How much time had passed? Peter was not sure. Training as well as common sense told him that it felt a lot longer than it was.
Lang took Instamatic photos of motifs only he could see in the strange mannequin dolls in the room.
Peter saw something. Inside his suit jacket was a number fastened with a safety pin, a marking by the dry cleaners that he had not thought about removing this unfortunate morning.
He pulled the jacket backward, keeping his eyes on Lang and doing his best to keep a straight face. Slowly he searched the fabric as he pulled it past his hands inches by inches. Then he found the note and, more importantly: the safety pin.
He freed it and made sure to keep it secured in his hand, not dropping it.
Lang rose and drank from a soda can. Peter bent the pointy end and searched his way to the lock of the cuff.
"You should stay hydrated," Lang said and dropped the empty and inside the bars. An effort to humiliate him that was pathetic.
A young guy turned up with a padded envelope.
"Caffrey is on his way to the exchange," he said.
Peter frowned. Caffrey? The FBI would never have agreed to any terms. They did not negotiate with kidnappers taking their staff. That was a risk he signed on to.
"Check in with Ridgefield?" Lang asked.
"Yeah. The transfer is in motion."
Lang checked the content in the envelope. It seemed to be two passports.
"Okay, all right. Terrific," Lang nodded to them and put them back in the envelope. "Well, you stay here. All right? Don't talk to him. Don't let him talk to you. And don't take your eyes off him." He picked up his latest photo that had developed on his desk. "That's nice."
"Lang, did I hear you mention Ridgefield?" Peter asked.
"Keep your mouth shut."
"Ridgefield. Private security firm that the government has contracted out to transfer prisoners."
"Could be," Lang agreed. "Or maybe I have a cousin Elmo Ridgefield."
"Sounds to me like you're helping Keller escape during his transfer," Peter continued, trying to push the man out of his comfort zone. "You're meeting Neal for an exchange. So you're using whatever he gives you to buy off Ridgefield. And they're gonna let Keller escape during the transfer."
"You are a smart guy. You know what? I genuinely like watching you work. So you probably also picked up on the fact that I don't care if you heard us."
"Which means you don't intend to let me go. You intend to kill me." Peter knew that from the moment he was kidnapped.
"No. No, I don't intend to kill you," Lang replied. Peter knew what the man was telling him.
"No. Keller does. Once he's free."
Lang just smiled and shrugged.
"Keep an eye on our friend," he told the other guy and left.
Peter returned to lock picking. The principle of a handcuff lock and its key were simple. It was possible to bend a needle or a paper clip to a key. But it was much, much harder when you had your hands cuffed on your back. You had no visuals, and your hands were in a more awkward position.
He was a federal agent, trained by the best in the country. He had to keep his fright away and focus on what he could do.
Neal sat down by one of the chess tables in the park. It did not take long before Lang sat down on the other side with a smile.
"Where's Peter?" Neal asked.
Lang opened a case with a chess set.
"He's safe. May I see the item?"
"Nope. I see Peter, you see the ring."
"Those aren't the terms."
"I didn't agree to any terms."
"First, we'll have the ring authenticated and delivered to the Russians, then release Burke."
Insane terms, and only an idiot would agree to them.
"You'll get it when I have proof Peter is alive."
"Are you willing to let your agent die?"
Neal considered. The FBI was. And he was not about to give Keller millions of dollars unless he got a chance to save Peter in return for it.
"Are you willing to let Keller down?" he flipped the question back. Lang smiled. "All right." Neal rose and walked away. He got two steps away when he heard Lang's voice.
"Caffrey." He stopped and turned. Lang held his phone and gestured to Neal to return to his seat. Neal did while Lang made a call. "We're gonna show Mr. Caffrey proof of life," he told someone at the other end and then turned to Neal. "You can ask one question. I'm gonna text it to Burke, and he's going to text the answer back."
"I wanna speak with him."
"One question. Make it a good one."
The idea was that he would ask a question that only Burke could answer. But he wanted something more than that.
The phone of his guard rang, and the man took the call.
"Hello." Then he listened. "Okay." He hung up and turned to Peter. "I'm gonna get a question texted. And you're gonna answer it."
Did the young punk try to sound cool? Of course, has going to answer. It was proof of life, and he sure wanted to give that. He wondered what kind of question Neal would pick.
