Remember and be Sad

Better by far you should forget and smile, then you should remember and be sad . . .

Christina Rossetti 1830-1894

A/N: - please remember Neal's responses reflect the fact he's quite a few years out of date, and to his knowledge, hasn't yet developed the relationships we know and love.

Part Four

He awoke with a jerk of panic and fear, heart pounding with a burst of adrenalin. There was absolute blackness surrounding him. He felt nauseous and bitterly cold. It took awhile to recall what had happened but something told him it couldn't be good. Scattered images of fear . . . the blunt trauma of fists . . . it had all happened shockingly quickly. He lay crumpled where they must have thrown him; face down on the rough stone floor. Eyelids fluttering, he knew he was drifting again, on the periphery of sinking into darkness. He had neither the time nor the luxury. Peter knew he must stay awake.

Had to think.

It was easier said than done.

His mind was a swirl of confusion. His arms burned with lactic acid and for some reason he couldn't feel his hands. He realised they'd been wrenched behind him with both palms facing outward, the thumbs and shoulders cruelly rotated into twisted distorted positions. Not good – this was so not good. He wiggled his fingers cautiously. His wrists throbbed and burned where the nylon restraints had sliced cruelly into his flesh.

Swallowing hard, he tried to turn over and then cried out in sudden distress. The slightest struggle was designed to cause maximum pressure on his hyper-extended joints. God, oh god, he almost threw-up and felt the sour taste of bile in his throat. Whoever had tied the knots was a sadist and a highly skilled one at that. Any rapid or violent force would be likely to cause dislocation, shoulder sockets popping in agony as his limbs exerted force against themselves.

Peter lay still and breathed through his nose as he waited for the burning to ease. He was a lot more careful the next time, log rolling his body in one movement. For a while, he almost lost it, and lay there retching in pain. After some long minutes the nausea diminished, and he concentrated on focusing. He had to get to grips with the confusion and shock, otherwise he might lose control.

For starters, where the hell was he?

He tried taking stock of his surroundings – not easy when his mind was so tangled. The air was heavy with damp and decay, and smelled old and strangely familiar. He wasted a few seconds trying to place it before giving up in frustration. The quiet was as oppressive as the blackness and pushed down on the top of his head. He guessed the sensory deprivation was deliberate and the thought was distinctly disturbing; a crude attempt to disorient and frighten him by literally keeping him in the dark. First rule of torture, he recalled it now. Steal your victim's perception of reality. The second rule was to destruct their identity. He didn't want to imagine how.

To his heart-felt relief, he knew he was alone. It was a small but distinct crumb of comfort. There was no sense of any presence, whether friend or foe, and it gave him a chance to think. It meant Neal was safe. At least, he hoped so. Looking back, it was a little hazy. The last thing he remembered with any clarity at all was the sound of some shots being fired.

Had Neal been hit?

He couldn't say for sure.

There'd been a van and then he was running. The world had spun around on its axis as it tossed him up into the air. He'd struck hard and rolled across concrete, breath exploding with the force of the impact. Their hands had pulled at him roughly. A bag had been placed on his head. After that, it descended into chaos. He thought that he'd tried to fight them. Judging by the soreness of his ribcage, it had probably been a mistake.

He'd been thrown into the vehicle none-too-gently, skull bouncing a tattoo on the floor. Then someone rammed a needle into his thigh, so deep it seemed to hit bone. A few moments of absolute terror . . . his heart-rate began to speed up again. Peter clenched his jaw against the memory as he wondered why they wanted him alive.

With any luck, Neal would have noted the plates.

Even now, the FBI would be onto it.

Logically, he knew he was grasping at straws, but what the hell; he'd take what he could get. He tried to guess what drug they'd given him, maybe some kind of hallucinogenic. Just enough to induce near paralysis and keep him confused and subdued. He shivered and it wasn't just from the cold as he thought about what might lie in store for him.

Was he capable of enduring torture?

It was one of those rhetorical questions. The kind that most people ask themselves. Would he succumb and betray his comrades or stay silent and withstand the torment?

