Happy Thanksgiving to all Americans and American-imports (like me!) out there. To everyone else, have a peaceful and enjoyable week!
Senseless Ch 11
"I'm n-not going to run."
Peter's mouth fell open. He tried to speak, but choked on the intent. Then he went back to gaping, throwing in a little mouthing dumbly for good measure. Neal watched the performance with fascination, projecting pure innocence.
Words finally emerged. "I've fallen down a rabbit hole, or maybe the doc slipped me something a little stronger than analgesics. Or maybe I should have expected you to be contrary and intractable. Of course, the one time I tell you to run, you'd decide it's the time to refuse."
"Does this m-mean I'm rehabilitated?" Neal looked intrigued by the idea.
"No, it means you're an idiot," Peter replied quellingly. Then, more cunningly, he added, "What would Mozzie say?"
Neal winced, the scorn and horror of his little friend easy to imagine. "That I'd been brainwashed by The M-man - which is you."
"But I'm telling you to go, so your argument is invalid."
Humor had been replaced by an uncharacteristic earnestness. "I d-don't think you've thought this through, Peter. What d-do you intend to tell them - oops, I fell asleep and when I woke up he was gone? Or even b-better - I was d-driving him to the station and got lost in Canada. Tell me this won't d-destroy your career."
"I can handle it," Peter answered shortly, but it was noticeable he didn't specify whether he could handle his superiors or the loss of his job.
"Helping a m-murderer escape doesn't fall into the slap-your-wrist category. It's a felony. You could go to prison, and let's be practical, of the t-two of us, only one has a proven record of surviving prison without b-being ganked. As an FBI agent, prison would n-not be a good fit for you."
Peter didn't try to argue that point. "This isn't about me. I know something about prison hierarchies, and forgers and bank robbers rank high. Last time you were in prison, you had an exceptional reputation. You were respected for your skill set and valued for what your talents could bring. It helped to protect you. This time, you'd be going in as an informant, a rat. That places you on the bottom rung, barely above sexual predators. There'd be no protection for you, just a target on your back. You wouldn't stand a chance."
It was one of the strangest arguments they'd ever had. Neither of them were quite sure what they were arguing about, but they knew it had high stakes. It was also hard to build up a strong state of dudgeon when your antagonist was more concerned with your well-being than his own.
Trying to recover a sense of reality, Peter continued in a more conciliatory tone. "It's not like I want you to run, but I want you to go to prison even less. It's a matter of choosing the lesser of two evils here."
Neal said nothing for a long moment, but Peter watched the fingers of his right hand spasm around the glass he was holding. Eventually, the younger man spoke in a low, pensive voice. "I've been having a d-dream. I'm standing on a cliff. It's d-dark but there's water b-below me, I'm not sure how far d-down. I'm about to jump, but then you're right there and you stop m-me. You tell me if I do this, there's no turning b-back, that I have too much to lose - what?" He noticed the excitement in Peter's expression.
"That's not a dream; it's a memory. You're starting to remember."
"That's good news." Neal sighed with relief.
"It certainly is. If you can remember why Fowler called you or, even better, what happened in his apartment, our investigation would get a tremendous boost."
"That's true, but it's n-not what I meant." Neal sounded solemn, but the twinkle in his eyes gave him away. "I'm just happy that you're not invading my d-dreams as well to tell me what to do."
Peter didn't fall for the misdirect, but waited silently for the facade to drop. His patience was rewarded.
"You were right," Neal said abruptly, eyes boring into Peter's with an unusual intensity that told Peter that what followed would be possibly painful, but the unvarnished truth, unadulterated by the self-protective deflections and evasive prevarications that typically littered the conman's discourses, until each conversation was a challenge, a code to decipher. Such open episodes were rare, but Peter had learnt Neal's tells and could recognise the impending personal honesty, and he encouraged him with his full attention, not wanting to say something clumsy that might derail the explanation. "I've got too m-much to lose."
Neal was now staring at something only he could see. "I always loved the freedom of m-moving to a new place. If I stayed too long in one city, it started to seem d-dingy, somewhat tarnished, but m-moving to a new place - there would be new opportunities, new sights, new experiences. It would be invigorating, like shedding a d-dusty old skin and d-donning a fresh, better-fitting, unblemished one. I never thought I'd grow tired of that, but I have. I've put d-down roots and, for a first attempt, they seemed to have sunk pretty d-deep. Tearing them out - well, it d-damages something."
"Cape Verde." Peter hadn't meant to say it out loud and interrupt, and it caused Neal to refocus back on him.
"Yes," he acknowledged. "I pretended it was a vacation. After years of b-being confined to a cell and then a small radius..." At Peter's mock glare, he amended, "...a very generous radius, it was like paradise."
