Chapter 7: At the Sign of the Green Cat
Paris. Monday, May 30, 2005
El awoke when the first rays of sunshine began to peek through the shutters. She slid out of bed, trying not to disturb her sleepyhead husband. She'd only be in Paris till Thursday, and she planned to make every second count. By the time Peter began to stir, she was already dressed. She kissed him good morning and informed him he could find her drinking café au lait on the patio.
El had read in the brochure that breakfast could be taken in the hotel's courtyard. There was limited seating, and she hoped that by getting there early she'd be able to snag one of the white wrought-iron tables.
She stopped off at the bar for a cup of coffee then strolled outside. The staff must have just watered the flowers as the stone pavement was still damp. A few doves were foraging among the shrubbery. Even at that hour, several of the tables were already taken. One particularly dashing young man caught her eye. Neal was reading a copy of Le Monde, his coffee beside him.
He rose to greet her and pulled over a chair. "It's been just me and the doves," he said, pulling up a chair. "I'm glad you joined me."
"You must have been having a scintillating conversation."
"I tried, but they have more interesting things in mind." He pointed out one bird. "That handsome fellow's been courting his fair lady for the past several minutes. He puffs out his chest and swaggers up to her, but she coyly flies away—only a few feet, of course. Then she coos softly, enticing him to try again."
"I hope you're not thinking of yourself as that frustrated Romeo."
He shrugged. "Only a little." He studied them glumly. "At least he's getting come-hither coos."
"It'll get better."
He glanced at her and smiled sheepishly. "Hope for us pigeons? You're my doctor. Do you have a magic elixir handy?"
"I knew there was something I forgot to pack!" She took a sip of coffee. "I wish I could help. Playing Neal Carter's neurologist in Diana's stories doesn't give me much credibility, but I've found talking about what bothers you can sometimes achieve a cure."
Neal didn't appear inclined to take her up on the offer and she hesitated a moment, weighing her options. Would Peter want her to discuss it? She decided he would. He would be relieved that she asked the difficult questions for him. "Peter's concerned that the attack by Azathoth may have had an influence. We hope you didn't sacrifice your relationship with Fiona over fear for her safety."
He gave her a knowing look. "Confess. He brought up 'The Gift of the Magi,' didn't he?"
"You know him well," she admitted.
"It wasn't hard to guess. He loves using that story as an example of how a lack of teamwork causes problems. You can assure him that I wasn't acting out of some misplaced code of chivalry. Fiona admitted that my job was an issue, but it's not the only one. She doesn't want to wait long to start having children. I think she finds my reliability lacking, and I can't blame her. My track record over the past few months hasn't been stellar."
"Do you think there's any chance of getting back together?"
"I can read people pretty well, and what I'm reading is making me want to close the book. I think I've arrived at the unhappy ending part."
"My only advice is not to attach a deeper cosmic significance to it." She took a sip of coffee. Talking about her own failures was not something she enjoyed, but it might help ease the pain. "When I was in college, I was in a relationship for two years. I was sure we'd get married after we graduated. I spent senior year dreaming about our wedding and our future happy life together. It's a wonder I didn't fail my courses. But once we graduated, we began to drift apart. He was working in a different city and fell in love with someone else. I can still remember vividly how much it hurt when he told me he was engaged. I focused on my career but I worried I'd never find the right person for me."
"And now look at you. You and Peter have what I want. You give me hope."
She squeezed his hand. "Some people are lucky. They find their true love the first time and don't have to go through the twists and turns we had to make. I was about on the point of giving up when I met Peter." She smiled as she remembered that first awkward encounter. "The same will happen to you. You're not destined to spend your life alone, and that, Neal Carter, is my professional opinion."
"What are you two laughing about?" Peter asked as he walked up, coffee in hand.
"Just making plans for the future," Neal said.
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Peter stood off to the side as Neal discussed a painting by Caravaggio with El. They'd spent the past hour at the Louvre—barely enough time for a brief introduction. It was their final stop in a whirlwind tour of Paris highlights. Neal had been overly modest about his abilities. He wasn't a tour guide. He was a walking encyclopedia of Paris lore. How did he keep all that stuff crammed into his head?
