Chapter 4: Freefall

Metropolitan Museum of Art. October 10, 2005. Monday evening.

"It's magnificent, don't you agree?"

Neal stepped back to let Bianka and Sandor admire the object of his desire. He'd met them in the Great Hall on the ground floor at the Met. From there they ascended the main staircase to the second floor home of the Caravaggios. By the time they arrived in the gallery, Bureau agents were already in place. Neal recognized two agents who normally worked labor-racketeering cases. Travis was coordinating the surveillance teams. Multiple people were assigned in case the suspects separated. But they certainly weren't going to now—not with Neal introducing them to his dream crime.

He'd made his selection with Henry in mind. His cousin wasn't a fan of Baroque art, but this was one painting he'd approve of.

"I thought you'd direct us to Caravaggio's painting of the lute player," Bianka said, linking her arm with his.

"Dass ist viel besser, nein?" When Neal raved about his choice of painting in German, he was pleased to see they were both fluent in the language. It increased the likelihood that Sandor was Jacek. At Klaus's townhouse in New York, he and Jacek had spoken exclusively in German.

"Why are we speaking German?" Bianka asked. "Are you in a professorial mood?"

"It's best to take precautions," Neal said, casting a suspicious glance at a random pair of visitors standing beside them. "You never know who's listening in. Not many feds speak German."

"You aren't worried, are you?" she asked, regarding him with dismay.

"They have me on a tight leash," Neal muttered. He'd been pitching his voice low, and he decreased the volume still further.

"I don't understand," Sandor said. "Why would they be watching you?"

"Long story." For someone as paranoid as he was portraying himself, no way would he divulge those nuggets.

Sandor didn't press. "I'll grant you the painting is a masterpiece but I still don't understand why you were so eager for us to see it."

Neal didn't answer him directly. "Bianka's right—I was tempted by the lutenist. He has an array of other musical instruments displayed on the table in front of him, demonstrating that he's a man of many talents. He doesn't let himself be hemmed in . . ." Neal let his words trail off for a moment before picking up the thread. "But then I decided on The Musicians. I like the symbolism of the four players working together." He turned to Bianka. "They're like us. You, me, and Sandor are the principles. The fourth figure is partly hidden. He represents your parents that we're trying to protect."

Rolf should be pleased. By the time Neal was done, he'd realize Neal was subconsciously referring to himself, Klaus, and Peter with Rolf working behind the scenes.

"But how is this is going to help us?" Bianka asked. Then her eyes flashed recognition. "You want me to forge it?"

He shook his head. "That won't bring in the funds you need. For that, we'll need something much more daring. It's not safe to talk here. I'll explain over dinner."

Before leaving the museum, Neal took them on a tour, pointing out a couple of storerooms. He highlighted one in particular—the room where he and Klaus had hidden the night Klaus intended to steal The Woman in Blue. If Sandor were Jacek, he'd understand the significance. Neal refused to give any details about what he was planning, but chatted excitedly about his enthusiasm for many of the paintings, rhapsodizing at length on the Gentileschi. As they strolled through the museum, he increased the severity of his limp.

"Before we leave, we have to show Sandor the Vermeer paintings," Bianka said, clasping his hand. "I know he's one of your favorite artists."

Neal jerked as if she'd punched him. "You're wrong. I'm much more attracted to the Italian masters." He quickly added. "I wish the Met had more of Da Vinci's drawings. There's one in particular—Head of a Woman. It's in Parma. Have you ever seen it?"

Before she had a chance to respond, he described it in loving detail, mentioning how much the painting reminded him of her. Neal sped up his word flow till he was spewing a torrent of disjointed ideas. He caught Bianka and Sandor exchanging troubled looks. He left them alone while he visited the men's room and hoped that the agents following them would record their exchange.

Did Rolf think Bianka's mention of Vermeer would strengthen the implanted memories? Neal planned to act as if it had.

