Chapter 7: Caffrey in the Clouds
Federal Building. April 27, 2005. Wednesday morning.
"McKenzie protests he's innocent. He refuses to cooperate and claims he was set up."
At Peter's words, Neal didn't attempt to suppress his contempt. The other team members were equally scornful. Peter had called the meeting midmorning to give an update on the interrogation. Bryan wasn't the type to fall on the sword, but did he actually think anyone would believe him?
"With the sums of money we've found invested in his Swiss bank account," Jones noted, "he'll have a difficult time convincing a jury of that."
Peter shook his head. "I'd hold off on making any bets. We questioned him about the account and he asserted it contained small amounts of money he used for investments. When we confronted him with the statements provided by the bank, he insisted the money had been planted to make him look guilty. Not only that. He fingered Sara as the culprit."
"That's ridiculous," Neal sputtered.
Peter shot him a warning look. "Tricia and I agree, but he made a compelling case. He claims she had access to his bank account and his password. He insists she directed Ydrus to make the transfers. Fortunately the evidence from Longthorpe is so compelling that I believe we'll prevail in the end, but McKenzie will hire an excellent lawyer. His acting skills are formidable. Look at how he fooled Sara for all these months. I predict he'll play the part of the innocent victim to perfection."
"He'll claim Sara used him rather than the other way around," Diana added. "She'll have to take the stand. The defense will try to portray her in the worst possible light."
As Neal listened to them discuss how Bryan could manipulate the system, he thought of Mozzie's paranoia. It suddenly seemed much more justified. "Could Sara be charged?" he asked.
"I don't think so," Peter said. "She knew nothing about the owner of the Raphael drawing and there's nothing about her in the evidence provided by Longthorpe."
"But McKenzie could sow enough doubts in the minds of jurors that he'll escape with a reduced sentence or even acquittal," Jones cautioned.
"Tricia suspects that McKenzie had made his plans in advance," Peter added. "His answers are too polished."
What must Sara be going through? She'd been in love with the guy. There'd probably been a few cinders still smoldering even though she said she was over him. Neal recalled how he felt when he discovered Kate was acting on Adler's orders and had never been in love with him. At least Kate hadn't attempted to frame him.
"Sara's coming in this morning to provide sworn testimony on when McKenzie learned about Rinaldi. John Hobhouse is coordinating the search of his London office, flat, and personal computer." Peter turned to Travis. "Anything show up on his work computer?"
"Not yet, but Jones and I've made progress on Longthorpe's. We've now acquired a substantial amount of data from monitoring Karl Huber's communications. By correlating it with Longthorpe's, we're able to piece together a better picture of Ydrus."
"Huber's been in Greece with his family on a vacation," Jones said. "We contacted Interpol about him yesterday. I heard back this morning that the Greek authorities were prepared to serve arrest papers on him."
Peter nodded with satisfaction. "We should have sufficient evidence from Longthorpe's files to successfully prosecute Huber on arms smuggling."
Jones pulled up a diagram on his laptop and projected it onto the screen. "This is the Ydrus hierarchy that we've been able to fill in so far. At the top is the leader with the code name of Python. Hagen told us his code name was Savu."
"You can fill in two more of those squares," Peter said. "This morning Longthorpe admitted his code name is Ringed and McKenzie's is Rock. Longthorpe didn't initially cooperate but when he heard the evidence we'd already acquired from his computer, he's changed his tune. He, like Hagen, is in fear of his life. Apparently he violated Ydrus's rules by including names in some of his correspondence. That's how we were able to learn about McKenzie and we've also found Rinaldi's name mentioned in transactions. Longthorpe is begging for protection. He's waived bail consideration and instead wants a secure location. In return for a change of identity and reduced sentence, he's offered to reveal all he knows."
"Hughes authorized the highest level of data confidentiality," Travis added. "All the information we're acquiring is being held on White Collar's restricted access server."
"Longthorpe has already confirmed three other regional leaders, located in China, Russia, and South Africa," Jones said, indicating the squares.
"There could be several others," Diana noted. "We have eleven different code names. We've listed them to the right on the diagram Jones has up. For most of them we don't know what their role is."
"Based on the email correspondence, we believe Huber is Bismarck," Travis added. "The leader in China is likely called Spotted."
"Longthorpe said the codes were only for the higher level members, but he never met any of them," Peter said. "With the exclusion of McKenzie and Hagen, he only dealt with the lower levels. He knows Python is a woman, but he's never met her or talked with her on the phone. He also confirmed Hagen's assertion that Hagen didn't steal the Raphael. Longthorpe admitted to Tricia that he commissioned the thefts of both St. George and the Dragon and the Raphael drawing by contacting Python. He received the works through a lower level courier whom we're attempting to track down but doesn't know who Python used to commit the thefts."