Talk about melodramatic. He had the grace to feel a little embarrassed. It must be the pain or the effects of the drugs still messing about with his brain. There was no point getting carried away. He had no idea why they wanted him. Damn Zahavi, this was the Israeli's fault, and all his lurid talk of Odessa. His head was filled with Nazis and jackboots, and all the horror those old images still retained.

He wasn't usually so over-sensitive, but there was no doubt this case had moved him. All the death and despair the U-boat plunder had caused. And not least, the loss of a friend.

Had he lost Neal?

Did he ever really find Neal?

For the life of him, he didn't know the answer. It was hardly the right time to consider it. He was being dramatic again.

Peter closed his eyes and forced himself to concentrate. He wasn't going to help himself by lying here. There was a small chance they had simply dumped him, and for El's sake, he should try and escape. Don't go there . . . don't think about her. He couldn't let the wash of guilt pull him under. Mustn't envisage her grief or imagine her fear. Not now when there was so much at stake.

Grunting, he fought through the agony and managed to push himself backwards. His progress was almost unbearable, but at long last, his head struck something hard. He stopped and took several short puffs of air while his poor shoulder joints shrieked in torment. Sitting would relieve some of the tension. He almost smiled at the irony. Digging his heels in, he thrust his hips upwards and nearly passed out with the pain.

The wall provided a little support and in due course it became somewhat easier. Shivering with effort and misery, he rested his head on his knees. He was tempted to let go – to drift awhile. He was so tired and his mind was still swimming. The concerted exertion and strain on his joints had set all his muscles on fire. Five minutes wouldn't hurt . . . just five minutes. He waited for the aching to die down again. The only sound he could hear was the rasp of his breathing. The silence, like the gloom, was complete.

When he awoke again, he realised some time had passed. Certainly longer than five minutes. His injuries had stiffened with bruising but he wasn't quite so groggy anymore. Cowboy up. The thought was involuntary, and Peter smiled briefly in the darkness. The words were strangely uplifting and he determined to take his own advice. Cursing the man who had tied him, he groped for the wall behind him. His hands felt swollen and useless and the tips of his fingers were numb.

Brickwork – it was definitely brickwork. He was in some sort of man-made structure. The darkness was so intense and overwhelming, he had wondered if they'd left him in a cave. The confirmation wasn't much use to him but paradoxically, it was slightly comforting. New York was riddled with cellars and tunnels; with any luck, he was still in the city.

So if this was a room, then there must be a door. It was simply a question of finding it. With all his limbs trussed like a turkey, it was easier said than done.

Talking of doors – one slammed somewhere above him. He heard the voices of several people talking. Judging by the echo of footsteps on stone they were descending a set of stairs. This was it then, they hadn't abandoned him. His heart raced with a burst of adrenalin. There was a rattle of chains and the turn of a key and a door opened off to the right. A pair of flashlights cut through the darkness and the sudden blaze of light was blinding. The beams skimmed across the floor and then found his face as three men entered the room.

Without a word, they grasped hold of him, with no respect for his tortured muscles. He began to struggle instinctively, his bruised ribs shrieking in pain. One of them cuffed him around the side of the head and he sagged momentarily between them. They dragged him across to the centre of the room and sat him down on a wooden chair. For a second – one wonderful second – the complicated rope work was loosened. The pressure on his joints was blessedly relaxed as they re-tied his arms and ankles to the chair.

The room was flooded with electric light as somebody flicked a switch on. Peter flinched from the yellow-brightness, but at least it meant he could see. He was in some kind of vaulted cellar with stone arches curving above him. The brickwork looked old and neglected with empty alcoves set back into the walls. There were no windows or vents near the ceiling, and the sole door was set back in the corner. Although his sphere of vision was limited, it seemed like the only point of access. To his dismay, it looked old and sturdy, made of heavy wood, probably oak. Other than the chair he was sitting on, the room was devoid of any furniture. His mouth dried up completely when he saw the faded bloodstains on the floor.