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Sistina had reserved the table he requested. When they arrived, Neal chose the corner chair for himself. Sandor and Bianka sat on either side of him. They deferred to him to order, and he accommodated them with grilled shrimp and scallops and a Pinot Grigio.

"You should let me pay," Sandor said. "It's the least I can do for your help."

"Why do you say that? I haven't done anything yet." They were continuing to speak in German. A disguised Diana was sitting with Agent Badillo in a table next to them. They had brought along notepads and appeared to be conducting a business meeting while they ate—a good excuse to linger.

"But you said you had a plan," Bianka prompted.

Neal nodded. "I'll steal the Caravaggio I pointed out to you. That will provide sufficient funds for you to pay off your debt and set yourself up in a new identity."

Sandor and Bianka both stared at him dumbfounded. Sandor was the first to close his mouth. "Are you crazy?"

"Crazy like a genius." He smiled at them. "At the Bureau, I've studied the techniques of the best art thieves in the world. Liberating that Caravaggio will be child's play."

"But it's the Met!" Bianka protested, her voice a distressed squeak. "How could you pull it off?"

"My team developed the security software they use," Neal explained. "The man in charge of the operation sits next to me at work. He told me about a flaw in the system. They're working on a patch, but it's not ready yet." He hoped that when they reported back to Rolf, Neal's explanation would be confirmation of his value at the Bureau. There was no need to kidnap him.

"How would you accomplish it?" Sandor asked.

"I'll hide custodial gear in the storeroom I pointed out to you. Just before closing time, I'll retreat to my cubbyhole, change into a maintenance uniform, and wait till late evening. I will have already obtained the cleaning schedule. It will be a simple matter to place the painting in a trash bag, put it in my service trolley, and wheel it out to the landing dock where you'll be waiting for me in a truck. We'll hit the Met tomorrow night."

"That's too soon," Sandor sputtered. "There's not enough time to make the arrangements."

"Sure there is. And if anything goes wrong, I'll simply go to the roof and scale down the exterior wall with the painting on my back." He lifted a shaky hand to toast them. "To the heist of the century!"

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"Slow down, Neal," Peter cautioned. "You're still racing a mile a minute."

"It's better this way," Neal insisted. "I don't know when I'm being monitored. At this point, I have to live the con."

"You sound just like Mozzie."

Neal's jaw hardened. "He knows what he's talking about."

Peter didn't press the point. Neal was every bit as hyper as he'd been the previous night. Peter had called the briefing to update the team on the events of the previous evening, but he had an ulterior motive, and that was to evaluate Neal's condition. The limp as he walked in was more noticeable. Neal's thinness accentuated the wild-eyed look on his face as he made his report. He'd developed a head jerk which evoked the onset of rampant paranoia, occasionally tossing in an eye twitch to confirm the prognosis.

It was terrifying to watch. Peter had to constantly remind himself it was simply an act. He was relieved Neal didn't have a wife or girlfriend who had to watch his descent.

The translation team had worked overnight to prepare transcripts of the recordings. Jones, Diana, and Travis all had copies in front of them.

"Why did you mention the Da Vinci?" Travis asked and checked his notes. "The work you called Head of a Woman."

"I was sketching that painting in Parma when Klaus first approached me," Neal said. "It was something he referred to during the virtual reality program. I used it to help confirm that the implanted memories were surfacing. Did anyone catch Bianka and Sandor's conversation when I left them alone at the museum?"

Jones nodded. "They continued to speak German. That in itself is a tell. If Sandor were really Bianka's brother, he'd have switched to Hungarian. They were particularly interested in your response to the Vermeer."

"Sandor said, 'It's working,' " Peter confirmed. "Bianka asked if they should insist on visiting the Vermeer gallery, and Sandor advised against it. He was concerned about your behavior. You'll particularly like this—Sandor said you were a changed man from a year ago. Your behavior wasn't what they'd intended and Bianka wanted to know how they should handle it."

"What did he reply?" Neal asked, placing his arms on the table and leaning forward.

"Sandor said he'd seek instructions. He didn't mention any names."

