Chapter 2: Samurai Bonds
Neal's loft. November 30, 2004. Tuesday evening.
By the time Neal let himself into the mansion, it was almost midnight. Most of the downstairs lights had already been turned off, with the frosted glass globe of the brass lamp on the entry table providing soft illumination. June liked to read late at night while listening to music, but all was quiet. She must have already gone to bed. Making a mental note to tell her about the gala in the morning, Neal placed the keys to the Jaguar on a porcelain dish next to the lamp and headed upstairs.
When he entered the loft, it was dark. The only light came from the full moon shining in through the skylight. A shadowy figure was sitting with his back to the door, gazing out at the terrace, a wine glass beside him. Without turning his head, he said, "I've been expecting you, Mr. Bond."
"What the hell, Mozzie! Why are you sitting in the dark? You're not pulling an Ernst Blofeld, are you?" Neal turned on a floor lamp by the couch. "I wasn't expecting you back so soon. Have you already finished your job with Gordon Taylor?" Mozzie had left for France shortly before Thanksgiving, and Neal had expected him to be gone for several weeks.
Mozzie got up and moved his chair to face Neal. "My part's done. It all went remarkably smoothly. Gordon runs a well-oiled machine."
"How did it go with André?" André was an old friend, a burglar Neal knew from his years in Geneva. Mozzie had smoothed the way for André to join Gordon's crew in appreciation for his assistance with a con which had allowed Neal to clear his name at the FBI.
"Gordon and André hit it off like they were long-lost relatives. When I left, Gordon was teaching André pool in exchange for fencing lessons. And, I might add, that my own luster was significantly burnished in the process. Gordon sends his regards." Mozzie looked at him hopefully. "Any chance?"
"Thanks, but you know my answer."
"Never hurts to remind you." Mozzie reached for the bottle of wine on the table. "May I pour you a glass of your wine?"
Neal raised a cautioning hand and yawned. "After the number of martinis I had, I'll pass. Work day tomorrow."
Mozzie eyed him pityingly. "Yes, you're back to being one of the downtrodden masses. June told me where you were when I arrived. I find the fact that you attended 'An Evening with Genji' quite amusing."
"Is that so?" Neal said as he took off his jacket and tie.
"You, floating among the clouds of the New York aristocracy . . . You don't think you had a distinct resemblance to the night's honoree?"
"Not that much," Neal protested. "I've never heard of any nobles among my ancestors, and my record as a lover is definitely not on a level with Genji's."
"You've merely been misplacing your affections, letting yourself be seduced by a series of Mata Haris."
Neal winced. Granted, he knew Mozzie had never been a member of Kate's fan club, but Mata Hari? That was overdoing it. Although, in light of Kate's actions last spring, he'd have to admit there was a kernel of truth in the comparison.
"You should let me instruct you in the fine art of courtship." Neal spun around to stare at him. Mozzie didn't have the slightest hint of a smile. How much wine had he drunk? "The fair Fiona is a much more worthy pursuit. Beauty, brains, a musical soul. Of course, her naiveté concerning the forces around her is an issue but I'll happily offer my services to instruct her. I could act as Professor Higgins to her Eliza Doolittle, Pygmalion to her Galatea."
"Fiona may not be ready for your revelations, Mozz. Let's hold off bursting her bubble." Mozzie had never even met Fiona. His knowledge of her was solely based on what snippets he'd gleaned from Neal plus a few photos. And Neal was happy to keep it that way. Aside from knowing Neal had been a member of the musical group Urban Legend, Fiona knew virtually nothing about his life before Columbia. She'd met El and Peter at Columbia, but that was different. They were part of what Neal liked to think of as his life in the light. He had every intention of keeping her away from his life in the shadows. That included Mozzie and everything associated with his con artist past. "In any case, Fiona and I are just good friends."
Mozzie rolled his eyes. "Neal, please. Are you still using that trite expression?"
"Do you prefer amis-amants? But, Mozzie, it's not what you think. Fiona's in the same boat as me. She's getting over someone else. We decided to hang out together. We enjoy each other's company, but it's not like with … I don't know how much of a future there is with us."
Mozzie sat back and looked skeptical. "You're not sure if you're soul mates? Do you know what your problem with women is?"
Neal raised a brow. "No, I don't know. I didn't think I had one. Enlighten me, Dr. Phil. Just what is my problem?" He sprawled into a chair. This might take a while.
