AN: Sorry this is a bit later than usual. I was on vacation. Updates will become more regular now. The language that comes up later, Farsi, is an Iranian language. This is the more local name of the language, and it's also known as the Persian language. Thanks for reading and big thanks to my betas AwesomeQueenoftheLab, and the-vampire-act
Chapter Three - Corrupt Control
"You must be the FBI agents. Aaron Carson, it's a pleasure to meet you," Carson greeted Peter and Neal as they walked into the entrance area. He was dressed in a fitted dark black suit with a white button-down and skinny black tie. The man's blonde hair was strategically messy, layers intermingling so that it looked like he'd just been in a windstorm. Overall, it was definitely a good look for the man, not that Neal would ever admit it. The English accent he had expected from the man was barely noticeable due to the years he'd been in the States. Carson held out a slim hand to Peter, which the agent shook with a nod.
"Special Agent Peter Burke, White Collar Crimes," Peter said, showing his FBI credentials to the man. He gestured towards Neal, who was standing behind him and taking his hat off. "This is my consultant, Neal Caffrey."
Carson's eyebrows shot up to his hairline, then his eyes swept over to Neal. Grey eyes met dark brown, and a brief flicker of recognition passed across the brown eyes, causing Neal's heart to sink.
After he had flashed on the case file, worry had begun to settle in pit of his stomach. The Intersect had provided intelligence that Carson was working on another similar system for The Ring, one that would have capabilities like Intersect 2.0. Neal knew that to create the encoded pictures, the creator would have to actually view the pictures so that he could pair them with the proper information. The Ring would definitely have a file on him, and although they thought Bryce Larkin was dead since he was listed as deceased by the government, it was still an everyday risk. He'd been stationed in New York because that was where they believed the rogue intelligence group was based. Exposure was inevitable, and while Neal's time in jail helped erase much of the suspicion – if there ever was any – the chance that Neal would be spotted and believed to be Bryce Larkin was still low. But now there was the very real possibility that this man knew who he really was, and with Peter still watching his every little move, Neal had a feeling that something was going to give soon.
Thankfully, Carson just held out a hand to Neal, who shook it with mild reluctance. After a tense moment as the man studied the consultant, Carson broke eye contact first when he turned then motioned for the two to follow him.
"Really. And what do you consult on?" Carson asked as he guided them down a hallway. Neal's training kicked in, and he let his gaze wander, trying to take in as many details as possible or assess any potential threats. Curiosity laced the man's voice, but Neal could tell it was an act. The man was still suspicious about something.
"Whatever the Bureau needs me to. Mostly art thefts, forgeries, frauds. The usual," he replied, ignoring the sharp glance Peter shot towards him and instead flashing his trademark grin.
"Fascinating," Carson drawled, his dark eyes watching Neal. "Well, I hope you can help us catch this pesky thief." He glanced back at the consultant with a cocky grin. Neal nodded back, outwardly smiling, inwardly frowning.
Peter, for his part, just observed the interaction between the two. He knew Neal well enough now to catch the tense undertone in both his voice and body language, but the origin of it puzzled the FBI agent. It wasn't often that Neal expressed nervousness in any situation, so it left Peter at a bit of a loss. Carson started talking about the gallery, though Peter only paid him half-a-mind. Right now, he was more concerned about his consultant, and he shot another warning look at Neal, whose intense eyes caught the agent's. The dark gaze startled Peter; however, Neal turned his head away quickly and broke the moment. Peter shook his own head in exasperation, and then turned back to the artist, who was still talking.
"And this is my baby, as you Americans say. The Gallery," Carson declared proudly, then spread his hands out and spun around as if to showcase the area. For a moment, Neal understood the pride in Carson's voice. Even he had to admit the room was beautiful.
The room they had entered was large, probably to accommodate the amount of pictures lining the walls. Large glass panels took up a whole wall, and it had a view that looked out over the Hudson River. The walls were painted a blue that reminded Neal of the night sky, it was so dark. On one wall, large portraits of people like Marilyn Monroe, Diana, and even George Washington hung, while another wall was home to pictures of famous paintings, such as the Mona Lisa. Except these pictures weren't painted on a canvas –they were printed on what looked to Neal like different types of sheet metal. Heavy frames, each one different, bordered the pictures where they hung. Perhaps the most amazing aspect to the art was that all of the pictures were formed from thousands of smaller ones that were related to the larger ones. At closer look, Marilyn Monroe's picture, for example, comprised of thousands of black and whites of her throughout life. They were all unique, which was probably the reason the artist was in such demand.
