Notes: warning for OC death


Chapter 7: When Worlds Collide

Federal Building. September 25, 2004. Saturday morning.

On Saturday morning Peter called the team to the conference room for a final briefing. "We should all be in position by six o'clock," he said. "The command center with monitoring equipment was set up on Friday in a storage room in the European Paintings Gallery and the final pieces of equipment put in place this morning. Jones and I'll monitor the video feeds and ultrasonic monitor for Neal's transmitter from there.

"When the museum closes at nine o'clock, all agents report to their assigned locations on the second floor. Outside, the surveillance van will move to the north side of the museum and provide auxiliary monitoring capability. When Neal gives us the first signal, the Code Yellow command will be given for all agents to go to standby status. Once the Code Green activation signal is sent out, we move in and make the arrests. I know the color-coded system is new with this operation, but I'm confident it will aid in communication. It's simple and direct. As a reminder, 'Blue' is the signal to stand down, and 'Red' for suspect on the loose, armed and dangerous."

Turning to Tricia, Peter added, "Once the arrests are made, I want you to take charge of Neal and escort him as quickly as possible into the surveillance van. From there you'll join Travis in coordinating communications if necessary. The rest of us will deal with Mansfeld."

"How about the guard uniforms?" Jones asked.

"The museum sent them over yesterday," Diana said. "They're in the locker room. Peter, in case Mansfeld escapes capture, what do we know of their exit strategy? What has Caffrey been able to find out?"

"They're planning to escape from the roof. As you know from your maps, there are several emergency stairs that give access. If Mansfeld does somehow escape capture, Tricia, make sure Neal doesn't leave your sight. I don't want him involved in what could quickly turn violent. Finally, Neal wanted me to pass on this warning. Mansfeld is capable of using deadly force and is suspected of having used it in the past. My gut's telling me Mansfeld hasn't revealed all his plans to Neal. So don't let your guard down for an instant."

Metropolitan Museum of Art. September 25, 2004. Saturday evening.

With every passing hour, Peter missed the surveillance van more and more. At least there you could look out the front window. He and Jones had already been encased in this glorified broom closet for over two hours with another three to go. Some of the storage room equipment had been moved out to give them space—barely—for their equipment, but ventilation was minimal.

Outside, Diana was posing as a guard in the Dutch Baroque Masters exhibit. Tricia and two other agents were in the Great Hall monitoring visitors entering the museum in the ticketing area, while several other agents worked as guards throughout the building.

The action had begun at 7:05 p.m. with Neal's arrival. Giving a brief nod at Tricia, he proceeded up the main stairway from ticketing to the European Galleries. Diana reported that, as expected, he sat down in the Impressionists Gallery to sketch.

At 7:30 p.m. Mansfeld had arrived. After heading up the stairway, rather than turning left to the exhibition area, he wandered into the Baroque Paintings Gallery on the second floor.

Now that everyone had arrived, it had turned into a waiting game. Jones had turned on the ultrasonic monitor for any signals from Neal's pen. The equipment had already been tested thoroughly, but Peter was more than a little uneasy to have the success of the entire op hinge on a dog whistle. A dog whistle to take down a leopard—he must have been insane to agree to this.

At 8:00 Diana called in. "Caffrey's gone. I'd just made a sweep of the gallery where he was sketching. He was sitting on a bench, I turned my back, and he vanished."

"What about Mansfeld?" Peter asked. "Any eyes on him?"

"Travis reported he was in the Musical Instruments Gallery at 7:50," Jones reported. "I'll check." He patched through to Travis and after a quick conversation said, "He's still there, studying the early pianos."

At 8:10, Travis called back in. Mansfeld was also gone. Peter and Jones updated the agents to get in their holding positions and wait for the next phase. Museum visitors would be notified to leave at 8:45 with the museum closing at 9. At that point all agents dispersed to their assigned locations on the second floor.

Two galleries away, Neal and Mansfeld were likewise holed up in their storage room. They must be maintaining the same vigilant silence. These rooms had become their foxholes, with both sides hunkered down waiting for the battle to commence.

At 10:45 Peter checked in with Tricia and Diana. They would join him for the initial arrest while other agents would remain on the perimeter to minimize the likelihood of discovery. Peter could feel the first rush of adrenaline starting as he waited for Neal's signal. It couldn't come soon enough at this point.

At 11:00 Jones looked up from his monitor. "First signal—one beep—right on schedule," he reported.

Peter passed the Yellow standby signal to all the agents. "Prepare the broadcast," he ordered Jones. At 11:10, Peter nodded to Jones to start the diversion Neal had requested.