"You wouldn't do well in Paradise," Peter commented thoughtfully. "You'd be the first to scale the apple tree and steal the fruit - no serpent needed."
"I'm n-not a big fan of fig leaves," Neal admitted. "As a vacation, it was lovely; as my future...strangely unsatisfying. You know, you can't m-miss something you've never had, but now..."
His voice trailed off, and Peter was left to wonder exactly to what that cryptic comment referred - a home, a family, the hole in his head. It certainly wasn't wealth. Neal might be a bit of a magpie, easily distracted by bright and shiny things, but he'd always been even quicker to surrender it for the things that really mattered. He displayed acquisitiveness easily shrouded by a generous heart.
Neal took a sip of water before continuing, but Peter didn't miss the tremor in the hand holding the glass, the shaking becoming more noticeable as he continued to talk. "Running isn't always the answer; some things are worth fighting for. I d-don't want to lose the things I have n-now - my friends, our partnership..." He forced an almost-authentic smile, "...the best apartment for $700 in N-new York."
"It's not that I want you to run, Neal," Peter repeated. "It goes against almost every instinct I've got. I'd almost say it was the last thing I wanted you to do, but it's not. The last thing I want is for you to get killed in prison. Losing your life is losing everything. Until that point, there's always a chance we can clear this mess up."
Neal didn't respond, staring into his now-empty glass as if it contained the directions to the greatest con in history.
"Neal?" Peter had intended it to come out authoritative and decisive, but it was almost a plea by the time it made it out of his throat, pain threading a clear path through the single word.
At least it elicited a response, even if it wasn't the one Peter had hoped for. "It m-may be a gamble, but I b-believe the odds are in m-my favor, and you know how good a gambler I am." Neal's voice was equally unconvincing, aiming for strong and firm, but achieving only a flat stagger.
Peter was tempted to point out some of the more spectacular failures of that policy, but instead he said nothing - very loudly, the eyebrows reaching for his hairline doing the speaking for him.
"I didn't commit either of the m-murders, and I believe that you will prove that. I trust you, Peter."
"I will prove it," Peter asserted staunchly, "but probably not by midday tomorrow. I promised you, you wouldn't go to jail for this, and I'll keep my word."
If Neal did choose to run, he knew he'd have to find a way that didn't implicate his friend, but he had no intention of explaining that. "Peter, this is m-my choice. I appreciate your offer and will always value it for its unique d..." He sought for the word, but it failed to make an appearance, so he continued, "b-but I'm not going to run and ...you can't m-make me!" The final comment was intended to be a joke to lighten the mood, which had become cumbersome and heavy, but he noticed the way Peter's eyes darkened at the challenge and his gaze moved to the water glass. "Okay, you p-probably could," he conceded hastily.
He had a sudden image of Peter and Mozzie working together to accomplish that goal. If they ever truly combined forces, his two best friends would be an indomitable force - a terrifying combination of brawn, brain and wiles, surrounded by an unstoppable array of legal and illegal resources. World domination would be within their grasp if it weren't for the impediment of inconvenient morality on the part of one of the potential duumvirate and near-pathological avoidance of public recognition by the other. However, if the two of them decided it was for Neal's own good, kidnapping was well within their purview and, off the top of his head, he could think of at least seven ways they could accomplish it that night.
He decided that redirecting the agent's train of thought was the safest course of action. "Well," he announced brightly, "we have twelve hours to p-prove m-me innocent."
Peter regarded him sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"If you look at each word one at a t-time..."
"That's not..." Peter broke off and took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax and not give into the overwhelming feeling of impending doom that urged him to complete their conversation, to convince Neal to accept the safest course of action. But when had Neal ever followed the safest course of action? This was a time to throw caution to the wind and to explore extreme possibilities. He blew out a sharp exhalation. "All right. Let's do this."
His mind blazed beneath a furrowed brow, and Neal could tell that whatever Peter's outward body was doing, internally the agent was pacing wildly. "You've started to recover some of your memories if you can remember part of our conversation at the Roosevelt Island tram. Is there anything you can tell me about your time with Fowler?"
"Nothing concrete, possibly impressions, but m-my m-mind has worried at the p-problem for so long it could be illusion."
"Even the slightest thing could be useful," Peter encouraged.
"There's n-nothing from the apartment, b-but I think maybe the phone call...I think he wanted my help, but the m-more I try to pin down the impression, the more I seem to push it away."
"That makes sense." Peter nodded thoughtfully. "I think Fowler realized his employers were into something shady, and there was enough of the agent still left in him for him to want to investigate it."
"He needed m-me for what - forging an access pass to a sensitive area or cracking a safe to find some evidence?" As much as he scraped and dug at the walls of his memory, Neal was unable to access the slightest hint of true recollection.
"Either way, he tipped his hand, and they had to take him out."