"So he's our Raphael collector?" Neal asked.
Peter nodded. "He commissioned St. George and the Dragon the same way. Ydrus persuaded him he could make a substantial profit by allowing them to sell forgeries off it. The picture that's emerging from our interrogation is that Longthorpe principally served as a money launderer and bankroller for Ydrus."
Diana put down her pen. "That means that some other master thief is working the Eastern Seaboard. Before we assumed it was Hagen, but if we're to believe Longthorpe, Ydrus is using other thieves."
Jones turned to Neal. "Anyone come to mind?"
Neal shook his head. "Keller's in prison. There may be some new European players I'm not familiar with. Ydrus probably has several art thieves in their stable." He turned to Jones. "Here's another data point for you—Ydrus doesn't appear to be in league with Adler."
"Why do you say that?" Peter asked.
"I talked with Henry about Longthorpe yesterday evening. It turns out he's a Win-Win client. He was helping to fund their search for Adler. Henry was scheduled to meet with him yesterday afternoon and wondered why he didn't show."
Diana snorted. "Small world."
"Ain't it just," Neal said with a grin. "If Longthorpe's bankrolling Win-Win, he's obviously not cooperating with Adler too." He turned to Peter. "Does he know anything about a mole at the FBI?"
"Nothing beyond what Hagen told us," Peter said, shaking his head. "He's heard there is someone. Python once commented in an email that Longthorpe didn't have to worry about interference in his operations. Apparently, Longthorpe wasn't involved in instigating thefts. Because of his financial importance he was given the title of U.S. head, but he was more a figurehead than a crime boss. He acknowledged he'd been the one who called Rinaldi at the Lynx Resort. He's willing to testify that McKenzie contacted him to warn Rinaldi that we were on to him. That reason alone is enough in my book to make him a deal and grant him the extra protection, but D.C.'s in charge of the decision."
"We're still processing his computer files," Travis added, "but have already discovered that he maintained detailed records of his money laundering activities throughout the three years he's been working for Ydrus. One item that leaped out at me this morning was the Vermeer painting that Klaus Mansfeld commissioned Neal to forge."
"Ydrus was involved with that?" Neal blurted, startled.
Travis nodded. "So far, along with McKenzie, that's been the biggest takeaway for me. Longthorpe had made preliminary arrangements to launder a large sum of money which had been tagged as proceeds from the sale of the Woman in Blue."
"This is the first hard evidence we have that Mansfeld was working with Ydrus," Jones noted, "and it also confirms that Ydrus was most likely using Azathoth's malware. Neal had discovered that Mansfeld was using Azathoth's software last fall. What we don't know is how long Mansfeld was working for Ydrus. He could have been a recent recruit. Neal mentioned Mansfeld planning to establish a base of operations in New York. Was that at the instigation of Ydrus?"
Travis's revelation was stunning. Neal knew Klaus was secretive, but it was still surprising he hadn't mentioned anything to Neal. In the fall, Klaus had pressured him to join his crew. He hadn't said a word about Ydrus. Would he ever have told Neal? What else had he kept secret?
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Neal saw Sara briefly when she arrived later in the morning to give her formal statement about Bryan, but they didn't speak. Peter met her at the elevator bank and escorted her into the conference room where Tricia also joined them. Neal felt for her. This wasn't the same Sara as the week before. She looked like someone who needed a friend.
Neal worked at his desk in the bullpen while she was interviewed. When she exited the conference room, he offered to take her to lunch.
Neal thought about recommending the Bangkok Inn. They'd gone there often last fall, but that had been around the time Sara had been transferred to London and she told him she was dating Bryan. It would probably bring up too many memories for both of them. "How about Malaga Tapas where we went last January? You liked the paella as I recall."
"I did. I said it was my new comfort food, and I could use some of that now," she admitted.
It wasn't long before they were sitting at a table with a steaming platter of paella between them, and a bottle of white rioja to share. "The only consolation is that we'd already split up, but I don't know if I can ever forgive myself for being so gullible," she said glumly.
"You were in love. That doesn't make you the most objective. Take it from me. I'm an expert on how love can keep you from thinking clearly."
"You're referring to Kate?"
He nodded. "I was head over heels. I made excuses, misread signals. It wasn't my finest moment."
"Fiona was telling me pretty much the same thing. She and I talked last night, and she opened up about her failed romance when she was at university in the U.K. I was hoping I'd escape the curse, but I should have known better."