"You already suspected Sandor was Jacek," Travis said. "His words corroborated your belief and we have additional hard evidence. Last autumn, Klaus had taken you and the Kolars out to dinner. We'd bugged the restaurant and recorded the conversation. When I fed Jacek's voice through voice biometrics, there was a near perfect match to Sandor's."

"Man, I wish we could arrest him now," Jones said, letting out a sigh.

"So do I," Peter said, "but we've got to let him run free. We're luring those ghosts out from hiding. We can't stop till we have their leaders." Sandor was under constant surveillance. They didn't dare bug his room in the hotel on Broadway where he was staying since all known Ydrus operatives used detectors, but a van was in position outside the hotel to monitor his movements. Peter turned to Neal. "Thanks to your performance at dinner, that shouldn't take long. When you left the table, Sandor and Bianka discussed your proposal. It didn't escape his notice that your scheme has some glaring similarities to what Klaus devised a year ago."

"When you indicated the same storeroom you and Klaus had used last fall, Sandor was chewing his lip so hard, it's a wonder there's anything left to it," Diana added.

"So? Do they want to act on it?" Neal asked eagerly. "My attempts to convince them went nowhere."

"Bianka questioned Sandor about it," Jones said, "and he was adamantly opposed to moving forward."

"Don't look so dismayed!" Peter added, hoping Neal's disappointed reaction was simply part of the con. "Sandor's seriously worried about your mental state. He pointed out it would be impossible to arrange all the necessary details in twenty-four hours. Sandor's no fool. He wants to check with his bosses before agreeing to anything."

"You mean I won't scale the wall of the Met tonight?" Neal asked, assuming a woebegone look.

"NO!" everyone thundered in one voice.

"Besides, you'll be much too busy," Diana said. "We saved the best for last."

"Which is?"

Diana swiveled her chair to face him. "After you got in the taxi to speed off for van duty, Bianka and Sandor strolled down 81st Street. On the corner of Madison Avenue, they stopped for an embrace. We have the photos to prove it."

Neal's mouth dropped open. "He hit on my girl!"

Jones nodded knowingly. "I've seen the photos. No way would a brother kiss a sister like that."

Diana reached over to pat him on the shoulder. "I know this comes as a blow, but Bianka's been playing you. Judging by the looks she sent him, Bianka's crushing big time on Sandor."

"Did she kiss him or he kiss her?" Neal demanded.

"He started it," Jones confirmed. "Why?"

Neal exhaled, looking relieved. "She'll have an easier time playing the victim card. And that's exactly what we want her to do."

Peter was breathing easier as well. Bianka was unwittingly helping them. Would Joanna be equally accommodating? According to Henry's itinerary, he was attending the python husbandry workshop in England today. Was he about to go head to head with a human Python?

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Anya was one of the first to arrive at the workshop in Oakfield Manor. The Royal Herpetological Society was her favorite charity and she'd attended its events for years under her alias of Joanna Abbot. She was friends with many of the attendees, none of whom knew her real name.

The city of Chester with its ancient walls and black-and-white timbered structures was a charming location. She was glad she'd suggested it to the organizers. Where else would you find a modern zoo built around a Victorian manor house? The blend of old and new appealed to her, just like mixing firearms sales with old masterpieces.

She'd decided to attend the workshop before they advanced the timetable on Caffrey, and she'd seen no reason to switch her plans. Rolf could easily manage without her. Marta was accompanying Anya on the trip. She was scheduled to meet a Russian arms dealer in Liverpool while Anya was in Chester.

This was a timeout for Anya to relax. As she surveyed the room filled with cages of snakes, she was eager to indulge in private pleasures. The zoo veterinarian conducted a fascinating discussion on the dietary requirements of pythons. She'd need to speak with her chef when she returned home.

An hour into the workshop, a late arrival joined their group. Anya kept any hint of surprise from showing on her face when Henry Winslow strolled into the room. She'd just made friends with a lovely banana python. Would she soon acquire a new species? What did Henry resemble? An African rock python, perhaps. Anya felt her lips curl upward as she pictured placing him in a cage next to his cousin.