The volley of ideas that ricocheted between them always generated a momentum of its own, and both men relished the familiarity of the process. "M-maybe they had him under surveillance and my arrival panicked them into action."
"Or was seen as an opportunity to cast suspicion away from them. All we've really got is speculation in that area." Peter leant back in his chair, absently rubbing his bad shoulder to try to ease the ache that resided there. "Let's try for something more concrete. What do you remember about your assailant this evening? We have a couple of pictures from security cameras, but he was wearing a cap and kept his face down, so we have nothing beyond general height, build and the fact that he's Caucasian."
"He was b-behind me most of the time, and I wasn't feeling like m-making conversation." Neal slammed a fist into the bedclothes in frustration at his inability to contribute more.
"You are one of the most observant people I know. I'm sure you saw more than you think. Did he have any facial hair?"
"No," Neal said after a moment's thought. "He d-did have an accent - slight but n-noticeable - Slavic, I think, maybe from the B-balkans."
"I think we're doing this the wrong way. You might not be able to sketch the guy, but maybe you could pick out the most likely suspect from a pool of candidates." Peter opened a window on his computer which he deposited on Neal's lap. "Let's assume that Agroking went in-house for this. Here's their employee files. You've got backgrounds included, so look for the best match - six foot, 200 pounds and Slavic background. I'm going to call Jones for an update on the arrests."
Neal concentrated on the files, reserving a small portion of his attention to Peter's side of the phone conversation, which proved mostly uninformative, while he paged thoughtfully through the different files before deciding that the most rational place to search for suspects would be in the security department - both because of the proximity to Fowler and because of presumably natural aptitudes for action and aggression.
He'd been slightly skeptical at the suggestion, so he was more than a little surprised when, five minutes later, he was staring at a profile with almost complete conviction. As Peter finished his phone call, Neal angled the computer so the agent could see.
"Javor Petrovic," Peter read. "How sure are you?"
"Visually, 75%, but in-intuitively 95%." Neal tried to convey his conviction. "It all fits - look. He was b-born and spent the first five years of his life in Sarejevo, then his parents m-moved here."
"That accounts for the accent, and he's the right build." Peter scrutinised the file. "Anything else?"
"He's only 32. That's too young to be in charge of security in such a big firm, especially without some sort of law enforcement background. They trust him."
Peter immediately picked up on the implications. "You think he knows where the bodies are buried, that he has leverage."
"Yeah, I'm sure it's him, b-but I can't give you a 100% positive identification until I see him in person. I need to see him m-move, hear his voice, then I'll know for certain." Actually, Neal had no desire to meet the man again, the final threat of 'this isn't over' still ringing balefully in his ears, but he recognised the necessity of verification.
"That's good enough for me. I'm going to get a BOLO out for him. This could be the break we're looking for."
Neal watched as Peter placed the call, renewed determination obvious in the agent's movements and crisp tone. It was a significant step, but he didn't feel quite as positive as his partner. With his own actions under renewed scrutiny, any identification from him would be regarded with suspicion as an attempt to cast blame elsewhere. They needed something more concrete than Neal's eyewitness testimony.
"He was wearing gloves," he announced suddenly. "I remember now - you know, m-medical gloves. It didn't seem strange given the environment, but it m-means no fingerprints. However, I threw the wheelchair at him, so there m-might be DNA on that."
"Physical evidence that he was here would certainly bolster our case," Peter agreed cautiously.
"He had a cell phone." Neal tried to snap his fingers, but the muscles in his right hand weren't that cooperative yet. "M-maybe we could trace the GPS signal which would place him here."
Peter nodded with increasing enthusiasm. "We can use this." He pushed to his feet, limping to the window as his mind catalogued recent events, juggling possible plans, calculating viable actions. Shifting the blinds to one side, he stared outside without registering the lack of view. Even if the night hadn't concealed the scene, the room had been chosen because it was located at the end of the building, looking out over an alleyway and the brick wall of a hotel beyond. There was no line of sight for a sniper. He turned round, propping a hip against the window sill, staring back at Neal thoughtfully.
"As dangerous as this guy is, he's only a hired gun."
Neal nodded. "The second man talked about a b-boss and his plan. So, that's the guy you want, huh?"
"No, we need him."
Neal heard the emphasis. "That was some significant pronoun usage there, partner." He understood the unspoken message not so tacitly hidden. This wasn't a case to Peter. His primary concern was to exonerate Neal, not to catch the bad guys. "Are you thinking of some kind of prisoner's d-dilemma?"
"If we had prisoners, I'd certainly try it, but for now, we have neither one in custody. Jones says they talked to the owner of Agroking, Mike Jarvis, who claimed to be something of a figurehead in the company, and disavowed all knowledge of wrongdoing, expressing horror and disappointment that his company had been used for such heinous crimes. He then kindly pointed them in the direction of the company accountant who, he insists, must have been cooking the books."
