Peter did something he had very rarely done – at least not since college.

He played hooky.

After leaving the diner, he checked in with Jones and Diana, getting updates on where the open investigations stood. But his senior agents had everything well in hand, and there was no urgent paperwork awaiting his signature as ASAC. So he warned them he might be taking a few days off, promised to be in the office in the morning to let them know for sure, and headed home.

Well, 'home' as in Little Odessa and the flat over the tea house.

He stopped at the bodega down the block and picked up some beer. Most of the selection was Russian or eastern European in nature, but hiding back in the corner he found a six-pack of pure gold – Heisler Gold, actually.

He had just opened the first bottle, and settled in at the table to plan his approach with Bancroft, when the door burst open.

"Suit!"

Peter brushed at the beer that had sloshed on his shirt when the sudden entrance startled him. "Mozzie! Have you heard of knocking?"

"No time." The other man hurried forward, holding out his phone. "It's from Neal."

Peter snatched the phone, looking at the screen.

Blue Marble vanity. DC under castle. NC

It made no sense to him – but he had to remember who he was dealing with. "You're sure this is from Neal?" The "NC" could be initials, or indicate there was "No Charge" for something made of blue marble…

And he didn't want to get his hopes up too high.

Mozzie's sigh was one of exasperation. "Of course I'm sure," he said, stabbing his finger at the screen. "Blue Marble. That's a code name for Neal, and only he and I would know it. Well, and now you."

"All right. Let's assume it is Neal. DC would tie in with that phone number. But we still don't know who…"

"Hamilton Farms."

"What?"

"The credit card used to buy that phone is registered under a company name. Hamilton Farms."

"Never heard that name," Peter said. "Did you get any information on who owns it?"

Mozzie shook his head. "Not yet. This place is like a ghost, except for a credit rating that's obviously fake. But I have my best resource working on it."

"I can call Diana, have her run it through the Bureau's databases." Mozzie just shrugged, clearly not convinced that the FBI could find something his source – Sally – couldn't. And he might be right, but they still had to try. "What about the 'under castle' part of the message?"

Mozzie pulled his laptop out of his messenger bag and put it on the table. "There is a castle in Washington, DC," he said as he powered it up.

"Sure, the Smithsonian," Peter supplied. "Wait, you think Neal's somehow being held under the Smithsonian?"

Mozzie had pulled up a website and was pointing at the screen. "The castle was built by Masons, and they're known for creating secret places."

"But in DC? That's got one of the highest security presences in the country. It's hard to imagine…"

"It's hard to imagine a man being snatched off the street in broad daylight in New York," Mozzie interjected. "But that's what happened to Neal."

Well, Peter couldn't argue with that part. "Is there any actual proof that there's something under the Smithsonian?"

"Officially, only the old tunnel that leads to the Natural History building," Mozzie admitted, sounding a little disappointed. "But unofficially…"

"Just how unofficial?" Peter asked. He wanted to find Neal too, but if this was one of Mozzie's alien clone conspiracies…

"The Masons are a secretive group. They don't publish everything for the world to see. But there are clues," Mozzie replied, leaning in to bring up another site.

Peter sighed and leaned in to look. He'd give Mozzie ten minutes to convince him that this wasn't some strange tale without a shred of truth. It couldn't hurt…

Neal got back from his afternoon break to find Phillip Kramer in the studio. The agent was by the easel, bent over and closely studying the copy of the Matisse.

"If I'd known I had company, I would have brought you coffee," Neal said. He set his own cup down on the work table and walked over to the painting. "Does it meet your standards?"

Kramer's finger traced circles in the air over the center of the canvas. "These brush strokes are masterful." He looked up, smiling. "You were definitely the man for this job."

Neal tamped down the angry retort that came to mind first; he needed Kramer on his side, for the moment. "I'm glad you approve."

"Oh, I do. And it appears to be almost complete."

"It's getting close."

Kramer stepped back, leaning against a table. "Now, what was it you wanted to talk to me about?"

Neal put on what he hoped was an appropriate expression of contrition and embarrassment. "Well, it's a little hard to say it."

"Come now, Neal, no secrets between us."

The agent's saccharine sweetness grated on Neal's nerves, but he kept his expression in check. "Right. It's just, working like this, on art… Well, it creates certain… needs."

"Needs?"

"Yeah. You know, a man has certain… needs. Physically." He gestured vaguely below his waist. "You get it, right?"

For a long moment, it didn't seem as though Kramer did get it. "Oh," he finally said. "You want some companionship."

Neal gave him a relieved smile. "Yes, exactly."

"Of the female persuasion, I assume."