A five-toned chime was heard reverberating through the galleries, followed by a recorded message: "This is a test of the emergency warning system. For the next 60 seconds a test of the emergency warning system will be conducted. This is only a test. In the case of a real emergency, your emergency directions would be relayed after the warning chimes. You should follow the instructions precisely. This concludes the test of the emergency warning system."

Peter and the others took advantage of the recording to move into position just outside the exhibit gallery. At 11:16 Jones relayed Neal's second signal and Peter gave the Code Green command.

"FBI! Freeze!"

Peter, Tricia and Diana swarmed into the exhibition gallery with Jones quickly joining them. The Vermeer was on the floor in front of them, some fifty feet away. Both Neal and Mansfeld, dressed as museum guards and wearing foam latex face masks, were kneeling beside it. Peter could only identify them by their height difference. A black leather case was on the floor next to Mansfeld. Motioning with his gun, Peter ordered, "Hands up! Move away from the painting."

Neal immediately stood up, his hands in the air. Mansfeld moved more slowly. Peter barked, "On your feet now!"

What happened next was a chaotic blur. Mansfeld brushed his left side as he raised his arms and a loud crackle was heard followed by a burst of blinding light. The gallery was instantly enveloped in a thick swirling haze of white smoke.

His eyes watering, Peter was blinded by the light and smoke. It was impossible to see anything. An instant later he heard Neal shout out, "No!"

Straining to see as he rushed forward, in the confusion all Peter could distinguish were sounds. The sharp pop of a handgun. Shouts. A scuffle. Running footsteps. Diana's voice crying out. More gunfire.

Shouting "Code Red" through his communicator, Peter was still unable to see more than two feet away from him. Neal was sprawled on the floor with Diana beside him. "Mansfeld fled to the northeast. Jones took off after him," she reported.

"He won't escape."

Neal was rubbing his head with a hand, "I'm okay. Go," he urged.

Diana sprinted off after Mansfeld as Tricia took her place with Neal. "I'll handle this, Peter," she assured him.

With a last look at Neal, Peter raced off to join the others.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Tricia helped Neal stand up. "Peter's left. You can tell me the truth now. You injured?"

"No, just a few bumps. I saw Klaus pull out his gun. Had to make him miss. He must have struck me with it." He gingerly probed the back of his head. "Was anyone injured?"

"No the shots went wild." As the smoke slowly dissipated, Tricia was able to examine Neal more closely. "Here let me take a look." She gently eased off his face mask. "You've got some swelling going on, but I don't see any blood. Do you feel dizzy?"

"No, I'm good. Being hardheaded has its advantages." He winced as he rotated his neck.

Museum guards were entering the room and Tricia updated them of the status of the situation.

Walking over to the painting, Neal said, "This is the real Vermeer—what Klaus has is my forgery. I switched them. That diversion worked perfectly. I'm sure he doesn't know."

"Good work," Tricia said, proudly. Neal had done everything they'd asked of him and then some. "I'll let Peter know and then we're clearing out. The medics are around the back."

"That's not necessary," Neal protested. "You need to help Travis with communications. I'm not dizzy, I'm not bleeding all over the floor. Stop worrying."

"All right, I believe you. But if the situation changes, you let me know right away. Peter will have my head otherwise."

They left the building and joined Travis in the surveillance van. Looking up briefly from his monitoring equipment, he smiled at seeing Neal. "Welcome back, stranger! Glad the dog whistle worked. Are you all right?" At Neal's nod he continued, "The suspect is still being pursued. He was last reported in European Paintings."

"We have to assume he's heading for the roof," Tricia said. She urged Neal into a chair and took a seat next to Travis.

"Most likely he'll make for the American Wing and use the emergency stairs there," Neal said. "That area of the roof has more areas to hide and it's easier to climb down. That's what I'd do anyway."

"We'll make that the highest probability." Tricia got on the line with the various agents.

Peter called in. "I'm heading for the roof. Everything okay in the van?"

Tricia understood by "everything" he meant Neal. "Everything's good at this end. NYPD's setting up additional searchlights around the perimeter." She relayed Neal's advice on the route Mansfeld would take.

For the next several minutes, Tricia and Travis were kept fully occupied coordinating operations and monitoring the feeds. Diana was already in the American Wing. She reported that Mansfeld had been spotted heading up the stairs at the west end. Tricia glanced over at Neal periodically and was relieved to see he was alert and following the feeds intently.

A knock was heard on the van door, and an NYPD officer stuck his head in. "We've got the additional searchlights set up. Do you want to check their locations?"

Tricia looked over at Neal who was already standing up in anticipation. "Feel up to coming out with me?"

"You couldn't keep my away."

"Travis, you're in charge of communications. Keep me informed."

As Tricia and Neal approached the searchlights, Peter called in. "He's on the roof. We got him cornered."