"But, conveniently, the accountant and the books have gone m-missing," Neal contributed knowingly.
"You are frighteningly good at anticipating the twists and turns in the course of a criminal operation."
Neal shrugged modestly. "N-natural talent," he posed.
"Unnatural experience more like," Peter countered. The teasing was automatic, a kind of mental glossalalia between them that filled the empty spaces between the more pertinent conversational rallies. Without missing a beat, the agent continued, "Records appear to show him on a plane to the Maldives this afternoon... yesterday afternoon. "
"A country with n-no extradition treaty with the US." Neal had picked up a therapy ball and was squeezing it rhythmically, occasionally passing it from hand to hand.
"I'm sure you have the whole list memorized," Peter commented wryly.
"M-mozzie insists that I chant it everyday over a burnt offering of expired m-most-wanted posters."
"The perfect sacrifice to the god of fugitives everywhere," Peter agreed seriously. "However, I'm not sure it will be of any use to our rogue accountant."
Neal ceased his manipulation of the squeezy ball to point a knowing finger at his friend. "B-because you think that there's a good chance he's six fathoms d-deep wearing his own personal concrete footgear."
"Either that or he's sipping Mai Tais for real on a sandy beach several million dollars richer. Either way, he's a scapegoat for the real culprits. I think they've been preparing for this since they realised that Fowler was on to them."
Neal drew up his knees, hugging them as he contemplated the pieces of the puzzle. "They know we're onto them, so we don't have to be subtle about this."
"That's a good thing, I've seen your attempts at subtle. You're as subtle as a Sherman tank."
"I can do subtle; I'm the king of subtle," Neal protested.
"Off the top of my head, let me remind me of the yacht in Monte Carlo, or announcing in the middle of a party at the Italian Consulate that you were there to rob them, or spending several hundred million dollars of purloined money to draw out a thief. Need I go on? All examples of style, but no subtlety."
"Good times." There was a fond, reminiscent smile on Neal's face which he quickly and obviously wiped into a regretful frown. "But misguided. That wasn't me being subtle. When I am being subtle, it's so subtle, you've never even spotted it."
Peter waved a prompting hand. "I gave you examples. You need to reciprocate."
"I'm not that b-brain d-damaged. It would be a bad idea - allegedly." It was their code word for 'no trespassing - incriminating details.'
Peter wrinkled his upper lip in disgruntled acceptance. There was nothing he liked better than foraging for these little secrets of Neal's earlier life, but now wasn't the time. He veered effortlessly back to the subject at hand. "So," he summarized, "our advantage right now is that we know the identity of the assassin, but they don't know that we know."
"It's not like we have to actually inform Jarvis that we d-don't have Petrovic in custody," Neal mused.
"So, less of a prisoner's dilemma and more of a criminal's conundrum. We still need some serious leverage."
Neal perused the dossier they had on Jarvis. "This isn't a m-man you can threaten, but he likes to buy his way out of trouble. I could go in as a ..."
"Whoa, back up there for a moment, Speedy. You're not leaving this room."
"Peter!"
"Neal."
"Peter..." Neal subsided as Peter pulled out his most quelling glare.
"Neal, this man has tried to have you killed twice. Chances are you'd never even get to speak to him. He'd merely think it very convenient that his quarry had offered himself up on a platter and blow you away. And you know what? No jury would convict him. You've been accused of murder, suspected of another, and you'd be officially on the run. He could, quite legitimately, claim self-defense. Besides that, if you leave this room, you'll be officially a fugitive, and all this would be for nothing."
"A m-moment ago, you wanted me to run," Neal reminded him a trifle sulkily.
Peter took a deep breath of forced patience. "I want you to run if it will save your life," he explained, enunciating the final three words with exaggerated clarity, "not if it will just put you in even greater danger."
"You think it's any b-better if you go?"
"At least my badge guarantees me an interview with him."
"It's too d-dangerous." Neal ignored the inconsistency of his logical argument.
"I'll take Jones as backup. Jarvis isn't going to take direct action against a Federal Agent unless he has absolutely no choice. He's still hoping to maintain his lifestyle and position by playing the innocent card."
"There's no t-time to put an authorized operation t-together." Neal didn't even try to infuse the statement with regret. "There's no way we'd get access to audio equipment in t-time."
Peter waved an airy hand. "Luckily, you have a friend who can supply us with the necessary, but not necessarily legal, recording devices."
The role reversal made Neal's skin prickle uncomfortably. Peter was supposed to be the voice of reason and legality while Neal proposed elaborate and questionably lawful schemes.
