narrowing in on the culprit with a diversity of possible plans to prove his involvement.
As Peter dismissed everyone with their individual assignments, Neal stayed in place. It wasn't unusual behaviour for him since he was Peter's partner, and it was his prerogative to claim extra face time with the Boss. His feet were propped up on the table as he spun a pen between his fingers, the epitome of nonchalance, and he smiled winningly up at his friend as the agent turned to look at him.
"Are we having this conversation now?" Peter arched an eyebrow, obviously divining the ulterior motive behind Neal's tarrying. Neal shrugged expectantly, sensing that Peter was more likely to confide in him if there was no pressure applied.
"Let me rephrase that." Peter brought down a hand in a cutting-off gesture. "We're not having this conversation now."
Neal inclined a shoulder, allowing the slightest twinge of disappointment to show, confident that only someone who knew him extremely well would notice.
Peter, unfortunately, was the only person who could not only see it, but also surmise that its appearance was calculated. "Oh, don't look at me with that face."
"I'm not looking at you like...what face? You've clearly got my faces confused."
"Don't even try that. I've got every expression of yours catalogued and cross-indexed for good measure. That's the one that talks of puppies and kicking when I happen to know you don't even have a dog."
Peter might recognise his expression, but that didn't mean he wasn't susceptible to it when it was applied with good reason. Neal fell back on his absolute last resort - honesty. He lifted his hands in a gesture of surrender or good faith. "Not a dog in sight, just a friend in trouble that I'd like to help."
Clearly, he'd underestimated the efficacy of honesty. Amused suspicion immediately softened to affection in Peter's eyes. Peter was aware that the gift of honesty from Neal was the equivalent of a monster box of chocolates and a teddy bear named Snuggles from anyone else. The bubble of weary tension that had been holding him together since he'd walked into the building popped almost audibly, and he sagged as if there was now nothing to keep him upright. He placed both hands on the table allowing it to take his weight. "Neal," he said helplessly, shaking his head. "Look, I can't tell you anything. It's all...it's hush-hush, classified."
"Is that what you're going to tell El tonight?" If he'd thought for more than half a second about the implications of the question, Neal might have reconsidered asking.
Peter turned a shade paler. "Oh God, El." He sat down abruptly on a chair Neal kicked out for him, burying his face in his hands momentarily. "I don't know what I'm going to tell her." Neal shuffled slightly sideways to hide his friend from potentially curious eyes in the bullpen. His strong dislike for the situation leapfrogged over alarm to land squarely on dread. Anything that Peter was loathe to tell El could be officially filed under the category of 'not good'.
It took less than a minute for Peter to rally, tightly strapping down his concerns behind a furrowed brow and a clearly burgeoning headache. "Under the circumstances, I feel obliged to point out you're not my wife."
"Partner, wife," Neal waved off such picayune distinctions with an airy hand, startling a genuine smile out of Peter.
"An interesting sentiment, one you should discuss with El - preferably when I'm away watching a baseball game."
"We've both got your back," Neal elaborated on his theory. It was a throwaway remark, a comment on the obvious, but the effect it had on Peter was anything but mundane. The humor drained from his face as if Neal had pulled a plug, blank shutters descending to cover his eyes. It was a reaction so out of proportion to the casualness of the comment that it was obvious that Neal had not just found a sore point, but stepped in and clobbered it hard.
Peter dropped his gaze and started gathering up papers from the table, attempting to conceal his response with a flurry of activity, but Neal's suspicions were already raised. A worm of insecurity wriggled uncomfortably in his brain, suggesting that maybe Peter really didn't trust him to watch his six, but he squashed it immediately. Their lives were too often in each other's hands for him to doubt that bone-deep faith. The answer to the mystery lay elsewhere. His agile mind immediately started wrestling with the problem, rummaging through possible solutions before discarding them one by one until the obvious answer was left standing stark and alone among the slaughtered corpses of possibilities.
"They're sending you out undercover," he blurted out, the words falling out of his mouth unbidden. "There won't be anyone to watch your back."