"If it helps, I'm a firm believer in everyone being allowed one period of insanity. I had mine—and not just with Kate. Your period of insanity doesn't begin to compare to mine."
For a moment the old sassy Sara reemerged. "Sorry, fella. I win this round. Need I point out Kate wasn't a crook?"
Neal smiled but said nothing. He'd never told Sara about Kate's background. He couldn't go into much detail without revealing he'd been a crook alongside her.
Sara tore off a piece of bread and dipped it in olive oil. "Bryan will be arraigned this afternoon. He'll be charged with being an accessory to burglary, insurance fraud, and embezzlement. He'll probably have no trouble making bail." She exhaled. "I spent the past week worrying how he'd handle our breakup. I was blaming myself for not having called it off earlier. I knew we weren't right for each other and should have turned him down immediately."
"And now what are you feeling?"
"Like the biggest sap in the world," she admitted bitterly. "He played me, took advantage of me. When I think I was the one who told him about Rinaldi. You and Peter nearly died because of that . . ." She stopped, chewing her lip.
"You didn't know," Neal said quietly.
"I've been such an idiot."
Neal chuckled. "In my experience that goes hand in hand with the period of insanity I mentioned earlier. I won't tell you not to beat yourself up over it. I don't think it's possible, and maybe a tiny amount of self-flagellation can be helpful." He'd done his share over Kate and Keller.
"Do you know what that jerk's saying now? He claims that I'm the mole and planted evidence to frame him." She stopped to wince. "You probably already know."
"It's healthier to talk about your frustrations rather than bottling them up inside. That's what Noelle, Henry's mom, would say."
"When I worked at Win-Win, I held her up as a role model."
"I admire her tremendously too, but she had to come to terms with learning the truth about her ex-husband. Bryan's a crook but he didn't kill anyone. Robert tried to murder his own son and had both Henry and Angela kidnapped. Noelle will be at the reception on Friday. You're still coming, aren't you?"
She hesitated. "After everything's that gone on, are you sure you want the Scarlet Woman? Perhaps I should wear a scarlet S on my lapel, S standing for sap."
Neal chuckled. "If you insist on wearing a letter, I'd make it an H for being human. Richard, Aidan, Keiko, and I will all be walking around with scarlet A's on our chests, A standing for anxious. You'll fit right in."
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
When Neal returned to work, he stopped in the breakroom for a cup of coffee. Jones and Travis were sitting at the table, remnants of their lunch beside them.
"Practicing your Klingon?" Neal asked.
Travis frowned and shook his head. "That's a sore subject. Jones hasn't kept up with his lessons."
The uncooperative Klingon shrugged. "I may pick it up again, but it's no longer relevant to my work."
Jones had become interested in Star Trek strategy games during the sci-fi convention when he went undercover as a Klingon. If he'd abandoned sci-fi, that could mean only one thing. "Which Nazi game are you playing?"
"My money's on Wolfenstein," Travis said, "or is Blitzkrieg more your style?"
"None of the above," Jones replied, looking inordinately pleased with himself. "Silent Hunter."
As Travis broke into a laugh, Neal pulled up a chair. "Details, please."
"You may call me Lieutenant Commander now. And before you start teasing me, remember that you provided the inspiration. You told me the little guy insists on getting into the mind of your enemy. Silent Hunter III was released in March and I've already earned three Iron Crosses. You wait and see—knowledge of U-boat operations may be essential to catch Adler."
Neal grinned. "Just wait till Mozzie hears. You two should start playing against each other."
He thought Jones would blow him out of the water, but instead Jones was intrigued. "Not a bad idea. There are several multiplayer modes. Travis will want to join in as well. We could set up tournaments, —"
"Before you get carried away," Neal interrupted. "Mozzie would never meet you here, not even to beat you at a video game."
"I doubt strongly he'd emerge victorious," Jones retorted. "He has no background in naval exercises or submarine tactics. Besides, he doesn't need to come in. We could play online."
"We could set up a corner of the lab for gaming," Travis said. "If Diana can write fan fiction to take down Azathoth, I don't see why we can't engage in a little gaming to thwart Adler."
Peter might have a different opinion, but Neal wasn't going to dunk their plans in cold water. Neal was already picturing Mozzie walking around in a U-boat commander uniform, which, all things considered, might be safer than his latest obsession for Sherlock Holmes.
The ringing of Travis's cell phone interrupted their brainstorming. Neal watched Travis as he listened, his eyebrows shooting up. He glanced over at them. "It's Aidan. Azathoth uploaded his malware onto the Met server, and Aidan's program caught it."