"It won't hold up in court if you d-don't go through the proper channels," he pointed out with asperity, his tone saying 'I shouldn't have to tell you this' even though he didn't add the words.
"It doesn't have to." Peter's face was rigid and pale, set in the determined lines of someone who was running out of options. "We just have to get enough evidence to convince Samuelson to get the charges dropped against you."
"We can't...I mean, Fowler d-deserves justice." Neal was floundering, every argument countered.
"He'll get it," Peter promised. "We'll get the proof, but there's time for that."
Neal sighed, rolling his head from side to side to loosen the knots that had taken up residence in his neck. Recognising he was backing a losing proposition, he smoothly moved to another objection. "So you d-don't think it will raise any suspicions when you go in hobbling and listing to one side?" he asked tartly. "And smelling like rotten fish," he tacked on for good measure.
Peter's head cocked slightly to one side, lips firming into a tight line, and Neal recognised the light in his friend's eyes as acceptance of a challenge. The agent unhitched his rear from the window ledge and strolled over to the bed, his gait loose and controlled, only the slightest tension around his eyes showing the effort it cost him.
"You've got a problem and I'm your solution," he drawled.
Neal was about to criticize his corny delivery when he realised that Peter was quoting the words he'd used on Senator Gary Jennings, and he coughed slightly as he choked back the commentary, settling on a go-ahead gesture instead.
Peter settled himself back in the chair still nonchalant, but the increasingly gray cast to his skin had Neal raising a quizzically concerned eyebrow. Peter drew a thumb thoughtfully along his jaw line. "I'll tell him that Petrovic was identified from the hospital surveillance system and verified by a witness and that he's been arrested and is currently in FBI custody eagerly spilling his guts about Jarvis' role as leader of the smuggling ring and the man who gave the order for Fowler's murder."
"You've got a convincing case to worry him, but what d-do you actually have to offer him?" Neal coached.
The question punctured the confidence of Peter's progress, which staggered to a halt. "I don't want to offer him anything. I just want to arrest him," he admitted.
"Since we don't actually have any convicting footage or confessing gunman, I think you'll have to do a little m-more to get Jarvis to confide in you."
"What suggestions do you have?" Peter asked readily. He was no novice at going undercover, but he had no trouble acknowledging that Neal's creativity and judgment, his experience and ability to extemporize as circumstances demanded, easily eclipsed his own.
Neal drummed contemplative fingertips against his leg. "You could tell him that Fowler passed you some incriminating d-documents that you'll give him for a fee, or you could offer to make some of the existing evidence d-disappear - for a price."
"It's worth a try," Peter stated with determination. "Get in touch with Mozz and explain what we need."
"First and foremost, you need a change of clothing. B-blood-stained and torn d-don't tend to give a good impression, but you m-might want to keep the rumpled and d-disreputable."
There was a slight challenge in Peter's expression. "You don't think I can pull off 'agent on the take'?"
Neal knew his handler was good under cover, but privately he wondered how anyone could fall for Peter as a dirty cop. He positively exuded rectitude as if he sprayed on a cologne of righteousness every morning while polishing his aura of incorruptibility. However, Neal was willing to believe that his judgment was colored by years of exposure to Peter's forthright manner and unimpeachable character and that strangers might fall for his deception.
Diana arrived shortly before four in the morning, when the hustle and hubbub of the hospital was at its lowest ebb. Peter left Neal to fill her in on their plans. He hoped to wash, catch a couple of hours sleep, and kiss his wife before gearing up for the operation in the morning.
"Neal, if this doesn't work, I'll be back before noon in case you've reconsidered your new policy of stationary compliance."
"I'll be here," Neal promised. He peered up at his friend unhappily. He should be the one going undercover, not Peter. He trusted his own abilities to improvise, to meet any unexpected turn of events with an appropriate response and to back it up with necessary action. He trusted Peter to be there to rescue him should circumstances prove too overwhelming. Clearly, he was in no position to provide the same level of support and retrieval. Working undercover was a con, and Peter's instincts were often to fall back on his law enforcement training and not to push the boundaries into illegality. "Don't..." he started, but the sentence broke apart immediately under the weight of all he wanted to say. "Don't do anything I wouldn't," he finished lamely, recognising the opening he was offering.
Peter's eyebrow reached for his hairline. "That gives me a lot of latitude. In fact..." he pretended to think, "I don't think that rules out anything, except perhaps modesty."
It was a mark of Neal's concern that he let Peter have the last word, even if he blamed it on his head injury. His unscheduled fight for his life had left him exhausted, the only benefit being he had little difficulty dropping off to sleep, but his fears tracked him into the darkness, making his dreams anything but restful. Vague impressions of failure and an inability to hold onto something important swirled around his head, touching down like miniature tornadoes that broadcast the disquiet in his mind while destroying any sense of peace.