That got a full Caffrey grin. "Absolutely." Peter never would have been fooled by that smile…

"And you expect me to play pimp for you?"

"Come on, this is DC – politicians and hookers go hand in hand. There must be at least a dozen escort services nearby."

Kramer seemed to be considering this. "What is it I get in return?"

Neal shrugged casually. "It's part of my creative process. I assume you expect more of me than one painting."

"Oh, we have many plans for your talents," Kramer assured him. "There's nothing in your file about prostitutes."

Neal rolled his eyes, as theatrically as he thought he could get away with. "First of all, I don't generally have trouble finding companionship when I want it." Which was totally true, at least pre-anklet – not that he was really a big fan of one night stands most of the time. "But my options are a little limited, being locked up here. And secondly, there would only be something in my file if I'd been caught."

"Touché." Kramer smiled his oiliest smile, the one that made Neal's skin crawl. "And if I do this, in return I get your services without trouble?"

"You keep me happy, I keep you happy," Neal replied. Peter would have called him out for a non-answer on that one…

Kramer didn't seem to notice, instead turning his attention back to the painting. "Can you finish this by tomorrow?"

He could have finished it three days ago… "Probably," Neal replied, after a slight delay.

"I'll be back tomorrow about this same time," Kramer announced. "If the painting is done, I'll see what I can do."

Neal watched as the agent disappeared out into the main room, and then he heard the outer door slam shut. And that's when he finally allowed himself to smile.

He had no way of knowing if Mozzie actually got the text message he'd sent, or if it would be correctly interpreted. And if this underground lair had really existed undetected for a century and a half, there was no guarantee he'd be found anyway.

Though it wouldn't surprise him at all if Mozzie unearthed some obscure conspiracy theory about the Masons and their creation…

But he had now put into play the next piece in his own escape plan, and that thought gave him comfort as he turned his attention back to the painting.

'So what time do you think you'll get here?'

Peter had the Amtrak schedule up on the laptop, studying the departure times for the next day. "I'm hoping to catch the Acela Express at noon, which would get into Union Station before three. But I do have to wrap a few things up at the office in the morning, so it might have to be a later train."

"I have a presentation tomorrow afternoon. I suppose I can see if I can move it…'

Peter shook his head, then realized the futility of the gesture; they were on the phone, not Skype, so El couldn't see him. "No, don't do that. Like I said, I don't even know when I'll get to town."

'Well, call me when you know which train you'll be on. If it's later, I might be able to meet you at Union Station.'

"I'll call," Peter promised. "But I can always take a cab in and meet you at the Gallery, then we can go home together." The National Gallery was across the Mall from the Smithsonian castle…

'It's going to be so good to see you, Peter.'

"Oh, I know, El. I can't wait." It had only been a few days, and it felt like years. "Our first night together in the new house."

'We'll make it a good one, mister.'

"I like the sound of that."

'But still no news on Neal?'

He hated lying to El – but the more he learned about Neal's disappearance, the more he thought Mozzie's paranoia might be a good defense. Mozzie had assured him the safe house was secure as far as communications went, but he didn't know about El's end. "Nothing definite," he finally said. "I'm hoping Bancroft can help with some additional resources."

'I hope so too.'

"I've got some things to finish up, so I'll let you go now," Peter said. "Love you, hon."

'Love you too, hon. Bye.'

Peter disconnected the call and then sat there, staring at the phone in his hand. It felt good to talk to El – it would feel even better to hold her in his arms sometime tomorrow.

But for now, he still had a lot of preparations to make before morning.

Neal worked extra diligently in the morning, and the Matisse copy was ready for aging before he took his morning break. And it turned out that that was a good thing, because Kramer showed up prior to lunch.

The agent spent a good deal of time studying the painting, while Neal leaned casually against a nearby work table. He knew the brushwork was spot-on. In fact, it was some of his best work – ever.

The 'alteration' he had planned wouldn't come into play until the canvas came out of the oven.

Finally, Kramer straightened up and looked over, smiling. "This is truly excellent work, Neal."

Neal affected a truly contrite, pleased demeanor. "Thank you."

"You'll age it today?"

"That's my plan for after lunch."

Kramer nodded, clapping his hands together. "Excellent. And I'd say you've earned your reward. Any preferences?"

Neal paused, as if considering that question for the first time. "Long hair," he finally said. "But worn up."

"Any particular hair color?"

Neal flashed a grin. "Surprise me."

Kramer nodded and headed toward the door, where one of his bodyguards stood waiting. "I'll be by to collect the paining at the end of the day."