This was the moment they'd been waiting for. Planning for Silent Hunter was shelved as they initiated the procedure which had already been negotiated with the Met. Travis contacted museum officials to confirm they'd also received the notification and were on alert status. Security programs were routed through a backup software program which had not been infected while the infected software was in effect quarantined. Although to Azathoth the programs would appear to function normally, they were in fact off-grid. Currently Azathoth's malware was lying in a dormant state. Once the activation signal was sent to the malware, the trackers in Aidan's program would bind themselves to the signal in a cyber-version of Tuesday Tails.
The Met was prepared to issue a release about a routine security upgrade when the malware was activated. They hoped to keep Azathoth in the dark for as long as possible that they were onto him. Aidan had warned that it might take multiple attempts to pinpoint the exact location of the signal.
Before leaving for the day, Neal touched base with Peter in his office. "Would you like me to come in to work tomorrow?"
Peter smiled and shook his head. "I appreciate the gesture, but that won't be necessary. You'd already scheduled the day off."
"That was before Azathoth made his move."
"We'll manage. If anything comes up, I know where to find you." He gave him a pointed look. "I don't want to go to the reception tomorrow and see your paintings hanging crooked."
"No chance of that," he said, but he knew Azathoth would be on his mind while he installed his works. Was that baroque lion pendant connected in some way to Azathoth's current plan? Tricia's words came back to him as he started to leave.
Peter picked up on his unease. "Sit down. What's troubling you? The Met job?"
"That's part of it. Which thieves are working with Ydrus? We know Klaus and Hagen worked for them. Who's taken their place? If there one thief who specializes in East Coast heists or several? But that's not all. When I worked with Klaus in the fall, he went to great lengths to paint the exciting future I had in store by going back to work with him. He never mentioned Ydrus. Why not?"
"You said he only divulged information on a need to know basis."
"Yeah, but it still makes me wonder."
"Wonder what?"
"That's just it," Neal admitted with a huff. "I don't know what I'm wondering about, but something doesn't feel right."
Peter exhaled. "Your gut's talking to you. I knew I recognized that look. I'll mention it to Tricia, but in the meantime, you need to relax. Think about your art, not your job. Work can wait till Monday. Focus on being Neal Caffrey, New York's next art sensation, and nothing else. That's an order."
Miriam and Ira D. Wallach Art Gallery, Columbia University. April 29, 2005. Friday morning.
"Did you bring a level?" Richard asked, looking more hassled than Aidan, and Neal had thought Aidan was about as stressed as it got. "One of my sculpture pedestals looks slanted to me. I can see it now. Just as the guests arrive, the sculpture will slide off and smash into smithereens."
The three of them had arrived early in the morning at the art gallery in Schermerhorn Hall. Handling the installation themselves was one of the requirements for the exhibition. The professors decreed it essential that students experience the thrill of having things go wrong at the last minute. Some of the glitches made Neal suspicious that the professors planned some of the "unexpected" emergencies in advance. But a tilted pedestal? No, not even Professor Stockman would be that cruel.
Neal walked over with Richard to inspect the problematic pedestal, and as expected, it wasn't the pedestal but Richard who was askew. "Deep breaths," he advised, "and please don't tell me, you've decided to switch out one of your pieces."
"Could I?" Richard asked, his eyes lighting up. "I was thinking that wombat-looking creature could be—"
"Not allowed," Neal said firmly. "The catalogs are already printed. Stockman would have your hide if you changed anything now."
"Neal! Over here!" Aidan called out. "I need your critical eye. Should the backdrop go to the right or left of the stand?"
Neal was an old hand at controlling stress. Glitches were a part of every con. Aidan was prepared for equipment failure but not for the aesthetic requirements of video installations. And Richard? Well, base case, he was a worrywart. He'd already been stressing for the past month, but that didn't make him any calmer today. In Richard's defense, his mother was flying up from New Orleans for the reception. It was her first time to meet Travis who'd confessed to Neal how anxious he was to make a good impression. Their nerves were whipping each other to new heights of frenzied agitation.
Neal was not concerned by so many of his relatives being present. No one could be a tougher critic than Myra Stockman, his visual arts advisor. Henry probably wouldn't think much of his paintings, but then his idea of art was a poster of a rock musician on the wall.
Neal's works were simple to install. He paused for a moment to savor the irony of hanging paintings on a gallery wall rather than stealing them. That was a joke for private consumption. His installation was going so smoothly, he had ample time to help Richard, Aidan, and Keiko. He'd even checked in with Peter at work.
Midmorning, Henry called. Angela was giving the family a tour of the university campus that day and Henry hoped to sneak off with their grandfather Edmund to spend a little quality time with Neal. Edmund had made a special request.