How had he tracked her? How much did he know about her? Huber and Kramer probably squealed to authorities after their capture the previous month, but the damage they would have been able to inflict was minimal. Neither one was aware of the fortress in Hungary. They'd been left in the dark about Bianka and they only knew Anya by her code name. Had Henry been searching the world for Python? He had the wealth to do so. The thought was intoxicating.

Rolf had expressed an interest in Neal's cousin. Although she was skeptical of the plan, she'd read his profile. Peter and Henry were vipers and not to be trusted. But once they were reprogrammed into being her pet pythons, they could be useful.

She stroked the python's sinuous coils as she reviewed her options. Henry had buttonholed the workshop instructor, a veterinarian from the Chester Zoo. He'd made no attempt to approach her, allowing her to take the lead.

Klaus had argued against Rolf's attempts to include Henry. He viewed Henry as a threat to the close relationship he wanted to reestablish with Neal. Anya had often wondered if there were anything sexual in Klaus's attachment, but he denied it vociferously. Psychologists would have a field day with his deep-rooted desire to have Neal as his younger brother. It verged on dependent personality disorder and was a vulnerability she'd continue to exploit.

Penfold could brainwash Henry into attempting to kill his cousin, giving Klaus the opportunity to play the hero. Klaus's gratitude would be an additional hook to control him.

Anya returned the python to the cage and pulled out her cell phone. Marta was only a few hours away. By the end of the workshop, she could be in position. After texting her the details, Anya approached Henry.

"I don't believe we've met," she said. "My name's Joanna."

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Henry was gaining new respect for Neal by the second. It wasn't that girls had never hit on him, but Joanna's level of seduction was on a different plane. And now it was rapidly spiraling out of control.

Henry had checked in with Neal and Peter's art crimes contact in London before heading to Chester. John Hobhouse had offered to alert the local police, and Henry had agreed but he refused to allow anyone to accompany him. Instead, Henry agreed to check in at regular intervals. It wasn't necessary but might keep Peter from stewing so much.

The day had started out well enough. Even though he'd gotten stuck in a traffic jam out of London, he'd arrived only an hour late to the workshop. There were about twenty-five participants. Joanna had been all gracious smiles when she introduced herself. Henry portrayed himself as a hobbyist. He'd boned up on the care and feeding of his slithery friends on the flight from New York City and felt equipped to handle anything she might throw at him. In retrospect, he would have been better off watching Fatal Attraction.

Joanna was surprisingly cordial. It was his first chance to hear her accent and he couldn't detect much of any. She knew several of the participants and introduced him to them. He recorded all the exchanges on his phone.

When Joanna discovered it was his first trip to Chester, she insisted on taking him out to dinner, and Henry was happy to accept. It was a rare opportunity to learn more about her. Henry assumed she knew exactly who he was. His objective was to determine her motivation. Was she acting out of curiosity or did she have something specific in mind?

She took him to a rustic French bistro in the old part of town. Chez Jules was more Neal's style than his. Many of the items on the menu he'd never heard of. He stuck to sirloin and managed. Even drank wine for the occasion. Joanna maintained a constant flow of conversation about expeditions she'd made to exotic countries to search for snakes in their native habitats. They discussed her business. She was a buyer for a large antique gallery but clearly had ample financial reserves.

When she invited him to her suite at the Chester Grosvenor Hotel, how could he refuse? There wasn't any good reason to decline the champagne she ordered. Henry pretended to get drunk, hoping she'd reveal what it was she wanted. For her part, she was drinking champagne like water as her flirtation turned aggressive. They sat next to each other on the loveseat, her hands wandering into forbidden territory.

Hell, what now?

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Neal made a point of arriving earlier than normal to his art studio at Columbia. Bianka didn't usually show up till around seven, and he wanted to confront her as soon as she appeared. He'd rehearsed the scene during the afternoon. His watch was ready to record every second.