By unspoken consensus, Fiona was not up for discussion. Neal appeared fine, his wounded feelings buried deep, and Peter wasn't about to unearth them. He was willing to give Fiona the benefit of the doubt that she'd been deluding herself as well as Neal. He was proud that Neal had opened up to her about his work and hoped that her rejection didn't make Neal think that had been a mistake.
Neal focused on the sights he'd thought Peter would particularly enjoy since this was his only day free. In addition to the Louvre, they'd visited the Eiffel Tower, Notre-Dame, the Military Museum, and Napoleon's Tomb. It was clear that Neal felt he'd saved the best for last, and he wouldn't get any argument from them. At the museum Neal was even more animated than normal. Peter longed to know what his history with the museum had been. Neal had related last night that he'd stayed in Paris several times with Chantal and Klaus. Had they broken into the Louvre? More than once?
Peter walked closer to study the painting they were discussing. It was called The Fortune Teller. "What are you two chuckling about? I want in on the joke."
Neal put an arm around El. "Don't you know? El's my gypsy fortune teller."
"Of course. Now I understand what you were doing on the patio this morning."
She picked up Peter's hand and stroked it. "Would you like me to read your palm, kind sir?"
He adopted a stern expression. "Do you intend to lift my ring like the gypsy in that painting?"
"What?" Her eyes widened and she turned to reexamine the painting. "I hadn't noticed that."
Neal grinned. "Sharp eyes, partner. I knew you'd spot it."
He waggled a finger at the two of them. "Let that serve as a lesson to you both. Your scheming won't stand a chance against Hawkeye Burke."
Neal muttered in a loud stage whisper to her. "We'll plan our next heist when he's not around." He nodded to the gallery on the right. "There's a painting in there I especially want you to see. It's called The Astronomer. When you see it, you may want to commission us."
"I've seen photos of that," Peter said, growing excited. "I didn't realize it was at the Louvre. El, you'll love this. It's a portrait by Vermeer. An astronomer's studying a celestial globe."
She linked her arm through Neal's. "Is Ursa Minor among the constellations?"
"Don't give me that innocent look," Neal protested with a grin. "You're already planning the jokes, aren't you?"
Unfortunately, the Baby Bear comments would have to wait. When they arrived at the gallery, they learned that the painting was currently not being exhibited. But there was no shortage of other paintings to admire.
After the Louvre, they stopped for an early supper at a nearby café. El planned to stroll along the Champs-Élysées while Neal took Peter to meet with Klaus's ex-wife, Chantal Delon. She'd returned to Paris in the afternoon from a short vacation. Since her restaurant was closed for the day, this was their best opportunity.
Up to now Peter had relied exclusively on Neal to understand Klaus since he knew of no one else who'd worked with the master thief. He was counting on Chantal to help fill in the picture.
Her restaurant was on a small side street on the Left Bank opposite Notre-Dame. As they walked along the quai to their appointment, Peter asked him if he'd spoken with Henry.
"He called last night," Neal confirmed.
"You told him about . . .?"
"Fiona? Yeah, but mainly we discussed his investigation. Henry had hoped to join us in Paris on Wednesday, but he has a lead on someone who reportedly knew Franz Huber during the war. Depending on how that pans out, it may be next week before he returns to New York. I assume John hasn't any breaks in the case to report?"
"That's right. They finished interviewing the Scima employees with no fresh leads. Still no reports of Marta being seen anywhere. Agents found a couple of Dumbledore outfits stuffed into a trash bag which were probably used by the men who attacked me, but they haven't been able to pull any usable evidence off them. John discussed the incident with his department head. The Home Secretary has put the kibosh on investigating Chapman. If we don't manage to find any DNA evidence, John won't be able to proceed."
Neal shrugged. "I suspected as much. It all hinges on Chantal and the plastic surgeon." They turned onto a narrow side street. "That's her bistro up ahead on the left," he said, pointing to an attractive small restaurant with a green awning. A swinging metal sign proclaimed the name: Le Chat Vert.
"What's the significance to the Green Cat?" Peter asked.
"Impressive. Your French lessons are paying off, Pierre."
"I try, so what does it mean?"
"That was Klaus's nickname for her. Green is Chantal's favorite color. And as for cat, Chantal was an expert burglar. I assumed that's why he chose it."
"Don't you think it's odd she'd use the nickname her ex-husband gave her?"