Neal looked like he would grab her earpiece from her. "Is that Peter? What's happening?"

"It's almost over," she reassured him. "Mansfeld's on the roof and should be apprehended shortly."

Neal nodded briefly, the escalating tension etched on his face. Their destination was the northwest corner of the museum. The majority of the searchlights had been directed toward the roof all along the west side which was the most likely avenue of escape.

The Met's roof, site of a rooftop garden terrace, exhibition area, and restaurant, was a complex maze of glass, metal, and stone, rich in hiding areas. Three main building wings projected out along the west facade, making surveillance very difficult. Trees also partially obscured the view from the ground. But police helicopters had joined the operation, their powerful search beams making concealment less likely.

NYPD officers had assembled around the searchlights, scanning the museum with binoculars. Sharpshooters were already in position. Surveying the growing firepower, Tricia felt increasingly uneasy for what was to come. "Time for us to get back in the van, Neal," she urged. "NYPD will handle the arrest."

An officer shouted out, "There he is—climbing down the corner of the north wing."

Quickly swiveling, Tricia was able to make out Peter's head peering over the roof before he disappeared. "Peter must be coming down," she told Neal and stopped to pass word on to the team and alert the van. A line of police officers had formed on the ground below Mansfeld.

"He doesn't have a chance," Neal muttered. "He has to give up."

Shots rang out. Mansfeld was firing at the police as he came down. As the police returned fire, Tricia gipped Neal's arm. A few seconds later Mansfeld plummeted to the ground, landing with a sickening thud about a hundred feet away.

"No!" Neal cried out. Tricia struggled to hold him back but he broke free and rushed to where the police had gathered around Mansfeld. "Let me through!"

The police held Neal back. "Sir, you have to leave."

Tricia ran up, "He's FBI—let him pass."

Mansfeld had been turned on his back, his eyes staring blankly at the sky. Tricia couldn't tell if he was alive or dead as the EMTs worked on him. Neal crouched down beside him.

This is exactly what Peter wanted to avoid, Tricia thought with dismay. I've got to get him out of here. Placing her arm around him, she said, "Let the medics handle this, Neal. There's nothing you can do." Urging him up, she led him away as the medics placed Mansfeld on a gurney.

Passing a hand over his face, Neal didn't resist as she guided him to an ambulance. Tricia spoke quietly to a medic. "He had an injury to the back of the head and may also be suffering from shock."

The medic nodded. "We'll check him out."

Tricia walked over to the cluster of officers standing around the ambulance containing Mansfeld. The officer who had been monitoring him earlier told her, "We never were able to get a heartbeat."

Tricia nodded grimly. "Between the gunshot wounds and fall, nobody could have survived that."

Peter came running up as she talked with them. Seeing Neal being attended by a medic, he asked worriedly, "What happened?"

Tricia motioned for them to move away from the ambulances. "Neal didn't want to be examined earlier, but the past few minutes have been rough."

His eyes still on Neal, Peter asked, "I heard that Mansfeld was shot. Was Neal there when it happened?"

"Unfortunately. We were standing by the searchlights. When he fell, I couldn't hold Neal back. He raced over to him, but Mansfeld was unresponsive. I just checked—he's been pronounced dead." Tricia looked over at Neal and bit her lip. "Sorry, Peter, I tried to keep him away."

"Not your fault," Peter said wearily. "We thought we had Mansfeld cornered on the roof. Jones had circled around from behind and I was in front. He had jumped on the ledge, and we thought it would end there—that he would give himself up. But then he dropped off the ledge, landed on a projection below, and started climbing down the side of the building. It looked like he'd be arrested once he got to the ground. When he started firing on the police, he determined his own fate."

"Neal's taking it a lot harder than I would have expected," Tricia said. "He may need to talk to someone about it."

"I agree. I plan to bring it up at the right time."

They walked over to the ambulance where the medic had finished examining Neal. "How is he?" Peter asked.

"Some minor swelling, but no signs of a concussion or more extensive damage," the medic reported. "I gave him some ibuprofen. He'll have a headache for a while. If anything more serious develops such as severe nausea, problems with his vision, or dizziness, he should go to the emergency room."

Neal was standing stiffly by the ambulance. "I'm fine. How about everyone else? Klaus didn't hurt anyone, did he?"

"No, everyone's accounted for," Peter assured him as he slipped off his FBI jacket and draped it over Neal's shoulders.

An NPYD officer walked up carrying the black case. Handing it to Peter, he said "You want to take charge of this? Unfortunately, it's been damaged."

They examined the leather case. The case had not been damaged by the fall but had been pierced by a bullet. Peter opened it and took out the painting inside. A bullet had ripped through the painting, leaving a gaping hole in the center.

Neal stared at it, his already pale face gone chalk-white.