Neal grinned when he heard what Dor wanted to do. Neal had considered making the offer, but he didn't think it was particularly wise for a former ambassador in his eighties to attempt. Guess he was wrong.
Neal gave Henry directions to a rendezvous spot at the north end of the campus. Richard and Aidan could manage without him. Neal promised to bring them back lunch and give them a full report.
"Do you need any gear?" Aidan asked. "I have some extra equipment in my car. It's parked in a garage not far from where you're meeting."
"I'm taking them mainly on the legal routes, but my grandfather would probably love a headlamp, thanks."
When Neal met Henry and Edmund outside Mudd Hall, Edmund waved at him like he was a kid. To look at him and Henry, it was difficult to decide which one looked more mischievous.
Neal put on his stern face first. "Are you sure we can let Henry in on this, Dor? Henry doesn't attend Columbia. It's not code."
"Special dispensation will be granted for this occurrence only with this proviso: he must be escorted at all times by both of us." Edmund pronounced the terms in his gravest tones as if he were negotiating a ceasefire. "Don't let your guard down. You remember hearing about how he wandered off when I took him into the tunnels last time? He wound up in an illegal area. I thought my goose was cooked. Then he was only five. Now he'll be much harder to find."
Henry listened to them impatiently. "Um-hm. You've had your fun. We only have a few minutes to play hooky before we need to meet the others for lunch. If we're late, Angela will deep-fry both of us. Where are we going?"
"The inner sanctum, the shrine of all Columbia spelunkers," Neal said, leading the way. The route he'd selected was easy to navigate. He could point out some of the off-limit access areas along the way.
"I haven't been to the Signature Room since the 1960s when I attended a reunion," Edmund said. "Back in my student days it didn't exist."
"Is that when you added your signature?" Neal asked.
"Who me? I deny any knowledge of it," he said, looking inordinately pleased.
"If I point it out, will you confirm it?"
"We'll see, boyo."
Soon they were in the rocky nook. Henry shrugged. "What's the big deal? Looks like a wall of graffiti."
Edmund shook his head, rolling his eyes. "In that case, you won't mind taking our photo."
"Wait till Henry's found your signature," Neal advised in a loud whisper. "Then he can take our picture in front of it."
Edmund grinned. "Are you sure you discovered it?"
Neal whispered in his ear and he nodded with satisfaction. That sent Henry on a chase to find it. "While you're looking, see if you can spot mine," Neal added.
It took Henry five minutes to find Edmund's "E.C." It had taken Neal less than half the time. His own signature proved more difficult. Both Edmund and Henry searched among the hundreds of signatures. Finally Henry said, "This has to be it. It's the most artistic of the lot, but you could have been a little less cryptic."
He called Edmund over to examine the series of blue calligraphic flourishes Neal had chosen to be his tag. "What's that supposed to be?" Edmund asked. "The tail reminds me of the way I wrote my C but you've lost me on the rest of it."
"I'm glad you noticed the tail. That was deliberate. The design represents a speeding cloud, moving so fast no one can catch up with it."
"Caffrey in the clouds," Edmund said, smiling. "You chose well. You know what your name means, don't you?"
Neal shook his head. "I know it's Irish, but I'm embarrassed to say I've never looked it up."
"You should have. It has quite a pedigree. Neal is the Americanized version of Niall, which is derived from the Old Irish word for cloud. It can also mean passionate or champion. Two famous Irish kings of the Dark Ages were named Niall."
"I didn't know you were such an expert on the language."
"I'm not. I've forgotten almost all the Irish I once knew. Too many years have passed. But your mother Meredith loved the old tales and myths of Ireland. She chose your name. She wanted to call you Niall but your father talked her out of it. He claimed it sounded too highfalutin for a cop." Edmund's face softened. "Your mom was a fair colleen. She could never hear enough of King Arthur, Merlin, and the Knights of the Round Table. I used to call her my Guinevere."
Edmund's words gave Neal pause. He'd heard very few stories of what his mother was like as a child. It had slipped his mind how she used to read him tales of King Arthur and his knights. His first sword was a plastic one that he used to fight imaginary dragons. It was fitting Diana had dragons flying around in Arkham Files. He should give Neal Carter some pointers on slaying them.
Edmund turned to Henry. "Your mom didn't have any interest in the old fairy tales. She liked modern stories—Nancy Drew, and others I can't remember. At story hour it was a challenge satisfying them both."
"Who was Henry named after?" Neal asked.
Edmund looked around conspiratorially. "Very few know the truth. Robert thought she chose Henry to honor his grandfather, but actually she named you after one of her favorite movie characters."
"Who?" Henry demanded.