"Agent Burke." Another man stepped forward. His voice was American and cultured, and he was wearing a thousand dollar suit. He closed the door carefully behind him, and moved around to stand in front of the chair. "It's good to finally see you awake. During the time you've been out of it we've moved you away from the city. The FBI will find it difficult to track you. You've been unconscious for nearly two days."

Peter looked up slowly and shook his head. "I'll bet, more likely a couple of hours. You won't fool me with that old chestnut. Tell me I'm out of the city and make me think there's no hope of a rescue. Makes it seem like resistance is futile, and therefore, I'm likely to talk. Interrogation training 101 – the FBI once sent me on a course."

The man chuckled softly. "Really, Agent Burke, you think I'm playing mind-games with you? I wouldn't insult your intelligence with such crude and amateurish tactics."

"Talking of mind-games, who are you, and why am I here – and don't pretend here isn't still in the city. If I'm right and you represent Odessa, then you need me on hand in New York."

"I'm really a little disappointed. You know precisely who I am and why I want you, but for now we'll play the game by your rules. My name is Anton Schiller. I'm a businessman and a patriot in much the same way, I would imagine as you are. Although we might use a different MO, I believe we want similar things."

"I don't think so," Peter spoke bluntly. "Both my grandfathers stormed the beaches at Normandy to help destroy the ideology you support."

"Good men, I'm sure, but misguided, and lied to by those who run this country. So many wasted American lives. There was no need for those men to die."

"First Europe and then America, that was the Nazi plan, wasn't it? But first you had to occupy Britain to gain straight access to the Atlantic. It must have really fucked things up when they got stubborn and decided to fight back."

"It's history," Schiller sounded regretful, "and now we must look to the future. This brings me rather neatly to the matter in hand. The whereabouts of U-boat 869."

"You said no mind-games, remember? You know damned well it went up in smoke."

"And you were there, Agent Burke, I read the report. Destroyed along with all the contents, but since then you've been very active looking into the world of stolen art."

"I lead a team on the White Collar division. Stolen art is part of my job."

"A long-lost Degas, for example, and other items listed on the U-boat's manifest. Surely a colossal waste of time, unless perhaps, the treasure still exists?"

"It doesn't," Peter tried to sound defeated. "I was simply double checking. Keeping an eye on the markets for a period of time merely as a matter of routine. You'll see I also went over the forensics again, if you re-read the report."

Schiller smiled. "I did, several times very thoroughly. It makes for most interesting reading. I especially liked the parts concerning Caffrey. A – shall we say – versatile man? I looked into your relationship. You've been working very closely together. Someone like Caffrey could be incredibly useful if the right opportunity came along."

"You think Caffrey and I stole the cargo together?" Peter snorted. "You must be delusional."

"I think you saw the chance of a lifetime. You were tempted and decided to take it. After all, Agent Burke, let's be honest. How much does a federal agent get paid?"

"Enough to veto a lifetime in jail," Peter was glad of the digression. He was worried about Neal's whereabouts, and wanted to deflect the conversation."And talking of the FBI, what happened to my team-member. He was there when your goons snatched me. The guy I was with in the park?"

With any luck they hadn't known it was Caffrey. Either that or they were playing him. He needed to tread very carefully here before Schiller revealed his full hand. Neal was smart – he would have seen what was happening and put a call in to Jones or Diana. He was probably out there helping them now . . . and not locked up in another room nearby.

"It was only you we wanted alive. My colleagues had very strict instructions. Unfortunately, your team-member was expendable and we chose to leave him behind."

Peter felt sick. "You shot him?"

"I'm rather afraid we did."

There was something about Rom Zahavi which made Neal feel highly uncomfortable. The man's face seemed open, even friendly, but a fire burned within his dark eyes. They were a hawk's eyes, fierce and far-seeing, and the description was a little unsettling, both uncompromising and deadly as they zeroed in on their prey. It made Neal instinctively wary - he had a feeling they didn't miss much of anything - that the man had an insight into his soul and would see straight through any lies. By comparison, Reese Hughes was more openly hostile, but his emotions made it easier to read him. The FBI boss was clearly worried, and at the end of an extremely short fuse.