Mozzie pointed at him accusingly. "You wear your heart on your sleeve. Like a medieval knight wearing the ribbon of his beloved strumpet, you're only too eager to offer your heart to any minx who catches your eye."
"You're crazy. I don't do that."
"Oh really? Need I point out Sara? She strolls into your life, crumples up your tender emotions, spits on them and tosses them away. Then she sashays off to break someone else's heart."
"It was hardly like that. Sara's no minx. In fact, she was at the gala tonight. I enjoyed talking with her. No crumpled up feelings, no angst. We're fine. Besides, what happened with Sara was not her fault. I didn't let her know how I felt about her."
"Who was she with?"
"Bryan McKenzie."
"Ah yes, her next victim. You probably found her more irresistible than ever."
"No I didn't," Neal protested. Mozzie really was going beyond the pale.
Mozzie, however, was not to be stopped. "Now that Sara's unattainable, you're no doubt more than ever attracted to her. The pattern is clear. You fall for Kate, who's in love with Adler. Next you yearn for Sara who's also involved with someone else. You're conflicted by your feelings for Fiona. Perhaps you're in love with them both, while still being in love with Kate." Mozzie peered at him over his glasses. "Yes, your resemblance to Genji, in love with multiple women, is becoming more and more apparent."
Neal grimaced. It was late. He was tired and not feeling in love with anyone, particularly Mozzie, at the moment. "Shouldn't you focus on your own love life, Mozz? I'll somehow manage to stagger along without you."
Mozzie ignored his comments. "You need to be a Don Juan, not a Genji. Love them and leave them. Never stay too long with one. Never get tied down." He wagged his forefinger at Neal. "And above all else, never give your heart to any of them."
"Can we change the subject, please?"
"But your love life is so fascinating," he pleaded. "Especially in comparison to mine."
"Here's another topic for you: Samurai bonds. What do you know about them?"
He took a sip of wine and pondered the question. "Apt name. Yen-denominated bonds. Can be quite valuable. I prefer Krugerrands, myself. Much more liquid. Why your interest?"
"Something I overheard. May be nothing to it." Reflecting on the conversation, Neal was beginning to have doubts. At the time he was sure about what he heard, but how could they have been serious?
Mozzie got up from the table. "Let me know if the nothing turns into something more lucrative. I must leave. I have much to prepare before my next trip."
"You're taking off again? What's on the agenda this time?"
"Hawaii."
"Hawaii? Is Gordon expanding his operations?"
"No, Billy and I are." Billy Feng was a retired cat burglar who owned a Hawaiian-themed store and café with his daughter Maggie. The Aloha Emporium was just south of Columbia on 113th Street. Maggie was also a florist who specialized in orchids and Hawaiian tropicals, many of which were grown in the greenhouse over their store.
"But Billy already has a thriving business and his relatives in Hawaii supply him with whatever goods he needs."
"Exactly." Mozzie beamed as if all had been made clear. "The market for Hawaiian products in New York is ravenous and growing by the day. Think of New York as a hungry bear and I'm going to supply the honey."
"And your honey will be . . .?"
"Honey, of course." Exasperated, he shook his head at Neal. "Your brain is more polluted by the martinis than I realized. You should only drink wine. Clearly, you can't handle anything else. Raw organic, made by bees feasting on rare Hawaiian flowers honey. A nephew of Billy's has gone into the bee-keeping business on his farm south of the Pu'u O Umi Natural Area Reserve on the island of Hawaii. He produces exquisite raw organic honey from rare Hawaiian nectar sources. Only the most exotic flowers will do. I plan to be a silent partner in his business."
"You, a silent partner? Now who's deluding himself?"
Mozzie continued unabated. "I should thank you, because it was through you that my path was revealed."
"And how did you reach that conclusion?"
"If you hadn't asked me to look into Apian wheels last October, I might never have had the idea."
Neal must have looked as puzzled as he felt, because Mozzie added, "Remember Apian wheels, named after Petrus Apianus, who Latinized his name from Bienewitz, derived from Biene, meaning bee in German? If ever there was an omen that my destiny lay in bees, that was it. Oh, and did I mention we'll be using our honey to produce wines, sophisticated blends of the finest varietals, herbs, spices and honey to seduce the palate with a perfume of mesmerizing potency?"