"Henry Gondorff from The Sting."
Neal chuckled. "Paul Newman's character. That sounds right. You realize that makes me Robert Redford."
"Is that so?" Henry said. "As I recall, Gondorff taught your character everything he needed to know and was his superior in all things. Just remember that, kid, and we'll get along fine."
Neal handed him a red marker. "You like making a bold statement. Care to add your signature to the wall?"
Henry grinned and took the marker from him, scrawling H.G. next to Neal's cloud.
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Bryan entered the Duane Reade drugstore and strolled over to the magazine rack. No one was looking at magazines. It was three o'clock. His contact should have already been here. Bryan scanned the magazine rack impatiently and picked up a copy of Black Belt. As he leafed through the pages, he considered his options. He didn't like them. He no longer had access to Sara's schedule. This was his one shot. Rescheduling was out of the question.
Approaching footsteps. He turned his head to see a middle-aged man wearing a Los Angeles Dodgers track jacket and red running shoes stand next to him. Bryan exhaled in relief. "What took you so long?"
"Relax. I'm here, ain't I?" He reached for a sports magazine.
"You got the package?"
He nodded. "I'll meet you by the phone booth outside in five minutes. We'll do the exchange there. No surveillance cameras around to record us."
"Agreed."
The man returned the magazine to the rack and strolled off. Bryan stilled his nerves. He'd soon have the last piece. Sara's meeting was scheduled to last till four o'clock. Last day of the week. Colleagues would linger to chat. It would be four thirty at the earliest before she'd return to the room. Plenty of time to slip into her hotel room, using the duplicate key he'd obtained. He should send a note of appreciation to Ydrus for the suitcase they'd supplied him with. If the police had discovered the secret compartment, it would have been all over. Ydrus had come through for him. Made the arrangements for bail. Provided the lawyer. Clearly they appreciated his value. A few more weeks, the unpleasantness of the past few days would be behind him and his position within the organization would be even more secure.
Bryan used the waiting time to review his next actions. Once in Sara's room, he'd make a call to the concierge using the recorded message he'd prepared of her voice. The concierge would see the room number on her phone and hear Sara's voice. There was no way it could be traced back to him.
It was so simple and so efficient. All the concierge had to do was arrange for the package to be delivered the next morning at eight o'clock. It was a routine courtesy service. No flags would be raised. Bryan could drop off the package anytime that evening when the concierge stepped away from her desk.
Nothing could go wrong. In a few weeks Sterling-Bosch would be begging for him to return and Sara would be sitting in prison.
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Peter arrived an hour early to the art gallery in Schermerhorn Hall, having caught a lift over with Travis. El would drive the Taurus to Columbia later in the afternoon. During the ride, Peter had pondered what to tell Neal, and he still hadn't decided. The news could easily wait. Neal wouldn't be involved in the investigation and Peter didn't want to distract him.
On the other hand, they'd both been working on being more open with each other. And when Neal eventually learned about it, he could rightfully give Peter grief for not having told him earlier.
The food service personnel were preparing the buffet tables when Travis and Peter arrived. Cocktails and snacks were being provided for the reception. The exhibition appeared ready with no signs of panicked artists doing last minute adjustments. The students, many of whom Peter recognized from visiting Neal in his studio, were standing around looking nervous.
Richard, Keiko, and Aidan were over by Aidan's video gallery. Keiko had managed to persuade Aidan to wear a suit for the occasion. It was the first time Peter had ever seen him in one. Richard had reduced his scruff to only one day's worth of growth, a major improvement in Peter's view. The video gallery had a special darkened viewing area with a few benches for seating. Aidan was presenting multiple videos at the exhibition which were being shown at separate stations. Each station came equipped with headsets for the visitors.
Richard's sculptures were near Aidan's. Peter smiled at the humorous poster Richard had made about his galactic zoo. Travis had spent most of the drive talking about those sculptures. Richard had organized the zoo around a backdrop of extraterrestrial landscapes he'd painted. It made Peter feel like he was back at the sci-fi convention to see them. In addition to the zoo, Richard had several other sculptures. Peter was looking forward to viewing them all, but he had a higher priority at the moment.
He found Neal standing near his paintings in another section of the gallery. As expected, he looked the most dapper of all the students there in a sharp charcoal suit that would cause El to make noises about the need for Peter to upgrade his wardrobe. Neal was talking with a man by a side table. Peter could only see his back but he recognized the burly shape of Neal's advisor, Ivan Sherkov. When Neal spotted Peter, he waved him over.