Peter's jaw introduced itself to his chest in shocked alarm. Suddenly, he was on his feet and striding to the door. Neal reared back at the abrupt movement almost sending the chair flying backwards. He watched as Peter closed the door with a firm hand and stood for a moment watching the movement of the agents downstairs.
"It's the only thing that makes sense," Neal said, almost apologetically.
Peter held up a finger. "I.." Neal started to speak again, but the finger rose higher. He successfully obeyed it for all of two seconds. "Peter…" he began again tentatively.
His partner finally turned round. "Don't 'Peter' me. I'm busy trying to be angry with you." However, the strong glint of admiration in his expression belied the words. He reseated himself at the table, rubbing the ache that had settled just above his eyes. "Neal, you can't...I can't…" He shook his head with a wry smile. "I'd appreciate it in the future if you could refrain from mind-reading on FBI time."
Neal was too busy drawing other unpleasant conclusions to pay any attention to the mock reprimand other than noting the implicit confirmation. Peter had always seemed to enjoy going undercover on their White Collar cases and, for someone who was usually emotionally transparent, he was surprisingly effective in a role. But this had been initiated out of office, so he'd clearly been requested by another department, and by his sensitivity to the back-up issue, it was probably deep cover where they'd be no support from family or friends.
"Tell them no," Neal blurted out. "They can't make you do it, right?"
Peter averted his eyes, finding something fascinating on the surface of the table. "It's...complicated," he said softly.
"Tell them I'll do it," Neal volunteered. "You know how good I am undercover."
That brought Peter's head around with a fascinating kaleidoscope of emotion in his expression that flickered past too quickly for Neal to follow, but it definitely started with alarm and ended with warm affection.
"That's…," he broke off, his mouth twisting into an odd line as he pressed his lips together. "I really appreciate that," he finished more formally, but Neal could read the rejection of the idea.
Peter drummed his fingers on the table. "Neal, I need you to stay out of this. I know it goes against every instinct you have, but I need you here. Can you do that for me?"
"If that's what you need," Neal lied unblushingly. Of course, it wasn't a lie in his mind because he didn't believe for one minute that it was what Peter really needed. The agent's whole demeanor from the moment he'd entered the building had screamed his reluctance to accept the assignment. Neal had every intention of having his partner's back whether Peter thought it was possible or not.
Peter, wise to the ways of Neal's prevarications, almost certainly read the rebellion in his eyes behind the limpid acquiescence. His eyebrows drew together in a frown of foreboding which Neal decided to derail. "Don't get all squinty-eyed on me. I understand what you're saying."
Despite the attempt, Peter's train of thought remained firmly on its tracks and his gaze rested on Neal, steady and oddly blank. "I don't think that you do. Look, at the moment this is just a contingency plan. Hopefully, this whole debate will be moot. But, if by any chance the operation does go ahead, I need to know my team is safe and my trouble-magnet of a CI isn't placing himself in unnecessary danger."
"I understand," Neal said with complete and transparent sincerity. He did understand. Peter was trying to guilt-trip him into agreement. However, this time his response seemed to reassure Peter who offered him a tentative smile. "In return, I want you to promise me that you'll let me know if it goes down, that you won't just disappear."
"Fair enough," Peter nodded. "And if I can't speak to you in person, I'll sent you a text with something innocuous like, 'picking up the dry cleaning.'"
"Or something more cryptic like, 'sacrificial goat.'"
Peter huffed out a sigh. "That's not exactly cryptic, or subtle either, for that matter."
"Oh, I'm sorry." Strangely enough, Neal didn't look too apologetic. "Then how about 'Brer Rabbit.'" He relented as he saw Peter's shoulders sag in defeat.
"That's not fair. This isn't what I want." He sounded tired, weariness flattening his pitch and bleaching color from his tone.
It was clear to Neal that he was making a difficult situation even harder for Peter, and he dredged up as genuine a smile as he could. "Why don't we settle on St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost objects and their safe return."
Peter gratefully accepted the proffered olive branch. "St. Anthony it is."
The depleted, bruised air still hung heavily around him, causing Neal to ask, "Have you eaten?"
Peter shook his head. "There were some dried sandwiches masquerading as food, but things were rather intense, and I didn't feel like eating. Still don't."
