Chapter 5: Brother-Sister Act

"I know the idea sounds impractical," Tricia told El, glancing around the high-tech workroom. Posters of video games lined the walls. Long tables were covered with computers and electronic gear. Part of the space was taken up with clay models and drawings. "About as incredible as the fantasy worlds Scima creates. That's why I was delighted Richard suggested we meet him at his workplace. Gamers are transformed into avatars. Rolf has cloaked himself in other identities. Shouldn't we as well?"

El considered Tricia's recommendation. Richard was smart. He wasn't giving an opinion. He kept himself busy by sketching her and Tricia while waiting for her to decide.

She and Tricia had met him at his workstation in Scima Gameworks. Since it was a Sunday, his boss Ian Forster had agreed to let them use the facility. Ian had partnered with Peter in California when Neal had been abducted to Scima's campus in Los Angeles. Neal could have sued them since Marta Kolar, the woman responsible for writing the virtual reality program to brainwash Neal, was a Scima employee. Neal hadn't pressed charges, and ever since Scima had bent over backward to accommodate Bureau requests.

Richard was a gifted sculptor with a virtuosic ability to transform someone into another person. Through a combination of prosthetics, makeup, and wigs he'd made Neal look like Owen Wilson, Sara a double for Kate, and Travis a clone of Spock. Now Tricia wanted him to use his wizardry on her so she could masquerade as El.

"I was strongly in favor of your offer to coach me in hostage techniques," El said, choosing her words carefully. She understood that she along with several others were likely Ydrus targets. If they wanted to control Peter, what better way than kidnapping his wife?

"And we'll continue working on that today," Tricia assured her, "but I can't possibly prepare you as well as a trained FBI agent is. Normally we'd handle this type of situation by moving you to a safe house, preferably in a different city."

Sneaky ploy, Tricia. She knew El would be appalled at the suggestion and that would soften her up for a compromise. Even though she saw the net tightening around her, El didn't immediately wave the white flag of surrender. "I can't possibly leave town. I have too many commitments. In addition to my business, I'm in rehearsals for my community theater performance in Bell, Book, and Candle."

"Even for a few days?" Tricia wheedled. "I'm not suggesting it will be for very long. We'll know more once Ydrus makes its next move. For now, we simply want to make contingency preparations. We can't spring something like this on Richard at the last minute."

He gave her a startled look as if to say, Don't blame me! "I'll make it work with whatever time we have," he protested.

"You've already been overly generous with your time," Tricia insisted. "You have a full-time job. Evenings you're at Columbia, working on your master's. Neal told me you're a key member of the fencing team."

El sank into her chair. She'd feel like a louse to raise any objections, and Tricia knew it. "How difficult do you think it would be?" she asked Richard.

"Your faces are similar. You both have blue eyes so Tricia won't need to wear contacts. You're close to the same height. Frankly, making Sara resemble Kate was much more of a challenge."

"I must admit, I'm curious to see what Tricia would look like," El admitted. "Purely as a contingency measure," she added sternly when Tricia broke into a smile, "and Richard will be fully reimbursed, right?"

"Of course," Tricia said.

"Good, because as long as we're talking about contingency measures, I have another one to suggest."

"I bet I know which one you're talking about," Tricia said. "Neal already called me."

"He's spoken with me about it too," Richard added. "Travis is on board. Does Peter know about it?"

He looked nervous at the thought, and El didn't blame him. Richard had prepared a disguise for Peter last month, but it had been an ordeal to convince her makeup-adverse husband to agree to wear it. This time the tables were turned. "I'll explain that Travis is the logical choice since he's the only member of the team as tall as Peter. Once he hears that Mr. Spock will act as his double, how can he refuse?"

"I'm glad you agree," Tricia said. "If Travis is standing in for Peter, doesn't it naturally follow that I'll provide the same service for you?"

#

Neal went to Bianka's apartment at seven that evening as she'd asked. Her "brother" was already there.

Who was he really? He had to be someone close to the top echelon of Ydrus for him to be entrusted with their secrets. The fellow had the right look for the part. Thin and pale, he was wearing a loose pullover under a corduroy jacket. His brown hair was on the long side and swept back from his forehead. He had a thick accent that could have been designed to disguise his voice.

Bianka was already emotional when she opened the door. Cynically, Neal wondered if she'd been working on her tears for the past half hour. The waterworks were barely held back during the introductions, and once Neal sat next to her on the couch, the flood began in earnest.

"I'm the one to blame," she wailed. "If I hadn't forged that first painting, Sandor never would have gotten involved."

"Don't say that! I was the one at fault." Sandor turned to Neal. "I'm older. I should have known better." They made quite an act with their phony emotions. Neither one of them was very believable.

Sandor appeared to be about the same age as Jacek Kolar, Klaus's tech expert. Would Klaus be so brazen as to use someone Neal knew? That would explain the accent. The bone structure appeared similar. Klaus and Rolf often availed themselves of plastic surgery techniques. Jacek could have gone under the knife as well.

Sandor perched on the edge of the bed, facing them. He rubbed his fisted hands nervously on his thighs. "Bianka was in high school. I was in college when our mother lost her job. Our father took on additional work but he couldn't pay the bills. When I was approached, it didn't even sound illegal. My contact was a fellow student who'd visited me at our apartment. He knew of Bianka's talent. Asked if she could paint a Klee for a friend of his. There was no mention of it being sold as a forgery."