Neal paused at the entrance. "Chantal's feelings about Klaus are complicated. Even after she divorced him, they continued to be friends. She knew he was dangerous but was still attracted to him."
"He was an addiction, in other words?"
Neal nodded. He hesitated for a moment then added, "When we talked after he died, she said she understood how difficult it had been for me to betray him. No one wanted him to die, but his passing finally set her free. I don't think she said that simply to ease my guilt."
He moved to press the doorbell, but Peter stopped him, laying a hand on his arm. "Is that the way you feel—that you betrayed him?"
"Shouldn't I? Don't worry, I don't regret the role I played. But there's no point in cloaking it in a euphemism." Neal's words were disquieting. How much of his description of Chantal's feelings was true for himself as well? Tricia and Henry had both warned Peter that Neal could still be overdosing on guilt. On the other hand, Neal could simply be feeling depressed over Fiona and it was leaking into other areas.
Neal pressed the doorbell, and Chantal buzzed them up. More than ever, Peter hoped she'd shed some clarity on the situation.
Her apartment was above the bistro and accessed by a steep flight of stairs. Chantal was waiting by the front door when they arrived. She resembled the photo Peter had seen of her with short brunette hair and a turned up nose. She was dressed simply in turquoise capris and a loose sweater.
Neal sprang forward to greet her, switching into French as they hugged. He reverted to English when he introduced Peter. Luckily Chantal's English was much better than Peter's beginner's level French.
"Neal has spoken of you so highly, I feel as if we are old friends," she said, kissing him on the cheek.
She led them into a light and airy living room, simply furnished with contemporary furniture on stone floors. A few high-quality oil paintings hung on the walls. "I regret the restaurant is closed tonight. Tomorrow you must return with your wife when you will be my guests."
Neal explained they'd already eaten but she insisted on them sampling from an array of cheeses she'd placed on a cheese board. So many varieties Peter had never tasted and he wanted them all. She'd opened a bottle of Bordeaux to accompany them. By Neal's raised brow when he saw the label, Peter surmised this was no ordinary house claret.
They chatted for a few minutes about the sights they'd seen during the day. Peter sensed Chantal was wary of dealing with anyone in law enforcement, but her unease gradually disappeared as she talked with Neal. Peter adapted his style to match Neal's. This wasn't an interrogation, no matter how critical she was to the case.
Neal helped, guiding the conversation onto reminiscences about Klaus and anecdotes about their life together while avoiding anything incriminating. Peter gave him points for opening her up, but it was perhaps more revealing of Neal than Chantal. Peter knew that she and Klaus had served as a surrogate family, but the attachment was stronger than he'd realized.
"Over dinner we'd discuss art and music," she said. "Klaus took it upon himself to make up for what he perceived to be the deficiencies in Neal's music education, specifically the piano. He simply couldn't understand why you preferred playing rock music to the classics."
"I didn't make it easy for him," Neal acknowledged with a grin. "He was a frustrated man and he didn't believe in hiding it. I made the mistake of playing Coldplay for him once. I sang 'High Speed' and accompanied myself on the piano. He was not kind."
"I loved it," she said loyally.
"You were the only one," Neal pointed out. "After that, Klaus monopolized the piano for days. Kept me so busy painting, I had no time to play."
"I remember! I spoke with him about it. He gave me quite a lecture, insisting that what he called 'serious' piano music would inspire your artistry. Rock music, on the other hand, would congeal your mind. Is that the right word?"
Neal grinned. "That describes it perfectly. Klaus was convinced Coldplay would turn my brain into aspic."
She gave a warm chuckle. "My poor aspic!" She turned to Peter. "Klaus loved to get inside your head and exploit what he found."
This was good. Peter was acquiring a much better profile of Klaus than ever before. Neal and Chantal were enjoying reminiscing so much, they sometimes seemed to forget Peter was there, too. Her English was spoken with a soft French accent that made Peter think of Catherine Deneuve. He wanted to keep it going for as long as possible. If Rolf or whoever was Azathoth was seeking revenge for Klaus, it was important to learn as much as he could about him. "What composers did Klaus like?"
"Mainly nineteenth century," she replied. "Schubert, Beethoven, Liszt. Rachmaninov was about as modern as he got."
"And artists?"