"Impeccable timing, my friend!" Sherkov boomed as he pumped his hand exuberantly. His face appeared ruddier than normal. "I was getting ready to open the vodka." Crushing Neal in a one-arm bear hug, he said, "Allow me to introduce Neal Caffrey, PhD student in Art History."
"Congratulations! When did you find out?"
"Just now," he said with a dazed grin on his face. "Vanya said they called him up an hour ago. I'd convinced myself they'd reject me."
"Bah, I told you it'd go through." Sherkov unzipped a small insulated bag and pulled out three shot glasses. Unscrewing a stainless steel thermos, he filled the glasses to the top. Handing a glass to Peter, he said with a wink, "I believe in being prepared. Ice-cold pepper vodka—the only way to celebrate. Pozdravlenie!"
"That means congratu—" Neal started.
"I got the meaning loud and clear," Peter said, clinking glasses with them.
"What's this—a celebration? Did you hear?" Richard asked. He'd approached with Travis to see what all the back pounding was about, and soon they were downing shots, too. For once, everyone else was talking more than Neal. He appeared genuinely stunned at the news.
Almost exactly a year ago Neal had been at Columbia taking admittance exams. Now he was accepted into the PhD program and exhibiting his own works of art in a museum gallery. Peter couldn't have prouder if he'd been his own son. He couldn't wait to tell El.
There wasn't much time available to celebrate. The reception would open soon. Neal persuaded everyone to hold off mentioning anything about it to his relatives, explaining that he wanted to wait till the supper at June's to make the announcement. Pulling Peter aside, he asked, "I was surprised to see you so early. Anything come up at work?"
Faced with a direct question, Peter knew what to say. "Duncan Longthorpe was killed today."
Neal's eyes widened. "When? How?"
"He was being remanded into federal custody. Drive-by shooting on the street outside the Metropolitan Correctional Center when he was being transferred. The perp got away and is being hunted now."
"You think it was Ydrus?"
"They're the most likely candidate. Longthorpe was right to be fearful for his life." Peter shook his head in frustration. "We'd only had a few days to interrogate him. We might have been able to learn so much more. And with Longthorpe unable to testify, the case against Bryan is weaker."
"Someone must have supplied the gunman with the schedule." Neal raised a brow. "Inside informant?"
"It sounds like that to me. We've ordered heightened security for Hagen and have set up 24-hour monitoring."
A bell sounded in the gallery. Neal slanted a glance to the entrance. "That's the signal they're opening the doors."
"No more business tonight," Peter said firmly. "This evening is all about Neal Caffrey, the artist. How's it feel?"
"Like a dream," he admitted. "I have a hard time believing it's real and not a con that's about to blow up."
"You'll get used to it," Peter said confidently. "Soon you'll think that old life was just a weird nightmare of the past. Your dream's become the new reality."
Neal's loft. Saturday morning.
Sunlight was already streaming in through the skylight by the time Neal awoke on Saturday morning. It was already past nine but no need to rush. He had zero plans for the weekend, and it was much more pleasant thinking about last night than getting out of bed.
The reception had gone off without a hitch. Peter had been right. Neal was living the dream. Richard's sculptures didn't fall off their pedestals, Aidan's videos didn't crash, and Neal had gotten to hear Stockman praise his paintings in front of his relatives. That had been the unexpected event of the evening. After months of torturing her students with her stinging critiques, Stockman was all smiles and kind words for relatives and friends. She'd teased Neal about his use of a fedora hanging from an easel as his bio photo and hadn't even scorched him when he reminded her it was her idea.
Scenes from last night were etched permanently in his memory. Richard's mom hugging Travis. Keiko's dad smiling his approval at Aidan. Sherkov expounding on Neal's paintings to Noelle and Elizabeth. Validation for their year's work. And now he was on the path to obtain a doctorate . . .
Sara appeared to enjoy herself. Neal hadn't been able to spend much time with her, but he'd noticed Henry and Eric with her. He was particularly pleased to see her engaged in a conversation with Noelle and Irene toward the end of the reception. The three women had moved into the foyer to talk. Hopefully Sara was feeling better about her own situation because of it.
Neal had a long discussion with Eric about his paintings. Henry's architect impressed Neal with his familiarity on contemporary art movements. Perhaps he could instill Henry with a greater appreciation of art.
Afterward, June's chef Emil served an elegant buffet for the family. It was much too sophisticated to be called supper. Neal announced over drinks the news about being accepted into the doctorate program. The rest of the evening passed in a blur of hugs and congratulations from the older generation and teasing from Angela and Michael about the lack of sleep he'd have to endure.