"Are you sure? We could go out and get some deviled ham. It would make you feel better."
"While I appreciate the supreme sacrifice behind that offer, for now I just want to get back to work. Maybe later."
Neal understood Peter's need to ground himself in work, so he didn't push the issue. He watched as Peter took in a deep breath and eased it out slowly, somehow in the process assuming the persona of Agent Burke, as clearly is if he'd just donned the suit that Mozzie accused him of being, and all the associated paraphernalia. Neal didn't know whether to be impressed that Peter was able to do that, or horrified that he found it necessary to do so.
Neal could assume any mask, become a prince or pauper, the highest detective or the lowest criminal or anything in between. It was a process he enjoyed, more than an act, verging on the genuine exploration of personality and roots. Of all the characters he'd played, the one he knew least was Neal Bennett, and that sad fact had underwritten his frantic and ultimately tragic search for his father. However, Peter was completely, if unconsciously, secure in his own identity. There was no disconnect between Peter and Agent Burke. At most, they were two ends of a short continuum, gradual transitions of Peterness varying only by degrees of relaxation and professionalism. There was no pretension and no illusion, just honesty and bedrock decency that extended from his personal to his professional life. So, all in all, it was disturbing to see Peter need to forcibly assume the role of Boss. However, once the transition was complete, it was flawless.
Normality resumed in White Collar for the next week. They cleaned up the identity theft gang and arrested the leaders before moving on to follow up on Neal's insights into his cold case. He was able to prove that the artwork was forged, but some irregularities in the provenance made it difficult to prove when the substitution had taken place. Their research slowed to a halt, and the case was put on the back burner again while they concentrated on more pressing cases, mostly involving a rash of corporate fraud. It was routine, but to Neal it was a yawning hiatus, the expectant pause before the judge's hammer descended and the executioner whetted his merciless instruments.
During this time, Peter's leadership of his team was as impeccable as always. He commanded with the seemingly contradictory, yet ultimately effective, style of firmness mitigated by the fostering of individual contributions. He encouraged his team to think creatively, using their miscellany of talents and experience to enrich the investigative process. His briefings were upbeat and his sense of humor seemed undiminished, and Neal wondered if he was the only one who noticed the tight lines etched around somber eyes and the constant state of tension bracing his shoulders. Possible Diana did, because Neal intercepted a few worried glances she cast in her boss's direction.
Neal tried to be supportive, but his efforts were hampered by indecision as to whether this was best achieved by overt cosseting or whether Peter would really prefer the reassurance of their customary teasing and friendly one-upmanship. He settled for hanging around Peter's office for the most spurious of reasons, his lighthearted and irreverent comments interrupting any possible opportunity for Peter to brood. He provided comfort in the form of steaming, fragrant cups of coffee, freshly made in a press-pot he brought in expressly for that purpose.
Another successful distraction was a crossword. Like so many things between them, solving a crossword, in the brief moments of free time they shared, evolved into a fast-paced, challenging but highly enjoyable mixture of cooperation and competition with arcane rules that no one except them could follow.
The Thursday following Peter's meeting, Neal was in his friend's office during lunch, engaged in a crossword lightning round while demolishing a sandwich. He was scribbling Peter's answers into the grid, feet crossed at the ankles on Peter's desk, a liberty for which he received a reprimand but no threat of consequences, which he accepted as permission and a worrying sign of Peter's reshuffled priorities. Neal's first indication that something was amiss was the silence that followed his delivery of the latest clue. He looked up with a teasing grin and a sarcastic comment regarding Peter's deteriorating mental faculties on the tip of his tongue. The quip evaporated in the cavern of his mouth when he saw the agent's face. Turning his head to follow the direction of that stare down into the bullpen with a speed that should give him whiplash, he saw three men entering the unit. It didn't take Mozzie and the suits that they wore to label them as government employees. They were clearly not junior agents, nor were they at all out of place in the White Collar environment - but the word that first came to Neal's mind was hardened.