She spread some soft cheese on a cracker as she considered. "Vermeer, Manet, Titian . . ."
"Whistler," Neal added.
Her face lit up, "But of course! I should have named him first. His fascination with Whistler was not just because of the art, but the signature. He felt a kinship to Whistler."
"I'm not following you," Peter said. "What was it about Whistler's signature that intrigued him?"
"Whistler drew a butterfly based on his monogram," she explained. "This was no ordinary butterfly. Over the years as Whistler encountered opposition, he decided to include a long stinger to its tail as a warning to tread carefully. Klaus adopted for his symbol the design of a leopard sitting on a tree branch, his long tail curling upward. I believe he was referencing Whistler's butterfly." She turned to Neal. "Does he know about you?"
"That Klaus called me Lion Cub?" He nodded. "You were the Green Cat."
She smiled. "And I still am. Klaus used to tease me that I wasn't wild enough to survive in the jungle by myself. I was the house cat who wanted to stay warm by the fire." She shrugged. "He was right. I wear it as a badge of honor."
"And now you have your hearth and home," Neal said, gazing at her with affection. "I'd never thought of connecting Whistler's butterfly to the leopard."
"I don't think he wanted you to know. He had a hard enough time getting you to follow his wishes. If you'd viewed him as a butterfly . . ." She raised a brow.
"Klaus was right," Neal said with a grin.
"He was more open with me. Once he told me that the consummate art thief was a butterfly flitting from museum to museum, with the world not suspecting a scorpion lurked within." Her face grew serious. "After I l heard about the death of that guard in Berlin, I thought back on his remark."
Neal nodded, but didn't answer.
She leaned forward and placed a hand on Neal's arm. "Both of us learned. A leopard can be charming, but one should never forget he's a predator, a killer. I admire the strength you displayed when you told him you were leaving."
Neal shook his head, looking embarrassed. "You shouldn't. It was more a panicked flight than an act of courage. I stared into the abyss and was horrified at what I saw."
She turned to face Peter. "You may wonder why I married him. Klaus was the most fascinating person I'd ever known. If he were to walk in here today, I don't know if I'd be able to resist him."
"How long did you stay with Klaus after Neal left?" Peter asked.
"Only a month. I think it may have been Neal's action which gave me the courage to sever my connection as well. As I told Neal, I'd suspected for a while that Klaus was seeing another woman. I decided I wanted a fresh start, a life where I didn't have to worry about being arrested and sent to prison. I was delighted to learn that Neal has also made a clean break from his former life." She smiled at him. "No prison cells for either of us."
What Peter was hearing was reassuring. He'd be able to allay Tricia's fears. "Did Klaus ever mention Marta or Jacek Kolar to you?"
"No. I'd already mentioned to Neal, I have no knowledge of those names. That doesn't mean Klaus didn't work with them, simply that he didn't mention them to me."
"What can you tell us about Rolf?" Neal asked.
"I met him only once. That was when I was a member of Klaus's crew but before he proposed. Rolf was killed in a car crash in December 1999. That was two months before our wedding. At the time, I thought his death might have been one of the reasons Klaus proposed. He was grief-stricken over the loss of his brother and refused to talk about it with me. I thought it made him hold on to life more dearly."
"Do you think Rolf knew about Klaus's secret life as a thief?" Peter asked.
"I don't know," she said. "I suspected so and asked Klaus about it but he didn't answer. As you know, to the world Klaus was known as an investment banker. He could have easily hidden his illegal activities from his brother. I know he did from the rest of his family. Klaus once commented that Rolf was even better at the art of manipulation than he was. That astonished me. I couldn't imagine anyone more skilled at getting his way than Klaus."
Neal refilled her glass. "Were you able to find anything of Rolf's?"
She nodded. "A few mementos. When I left Klaus, I boxed up a couple of photo albums but haven't looked at them since. This afternoon upon my return home, I retrieved them from my storage closet." She paused. "So many memories! I'm glad the restaurant was closed this evening. I wouldn't have been able to focus on cooking." She stood up and walked over to the bookcase, returning with a small leather album. "This is something Luisa, Klaus's mother, gave me on our wedding day. I'd confided in her my hopes to have children, and she presented me with this album. It contains baby pictures of Klaus with a few of Rolf." She handed it to Neal.
