"8 a.m. sharp tomorrow morning, Neal. I'll expect you to show up in the van at The Carlyle. We'll have to wire you up before you'll have breakfast with our suspect."
They were investigating another securities fraud. The CI was acting as a wealthy buyer.
Caffrey had set up a meeting with the securities dealer to discuss business over breakfast. The FBI, of course, would be listening and recording everything.
Peter informed his consultant about the details in a manner-of-fact way. No jokes about feasting on the bureau's expenses or having a partner with expensive taste. Instead, he threw a stern look towards Caffrey. "Don't surprise me. Now is not the time. We need to concentrate on the investigation. Solving this case might be the best way to re-establish our working relationship."
Neal held his handler's gaze; the blue eyes showing exactly the appropriate combination of remorse and eagerness. He didn't overdo it. No, he was a good con knowing that the subtleties of language and countenance made the difference. Therefore, no-one would have noticed that the handsome man felt edgy and jittery.
"Understood. Come rain or shine, I'll be there at 8 a.m. dressed up and well prepared with the details of my alias. Looking forward to it. Let's move on."
Agent Burke was still skeptical but nodded his approval. "I love how we're always on the same page."
Walking home the con men chuckled. He hasn't told a lie. He actually planned to be there well prepared tomorrow morning at 8 a.m... Only, he wouldn't be using the alias the FBI had provided, and 'there' wouldn't be same 'there' Peter expected.
Caffrey appreciated the cold wind outside. He had worked up a sweat; his head was swimming slightly. The cool air made him feel better. Probably, the stress took a toll on him, or he had just caught a cold. It was definitely time to leave this chaos behind.
Since his two miles radius was on hold until further notice, Mozzie came to June's house to deliver the papers together with final instructions.
"At 5 a.m. sharp your tracking data will be switched to an endless loop, so cutting your anklet won't trigger an alert. At 6:45 we're booked on a flight to Mexico. From there, we'll roam the world."
The forged passports were high quality and came with complete alias identities: two accounting clerks from New Jersey going to Mexico for a long weekend of fun, beer, and girls.
Neal sighed while checking the accessories. "Moz, I'm not dyeing my hair blond. This is ridiculous." He threw the plastic bottle in the bin. Usually, he was more casual about his friend's antics. Yet today, he had no patience.
The bald man dissented. "We don't have to like it, but it has to be done. We need to obfuscate the Feds."
The con man wasn't amused. "No way. I'll wear the cheap khaki pants and the ridiculous shirt, but my hair stays as it is. That's it. End of story!"
Caffrey rubbed his forehead while Mozzie was pouting. This discussion was exhausting, giving him a headache. He felt warm again. Therefore, he opened the French door to the roof top terrace.
Later on, when he was on his own again, the con man was still restless and unable to calm down. This was indeed unusual for him. It would have been bad timing if he'd come down with a flu tonight.
Packing his duffel bag was a matter of minutes. He would travel light: a few clothes, travel kit, three books, plus a couple of photos. No valuables. It was a bit sad to leave the macuahuitl behind. He was strangely fond of the Aztec weapon he had taken from a case recently. And which he had stolen 8 years ago - under the radar of agent Burke.
His Devore would remain together with the fedora in the closet. Time to say goodbye to his old life.
Neal chose the most valuable bottle of red wine that was left and uncorked it. Someone had paid twelve thousand dollars for it. Someone else. It has been a gift from Gless for saving his daughter Lindsay who had been held hostage. Fortunately, it has slipped Mozzie's attention so far. The wine was exquisite, but it tasted even better after it was refilled into the Bordeaux bottle Kate had left him.
While sipping the wine, he enjoyed the breathtaking view - even the Chrysler building that had caused him so much trouble when Burke had found the burnt snippet after the explosion of the warehouse.
Feeling uneasy, Neal was unable to sit still. So he paced about the apartment, touching the souvenirs he had collected over the past years while working with Peter. There was a newspaper article about the Timmy Nolan Memorial Park, counterfeited Shakleton whiskey, Sara's business card, a plastic sheriff's star. These items were bringing back sentimental memories. All of a sudden, he felt like a bereaved child suffering a grievous loss.
He was about to leave everything behind that was dear to him. Again. How many times has he done it before? He has abandoned places and people countless times. A bitter thought crossed his mind. What a fool he had been deluding himself that he had finally found himself a home and family.
The soon-to-be fugitive should catch some sleep, having a big day ahead. Though, with his thoughts running round in circles, a throbbing head, muscles unable to relax, Caffrey wasn't able to fall asleep.
Finally, he applied the remedy that never failed to calm him down. Equipped with a large paper sheet and oil crayons, he sat down at the large table. He felt too weary to stand in front of the easel like he usually did when painting. But once the blank sheet of paper was there, he filled it in a frantic rush.
As soon as he had finished drawing, he started to write in the empty spots, pouring out his heart. This would be the farewell letter to his ex-partner. Of course, Burke won't ever have a chance to see this letter. Neal planned to burn it to ashes and flush the ashes down the drain. Still, it was a relieve to clothe his thought in words.
When there was no space left on the paper, eventually, he put down the crayon. Only then, he realized how exhausted he was; his hand shaking, and the whole body in pain. Whereas Neal had been sweating an hour ago, he was now shivering with cold.
Once realization hit him, it hit him hard.
Oh no, not now! Just not now! How could he have missed the signs? He desperately needed medication, or more specifically a medication cocktail.
His last malaria attack had been years ago. Caffrey has been convinced to have finally outgrown the disease, and the guileful parasites have become extinct.
Unfortunately, the pills he needed had a very short shelf life; in addition they needed to be stored at a certain temperature and humidity. You don't keep them in your medicine cabinet like Tylenol or Benadryl.