"You saved her, Neal," Tricia said, trying to comfort him. "If you hadn't switched the painting, this would have been the Vermeer."

Neal nodded without taking his eyes off the painting as Peter placed it back in the case. Passing a hand through his hair, he asked Peter, "You going to the townhouse? You'll need my ID card. Save you breaking the door." Neal fumbled for the card in his pocket, but he barely got it out before dropping it on the ground. Staring with dismay at his shaking hand, he said, "Sorry, I—"

Quickly picking up the card, Peter stopped him. "Don't apologize. We're the ones who should apologize for keeping you out here."

"I can manage the situation here," Tricia offered. "It's just cleanup now."

Nodding his thanks, Peter said, "C'mon, Neal, I'll take you home."

"Not necessary. I'm fine. Catch a cab. You need to stay."

"Not open for discussion. We're leaving together."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Peter's car was parked close to the surveillance van and as the two slowly walked back, Neal appeared lost in his own thoughts. When they got to the car, Peter opened the door for him, but he stood motionless. "Neal, get inside. It's time to go home."

"I forgot to give you the pass code to enter the townhouse. You'll need it with the ID card. It's 7349220188. I should have thought of that."

"Thanks," said Peter, writing it down, "but don't concern yourself about that now. Guards have already been posted at the townhouse. We'll take care of it later. Right now all you need to think about is getting into the car."

Peter drove east on 84th Street heading for FDR Drive. Neal was looking out the side window, but when they passed Fifth Avenue, he turned to Peter. "You missed the turn—this isn't the way."

"I'm taking you to my place. Just for the night."

Shaking his head, Neal put a hand on Peter's arm. "That's not necessary. And you need to get back. My apartment is much closer."

Peter pulled the car over. He'd been afraid Neal would protest. That's why he hadn't mentioned it earlier, but it was for the best. "Listen to me. You've been through a bad shock. You shouldn't be alone. There's no way I'm going to drop you off at June's house."

"But you don't understand. All I need is some time by myself to work through it. June's there. I appreciate what you're trying to do. But, it's okay. I just need to be alone for a while. Please."

Peter studied Neal, weighing his own better judgment against Neal's pleading eyes. "All right," he said quietly and turned the car around.

Peter insisted on going in with Neal. Mounting the stairs to the loft brought back memories of the previous Saturday when Neal had called him about Mansfeld. Hard to believe that was only a week ago.

When they got to the loft, Neal left to shower and change. Peter took advantage of it to make a quick call to Elizabeth to update her. El wanted to jump in a taxi to come over, but he had to talk her out of it. Neal had made it abundantly clear he didn't want anyone around.

"Neal's not going to want me to stay either, hon. Is there anything I can do before I leave?"

"Get him to drink a cup of herbal tea with lots of sugar. That will be the best thing for him."

"Neal's not going to have herbal tea lying around."

"Oh yes, he will. I know Noelle insisted on it when he was going through therapy, and I can't believe he finished the box."

Good thing Neal's kitchen was so tiny. Finding herbal tea couldn't be that difficult, could it? Five minutes of rummaging later, Peter was beginning to change his mind. He had gone through all the drawers once already. How could one guy own much less use all those implements and gadgets? Muttering to himself, Peter poked through the spices one last time. Finally, he found hidden in the back behind a canister of sugar one lone box of "peach tranquility herbal tea." Obviously this had been a favorite.

The tea was brewed and Neal was still taking a shower. Peter was on the verge of knocking on the door when he finally emerged in sweat pants and t-shirt, his hair tousled and still wet. The shower appeared to have done him some good. He still looked exhausted but didn't appear as stressed.

Peter handed him the tea. "Here, drink up. El's orders."

"Peter, you should go home. I'm fine, really."

"I will after you've finished your tea. But call me, or at the very least, text me in the morning. If you don't, I'll be right back on your doorstep. In any case, I'll come by in the afternoon with your bag from the townhouse."

Neal nodded and took a sip of the tea, making a face. "How much sugar did you put in this?"

"Enough. El said to be generous."

"Turning me into a sugar cube," Neal groused.

Relieved to hear Neal sounding more like himself, Peter squeezed his shoulder. "Try to get some rest. Call me anytime, okay?"

"Thanks, Peter, and thanks for understanding."

On his way out, Peter stopped in the entrance hall and wrote a note to June. He didn't like leaving Neal alone, but Neal wanted the chance to process what had happened. Tomorrow would be soon enough to assess the fallout.


Notes: Peter hated to leave Neal after what happened, and I do too. I've gone ahead and posted the next chapter so you can continue reading. Many thanks to my beta editor Penna Nomen whose suggestions greatly strengthened this chapter. Not an easy chapter for either one of us!