When he heard her door open, he gave her one minute before making his move, composing his features into a look of distressed outrage. He'd seen the woman he loved making out, not just with another man, but her brother.

When she opened the door to his knock, her surprise was evident. "Hi, you got here early!"

"I wanted to see you." His voice trembled with a mixture of hurt and outrage.

"What's wrong?" she demanded, grasping his arm and pulling him into her studio.

He didn't answer her for a moment, staring wild-eyed at her. "How's your brother?" he finally sputtered.

"He's all right. Are you upset at what happened yesterday?"

"Yeah, but not at the Met. How could you have!"

"How could I have what?"

"Lie to me!" He swallowed as if he had a rock in his throat. "All this time, playing me for a fool."

She flushed, her expression growing anguished. She was either a better actress than he'd given her credit for or she did feel a certain degree of remorse. "You're wrong. My feelings for you are real!"

"So you're in love with two men?"

She turned even redder. "What do you mean?"

"I thought there was something suspicious about Sandor, or whatever his name is. And I was right. I had the taxi drive around the corner then I got out. I followed you and your boyfriend. Saw the two of you kissing . . ." Neal stopped as if his emotions got the better of him. He swiped his hand across his face.

Stricken, Bianka's mouth dropped open but no sound came out.

"Was everything a lie?" he asked, adding a couple of extra buckets of despair to his voice.

She began to cry. "You're too good for me. I don't deserve you." Sobbing, she threw herself at his chest.

He patted her back awkwardly while waiting for her next move.

"I tried to reform. Give up the life, but I can't!" she wailed. He was glad he'd worn an old sweater. He shifted his weight and stiffened his back as if in pain.

"What's going on, Bianka? Don't I deserve the truth?"

"And so much more." She pulled him down on the floor cushions. "I don't care what the doctors say." She kissed him hungrily, and after an initial hesitation, he went for it as well.

"So what if I die? I deserve it." She cupped his face in her hands. "Everything you know about me is a lie, except this, I do truly love you. This is the last evening we'll see each other. You deserve to know why."

He looked pleadingly into her eyes. "Don't say that!"

"Sandor didn't lure me into forging art. I did it on my own. I've been forging art and working for the Mafia since I was sixteen. "

As Neal looked at her in shock, her eyes welled up with tears once more. "You're right. Sandor's not my half-brother. He recruited me when he was in college. He seduced me when I was sixteen. He's the only man I've ever known. You have to believe me. He helped me get the scholarship to Columbia and now he wants me to forge more paintings for him. The Mafia will take revenge on my parents if I don't cooperate, but not because of him—because of me. That's why we can never be together."

"That's where you're wrong." He wrapped his arms around her and drew her close to his chest. "Now I know you and I were meant to be together." He kissed her, projecting Sara's face onto her. If this worked out as he hoped, it would soon be over.

Someone knocked on the door, but she ignored it and he did too.

When Neal pulled back, he said, "You and I are more alike than you know."

"Don't tell me that. You should report me to the FBI. I've placed you in an impossible position. Now that you know the truth, I'll leave immediately. You'll never see me again."

"Don't say that! I couldn't bear for us to be apart!" His hands trembling, he embraced her once more. "I haven't been open about myself either. I was afraid you wouldn't have anything to do with me if you knew."

"Knew what?"

"I'm a thief, too." He gazed at her anxiously.

She gazed at him, wide-eyed. "You are?"

"How else would I know how to steal a painting from the Met?" he shrugged. "I'm also a forger—one of the best in the world, or so I've been told."

"Does Peter know about you?"

He nodded. "It's complicated, but be patient a little while longer. I can get you away from the Mafia. You'll be able to work with someone who'll respect your talent. Peter and I have a plan."

"What sort of plan?"

He ignored her question. "We'll be able to be thieves and continue our studies at Columbia. Peter thinks it's best I keep my job at the Bureau for now, and I trust him."

She stroked his cheek. "I stopped believing in fairy tales long ago. You should too. If Peter knows about your past he must be using you, just like Sandor is me."