Waking was an arduous process, akin to dragging himself out of a deep murky current, each breath thick and reluctant. As he struggled to an approximation of lucidity, his mind still befogged by lack of sleep and the stress of constant nightmares, the smell of coffee was the first stimulus to pierce through the haze in his brain. The familiar odor of his favorite stimulant was enough to pry open his eyelids, but to his disappointment, he realised the beverage was not intended for him. It belonged to Diana, who was sitting with her back towards him in what he presumed was an attempt to give him some privacy.
If he'd possessed his usual dexterity, he'd have snuck out a stealthy hand and quaffed a generous portion before replacing the cup undetected. However, he hadn't progressed further than levering himself onto one elbow before Diana spoke up. "Don't even think about it, Caffrey."
As he slumped back into the pillows, she turned to look at him. "Your breakfast is over there." She nodded to a tray that had been placed by his bedside table.
Neal eyed the anemic, over-diluted glass pretending to contain orange juice with disfavor. He looked mournfully at the still-steaming cup of coffee, then plaintively at Diana, but she was as immune to his unspoken request for caffeine as she had been to his vocal demand the first day of their acquaintance. "I'd be happy to ask your nurses if your medications allow coffee," she offered sweetly.
Neal stabbed a fork into his runny eggs, scrutinizing the mess on his plate with a scowl as if disappointed it didn't fight back. He rejected the unappetizing mouthful in favor of a triangle of toast on which he nibbled unenthusiastically before pushing the whole tray aside. His stomach was aware that he was on the edge of a precipice, bracing for a fall, and was curdling at the prospect of food. Before the day was over, his life would probably change drastically - jail or the resumption of life on the run both strong possibilities.
"'vwhrd..P-pter." The sentence had been clear in his head, but came out garbled and slurred. That had been standard first thing in the morning after he'd woken from his coma, but not recently. Apparently, the heightened stress and desperate activity the day before had set back his recovery.
Remembering his lessons from the therapist, he slowed his speech even though he hated the halting, deliberate sounds that emerged instead of his usual glib expressions. "Have w-we heard f-from P-peter?" he repeated deliberately, enunciating each syllable carefully.
Diana shifted so he could see past her to the device sitting on the small table behind her. Neal had seen enough Russian surplus in his life to instantly recognise the squat design.
"M-mozzie's b-been're," he said with surprise.
"He had this dropped off. He should be wiring Peter up right now with a one-way listening device in his tie-pin or watch or something. He and Jones have the receiver and recorder in the car with them, but your pint-sized pal didn't want to leave you out in the cold, so he looped you in with this. However, there hasn't been a peep from it, so I suppose we're not patched in yet."
Neal took advantage of the hiatus to freshen up and to get dressed in the clothes that had also been dropped off for him. In recognition of the diversity of fates facing the owner of the attire, Mozzie had chosen less formal apparel than Byron's suits. After all, by the end of day, the clothes might be sitting in a prison storage room for an indeterminate time or be expected to withstand the rigors of clambering over a barb wire fence. As Neal donned the warm fabric, he instantly felt more comfortable, his internal status upgraded from patient to an independently functioning human being.
Absent-mindedly, he adjusted his collar as he stared at his image in the mirror, objectively noting the hollowness of the planes of his face, which accentuated the sharpness of his cheekbones, the slight droop to his right eyelid, noticeable only to those with a critical eye, and the lingering pallor which had overtaken his normally healthy tan. The harsh crackle of static drew his attention back to the other room, and he hurried in to take his place beside Diana in one of the visitor chairs. He was finished with the bed.
"If I owned this place, removing to another country wouldn't be on top of my to-do list either. Okay, I'm going in. There'll be security cameras watching, so I need to stop talking to myself."
The sound of Peter's voice made something draw tight in Neal's chest. Once again, he felt the burn of frustration that he was being sidelined while his partner fulfilled the role of infiltrator. "I d-don't like this," he muttered, a trifle sulkily.
"Peter knows what he's doing." Diana's defense of her boss was automatic, but in the sharpness of her tone Neal read an agreement to his sentiment. They listened as Peter identified himself to whoever opened the door, asking to speak with Jarvis.
"Jarvis isn't much of a threat," Diana added suddenly. "He's 62, and he doesn't like to get his hands dirty."
"Hmmm," Neal hummed a distracted assent, not pointing out the obvious addendum, that the CEO certainly employed men who did. She was as aware of that as he was.
The quality of the sound changed, now containing a richer timbre but with a halting echo that suggested Peter had entered a large room. The agent once more introduced himself. Neal's sense of unease was growing, a shapeless fear starting a slow perfunctory circling around him despite the fact that Jarvis' first words were harmless, even predictable.
"I've already talked to several agents, and I told them I would answer no more questions without my lawyer present. Should I call him?"