But those sleepless nights were still months off. Neal had a little work left to do on his papers, but by mid-May, his classes would be over for the semester, and he could focus on his upcoming trip to London with Peter. After that it was on to Paris, a reunion with Fiona, and retrieval of the Braque painting. If his luck held, he'd solve the mystery behind it and rescue a long-lost horde of stolen art works before classes started. Dream big, that was his motto.
After several more minutes of daydreaming, the sun shining on the terrace beckoned him. The shower could wait. Neal made a pot of coffee and poured himself a mug to drink outside while reading the morning paper.
He slipped on a robe and opened the front door. The housekeeper had already placed the paper on the side table. A gift bag had been placed beside the newspaper. Neal placed the bag and the paper on the dining table. When he took out the tissue paper he found a sophisticated cocoa-colored box with a band of fireworks on the lid and an enclosure card. Thanks for a delightful evening! Sara.
Neal smiled. She must have planned it the day before. That was thoughtful of her. Had she dropped it by early this morning? She'd chosen her gift well. Mascleta chocolates. He recognized the distinctive box immediately. He hadn't realized Mascleta chocolates were available in the city. He'd had them in Spain a few years ago. The chocolates were made by a Barcelona chocolatier. Dark chocolate pods covered Pop Rocks and hazelnut praline. They'd been named after a fireworks event in Valencia. Biting into a chocolate made the rocks explode in the mouth—a gustatory fireworks. Neal chuckled. Was Sara referencing the Fourth of July fireworks from last year? Clever of her. Those chocolates were sinful. Just looking at the box made him want to eat one.
Neal took the paper, his coffee, and the box of chocolates out onto the terrace. He opened the paper to the Arts & Leisure section—appropriate for the man of leisure he intended to be today. He nibbled on a chocolate, pop . . . pop. Gotta love the Pop Rocks. He'd give her a call later to thank her.
Neal took his time reading the paper, indulging himself in only two chocolates, although he easily could have eaten more. Eventually he worked up the energy to go inside and take a shower. He planned to stop by the exhibition later in the morning and see how many people were there. Noelle, Joe, Irene, and Edmund had probably already left to go back to Washington. Henry said he might return for a second look now that he was an art connoisseur, but Neal doubted it. Henry would be spending the week in D.C. where he was scheduled to meet with the FAA. His unfinished loft needed his help more than Neal did.
When Neal finished his shower, he pulled out lightweight slacks and shirt to wear. It was supposed to be unseasonably hot today. It was already feeling stuffy inside the loft. Surely he didn't need the air-conditioning already? Perhaps his shower had been too hot.
Neal went into the kitchenette for a glass of cold water. The humidity in the air made him sweat as if as if it were July.
He went outside on the terrace to get some fresh air. His stomach was starting to feel queasy. Had he overindulged on the chocolates? Those Pop Rocks were doing a number to his insides.
Neal walked to the edge of the terrace and looked out at the street below. There was a light breeze. It helped cool down his face. He was starting to feel hotter than the fireworks in the chocolates. There were a few people strolling along Riverside Drive. He watched them idly as he tried to slow down his breathing. Cool thoughts. Snow. He was flopped on a block of ice like a polar bear. That was a relaxing thought . . .
Wait … Who was that below? Neal stared down, his heart pounding in his chest. There was no doubt. Fowler! He'd just walked past the mansion and was turning the corner. Where was he going? Neal raced over to the far southern side of the terrace but he couldn't spot him. He took a quick swipe of his forehead to get rid of the sweat. He couldn't let him get away. Not this time. He'd kidnapped Mozzie. Was he coming back for Neal? Well, it wouldn't work. If he thought he could tail Neal, he was in for a rude awakening.
Putting his hands on the balustrade, Neal swung up and over. In an instant he'd climbed down the wall. Fowler was nowhere in sight, but he had to be nearby. Neal ran to the corner and scanned the side streets. He was sweating from the exertion and had to blink his eyes several times as the street became blurry. How had it gotten hot so quickly? And where was Fowler?
Neal took a deep breath and sprinted down the street.
Notes: Did Neal actually see Fowler or is something else going on? Find out next week in Chapter 8: All For One. Fireworks have been a favorite theme for our series, but they've never taken on a sinister meaning till now. The fireworks Neal watched with Sara occurred in Caffrey Disclosure by Penna Nomen. She wrote a delightful post about fireworks in Caffrey Conversation for our blog.
Over the past year and a half since Neal began working at the FBI, Mozzie has slowly become friends with Peter, Travis, Diana, and Tricia, but there's been one team member who's been a holdout—Jones. Neal senses a video game may be the key to rapprochement. I wrote about game theory, Caffrey Conversation style, this week for our blog.
Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Raphael's Dragon board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website