Neal shook his head vehemently. "I can prove it to you. Did you read about the recovery of the Nazi plunder a few weeks ago?"

"Of course! That was all the art department was talking about."

"Peter and I were the ones who achieved it."

"You did? How?"

"I'll explain later. What you need to know is that we didn't return all the art we found. We extracted a small payment."

Her mouth dropped. "What did you keep?"

"I have a soft spot for Raphael."

She looked at him, her expression puzzled.

"Have you ever heard of the Raphael self-portrait which went missing during the war?" He smiled at her. "It's missing no more."

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Peter turned up the volume on the feed.

"When will you see him next?" Sandor asked.

"We'll be in classes all day today," Bianka said. "Jacek, what should I tell him?"

"Hey, none of that. I don't care if no one is around you. Never step out of character."

"Sorry, it won't happen again."

"I know it's hard on you. It is on me too," he said, his voice quieter. "It will soon be over. Act as if I'm on board for stealing The Musicians, but tell him we need to hold off till Friday. Everything should be in place by then. They talked with Erasmus." Sandor's voice had grown even lower. It was hard to hear him through the sounds of the traffic.

"Do they want to proceed with The Astronomer?"

"Not in his condition, and there's another complication I just learned about. They're not sure they have the original."

"What?" Bianka's voice breathed her disbelief.

"You heard me. They're convinced Burke's been a player for longer than we realized."

Peter switched off the recording and turned to Jones. "When did this come in?"

"Seven o'clock this morning," Jones said.

Peter knew about Neal's conversation with Bianka the previous evening. Neal had called him late that night with the summary before he downloaded the feed from his watch. When he arrived at work, Jones greeted him with this gem. There was no longer any question of who Sandor was. Nor of Bianka's feelings toward him.

"What do you make of their comments about The Astronomer?" Jones asked.

"Has Rolf grown paranoid? He could believe I lusted after the painting as well. What if Neal stole it for me, and I'd replaced it with a forgery before Klaus stole it in June?"

Jones chuckled in disbelief. "When would Neal have had the chance?"

"He could have prepared the forgery in advance of the trip and switched paintings from the storage facility the week we were in Paris. Then when Klaus stole it, he was actually stealing Neal's copy."

"If they believe that, Penfold may use it as an excuse for why Neal is acting so strange. The trigger has even more impact because Neal knows of your involvement."

"Exactly." Peter pulled out his cell phone and texted Neal to call him. His classes would have to wait. After weeks of waiting, the train was speeding down the track. The conversation between Bianka and Jacek had been recorded thanks to Neal's use of the syg-zapper. Travis believed Jacek could be making use of the dark web to contact Rolf and that would make tracing communications between the two of them virtually impossible.

When Travis came to his office later that day to report that Satchmo had a visitor in the afternoon, Peter suspected Jacek had put that untraceable system to work.

"Were you expecting Jacek to drop by?" Travis asked as he closed the door.

Travis's smile was echoed on his own face. The pieces were falling in place just as they'd predicted. Peter and El had been leaving for work together ever since the op began. She was never alone at the house. This was clear proof for why those steps were necessary.

"I was hoping he'd make a call. I haven't seen the feed yet. I assume Satchmo's okay?"

Travis nodded. "He may not be hungry tonight. Jacek tossed the contents of an entire bag of dog treats on the living room rug for him. I doubt you'll find any physical evidence of that when you return home."

The team in charge of tracking Jacek had followed him from his hotel on the Upper West Side. Once they saw him take the exit for the Brooklyn Bridge, they were confident of his destination. They'd telephoned ahead for a subsidiary unit to handle the surveillance at Peter's house.

Mozzie's security system had been modified to look like standard-issue equipment. What wasn't standard were the additional cameras and microphones set up in each room. Peter activated them every time he left the house.

"Jacek rang the doorbell then used some pocket device to disarm the security alarm," Travis explained. "I wish I could get my hands on it. Once Jacek entered, he slipped on gloves and cased every room of your house. When he found the Renoir in your bedroom, he took several photos and added a macro-lens for close-up work."