"What cell phone number was Caffrey using the first time you caught him?" the man read from the phone.
Peter blinked.
"That's the question?" How was he supposed to answer that? "Let me see it," he asked, and the man held his phone through the bars for two seconds. It really was that question. What was the kid thinking now? "Wait, I don't have my glasses. Bring it closer."
The man considered it for a second and then pushed his whole arm through the bars and brought the phone as close as he could.
"You're lucky your buddy is paying up," the man said, "or my friend would be sending me a very different message right now."
"Give me a break," Peter muttered, trying to focus. "It's been a few years." It was not something hidden in the message. Neal wanted numbers, but which numbers and why? He stared at the phone's keypad. They had letters. Of course, they had letters. Letters used to get phone numbers easy to remember, like 555-TALK. Peter smiled. "Okay. Area code 668" he started.
It took a minute. Then two. Then Lang's phone buzzed, and he read the answer.
"..7337," he finished. "Is that correct?"
"That's right."
"Great." He put his phone back into his pocket. "The ring?"
Neal brought it out. Asked himself again how Keller could know about it. Considered what would happen if he just tried to walk away now. No, then would Peter die for sure.
He put it in the box with chess pieces in the empty slot of the white king.
Lang smiled and closed the lid.
"You're not gonna authenticate it?"
"If it's not real, you'll just never see Burke again." He took his now valuable chess set and left. Neal watched him go. He rose and met up with Diana, on time. They started walking again, officially towards his home.
"So? Do I want to know?" she asked.
"You probably do. I got proof of life."
"From Peter?"
"No, from Hughes; what do you think?"
"How did you get that?"
"By giving Lang a ring worth two and a half million."
"You what?!"
Neal passed a few portrait artists in the park and picked the worst of them.
"Can I buy your pad for hundred bucks? Can't beat that."
The artist sure did not.
"Thanks."
"Sure. Do you mind?" he asked, picking up a piece of drawing charcoal from his case.
"Let me get this straight," Diana said behind him as he aimed for a free park bench. "You gave them a multi-million-dollar ring, and they still have Peter?"
Peter sat down, browsing to an empty page on the drawing pad.
"Yeah. I admit the terms weren't favorable."
"You think?"
Neal paused. He was not a fan of her negative attitude.
"What's the FBI found so far? Oh, that's right. I've got proof of life and a message."
Diana pulled off her shades, not able to argue about what he said.
"How do you even have access to a multi-million-dollar ring?"
"That's for another time," Neal said and wrote down the three letters corresponding to the numbers he got. "I asked Peter for the number I used when I was first arrested."
"What? You didn't have one?"
"Actually, I had several. But I was hoping he'd take the opportunity to pass me a 10-letter message using the keypad. He told us something."
Now was the question of what it was.
"A cross street? A location? A warning?" Diana speculated, watching him work.
"'Not Pam sees.'" Neal formed. "Does he know any blind Pams?"
"No."
"'Onus border'?"
"Worthy of the Times Sunday edition, but it means nothing to me. 'No tram seeps'? 'Not ram reds'?"
Neal smiled.
"Got it. 'No transfer.'"
"That's gotta be it. Peter wants us to stop Keller's transfer." Diana grabbed her phone. "It's in progress. Jones is with them." She was on her feet hurrying somewhere, and Neal tagged along. "Jones, we made contact with Peter." … "Yeah. But he wants us to stop Keller's transfer." … "I don't know. Just do it." … "Radio the drivers." She ended the call. "The transfer is already on Lafayette." She flung the door open to her gray FBI car. "Get in!"
Neal was not late to follow that command. Diana put her red flashing light in the window and stepped on it. She crossed between the cars in the New York traffic at a speed he was not comfortable with.
She did not care. He glanced at her dashboard to see the speed.
"Why is there a tree on your dashboard?"
"It's a hybrid. Showing me how efficiently I'm driving."
"You're not driving very green. All your leaves are falling off."
"Do you wanna catch Keller?"
She had a point, but he hated people driving beyond speed limits.
"I feel like I'm stuck inside the Giving Tree. Nothing left but a stump."
"I'll grow a new one over the weekend." There was an incoming call. The car's display said it was from Clinton Jones. "Jones, what's going on?"
"Keller escaped."