Neal couldn't help glancing at Elizabeth Burke, or El, as she'd urged him to call her. On the whole, she was holding up pretty well, although cloaked in a mantle of fear. He was drawn to her – really admired her. She was a rock in the face of uncertainty. From the moment he'd woken confused and alone, she'd barely agreed to leave his side. He wasn't stupid – of course, he wasn't stupid. She was frantic about her husband. On the other hand, he appreciated her company. She'd been patient and unfailingly kind.

She was leaving now, though, just as they'd requested, her hand hesitating on the door jamb. Her parting smile was meant to be uplifting, but her bottom lip quivered instead. He watched her go with something like sadness. There was nothing he could do to help her. His memories were still shrouded in darkness, locked away behind a wall in his mind.

"A brave lady," Zahavi was perceptive. "It would be nice if we could reassure her. Perhaps with a little encouragement, we can bring Agent Burke home alive."

"You know who has him." It wasn't a question. "In that case, how can I help you? You've already spoken to the medical team so you know I'm a little behind."

"So you say," Reese Hughes cut right to it. "We know your skull is definitely fractured. We only have your word for the memory loss. Guess it doesn't show up on the x-rays."

"If everything you've told me so far is true, then what would I gain by lying?" Neal answered back with frustration. He gestured down at the device on his ankle. "Apparently, you monitor my every movement, so you must know exactly where I've been."

"Shall we continue, gentlemen?" Zahavi spoke to them both patiently, as though dealing with two quarrelling children. "It's a long story, and we don't have much time. It begins at the end of the Second World War when the Germans saw defeat was inevitable . . ."

Neal closed his eyes, leaning back against the pillow as he listened to the unravelling tale. The gist of it wasn't new to him although the subject matter took him by surprise. The stories surrounding the lost Nazi U-boats were truly the stuff of legends. To discover one still loaded with cargo, still intact with the treasures they'd plundered . . . it would be like finding El Dorado or the gold at the rainbow's end. When the Israeli first mentioned Alex and Adler he was really glad he had his eyes closed. It took every single ounce of concentration not to let his thoughts show on his face.

The new Neal – the new him – whoever he was, must truly have a couple of screws loose. He wondered what else they knew about him. Which took his thoughts right back to Kate. Elizabeth, El, hadn't referred to her, and no-one had so much as mentioned her. Coldness spread through the centre of his belly and he began to feel a little afraid.

Was she out there in some kind of danger, while he was trapped in this bed?

All roads seemed to lead back to Peter Burke. The man must be some kind of Svengali. So what if they'd been working together? He found it hard to believe they were friends.

And yet . . .

Elizabeth said so.

In his heart, he knew she hadn't lied to him. His skin prickled with a wash of deja-vu as he tried to conjure Burke's face. Strong and surprisingly mobile, with a square jaw which hinted at stubbornness, the man was handsome if a little careworn, and there was kindness in those whisky-coloured eyes. It was a face he knew well. He'd made a study of it. He knew all the expressions and nuances. He'd seen sadness and humour, even anger . . . and now he probably wouldn't see them again.

Neal opened his eyes and looked straight at Reese Hughes. "Let's get this straight, you think I have the cargo. That somehow, I managed to steal it. Mossad, Odessa, the FBI . . . and what about Peter Burke?"

"Peter Burke has a level of faith in you. It's why you work as his consultant. The only reason you aren't back in your cell is because of my faith in him."

"Nice to know," he bowed his head mockingly.

He didn't know why the answer was important, but it was, and that was the strange thing. A part of him hoped he was innocent, and that Peter Burke's belief was well-founded. Other than that, he was in a whole world of trouble, even if he didn't have the cargo. There was nothing he could do to help Agent Vanilla. There was no easy way out of this.