Neal shook his head wearily. "It's always about the wine, isn't it?"
"No it's always about the bee. Our world depends upon them. They're essential pollinators. Without pollination, no strawberries, no almonds, no wine. Now, thanks to my refined palate and Billy's connections, I expect to have our business abuzz in a matter for weeks. We'll leave for Hawaii shortly."
"This may be a rather expensive undertaking."
"I can afford it," Mozzie said nonchalantly. "Between the finder fees I've collected thanks to you, mon frère, and my services for Gordon Taylor, I have the ability to pursue other interests. Your own bank account would be much more comfortable if you'd listen to my advice."
"Not happening. After the scrutiny the marshals gave me this summer over my living here and going to Columbia, I have no intention of giving them more ammunition."
"You could always use me as your banker. We could keep it off the books. Trust me, they'd never know. The Genji lifestyle requires deep pockets."
"I'm not living like Genji."
"Which brings up the real question: why not?"
White Collar Division. December 1, 2004. Wednesday morning.
"That could have simply been two drunks talking," Peter said, not at all persuaded by Neal's interpretation. "You said there were several glasses on the side table."
Neal had come into his office early that morning, and Peter fully expected him to launch into a description of the previous evening's festivities, but instead Neal was convinced that he'd overheard plans for a bond heist. Only Neal could go to a gala and come back with a case.
Neal shook his head emphatically. "I considered that too, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized my first impression was correct."
"Tell me again what you think you overheard."
"They were discussing Samurai bonds." Neal looked at Peter doubtfully. "You know what those are, right?"
"I've heard of them. Bonds issued in Tokyo by non-Japanese entities. But you're telling me these guys were blatantly discussing stealing a shipment of bonds right there at the gala?"
"They were in an alcove. Fiona and I were the only ones near them, and we were talking. I don't believe they thought anyone would understand them since they were speaking in Japanese."
"Wait a minute—you speak Japanese?" That wasn't in his file. It seemed with every case, Peter was finding out about a skill Neal previously hadn't mentioned. How long would this go on? Clearly the file on Neal Caffrey was far from complete. "When did you learn Japanese?"
"My mother learned it as a child when her father was serving in Tokyo. She gave me a few lessons … it's a long story." Neal got up from the chair and paced impatiently. "Peter, we don't have time for this. We need to investigate the bonds. The way they were speaking, the heist will take place in a few days."
Peter let out a slow exhale. He was by no means convinced but Neal's instincts in previous cases had been sound. "You say Mr. Nakahara is one of the chief officers at the bank—a senior vice president. Give him a call. Tell him what you told me and we'll proceed based on his reaction. Put him on speaker phone."
Neal hesitated. "I don't think that's a —"
"Go ahead." Peter wanted to judge for himself whether Nakahara felt further investigation was warranted.
Neal dialed the number of the bank and after only a few redirects was able to connect. When Nakahara got on the line, things went downhill. Peter would have to give Neal points for trying to keep the conversation in English, but Nakahara kept reverting to Japanese.
At the end of the conversation, Peter had to ask, "What just happened?"
"He'll meet with us at eleven. He's coming over here. He's taking it seriously, Peter. He said the bank has had other Samurai bond shipments stolen." Neal eyed him expectantly.
"You've convinced me. Since you're so savvy on the Japanese, anything I should know in dealing with Nakahara?"
"Glad you asked. The Japanese place a high value on the observance of proper etiquette." Neal sat back and studied him. "How's your bow? You should practice with me first. Then after you bow to my satisfaction, we should have you do a dress rehearsal downstairs in the bullpen. I wouldn't want you to have stage fright and clutch at the key moment."
Peter groaned. "I knew I shouldn't have asked. Out of here. I have work to do before he comes, and you do too, judging by the stack on your desk."
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
The meeting with Nakahara went much better than Peter had feared. Apparently it was easier for him to speak English in person than on the phone. He'd brought over his laptop which contained the files on the Azuma Bank employees.
While Neal combed through the personnel lists to identify the two men he'd seen, Nakahara explained the history of the Samurai bond thefts. Two other branch banks had been hit over the past nine months: one in Sydney and one in Rome. In both cases the thieves were able to gain access to the bank vaults and escape with the bonds without a trace of evidence being left behind. The thefts had only been discovered when routine inventories were made. The amount stolen was considerable—over two billion yen or sixteen million dollars.