He opened it eagerly. "I didn't know you had this." He began scanning through the photos.
"I held on to it," she continued, "hoping that I could change his mind about children. I used to wonder if our baby would look like him or Rolf. Today when I looked through it, I found a couple of small envelopes sandwiched between two photos. One marked Klaus; the other Rolf. They contain locks of hair tied together with ribbons. Luisa must have placed them there."
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
"I'll send the hair to John in London tomorrow," Peter said, "but if there aren't any hair roots, the chance of recoverable DNA is slim."
Neal nodded absently. He'd been unusually quiet on their way back to the hotel. After suggesting they take the same route along the Seine, he'd barely spoken a word. Peter suspected he was still processing the conversation with Chantal and didn't intrude.
When they arrived at the bridge leading to Ile Saint-Louis, Peter stopped him. "Let's sit down a moment and enjoy the view." On their left they could view Notre-Dame, illuminated in lights. There were few people around. It was a magical setting, and Peter vowed to return to that spot with El the next evening.
Sitting down didn't make Neal any more talkative so Peter finally had to prod him to explain what was bothering him.
"Those baby photos . . . Chantal . . . " He looked over at the cathedral. "Seeing the photos of Klaus and Rolf made me think about Henry and how I would have felt if he'd been killed."
"We're still not positive that Chapman is Rolf," Peter cautioned him.
"He is. I'm sure of it." He raked a hand through his hair. "A brother's revenge," he added quietly.
So that was it. Peter wasn't surprised. He'd been worried about it already. "If Chapman turns out to be Rolf, then most likely Rolf took his place quite a while ago—much earlier than when you went undercover with Klaus. You shouldn't feel guilty. If anything you should feel angry that Klaus played you for so long."
"Keep talking."
"All right, I will. We know the head of Ydrus is a woman. Rolf may be her first lieutenant, or the criminal genius behind the organization. He could have been working for Ydrus all the years Chantal knew Klaus. When you worked with them, Rolf could have been even then in a secret partnership with his brother and directing his activities while staying in the background. Both you and Chantal claim Klaus only divulged the essential. Are you listening to me? Don't lose yourself in the personal aspects. Focus on Rolf as the criminal Azathoth and stop thinking of him as someone's brother. You have to take your emotions out of the picture."
Neal slanted him a glance and smiled. "You're beginning to sound a lot like the Peter Gilman of Arkham Files."
"What about you? That talk of staring into the abyss when you decided to quit Klaus's crew? You were imagining your future as Diana described that stairway down to the abyss. Her stories are having an effect on both of us. I'm glad to hear it. That means they're affecting Azathoth too."
Neal nodded. "Rolf's secure in the belief we don't know who he is. That could give us our best shot at capturing him."
"That's right. Don't give up on the DNA evidence. It may not be enough for a conviction, but it could be sufficient to justify a full-scale investigation of Chapman. If we strike before he knows we're onto him, we just may be able to take out the Leopard's ghost."
For a brief moment the old Neal returned, giving him a mischievous grin. "Are you turning into a poet on me?" He stood up. "Now that you've met Chantal, what do you think?"
Peter rose too. "That Klaus was a fool to let her go."
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
On Tuesday, Neal and Peter spent the full day at the headquarters of the National Police, the French equivalent to the FBI, making their presentations on Azathoth and the countermeasures they'd enacted. On hand to hear them speak were not only agents but museum representatives and members of the French government. They would be the ones Marcel Jauffret would have to persuade to allocate funds for the software purchases.
Neal didn't understand how they could refuse. If all the instances of Azathoth's malware being used didn't convince them, surely the successes White Collar had obtained in New York by using the software would.
Their work for the day was now done. Neal was powering off the equipment in the meeting room while Peter called John from an office which had been placed at their disposal. Peter had contacted him yesterday evening with the news from Chantal and received mailing instructions. John promised to put a rush order on the analysis but warned that the earliest they might know anything would be Thursday. The DNA analysis of the samples Neal had obtained at Scima was still ongoing.
After the emotional upheavals of the weekend, the work environment was a welcome relief. Neal longed to speak in French but restrained himself to the occasional remark with colleagues so Peter wouldn't feel left out.
It seemed surreal to still call the cybercriminal Azathoth. In his mind, Neal now called him Rolf.