"It'll be ready," Neal replied, keeping the smile on his face – until the door closed.

The painting would be ready, of course – he had to keep up appearances. But another step in his plan was coming together.

It took longer to actually leave New York than Peter had intended.

There was one more thing to handle, and then one more, and one more after that. He sent out a couple of general "to whom it may concern" e-mails stating that he would be out of the office for a few days, attending to some urgent personal matters.

Then there was the briefing for the full team, with updates on the open, official, cases. For that group, Peter stuck with the non-specific "personal matters" story to cover his upcoming absence. Most of the agents were either too new to even think of questioning the ASAC, or too experienced to think that he'd provide an answer.

The private briefing with Jones and Diana took longer. They'd been through too much together – followed too many winding paths together – and they deserved the truth, at least as far as he knew it. He told them about the information Hughes had discovered about the location of the burner phone Rachel Turner had called. Diana had already started researching Hamilton Farms – no leads yet, but she'd keep digging. And as they could, around the active White Collar cases they'd both follow any other leads they could find, no matter how small.

Both, of course, offered to go to DC with him – and both, of course, were thanked, but told to stay put, at least for now. Peter knew he was potentially heading out onto ice so thin it was practically a glaze, and the slightest mis-step would send him crashing through. But if he found a solid, tangible lead, they would receive his first calls.

Besides, his senior agents were needed in New York. They'd have to duke it out amongst themselves to see who was going to attend the dreaded budget meetings, but the other immediate ASAC duties he split between them.

And he knew he was leaving White Collar in good hands.

By the time he finally got out of the office and headed to Penn Station, it was too late to make the express train at noon. There was a regional train leaving thirty five minutes later, but with the extra local stops, it would get into DC later than just waiting for the next express at one o'clock.

Given his traveling companion, the shorter ride definitely seemed preferable…

The aged Matisse forgery apparently passed Kramer's inspection.

Neal was released for the day earlier than usual after the agent's final visit to the studio. He requested a few minutes to clean things up, and the request was granted.

His guard watched as he started to replace paints on the shelves, and then apparently decided standing in the hall would be more exciting. Finally alone, Neal continued straightening up for a few minutes – he had no idea what his next "assignment" would be, but a clean studio would offer a fresh start.

Assuming he was still there.

Plus, it gave him the excuse to be alone with the finished painting.

On his afternoon break he'd opted for tea today, with extra lemon. No one had seemed to think anything of it.

Now, he squeezed the lemon wedges over a small paint cup, gathering as much of the juice as he could get. Then he flipped the now-cooled canvas over, and picked up a brush…

It was a good thing they had taken the express train, because Peter was quite certain he would have physically throttled Mozzie if they had been on the regional run, which took almost an hour longer.

As it was, they'd had nearly three hours from the time they took their reserved business class seats in New York until the train came to a stop in Union Station.
Three hours of one conspiracy theory after another…

And the train offered Wi-Fi, plus electrical outlets at each seat, so there wasn't even a hope that Mozzie's laptop battery would die, or he'd be unable to pull up the next web page to 'support' his theories.

How did Neal put up with this…

Not that Peter agreed with all of the choices Neal made, of course. And sometimes he thought Neal's view on things – like what types of actions might be warranted under certain, admittedly trying, circumstances – was more than a little wonky. Still, Neal at least tended to operate in the real world.

And Peter really wondered how much rambling even Neal would put up with concerning the impending Masonic Apocalypse.

Fortunately, both men walked off the train under their own power, and Peter didn't really want to contemplate how close he might have come to facing a second murder charge in less than six months. Though he figured he probably would have had a decent case for justifiable homicide this time.

Mozzie disappeared into the Union Station crowd, promising to be in touch. And Peter headed for the taxi stand, sinking into the back seat with relief.

Traffic in the Capital city at this time of day reminded him a lot of Manhattan – most of the roads seemed to more closely resemble parking lots. But the promise of an extra tip seemed to give the driver extra incentive to find side roads that kept them moving toward the National Gallery.

Peter paused on the steps, looking across the National Mall. Washington's castle, the Smithsonian Institution, rose almost directly across the green expanse. Not that he figured it would be as simple as walking up to the Information desk and asking for directions to the secret underground lair being used as a prison for a missing FBI consultant.

It was tempting though, especially being this close…

But it was after five o'clock, and the building would be closed for the day. Maybe tomorrow, after his meeting with Bancroft, he'd take a closer look.

Right now, he desperately wanted – needed – to see his wife. With one last look at the castle, he turned and made his way up the steps. The Gallery was closed too, but El had told him how to find the night bell, and she said she'd be waiting.