Neal looked up from the laptop and reported, "I found them. Associate investment analysts. Hiroki Bando and Shogo Awaji. Both around thirty years old. Been with the bank seven years."
Neal returned the laptop to Nakahara who studied their files. "Their job histories with the bank are without blemish," he commented. "They've received excellent reviews from their supervisors. This is extremely disappointing to hear they may be involved. They've brought dishonor on themselves and Japan." Nakahara continued to examine their files and frowned. "But there's a problem. They aren't listed as having been in Sydney and Rome when those robberies were committed. However, it's possible they were on vacation during those times and could have traveled there on their own. When I get back to the office I'll have their personnel records sent to you."
"Neal, are you sure of your identification?" Peter didn't want to voice his concerns aloud, but recognizing Asians for a Westerner was not trivial.
"I'm positive," said Neal. "They're the ones."
Peter turned to face Nakahara. "It sounds like there are more people involved than just these two. To obtain evidence, I'd like to place one of our agents undercover. Will you be able to make the necessary arrangements?"
"That won't be a problem," he replied. "I can provide the appropriate clearance. Based on what Mr. Caffrey said, we'll need to move quickly to prevent the robbery. Based on what you heard you feel it will likely occur next week, is that correct?"
"That's right," Neal said.
"I'll meet with my team and get back to you this afternoon," Peter promised.
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
At the afternoon meeting when Peter brought Jones and Diana into the loop, Neal was surprised he didn't immediately announce his decision about who was going in. After all, it was obvious who was the best qualified. Peter made the process so much more drawn out than it needed to be.
Keeping his cards close to his vest, Peter said, "We need someone young who'll be able to establish a rapport with the two suspects, someone who understands the world of investment banking." He turned to Jones. "How are your trader skills?"
"Beginners level, I'm afraid," Jones admitted. "I've done a little investing for myself, but nothing on the scale these guys do."
Peter ignored Neal's efforts to grab his attention and swiveled to face Diana, "Do you think you could handle it, Diana?"
She shook her head regretfully. "Sorry, this one is totally outside my experience."
"I would do it," Peter said, "but my age will be a factor. I don't know that I'll be able to gain their confidence. Perhaps one of the agents in another division."
Frustrated at Peter's obtuseness, Neal was finally able to break in. "Aren't you ignoring the clear choice?"
"Oh, really?" Peter eyed him skeptically. "This isn't a clandestine meeting with a thief or card shark. You're going to have to blend in to the culture of a major corporation. When did you become an expert on stock analysis?"
"I can fake it. But I'm the only one who knows Japanese, and you know I'm the best person to gain their confidence."
"Have you ever built a financial model?" Peter challenged. "I don't recall you mentioning a mastery of macros. Or is that another of your hidden talents?"
Neal shot back. "It's all a shell game. Making a pitch. The fine art of persuasion. The rest is unimportant."
Jones came to his support. "You could probably cram enough into his head to pass muster, Peter. I can help him with his macros. But Neal's right, he could sell anything."
"Richard's a stock analyst," Neal added. "I can ask him to give me some tips."
Peter sat back, looking unconvinced, as Neal grinned at him hopefully.
"But won't they recognize you?" Diana asked. "After all, they saw you at the gala."
"They saw Nick Halden," Neal corrected. "Rich playboy, gambler, always looking for a good time. Just transferred from the Los Angeles branch. Friends with the boss's daughter."
"All right," Peter said, finally acknowledging the inevitable. "You'll start on Friday." Fixing him with a stern look, he added, "But that means tomorrow you're having a crash course on investment banking."
"Stock analyst boot camp?" Neal said. "Sign me up."
White Collar Division. December 2, 2004. Thursday morning.
Peter had taken his words far too literally.
Putting down his pen, Neal stretched his back as he examined the mountain of manuals, papers, and diagrams spread out in front of him. When he'd arrived at work at eight, Peter had shepherded him into one of the smaller conference rooms which had already been stocked with financial instruments of torture. Then he had the temerity to leave him a stack of assignments, with the admonition that only upon satisfactory completion of them would he be allowed to go undercover.