Neal wished he would, but knew that Mozzie would have blocked off all outside calls, jamming cell frequencies as well, so it wasn't likely to happen.
"Don't let me stop you." Peter sounded confident and bright, an edge away from brashness. "However, I have to say that this is a conversation best kept between the two of us - you know, plausible deniability, your word against mine."
There was a hollow silence, punctuated only by the background hiss and crackle filtering through the microphone. "Can I get you a drink, Agent Burke?" The words were slightly muffled, as if the business man had his back to the transmitter.
It was too obvious to be called a test, more a feeling out of Peter's intentions. "I'd love a drink," Peter replied promptly. "And truthfully, I'm not here so much as an agent. I'm here as a...friend."
There was unmistakable sincerity behind the sentiment, but the truth was he was there as Neal's friend, not Jarvis'. The latter must have looked skeptical, because Peter continued, "No wires and hey look, no badge." There was a slap of leather against wood, and Neal could picture, from past experience, the sight of his friend placing his ID down on a table. He felt something twist inside, and told himself firmly that it wasn't anything as ridiculous as resentment, merely regret. That was Peter's signature move with him, a trust formed between them, a way of laying their cards on the table without repercussions in either direction.
"I had nothing to do with the gun smuggling that it seems some bad element in my company has perpetrated." There was no uncertainty in Jarvis' voice. He was utterly confident that no one could prove differently.
"Gun smuggling?" There was more incredulity than humor in Peter's laugh. "I would say that was the least of your problems right now."
"I have no idea what you're talking about," Jarvis said dismissively.
"Your pet assassin, Petrovic, zigged when he should have zagged, or, more accurately, stuck his head up when he should have ducked. The Feds have definitive proof that he murdered their agent, and that means they're now taking Caffrey's word for it when he identified Petrovic as the guy who shot Garrett Fowler."
For the first time, Jarvis sounded less than fully composed. "I had nothing to do with that either."
"Then you have nothing to worry about...unless Petrovic says differently. He's looking at life in the Federal lock-up without parole and might be tempted to plea bargain it down. You know how the Feds take a dim view of the murder of one of their own."
"And you don't?"
"Well, let's just say while it's not something I endorse, I've reached a more pragmatic age; facing retirement on a Federal pension tends to make one more flexible on such issues."
There was no immediate response, but this time the silence vibrated with disquiet as Jarvis considered his options. A chink of glass suggested he was pouring himself another drink.
"I thought..." Diana started, but Neal quickly shushed her, oblivious to her indignant glare as he concentrated on the minute cues he could pick up over the airwaves. Adrenaline assaulted his system as his instincts screamed an alert when Jarvis asked, too casually, "So you have Petrovic in custody?"
"Say no, say no," Neal chanted under his breath, trying to telepathically influence his partner's answer. Either Peter and he did share a psychic link, as their team often postulated, or, more likely, the agent picked up on the same aberrant vibes that Neal had, for after a beat of hesitation that only Neal noticed, Peter answered, "No, but it's only a matter of time."
Peter expounded at length on the FBI's methods of pursuit, the words 'roadblocks and wanted posters' falling organically from his lips in what Neal could clearly tell was the agent's mind working on automatic as he considered the ramifications of what they both realised. "He knows where Petrovic is," Neal muttered.
"Who does? Peter does?" Diana queried.
"No, Jarvis." Unable to sit still any longer, Neal pushed back the chair, prowling round the room like a satellite orbiting the inescapable gravity of the radio. "This isn't going to work. Peter either has to pull out, or..."
"Or what?" Diana prompted impatiently.
"Or escalate the situation, considerably upping the ante," Neal concluded grimly. "Which I don't recommend. We need to call it off and take another run at him when we actually have Petrovic in custody."
"Peter's not going to back off, given the circumstances. Besides, we have no way to contact him."
Neal's quick glance at her showed him the lines of tension that weren't revealed by her tone. "Call him," he proposed. "Give him a reason to call it off."
Diana made an abortive move towards the phone. "He lost his cell phone yesterday," she remembered before she picked it up.
Their discussion petered out as Jarvis spoke again, and they focused back in on the broadcast conversation. "That's very interesting, but I'm not sure how you think it's relevant to me. I wasn't involved."
"Of course you're right, and it's unfortunate that your name should be linked to these nefarious deeds in any way. However, ultimately, the question is what will Petrovic say when he's caught." There was no response, and Peter continued, his voice gentle but twisting the knife. "That's the sticking point really. Will his testimony corroborate yours?"
There was another pause. "So what do you suggest I do to...strengthen my position?"
It was the first crack in Jarvis's armor, and Peter lost no time in prying at the vulnerability. "Mr. Petrovic is clearly a dangerous man, and somehow I don't believe one to surrender easily."