The only blemish in the room was a blank area of wall that was blocked off by yellow police tape stretching from nearby benches. Various agents and technicians with the familiar FBI windbreakers wandered around, taking pictures and consulting with each other. Peter immediately headed over there, leaving Neal to examine the pictures alone.
Unfortunately, Neal found that he couldn't look at the pictures for long, because he felt a massive headache approaching every time he tried. It felt like a flash, but he knew what was really happening – he was registering the larger picture and then the smaller ones all at once. Because his brain was already wired to accommodate similar information, it was trying to file them away as if they were Intersect files. However, because no data was encoded in them, he was having some trouble focusing when the pictures started to float aimlessly across his vision. So instead of looking at them, he cast his eyes down and took a few deep breaths in an effort to steady himself. A dull throb behind his eyes indicated that a headache was fast approaching and Neal almost screamed in frustration. He could deal with the pain, though – he had to.
"Some find that they cannot look at the pictures for long," a light voice startled Neal. Carson had snuck up on the dazed consultant, now standing at his side. "I've had a few people complain about headaches, so if you need a break I can show you to the balcony."
"I'm fine," Neal replied tightly. Before he could say more, he saw Peter beckon from where the agent was crouched on the floor. "Excuse me."
"Of course. If you need anything, do not hesitate to ask," Carson offered, and the consultant dipped his head in acknowledgment. The moment he turned his back, though, the pleasant expression on Neal's face disappeared.
"How about a gun?" Neal muttered under his breath, his mouth twisting into a small sneer as he walked towards Peter. "That'd save us all a lot of trouble."
"What about trouble?" the agent asked suspiciously, as he had caught the end of the last comment, before holding out a pair of white gloves for Neal to put on so he wouldn't contaminate the scene.
"Nothing," he said, brushing it off. He put his hat under his arm, then took the offered protection and put them on, jerking the white material a little when it stuck. Wiggling his fingers, he asked, "So, did you find something?"
"Well, sort of. What do you make of this?" Peter indicated a long white gouge in the tan stone floor. There was a small yellow card that had the number two sitting near the area, marking it off for evidence collection – in this case, photographs. Neal knelt down and ran a gloved finger over the area, causing tiny pieces of white stone to break off. He sat back on his heels, crushing the stone in his palm.
"It looks like something heavy was dropped right here," Neal said, wiping the debris off his hands. He motioned downward, then sideways, "And then maybe dragged across the floor. I'm guessing it was the picture."
"It's possible. Without a sample of the frame, forensics can't match the imprints. So, we can only assume," Peter said, staring hard at the marks as if the answer would somehow pop out at him.
"And Forensics didn't lift any fingerprints around the area?"
"Nothing other than the expected residual," the agent confirmed, then stood up, Neal following suit. Carson had wandered over towards the two, and Peter questioned him. "How heavy are these things?"
Surprise appeared on the pale face at the odd question, but Carson answered, "With the frame, perhaps one hundred fifty to two hundred kilograms. Without the frame, it would be much less. If you do not mind me asking, why would the weight of the pictures matter?"
"That's about four hundred pounds, give or take a few," Neal said as he mentally calculated, then turned to Peter, saying, "It could definitely leave these marks if someone dropped it."
"It matters because it means more than one person handled the picture," Peter addressed the curious artist. "If it was a team, then we have multiple suspects. They probably got it off the wall, one of them dropped it, the frame hit the floor, and then they put it on a cart of some sort," he said, running through the scenario. "And you didn't hear anything at all?"
"Agent Burke," Carson said, speaking as if Peter was a bit dense, "these walls are soundproofed, and my security system was disabled somehow. So, no, I did not hear anything. You are welcome to look at the closed circuit video from during the time of the break-in, but I doubt that it will be of much help."
"And why would that be?" Peter asked, narrowing his eyes at the artist.
"The tapes are all blank."
"They were wiped?" Neal questioned, curiosity lacing his voice. He shot a glance at Peter and could see the wheels turning, too.
Carson shifted from foot to foot, looking a bit uncomfortable. Neal could tell the movement was a rouse, but it seemed too subtle for Peter to detect. That, or the agent wasn't paying enough attention.
"Well, all we got on the monitors was static. I can take you up to security to see for yourself."
"You do that. And I'd like your personnel files also," Peter said, and then added, "If that's not too much trouble."