His one "break" had been Jones who had come in with an absolutely riveting presentation on Excel macros. Neal groaned. Why didn't they believe him, when he said he could just wing it? Hearing approaching footsteps, Neal quickly buried himself in a thrilling account of stock market investment tools.
Peter entered the room and sat down beside him. "Time for a progress report. How are you coming on your assignments?"
"You're enjoying this far too much, Peter. I mastered enough in the first hour. The rest of this is merely for extra credit."
"Oh, really? Ready for your pop quiz?" Peter picked up the performance ratio worksheet Neal had filled out and scanned his answers.
"Maybe after lunch. Richard's coming by at noon. He's scheduled to entertain me with the death-defying tale of a day in the life of an investment analyst over Chinese takeout." Richard had the studio next to Neal's at Columbia. Like Neal he was pursuing a master's in art part time. His day job was as an analyst in a stock brokerage firm and he worked not far from the Bureau.
"That does sound gripping. Mind if I join in? Tell you what, I'll supply the takeout." He'd put the sheet down without comment. Apparently Neal's answers hadn't raised any red flags.
"I have a copy of the menu here," and Neal pulled out a menu for the Federal Plaza Restaurant from a folder. "Let's see, you always want mu shu pork, and Richard likes shrimp. We could try their Szechuan shrimp with chili, and —"
Peter took the menu from his hand. "I'm commandeering this. You get back to work." As he left, Peter fired off one final parting admonition. "You have an hour to finish at least one other assignment." Slipping the paper into his pocket, he rose and headed for the door.
Neal called out to his retreating back. "Travis is also joining us. Be sure to order enou—"
"Focus, Caffrey."
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
"So, I'd just finished making the changes to our pitch, when an associate walks in and dumps another stack of rewrites on my desk. It was now five minutes before we were due to make the presentation. And at that precise moment, the printer jammed. Maybe not as hair-raising as what you'd have on an FBI op, but if you're looking for frustration and pain, nothing beats the life of a lowly investment analyst." Richard helped himself to more shrimp out of the container. "Excellent shrimp, by the way," he added.
Peter had called a timeout to Neal's studies at noon when Richard arrived. Peter had seen Richard several times, but always at Columbia. This was his first time to meet his business persona, or at least Richard's interpretation of one. Neal didn't know if he even owned a tie. And his usual day-old scruff was now looking to be two or three. Neal made a note to check with Nakahara about the dress code for the bank. If Richard were typical, he should have stopped shaving yesterday.
"How do you think our analyst-in-training will do?" Peter asked him.
"He'll make a killing," Richard said confidently. "Neal, when are you going in?"
"Tomorrow."
"I'll stand ready. With your luck, you'll probably bring on a Santa Claus rally in the market."
Slanting a glance at Peter, Neal asked, "I'm assuming it wouldn't be allowed for me to invest a little on the side?"
"Better believe it," Peter warned, pointing at him with his chopstick. "I don't want to be investigating Nick Halden for insider trading."
"Taking away all my fun," Neal said with a groan.
"Here's a toy to play with and keep you out of trouble," Travis said. He brought out a pen from his pocket.
"That looks remarkably like the dog whistle you supplied me with a couple of months ago," Neal said, putting down his rice bowl to examine it.
"It does, doesn't it?" Travis acknowledged with a grin. "I find these ballpoint pens to be remarkably adaptable." Travis Miller was White Collar's electronics expert, their answer to James Bond's Q in MI6.
"There's a miniature camera inside. Records video and audio. Just push the clip once to start and push it again to stop. The battery will last four hours without recharging. Four GB of internal memory."
Fascinated, Neal examined it closely. "Is this the lens?" he asked, pointing to a tiny dot above the clip.
"Yes. If Peter gives you permission to escape investment analyst hell, we'll practice on it in the lab. It will take a little getting used to."
"You guys have so much more fun than where I work," Richard lamented.
"Don't let this fool you," Neal replied. "The amount of mind-numbing paperwork around here is enough—Peter, what are you writing down?"
"Simply making notes for your next performance review," he said calmly.
Travis quickly stepped in before fireworks erupted. "This should help relieve the tedium of stock analysis," he said, handing Richard a thick book. "It's the book I was telling you about."
Peter asked to see it. Not a surprise since a Klingon was on the cover. "Is Travis trying to get you interested in sci-fi?" he asked Richard.
"Something much more intense. He wants me to sculpt space aliens."