Those drugs were sold solely at well stocked pharmacies. He knew where to find one and kept the necessary prescription always on hand. Forging prescriptions was usually beneath him. Still, he was very good at it, so no-one would doubt the prescription.
If only he could get to a pharmacy. But because Burke had revoked his radius, leaving his apartment during night time would bring the Marshall's to the scene within minutes.
Since Caffrey knew the course of a malaria attack well from previous relapses, it was obvious there was no time to lose.
Neal reached reluctantly for his phone to call his handler. "Peter, sorry it's late; almost midnight, I know. But, argh, I sort of need help."
The agent listened to the slurred speech, trying to make sense of the incoherent babble and was annoyed. "Caffrey? What's wrong with you? Are you drunk?"
His CI was confused. "Drunk? No, I had two or three glasses of wine. However, I'm not drunk. I need meds from the pharmacy. My anklet, can you call the Marshall's? It won't take long."
Shaken out of his sleep by the call, Peter was in a bad mood already. Listening to this request infuriated him further. "I told you today, no surprises! If you drown your sorrows in drink tonight, you can very well wait until tomorrow morning to pick up some aspirin from a drug store."
Now Neal was almost yelling. "I'm NOT drunk. I told you. I'm sick and need..."
His handler cut him short. "Fine. If you're seriously sick, you'll need to see a doctor, not over-the-counter medicine. I'll call the Marshall's to escort you to the prison infirmary. That's what you want?"
Caffrey declined the offer with clenched teeth.
Burke ended the call panting with rage. "Well then, good night. Don't be late tomorrow morning."
Neal stared at his mobile unable to comprehend the rebuff he had just suffered. That didn't go well. He decided against another attempt to convince his handler.
Mozzie. He could call Mozzie asking him to pick up the drugs. Coming over to June's place to pick up the prescription would take up additional time. However, it was the only feasible solution right now.
The malaria attack grew stronger. Caffrey's head was reeling, and his stomach was in a queasy state. Finding Moz's current contact number caused some difficulties. The paranoid man changed his burner phone every week, and Neal saved the contact details under fancy names.
It took some minutes until, eventually, the con man got his friend on the line. "Moz! Please, can you come over to my place? Something came up."
Unfortunately, Mozzie was caught on the wrong foot, mistaking Neal's motive to call.
"No, no, no. How can you do this to me? You're ditching me and blowing your chance of freedom once again? Has the suit talked you round? You're such a pushover.
Only, I'm not playing along. Not now! Either you'll be at the airport tomorrow morning, or you'll stay in your golden cage. Your decision! But don't expect me to rush to your side to have another heart to heart talk."
The line went dead.
"Moz?" Neal whispered desperately, hoping against hope, that his friend was still there.
The feeling of nausea grew stronger. The sick man stumbled to the bathroom just in time to bring up the twelve thousand Dollar wine. Feeling miserable, trembling, bathed in cold sweat, still sick to the stomach, and with a giant headache he slumped down to the floor.
There was no-one left to call. June was in Atlanta visiting old friends. Sara was several thousand miles away on a different continent. El? He would have laughed if he had been able to. Jones, maybe. But then again, no. He would have called Peter to ask for approval. The same applied for Diana.
Normal people might have called their dad. Yet normal people tend to have normal dads. They might even know where their dads were living. Unfortunately, his own dad was on the run, and apart from that, he was a sleazebag.
That was the foot of the list. No other options left.
Of course, if Matthew Keller wouldn't have been in prison, he might have helped. After all, it had been Matthew who had been with him when he came down with the first malaria attack.
They had planned a diamond heist in Cameroon. The whole operation had been a wild-goose chase right from the beginning. Bad intel, treacherous business partners, and as things turned out, no diamonds at all. The whole thing had been a fata morgana. Nonetheless, they had managed to annoy the local don escaping in the very nick of time using a freight container.
After two weeks aboard, he had run a fever and started to develop the typical symptoms. Keller had managed to buy pills from the crew.
The label on the package was in Arabic. Neither he nor Keller could read it, on top of this it came without instruction leaflet. Still, he drugs had brought down the fever, though the other symptoms remained.
They had disembarked in Tangier where Keller had dragged him to a hospital, then vanished subsequently. You've got to hand it to him that he had left enough money to pay for the treatment, and Neal had survived.
When the con men had left the hospital, he had been convinced that it was all over. But cursed with bad luck, he had caught a rare species of the malaria parasites that caused recurring attacks. The dormant periods lasted month, sometimes years. Just then, out of the blue he came down with another attack.
The second attack had caught him by surprise in Copenhagen. A very unusual place to fall sick with malaria. They couldn't pull the job through; Alex wasn't amused but helped him to a backyard doctor who provided him with the necessary medication. The rest is history. Well, Alex wasn't a viable option to call either.
Neal felt thirsty, though he was too weak to reach the water faucet. A tear was streaming silently down his face.
Why now? He has been on the verge of running, being a free man after all those years.
Instead, his best case scenario at the moment was to be found alive by Peter tomorrow and thereupon to spend the rest of his live in prison. Worst case, on the other hand, was to die alone in this bathroom.
Yet, with a bitter sense of humor he was wondering whether he might have confused best and worst case scenario.
He passed out eventually, sprawled over the floor, a lifeless pile of limbs.
AN:
I hope you'll enjoy my first story this year. Reviews are welcome.
If anyone was wondering why Neal didn't think about calling Rebecca: I guess she's mean and I don't like her, never did and never will like her (until, of course, I'll change my mind someday). Therefore, she's not part of my story.
The next chapter will focus on Peter's pov.
Disclaimer: I don't own anything. No copyright infringement intended.