"Not at all," the artist replied. Again, Neal caught a slight tightening around Carson's eyes, indicating it really was too much trouble. "Follow me then. I will show you to our security suite."
For a moment, as they came into the room, both Peter and Neal were blinded by the whiteness of it. Their eyes adjusted quickly, so finally the two could make out the interior of the area. The security room was a small white room with television screens lining the walls. Immediately, Neal thought of the Intersect room. If it really was true, and Carson was building another Intersect, then he was sure that it would be in this room somewhere. He couldn't see any computer terminals, though. Instead, in the middle of the room stood a large white desk, which curved around two white leather computer chairs where two men sat, quietly speaking to Jones and Cruz, who were standing over them. One of the men was completely bald, with black square-framed spectacles sitting on his nose. The white of the room made the man almost blend in, he was so pale. His companion, in contrast, was tanned to a deep brown. Long black hair hung around his face, and Neal wasn't able to make out any distinguishing features at first glance. A few keyboards and a mouse sat in front of them on the desk, but no computer could be seen. The screens attached to the walls showed live feeds from various places in the building.
"Jackson, Hutchinson, I need you to pull up the video from the time of the break-in," Carson commanded the two sitting in the chairs, bringing the attention of the agents to him.
"But Boss, the feed-" the dark haired one started, but Carson cut him off.
"Jackson! These nice men would like to look at the video."
The man Carson identified as Jackson spun around in his chair, allowing Neal to get a look at his face.
A facial recognition program, then overlaying the picture with one in a file, list of names designated as known aliases, George Kouth, Cameron Jackson, Birth Name: Kelly David, a Roark Instruments ID card with the name Kelly David, Computer Systems Specialist, computer code, a bank account number followed by a bank statement showing large withdrawals, the word Fulcrum
Before Neal could really catch his bearings, the other man, Hutchinson, looked up.
A picture on an ID card, the Roark Instruments logo, Tim Hutchinson: Security, the same name on top of a file, Previous Occupation: Security Consultant, Carter Security & Consulting, Current Occupation: Head of security for Carson Galleries, highlighted words in a file, CONTACT WITH TED ROARK, WIRETAP APPROVED, audio software, a distinct Texas accent, "the security system for Roark Instruments is complex and multilayered, hard to break into, odd layout of building-"
It took Neal considerable effort to mask the flashes. They were unexpected, and the headache that lingered from earlier came back with a vengeance. The influx of information had seemed harder for him to handle than usual. His brain felt a little scrambled, like the photo mosaics had slowed down the Intersect. He tried to school the wince that was attempting to crawl up as the pain intensified, but didn't really succeed. Almost immediately, he could feel Carson's curious gaze when the man caught sight of the movement.
"Are you sure that you are okay, Mr. Caffrey?" Carson asked, with a touch of concern. False concern, Neal knew, but the question drew the attention of everyone in the room, including Peter.
"Like I said before, Mr. Carson, I'm fine," he said forcefully, attempting to ignore Peter's piercing look. The concern he could see in his partner's eyes was real, so the lie tasted more than a little bitter in his mouth, but it got the artist to drop the subject. Neal knew that Peter would question him about it as soon as possible, though.
"If you are sure, then," Carson said, and after giving Neal one last long look he barked, "Jackson! I said pull up the video."
"Sorry, here it is, Boss."
A video came up onto the screens; from the timestamp they could tell it was exactly two twenty four AM. The high definition scene showed the gallery, illuminated by security lights and moonlight shining in from the large glass windows. It was completely still, no guards except for the large portraits, until – without warning – the screen showed static and the timestamp blinked out. Both Neal and Peter stepped forward at the same time, observing the video, or lack thereof.
"That's it?" Peter asked, turning back toward Carson.
"That is it. As you can see, someone was able to corrupt the video."
"Or delete the file," Neal cut in, as he twisted his upper body backwards to look at the group. Everyone looked over to the consultant where he stood by the large screens.
"I'm afraid that's not possible, Mr. Caffrey," Hutchinson leaned forward. The Texas drawl caused him to drag Neal's name out. "Not to be rude, but this security system is state of the art. There is no possible way that someone without security clearance would be able to access the computer system."
"Well, someone broke into the building, didn't they?" Neal responded then raised an eyebrow. "For someone skilled enough to break-in, hacking a computer system could be rather straightforward."
"Our computer system is more advanced than you might think, Mr. Caffrey," Carson said, dragging Neal's attention back to him. The man's brown eyes held a spark of annoyance at the consultant's apparent doubt over the security of the security system.