Tricia had once called Rolf her lead suspect but at the time she thought he was dead. Now he'd risen from the grave. Perhaps Rolf was more like Bram Stoker's Dracula than a Lovecraft monster. Or was he like Doctor Who? A man who periodically underwent regeneration?
In between their meetings, he and Peter brought Marcel up to speed on the status of the Adler case and its possible connection to Nazi-plundered art. Neal could tell that Marcel, although not completely dismissive, was skeptical of the U-boat theory. He remarked that similar tales of treasure hoards had surfaced in the past and they'd never panned out.
Tamping down expectations was the apparent theme of the day. Peter spoke again of the uncertainties of DNA analysis. Was he worried that Neal would turn into a Don Quixote, obsessed with Rolf? He might have been right except that Neal had to manage the other plates he was spinning.
The Braque painting was currently the most wobbly. Mozzie still hadn't returned any of Neal's messages. How long would he stay angry? Last night Neal forced himself to realistically evaluate the odds for success if he attempted to retrieve the painting on his own, and he didn't like them. The old Neal wouldn't have hesitated, but the new, improved model had learned to exercise a modicum of caution. The safest policy would be to return later in the summer when Peter wasn't with him.
Neal shoved the Braque aside when Peter reentered the room. He looked satisfied with the results of the call. "The samples have arrived and are being analyzed. John reported that in the review of Chapman's past, one incident popped out. In April 2000 he was in a car accident. A leg fracture resulted in him working from home for several weeks. That's the most likely time the switch could have been made."
"That was about four months after Rolf supposedly died. Enough time for him to heal from the plastic surgery and learn Chapman's mannerisms."
Peter nodded. "At this point, there's not much more John can do. He can't question colleagues without it being an official investigation. In any case, it's doubtful anyone would remember something suspicious that occurred five years ago. There are also no further reports on Marta Kolar."
"I was thinking about her," Neal said, closing his laptop. "If she'd had plastic surgery like Rolf, it's possible she wore a disguise of her former self for the benefit of the surveillance cameras."
"Good point. Or it might not have even been Marta, but someone else disguised to look like her. Everyone could be wearing a mask. Chapman's Rolf. Marta's someone else." He glanced over at Neal. "Should I check your face? You're not someone else pretending to be Neal, I hope?"
Peter's question hit closer to home than Neal liked. He slapped on a carefree look and chuckled. "No, you're safe. No one else could fake being me. If it's okay with you, I'll take off now."
"Sure. We can leave together. El called. She wants me to meet her at Printemps."
"It's a good thing you're dining late. The store stays open till eight, and you'll need all those hours."
"We'll see you at Chantal's for dinner, right?" Peter asked, standing up.
"I wouldn't miss it."
"That will give you enough time?"
"It should," Neal said, opening the door. "André suggested we meet at Lafaugère, his fencing club, which is not far from her bistro. Wish me luck."
"You have it. I was glad to hear your decision. One less secret in your life is a good thing."
Neal let a little of his nerves show. "He's a good friend. I hope he still will be after he hears how I've been playing him for all these years."
"If he lets this come between the two of you, he's not much of a friend."
Peter's assurance hit home. Would he feel the same way if Neal told him about the Braque?
WCWCWCWCWCWCWC
Neal arrived at the fencing club before André and waited for him at the entrance. His former fencing coach knew Neal as Gary Rydell, and that had been the source of a misunderstanding. Would André take the deception as badly as Mozzie? Even if he did, it was a risk Neal needed to take. No more conning of friends. Of course, by that logic, he shouldn't be conning Peter, but that was different. Neal was doing it to protect him. In André's case, the truth wouldn't cause him any damage. Neal would be the one who would lose yet one more friend.
When Neal initially made his plans for Paris, he hadn't decided whether to attempt a meeting. The last time he'd seen him was when André agreed to help trap the Italian criminal working for Fowler. In appreciation for his efforts, Mozzie had introduced André to Gordon Taylor and he'd been a member of Gordon's crew ever since.
"Salut, Gary!" Neal turned to see André's smiling face and knew he'd met the right decision. Soon they were sitting in the club lounge, reminiscing over glasses of white wine.