Damned if you do, and damned if you don't. It was all looking pretty bleak for him. He regarded Zahavi levelly, looking into those bird-of-prey eyes. "Israel wants the cargo. I'm guessing to make restitution. You must have some leads on Odessa, where they are in the city, and who's funding them. Follow the money, I would follow the money. It usually leads straight to the heart."

Zahavi nodded. "We've been following you, Mister Caffrey, and I must say, you've shown ingenuity. There's been nothing - no direct activity to connect you to the U-boat cargo. We also kept a close eye on Mrs Burke, just in case she might be in danger. There was a good chance Odessa might grab her, but they snatched her husband instead." The Israeli glanced across at Hughes. "Please convey my apologies to Mrs Burke for frightening her earlier today. My agent has been duly admonished."

Hughes gave an abrupt nod. "In the interests of future cooperation, it might be better if you keep me informed. There's a little too much at stake here to be running around at tangents." He switched his gaze and stared hard at Neal. "I don't know whether or not you're lying, or if this is some elaborate kind of game. What I do know is that Peter Burke has faith in you, and we need to bring him home to his wife."

"I'll help you as much as I'm able," Neal acknowledged him tiredly. He put a hand up to massage his temple as the dull throbbing started again. There were breakers crashing through the veins in his skull and pounding at the shores of his consciousness. He needed - really needed to get out of here, but there was something badly wrong with his head.

There was a part of him – the sceptical part of him, which still wondered if this was a scam. Plundered Nazi treasure was a hell of a hook to a man with his reputation, and the thought of all those lost masterpieces was pretty hard to resist. The Germans had looted and pillaged through Europe stealing its rich heritage of art-works; either stripping them away outright, or acquiring them through fire-sale tactics.

The Third Reich took anything of worth it could get its avaricious hands on. Paintings, sculptures, artefacts and jewellery, and a vast hoard of valuable antiques. Any available item of worth was stripped from every conquered country in Europe, and either shipped back to German museums or simply stolen for personal gain. The scale of the theft was quite staggering, and post-war chaos hadn't helped restitution. Much of the art had simply vanished and provenance was a nightmare to prove. Many Jewish families had been totally wiped out and there was no one left to claim their stolen property. A terrible legacy of what one might argue was the most successful art theft in history.

Did he really have the art – had he stolen it?

It would mean unimaginable riches. The freedom to live anywhere in the world, and a fresh start for him and Kate. Almost anywhere, he added a caveat. New York was obviously a no-go. It would have to be somewhere a little more creative and well out of Peter Burke's reach.

Peter Burke.

The man was in danger. Or at least if he believed their story. Kidnapped by some latter-day Nazis and the treasure was the price on his head. There was a voice he refused to acknowledge, a tiny devil chipping at his psyche. If he could get clean away with the plunder, he would be killing two birds with one stone. Money and wealth beyond his wildest dreams and no Agent Vanilla chasing after him. His world might open up like an oyster shell, but Peter Burke would probably be dead.

Neal put the tiny devil carefully away. Too many people had died for this treasure. However tempting it might be to get rid of Burke, the agent's death was never part of the agenda.

He had a sudden image of himself painting, blending pinks and greens together to make flesh tones; the long careful strokes and delicate curve of a ballerina's graceful arm. A Degas and he had been copying it, the brushwork subtle and impressionistic. He could taste the heady scent of the linseed oil which hung like a cloud in the air. The vision faded like a smoky apparition. Sliding out of reach before he could grasp it. He recognised the painting in question. It had been missing for over sixty years.

He needed Moz and he needed him fast. The lack of knowledge was eating away at him. It felt as though the memories were mocking him like the tantalising fragments of a dream. If he had the art – and the thought blew his mind - there was no doubt Moz would be in on it. Moz would know - would be able to help him. The little man was his best friend and accomplice. If it was true, if he'd lost a large chunk of his life, then by god, he had to get up to speed. Meanwhile, the clock was ticking and Peter Burke was still missing. There were so many things he wanted to ask -

But first, he had to know about Kate.

TBC

Lisa Paris - 2012