"Excellent. Neal had dangled the lure in front of Bianka last night. Now Jacek has the verification. Did he make any phone calls?"

"Not to my knowledge. He worked on your gun safe in the study but wasn't able to open it. His skills must not be up to Neal's standard."

Peter smiled. "I had Mozzie install a top-of-the-line lock. We want Rolf to wonder just what secrets may be inside."

Travis nodded. "The Raphael self-portrait could easily fit inside as well as the Vermeer. Jacek also took several photos of that painting Neal made of the three of you stargazing at your cabin in the Catskills."

That would give something else for Rolf to mull over. Peter hoped the main takeaway was that the three of them were a family, and for Neal to do his best work, he'd need to stay in New York with them.

"Any word from Henry?" Travis asked.

"He called an hour ago. He's back in London after quite a day." Peter filled him in on the events. "Henry was finally able to extricate himself from Joanna's room around midnight. The way he glossed over the details is telling."

Travis chuckled. "I don't blame him. Being seduced by the likely head of Ydrus? He was lucky to escape without being bitten."

"I reminded him of that." What had Henry been thinking? A million things could have gone wrong. He could have been kidnapped, poisoned, or killed. And all Henry's arguments that Python wouldn't try anything since she was operating under her Joanna alias were examples of very flawed reasoning—the kind of logic Peter had spent the past two years trying to drum out of Neal's skull.

By Travis's look of sympathy, he commiserated with Peter. "Still, you won't hear any complaints from me. It's done. And now we have the signature of Python's cell phone."

That's what kept Peter from venting as much as he would have otherwise. Henry had forwarded the code. From now on, whenever Python called any of the known devices, they should be able to intercept the message and locations. They'd gotten codes for Jacek, Bianka, and Python. If the scenario played out as they hoped, they'd soon have Klaus's signal as well.

Now that Jacek had examined the Renoir and Neal appeared ready to steal a Caravaggio, the two most likely steps were for Rolf to contact Peter and Klaus to approach Neal. Peter expected that Klaus would make the first move. He could explain his arrival in terms of rescuing Sandor. Based on what Bianka had already told Neal, she could concoct a tale of being acquainted with someone in Europe who approached her with an offer to help. She'd refuse to allow Neal to do the job because she was afraid he'd be caught. She could easily mention he wasn't well enough. Neal hadn't regained all of his weight. She'd be able to use that as evidence.

When Neal asked her who the guy was, she'd tell him about Klaus, probably laying it on thick about how much he'd taught her and helped her over the years. How she'd wanted to join his crew, but he wanted her to get an education instead.

Doc Jacob had advised Neal to act dumbfounded when Bianka mentioned his name. Klaus most likely believed that when Neal heard his former mentor was alive, the flood of implanted memories would merge with bewilderment over Klaus's miraculous reappearance. Neal should act disoriented and irrational—the helpless victim for Klaus to heal.

The team was relying on the belief that Klaus and Rolf wanted Neal to stay in New York. His contacts at both the FBI and the art world were too valuable to lose. Hopefully, Anya felt that way too. If not, all bets were off.

Since this was Wednesday, Neal was spending the day on campus. He expected Bianka to invite him to her apartment in the evening. Would this finally be the day Klaus revealed himself?

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Bianka inserted the key into the lock of her apartment door. "We'll talk about it inside, I promise." She hesitated then placed her hands on either side of Neal's face, drawing him into a kiss.

Was she picturing Jacek while he was imagining Sara? Neal closed his eyes, prolonging the kiss and plunging his hands into her hair. Surely only a few more hours to endure this. Today, tomorrow, how long would he have to wait for Klaus to make his move?

Bianka pulled back first, her face flushed. Her eyes were welling up with tears. Was she convinced that he was so deeply in love that she felt sorry for him? That was his hope.

"We should go inside," she urged softly, reaching for the doorknob.