"The annual sci-fi convention, Tac-Con, will be held in February," Travis said. "It's the largest convention of its type in the world. Several competitions are held in conjunction with the show, including ones for artists with contests for space imagery, special effects makeup, probably more. I've been trying to persuade Richard to enter a sculpture in the alien creations category."
Peter was thumbing through the book with interest. "I've never been but have read about it. It draws some of the most famous luminaries in science fiction. Didn't Arthur Clarke attend one year?"
"He did. Last year was the biggest year ever. Many of the stars of Stargate: Atlantis were there. But the best of all was an appearance by Leonard Nimoy." Travis paused. "I even got to meet him," he added in a hushed voice.
Peter closed the book, visibly impressed by that revelation. "Were you able to get his autograph?"
"Not just his autograph. He even let me get a photo of the two of us together. He was unbelievably gracious." Travis glanced around at them. "I'll never forget that moment. Some kids have sports celebrities for heroes. Mine was Spock."
Neal knew Peter was an astronomy geek and into sci-fi himself. With any luck, Neal could draw out this conversation long enough to make him forget any talk of pop quizzes. "I've heard trekkies are divided into two camps over whether the original Star Trek or Star Trek: The Next Generation was more innovative. What do you think, Peter?"
Fifteen minutes later, the food had all been finished and Travis and Peter were still debating the finer points of the Borg Collective versus warp drive. Neal's plan had worked better than he'd anticipated. Even Richard was holding his own with comments on the evolution of Klingon design over the various iterations.
"Travis showed me pictures from last year's convention," Richard said. "The costumes on some of the fans were so authentic that they looked like they could have walked off a movie set."
"We attended N-Con, the gaming convention, last fall in an operation to recover stolen Roman artifacts," Travis said. "Several of the team members wore costumes. Neal went as Mark Antony. Peter rocked it as Julius Caesar."
"I believe there's a cosplay competition in conjunction with Tac-Con," Richard said, unaware of Peter's altogether incomprehensible aversion to costumes. "It's one of the most popular. Peter, would you like me to send you the link?"
Entertaining as it was to watch Peter slap that suggestion down, Neal knew they were wandering into dangerous territory. He quickly picked up the book Travis had brought and asked him about it. "This is a great reference for source material," he said. "It's is a review of space aliens and monsters used in the film industry."
"I haven't sculpted any space aliens in a long time," Richard said, "but in high school I attended a sculpture summer camp. Made a series of clay busts of Star Wars creatures. They weren't bad."
Neal could feel Peter's eyes bore into him. Peter had gone undercover in a disguise in September that bore an uncanny resemblance to Han Solo's hirsute companion. It'd been a sensitive subject with Peter ever since. The prudent approach would be to ignore Richard's remark, but, realistically, Peter would insist on quizzing him anyway. He might as well take his fun while he could. "Was Chewbacca among them?" he asked Richard, keeping a straight face.
"Yeah, I think so."
"I hope you have photos. I could compare it with one I have of Peter in—"
Shooting Neal a glare that would freeze a breached warp core, Peter said, "I hate to break this up, but it's obvious Neal needs to prepare for a massive amount of exams this afternoon."
It was still worth it, Neal thought with a grin as he cleaned up the lunch supplies.
Handing him his container, Travis muttered, "Show me the photo later?"
"Deal, as long as I get to see that photo of you and Nimoy."
Notes: Thanks for reading. I hope you'll join me for Chapter 3: James Bonds when both Neal and Peter will have unexpected challenges thrown their way. Because of his experiences in The Queen's Jewels, Neal's cockiness is currently at a new high which exasperates Peter even as he understands what's behind it. That will change next week. Spock was a hero for many of us, not just Travis. I've pinned a photo of Leonard Nimoy and Travis (who resembles Zachary Quinto) on the Evening with Genji board of our Pinterest site.
Thanks to Penna Nomen for her many excellent suggestions and insights for this chapter. Our plot-spinning machine has been on overdrive this past week. The account of the marshals' scrutiny of Neal's finances occurs in Caffrey Disclosure by Penna Nomen. Mozzie traces his fascination with bees to an event found in The Woman in Blue. Peter's Chewbacca look also occurred in that story and is immortalized on The Woman in Blue board. The conventions mentioned, Tac-Con and N-Con, are fictitious.