"Yes, that's ramping it up more than a few levels," Neal spoke wryly into the silence that followed as both men filled in the blanks that Peter delicately left with the unspoken offer to make sure that Petrovic never made it into an interrogation room.
"Hypothetically speaking," Peter continued, once he'd given Jarvis long enough to consider the option. "what would it be worth if this whole mess just went away?"
"Easy, Peter," Neal murmured uselessly. "Don't push him." It was a valiant effort, but he could tell that Peter was feeling the pressure to get just one word that would implicate Jarvis and exculpate Neal, but the businessman was too cagey to let anything slip on this first meeting. In an extended operation, Peter could almost certainly break him, but not in one hour. Jarvis was squirming on his hook, but a yank at the wrong time would jerk him loose. Peter needed to play this out over the long term.
A strange repetitive buzzing brought a frown to the faces of both listeners. "Excuse me. I need to take this." Peter's explanation only deepened Neal's scowl.
"I thought you said..."
"Mozzie must have given him a replacement."
Peter must have moved away from Jarvis, but since he was wearing the transmitter, his voice didn't fade. Yet, despite the close proximity of the earpiece of the phone to the tie pin, they could hear nobody on the other end of the phone. This was Neal's first clue as to what was really happening. "It's a con," he whispered admiringly. "He's intensifying the stakes."
Peter kept his end of the faux conversation undramatic, consisting mostly of well-spaced murmurs of assent. After a final, "I'll be there," he rang off. His voice had lost the overtones of friendliness, becoming brisk and impersonal. "I have to go."
He must have moved towards the door, as Jarvis' next words contained a thread of urgency. "Wait, what if I want to consider your offer?"
"It seems to be a moot point now," Peter hinted darkly. "I don't think it's going to..." He broke off, hesitating before adding, "Just a word of advice. It may seem really useful to have a man like Petrovic cleaning up your messes, but it's a bit like trying to keep a great white shark on a leash. He's a killer and won't differentiate between a genuine meal and biting the hand that feeds him. I suggest that you don't forget that Neal Caffrey isn't the only person who can testify in a court against him."
If there was no honour among thieves, there was no mercy among murderers. It wasn't a hard concept to grasp, but Neal had always been amazed how many criminals struggled with the concept, as if they were somehow immune to the homicidal impulses of their colleagues. The obvious truth was that if a man had no qualms killing another for profit, he was equally likely to eliminate anyone he perceived as a threat to his continuing wealth or his freedom.
Jarvis wasn't slow to pick up on the implications of Peter's speech. Of course, if one was thinking of double-crossing and disposing of one's partner, it didn't take much of a stretch of the imagination to envision the partner having the same idea, and Petrovic would hold a considerable advantage in such a confrontation.
"Wait," Jarvis said again and, for the first time, a jagged edge of desperation cut into the word. He was now aware there was a strong possibility his ship was sinking and he had no intention of watching the only life jacket he possessed float away.
"He's got him." Diana's confident statement wasn't grammatically clear, but Neal had no problem sorting through her pronouns. He wasn't as optimistic, undefined worry still coiling in the back of his spine. Every sense was locked on the squat black receiver as he constructed a mental image of the scene from its meagre output, but there were large voids in the picture that reeked of danger.
His breathing slowed to a near halt, his body rippling with tension as he strained to hear Jarvis, who had inexplicably dropped his voice into what would probably be called a confiding whisper. "I want to cooperate with the authorities, but..."
There was something electric humming under Neal's skin and then comprehension, born of an alchemy of intuition and parsed clues, detonated in an explosion of super nova proportions before collapsing into a black hole of horror that sucked at his insides. There was only one reason for Jarvis to be whispering.
"He's there. Petrovic is right there!" It felt like he'd pulled the words over ground glass. He instinctively made for the door, bringing himself up short with a whip-lashing jerk as he realised the futility of his actions. He turned back. "Call for b-backup," he demanded.
Diana, used to her boss and his partner blazing ahead, leaving the rest of the FBI sneezing on their dust trail, had already opened a line without asking for clarification. Yet they both were silenced, wincing in audiological discomfort, at the sudden explosion of noise from the speakers, a cacophony of confusion that seemed to result at least initially from an impact on the microphone rather than explicit sounds in the room, followed by the muffled sounds of a struggle.
The vibrations seemed to reach through the transmitter and grab Neal by the chest, shaking him back and forth, ribs resonating under the skin while visual afterimages imprecisely imprinted on his retina. A stifled cry of pain in what he recognised as Peter's voice stabbed deep into his own internal organs, his breath hitching in dismay.
Even his heartbeat thudding in his eardrums could not block out the next sound as the suddenly silent tableau was shattered by a resounding gunshot.