He turned back with a question, but once again the words dissolved as he met Peter's gaze. His expression was impassive, but his eyes told a different story, as dread and distress turned to heavy resignation and, ultimately, acceptance and a very Peter kind of determination. In the face of that stoicism, Neal was speechless, unsure if it was anger or fear robbing him of his usual loquacity. Acknowledging the rarity of silence, Peter offered him a crooked smile, "You'd better go," he said gently.
Neal nodded tightly, his legs obeying the command without instruction from his brain, which apparently had plans of its own. Before he left the room, he had the phone out of his pocket, unlocked and switched on to camera in portrait mode. His timing needed adjustment, so he paused to scribble on the newspaper long enough for his descent of the stairs to coincide with the ascent of the newcomers. He needed to be unobtrusive to the point of invisibility, so he kept over to his side, moving with careful, measured steps. He didn't make eye contact, concentrating instead on moving his fingers as if texting, mouthing the words he was purportedly typing while angling the screen to take some surreptitious shots of the three men. Identifying them would be a useful first step in determining the nature of Peter's assignment.
He kept his pace steady, not looking back despite the temptation. Only when he was seated at the desk and his line of sight made the gesture a natural one, did he glance up. Hughes had joined the group and was leading them into a meeting room. Peter was bracketed by the other agents in what should have appeared like a position of security, but to Neal's jaundiced eye, it looked like his friend was being ushered, a death-row inmate being escorted along the Green Mile. They vanished into the room and closed the blinds, cutting off visual access.
Neal wished he'd been more proactive and planted a bug from Mozzie's vast menagerie on Peter, but the mental kick he administered to himself for the lapse achieved nothing. Rather than castigating himself for the things he hadn't done, he needed to take some positive action. He glanced around at his co-workers and got the distinct impression that he wasn't the only one who disliked this new development. Jones was very pointedly not looking upstairs, but he was glaring at his paperwork as if he had a grudge with the tree it sprang from and every intention of turning pyromaniac to solve the problem once and for all. In contrast, Diana looked more worried than angry and gazed at the closed room with blind intent, keyboard forgotten under her fingers. Neither reaction was remotely reassuring.
Making a quick decision, Neal got up again, strolled down the room and parked himself on Diana's desk. Smiling winningly, he reminded her, "You told me to ask you if I had any questions."
He'd swear that he could hear her roll her eyes before she looked up at him blandly. "I did say that, didn't I? Well, we all make mistakes sometimes."
Neal regarded her with the slightly smug assurance that came from the knowledge he was going to get his own way, because anything else would teach him the wrong lesson. By her huff of exasperation, Diana obviously realised it too. "If your question is 'what is going on?', I can't help you. I don't know." The frustration in her voice was evidence of the veracity of the statement.
"You must have a theory," he persisted. "What do you think is going on?"
"To be honest, my first reaction was that you had done something stupid and Peter was being called on the carpet for it."
Neal grimaced. "Nice, thanks." However, he couldn't bring himself to feign real umbrage since that had been his first suspicion as well.
She shrugged unapologetically. "I've also considered the possibility that he's being pressured to take a promotion that's out of New York. But whatever it is, I don't think he's happy about it. Doesn't it seem to you that he's been tense lately?"
Neal shrugged uninformatively, preferring to listen to her speculate as she continued, "Maybe there are some major financial cutbacks and some of us are losing our jobs. I don't know; it could be anything." She sat back and skewed him with a perceptive eye. "What do you think is going on? You're closer to him than any of us." It was said without resentment, merely a statement of fact. "He's your partner, some kind of weird yin to your yang."
Neal grinned. "You know that would make him...you know, never mind." This wasn't the time to be discussing Daoist philosophy. He shrugged. "Peter can be be very secretive when he wants to be." That was the absolute truth, but it also didn't reveal the vague secret Peter had confided in him. If this hadn't been shared with the rest of the team, he must have had a reason, and Neal wouldn't take the risk of endangering his friend by discussing it with anybody.
It was clear to him by this time that he knew more about Peter's clandestine meetings than Diana did, but that didn't mean that she possessed no potential as an information source. "Do you know the three guys up there?"
"The older guy, nearly bald, he's Matt Brown, the deputy director of the FBI."
"Of the New York office or the whole FBI?"
"The whole FBI. He's an agent's agent, worked his way up from the field," she confirmed with obvious respect.