Neal asked André about his life in Paris before broaching the reason for his visit. "Has Mozzie mentioned to you—"
"—that you broke up with Neal? Yes, I was sorry to hear it. I'd hoped you'd develop a lasting relationship. Have you found anyone else?"
"No. In a sense he's still very much a part of me . . ." Neal groaned inwardly. Awkward didn't begin to describe it. He decided to try another tack before he made a total ass out of himself. "I assume you heard Keller's now in prison?"
"I did and I hope he stays there." André had also had run-ins with Keller. They were on the same page in their dislike of the man.
"Introducing us was one of the few good things Keller ever did, but he also added a complication," Neal paused to take a sip of wine. "You should know that Gary Rydell is an alias that Keller invented for me, and one that I still use. My real name is Neal."
André stared at him for a moment. "As in Neal Caffrey?"
He nodded and waited uneasily for André's reaction.
"All this time you've been conning me?" he asked incredulously. "I thought I was the master of the feint."
Wincing, Neal plowed on. "I wanted to tell you the truth, but the alias was such a good one, I hated to burn it. When you showed up in New York, it became a real issue."
"Yes, I can see that." André exhaled, studying him. Impossible to read how angry he was.
"I'm sorry about the deception. I hope you can forgive me."
"All this time, I thought I was fencing Gary Rydell. Instead you are a stranger to me. A stranger."
Neal had to suppress a flinch when he heard André echo Mozzie's words. Wasn't speaking the truth supposed to make you feel better, not worse? He was building up a lot of evidence to the contrary.
André stood up abruptly. "I demand satisfaction. You must allow me a rematch." When Neal hesitated, he raised an eyebrow. "Are you coming or not? I have extra gear you can borrow." His face melted into a large smile. "Who's the master of the feint now?"
"You're head and shoulders above me," Neal acknowledged happily. "You always have been."
When he rose, André promptly embraced him. "Salut, Neal. It's a pleasure to meet you. Now let's fence."
André gave him the tour of the club on the way to the locker room, explaining that he coached several teams. It was an excellent cover and supplemented the work he did for Gordon. Judging from the number of greetings he was receiving, André was well-liked by everyone there.
When he joined André on the fencing mat, for a change Neal was the one with no supporters. André's fan contingent on the other hand was formidable. They chose sabres. Neal was faster, but André's finesses were still unbeatable.
At the end of the match, Neal said, "That's close enough to a draw, don't you think?"
André agreed readily. "Will you have time to fence again this week?"
Neal hesitated. If he didn't hear from Mozzie, he would. "Can I get back to you? I may be free tomorrow evening."
"Of course. I'm here almost every evening."
While they were talking, a man walked up. He wasn't wearing a fencing uniform. His casual clothes were expensive. Neal noted the Gucci loafers. He looked to be in his thirties, slim with dark hair. "Care to introduce us, André?" He spoke with a British accent.
"Neal Caffrey, meet Gordon Taylor," André said with a flourish.
Neal enjoyed the way Gordon's eyes flickered recognition. If ever there'd been a sign from on high that honesty was the best policy, this was it. "A pleasure," Gordon said, shaking his hand. "I didn't realize you fenced. I've been taking a few lessons from André. He's an excellent coach."
"Yes, he is. We should fence together sometime. Or perhaps a round of pool? I hear you're an expert."
Gordon eyed him thoughtfully. "Yes, I look forward to that."
Mozzie had told him Gordon liked to assess a potential crew member by seeing how they play pool. That was a challenge Neal would enjoy accepting.
Notes: Will Mozzie reach out to Neal? Will Neal go ahead and retrieve the Braque painting if he doesn't have Mozzie's help? What trap has Azathoth set? The answers are all coming next week. I hope you enjoyed Gordon Taylor's inclusion this week. He was a character I wished the TV writers had revisited. This will not be his only appearance in this series.
The paintings Neal, Peter, and El discussed at the Louvre, The Fortune Teller by Caravaggio and The Astronomer by Vermeer, as well as Whistler's butterfly signature are pinned to the Echoes of a Violin Pinterest board. Butterflies and Neal's feelings about them are also the subject of my blog post this week, "A Butterfly's Tale."
Penna earned a writer's Purple Heart for providing invaluable beta assistance even while fighting a nasty cold—thank you, Penna!
Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Echoes of a Violin board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website