He placed his hand on top of hers, stopping her from turning the knob. "I refuse to delay any longer. If Sandor won't help, I'll go in alone. You've already had to endure the threat for far too long."

She kissed him again. "I love you. That's all that matters." Gently she removed his hand and opened the door.

The interior was dark. A little light was coming through the partially closed window blinds but not enough to see anything more than the shadows of her furniture.

Bianka flicked the hall switch but the light didn't come on. "I was afraid of that," she groaned. "It was flickering yesterday."

"No problem. I can take care of it. Do you have a flashlight?" Neal tensed his muscles. It was coming.

"There's one in the drawer next to the refrigerator."

The back of his neck tingled as he turned toward the kitchenette. Traffic sounds drowned out any sound but he was sure someone else was there. A faint whiff of—

With a rush of air, someone charged him and seized his arms from behind. "Run!" Neal yelled and kicked out wildly. Someone else covered his head with a cloth hood.

He felt a prick to his arm as he struggled to free himself. Strong hands seized his neck, choking him. He coughed. A fist slammed into his solar plexus, knocking the breath out of him. He was clinging to consciousness by a thread. He'd expected Klaus to be nicer . . .

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

It took Peter only a second to realize what had awakened him. He had his cell set to vibrate, and its angry buzz on the glass top of the nightstand demanded attention. The alarm clock displayed twelve fifteen.

"What happened?" he whispered, holding the phone to his ear as he got out of bed. El hadn't stirred and he strode outside the room, closing the door softly behind him. Jones wouldn't be calling except in an emergency. His stomach had already twisted into a clenched knot before he heard Jones's confirmation.

"It's Neal."

Peter jogged down the staircase. He'd left his laptop in the study and he went there to hear out how bad it was.

"The surveillance van saw him leave Bianka's building at ten forty-five. He walks home from her place. It takes fifteen minutes tops."

Peter knew the distance was a short one. According to the protocol they'd established, Neal was to call once he arrived home.

"When the van hadn't heard anything after thirty minutes, they called him and were put straight through to voicemail. They contacted backup personnel to check Neal's apartment. The team's over there now. The clothes he wore are on the bed, as well as his two phones, watch, wallet, and keys. The terrace door was open. I'm heading over."

"I'll meet you there."

Peter looked up to see El standing in the doorway. Her arms were crossed, her hands clutching her robe even though the house was warm. "It's Neal, isn't it?"

"He's been taken. That's all I know for now. Jones has dispatched agents to keep watch outside our house."

"You'll keep me updated?"

He kissed her. "We're in this together. I'll let you know as soon as I hear anything."

Notes: And your next update will come in Chapter 5: Swept Away. Neal was already having difficulties with faking PTSD symptoms which became disturbingly real. The situation worsens next week.

I've added pins to the Caravaggio works mentioned in this chapter on the Pinterest board. This story is not the first time the Italian artist has been featured in Caffrey Conversation. I've been finding parallels between his works and Neal since The Woman in Blue. They're the subject of my blog post this week: "Caravaggio in Caffrey Conversation."

Did Henry really escape Python's clutches with only a little embarrassment? That's hard to believe. And why did she contact her assistant Marta? There will be more about that in a later chapter.

If you'd like to take a break from the tension in The Musicians, I heartily recommend a collection of fluffy stories written by Penna Nomen for the Chocolate Box Exchange! They're currently posted anonymously, but the names will be announced on February 21. You can find the full list in her profile starting on that date. I offered to beta them so I could get advance peeks and now it's sooooo hard to resist giving spoilers for them. I'll have more information about the stories next week.

I'm not the only one who has a difficult time avoiding spoilers. Penna wrote about them for the blog this week in a post called "I Like Spoilers."

Happy Anniversary, Penna! I posted this chapter on February 20, the 5th anniversary of our writing partnership. We're looking forward to another year of spinning ideas, scheming plot twists, reviewing each other's stories, and laughing over typos. Thank you for coming along on the adventure with us!

Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Musicians board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website