"Wow, Peter's consorting with the top brass. Is that why you thought it was a promotion?"
"Well, it's one possibility. The other two I don't recognise, and I'm fairly sure that they're from out of town, so the new job might be in another office. Peter's happy where he is, so it would explain his reluctance. El would probably be the only one who'd be happy if he was promoted since he wouldn't be out in the field so much. But it's not Peter."
"Solid deductions," Neal said approvingly. "It makes sense." It did, but not the way Diana meant it. It wasn't just another department poaching Peter, but an entirely different office which meant the chances of him being recognised under cover would be negligible. That might be the good news. The bad news was that he wouldn't have backup from those he trusted. It still had to be a significant case for someone of Peter's seniority to be requested and for the Deputy Director of the FBI to be involved.
Neal's gaze was drawn back upwards. "Whatever it is, I don't like it. It doesn't seem right." He looked back at DIana hopefully. "I don't suppose you have any surveillance equipment in your desk?"
Diana laughed. "Strangely enough, my career so far has been successful without attempting to bug the Deputy Director of the FBI, and I'd like to keep it that way."
Neal sighed mournfully. "That's the trouble with bureaucracies like this. There's no initiative amongst the rank and file."
She didn't rise to the bait. "Go back to your desk, Caffrey. I'm sure Peter will bring us up to date soon. Meanwhile, don't do anything that would bring us extra scrutiny from the DOJ."
It was advice that Neal took to heart, if 'took to heart' meant considered carefully and attempted to subvert. He sat back down and, while waiting for Peter to re-emerge, he twiddled a pencil around his fingers and tried to think of a crime he could commit either anonymously or with full disclosure that would not land him in jail, but would convince the department that Peter was absolutely indispensable in his current position. It was possible to achieve the objectives individually, but he failed to find a way that would accomplish them both together.
After a while, he started doodling, a well-tested and proven method of relieving stress, but after producing a sketch of closed doors and another of tightly cinched handcuffs, he decided that his subconscious wasn't offering any help and that he needed a way to keep his mind active. He accessed the FBI's website and did some research on the job responsibilities of the assistant director, but there was nothing that offered a clue. For good measure, he went through all the other publicity photos to see if he could recognise the other two men, but that proved to be another dead end.
Neal's excellent peripheral vision notified him as soon as there was movement near the door of the meeting room. Peter emerged first, his face impassive but drawn. His eyes flickered down momentarily to meet Neal's, giving a minute head shake and his forefinger tapped once on his thigh, a shared signal that caused Neal to relax back into his chair. It contained oddly conflicting implications since it was their code for 'situation is under control, don't move in.' yet the very fact that Peter felt the necessity to send a message in such a clandestine, covert manner in the middle of the FBI building sent alarm skittering down Neal's backbone. He tried to appear nonchalant, focused on his computer screen, but in reality he followed Peter's progress with the rapt, almost frozen, intensity usually reserved for a predator stalking his prey.
The agent retrieved his coat and a briefcase from his office before rejoining the three strangers at the head of the stairs. Again, Neal had the overwhelming impression that they were escorting him downstairs. If Peter hadn't led the group, it could have almost been a perp walk. Silence had fallen over the unit, everyone watching with varying degrees of unabashed curiosity. Even Hughes was watching, looking more aloof than usual as he glared down from his perch in the upstairs corridor. Peter didn't acknowledge the interest, looking neither right nor left as he strode towards the exit. Neal was expecting the same lack of attention, so he was as surprised as anyone when Peter suddenly veered towards his desk. The slight alarm in the expressions of the escorts didn't escape his attention. Neal kept the tension out of his muscles, swiveling slightly back and forth in his chair, but he was ready to follow whatever cue Peter threw him.
Peter's eyes conveyed an urgent message, but his words couldn't have been more innocuous. He tapped the newspaper lying open at the crossword page on Neal's desk. "Don't miss five down - St. Anthony."
Neal automatically mimed appropriate chagrin and started scribbling in some letters. By the time he looked up, Peter was outside the doors, only the top of his head visible over the stockier bodies of the other agents who were ushering him into the elevator. Then he was gone.