'Oh, I know more about it than you think.' Neal didn't voice his thoughts though. He turned back to the screens and opened his mouth to continue, but his partner spoke up first.
"In any case," Peter said, drawing the artist's dark gaze away from Neal, "I'd like Forensics to take a look at the video."
"Of course. Would you like the personnel files still?"
"I would. Give them to Agents Jones and Cruz."
"You ass," Neal hissed into the phone in his hand, his voice sounding harsher than usual due to the change in language. To anyone listening, unless they spoke and understood Farsi, the conversation was incomprehensible. "Why the hell didn't you tell me you were here on a mission too?"
"Are all of our conversations going to start with you mad at me? In response to your question, you didn't ask," the male voice on the other end responded in the same language. "And Farsi? Really?"
"Just in case someone overhears us. And it has the added bonus of helping me vent some."
"It sounds like you've met Aaron Carson, then," the man on the other line said, the wry tone coming through even though Neal couldn't see his face. "What do you think?"
"Of him as a person, or the fact that he's building another Intersect?"
"Are you confirming that?" the man said, his speech growing faster.
"No, I'm not," Neal said, then sighed, "They brought us into the security room. It reminded me enough of the Intersect room to just assume. That, combined with the fact that he designs photo mosaics of all things, seemed reason enough."
"Unfortunately, assuming isn't going to be enough. General Beckman needs proof."
"Is that why you broke in?"
"I had to test the system somehow," the still-unidentified man insisted.
"A painting is missing, Shaw. The White Collar Unit is looking into it, but I have a feeling you already knew that."
"We knew the Unit was heading an investigation, but we thought it was just going to be for a break-in."
"You had this planned, then," Neal stated, anger lacing his voice.
"Beckman planned it, not me. And a missing painting was not part of the plan."
Neal was standing in the bathroom at the New York FBI offices, leaning his aching head against a cool steel panel of one of the stalls. The harsh tone of his voice echoed in the empty room when he asked, still speaking in Farsi, "How did you guys even come to suspect Carson?"
"Chuck flashed on an associate of his while we were going over a daily briefing, a man he called Kelly David," Shaw said, and Neal almost swore. "His bank account was tied to a known Ring operation. He didn't flash on Carson himself, though I recognized the name and talked to Beckman about it."
"I flashed on David too. He works for Carson as a computer system-"
"Specialist, yes we know. Did you flash on anything else?" Shaw asked. Neal paused a moment before he responded.
"Carson. I flashed on both him and a man named Tim Hutchinson. Listen, Shaw, we really need to-"
"Neal?" A sudden voice coming from the other side of the bathroom door asked, the switch to English shocking him for a moment.
"June's house, twenty three hundred. We have to talk." Neal said quickly, and he rushed into one of the bathroom stalls, then flushed the toilet. He shut the phone without waiting for a response from Shaw, knowing the man would understand, then slipped it into his right pocket. His shoes skidded on the grey tile floor in his attempt to get to the sinks before the voice, which he had recognized as Peter, came in. Just as he turned the faucet on and put his hands under the cool water, the door opened.
"Neal. There you are," Peter said in relief, allowing the door to shut behind him when he walked in.
"I'm well within my radius Peter, if that's what you're worried about," Neal said, shutting the water off and walking towards the paper towel dispenser. He proceeded to rip the towels out, keeping his back turned on his partner.
"It wasn't."
The sound of footsteps reverberated in the small room, and he closed his eyes when a hand settled on his shoulder.
A nondescript white figure, the figure gripping the arm of another and twisting it, an elbow connecting with a head-
"We've got work to do. I'll be in the conference room," Neal spat out and slid out of reach, before chucking the wet paper towels in the trash and hurtling for the door. He could feel Peter staring after him in disbelief, but he had to get out of there before he did something he'd regret. Like knocking Peter out, as the Intersect seemed to want him to.
Neal strode down the long hallway, trying not to let any of his inner turmoil show across his face. He knew that he had to gain better control of his emotions. The Intersect wasn't something that was easy to govern in the first place, especially the 2.0 version. Fewer emotions meant more control, yet lately he found himself having a problem with that. Ever since the clinic incident he'd been nervous, jumpy even, and if he didn't blow off some steam somehow, knocking out Peter would be the least of his worries. Problem was, he hadn't been the emotionless Bryce Larkin in years, and he wasn't quite sure he wanted to be.