"That's often the way it starts," Neal said, making soothing sounds of commiseration. He hesitated as if to add something then stopped himself. In some respects, the story was similar to what happened to him in high school. Had the Mansfelds somehow found out about it?

Sandor picked up on the sympathetic tone immediately. "Weeks later I learned I was supplying paintings to the Mafia. At first, I freaked out, but they were kind and generous." He shrugged. "I realize now what a mistake I made. I was trying to protect my family. Now if I don't do something, they'll be killed because of me."

Was that a veiled reference designed to make Neal worry that something would happen to Peter and El? He was beginning to believe the script was filled with coded messages designed to reinforce his implanted memories.

"I didn't think how I was dragging Bianka down with me," Sandor admitted, lowering his voice. "Bianka tells me you work for the FBI. My first thought was to go there."

"You can't!" Neal broke in immediately. "They don't operate in Europe, and besides, they wouldn't protect your parents." He dialed up the half-suppressed anger in his voice. "Zero tolerance, that's their policy. They'd slap you in irons so fast your head would spin, and you'd be shipped back to the Hungarian police. No, the only way out of your jam is to pay off the Mafia. Then your parents will be safe. Afterward, though, you'll need to assume another identity and go into hiding."

"But how?"

"I have some experience in that area."

#

"Did Sandor take the bait and question you about your past?" Jones asked.

Peter had called the briefing as soon as the team members arrived at work. Neal had phoned in a report the previous evening, but his information was news to everyone else. Peter was glad he'd already heard it once. It gave him a chance to focus on Neal's body language.

Peter had texted Diana and Jones to sit on either side of Neal. In the virtual reality program Rolf had written, they along with Hughes had fired at Neal as he escaped from prison. One of them had shot him in the back. If Neal was experiencing flashbacks, their proximity would be uncomfortable. So far, Neal didn't display any sign of it.

What was different was a noticeable jerkiness in his movements. He sat down stiffly as if his back were sore. "I didn't go into any details," Neal said. "That would have been out of character. Instead, I asked them to go with me to the Met this evening."

"And why would you possibly want to go to an art museum?" Diana asked, arching her eyebrows into her hairline as if she didn't know.

Neal gave her his trademark wide-eyed innocent look which he knew would fool no one sitting at the table. "Why to case it, of course. I'm going to offer to steal a painting. I've never lifted a work from the Met. It's about time." He scanned the group accusingly. "You haven't been letting me have any fun at all. All those art heist boot camps I led and you never let me implement any of the plans? This is my chance."

Jones choked back his chuckle and eyed Peter as if to say, how are you going to handle this?

Peter swiped a hand over his face. Good question.

"It's the logical solution," Neal explained earnestly. "All those old memories are returning. That itch to be a thief has reemerged and I want to scratch it. Sandor needs two million euros, and I have just the painting in mind."

"Are you actually going to steal it?" Travis asked hesitantly.

"I wish I could, but I don't think they'll let me," he said regretfully.

Peter exhaled in relief, no longer needing to torture himself with the thought of contacting the Met authorities to explain why they should allow Neal to steal a painting.

Diana snapped her fingers. "You're going to put your schizophrenia on display."

He nodded. "I'll act so out of control that they won't allow it. Supposedly Ydrus thinks I'm valuable property. It wouldn't do for me to crash and burn before they get their hooks into me."

Peter turned to Jones. "I want blanket coverage of Neal, Bianka, and Sandor. Every move they make inside and outside the museum needs to be monitored. Neal, when are you meeting them?"

"Six o'clock. Afterward, I'll suggest we have dinner at the Italian bistro on the corner of 81st Street."

"Sistina?" Diana asked hopefully.

He nodded. "I'll make reservations for the table in the southeast corner. On a Monday evening, they shouldn't be very crowded. "

"I hereby volunteer for the monitoring assignment," Diana said, raising her hand.

"You'll have to go in disguise," Peter warned. "Take Agent Badillo with you. Travis, gather a team for the surveillance van."

Neal handed Travis his sig-zapper. "This should have the codes for both Sandor and Bianka. It also has the recording of our conversation last night."

Peter knew he didn't need to remind him to record everything tonight.

"There's something else you should know," Neal added. "When I met Sandor there was something familiar about him. I couldn't pinpoint it. Then the way he held his mouth when he was giving me his sob story reminded me of a similar look I'd seen." He scanned the team members. "Jacek Kolar had the identical expression when he told me his son had been injured in a car crash."

Jacek Kolar, the phantom spouse of Marta Kolar. They'd been members of Klaus's crew when Neal worked undercover at Klaus's New York townhouse a year ago. Jacek was an expert programmer. He was suspected of being Rolf's assistant, but he'd dropped out of sight at the beginning of 2005. Peter's pulse quickened at the thought they could have a lead on him.

If Jacek were truly back in town, did that imply Klaus and Rolf were as well? The end game was looking closer than ever.

#

"It's magnificent, don't you agree?"

Neal stepped back to let Bianka and Sandor admire the object of his desire. He'd met them in the Great Hall on the ground floor at the Met. From there they ascended the main staircase to the second floor home of the Caravaggios. By the time they arrived in the gallery, Bureau agents were already in place. Neal recognized two agents who normally worked labor-racketeering cases. Travis was coordinating the surveillance teams. Multiple people were assigned in the event the suspects separated. But they certainly weren't going to now—not with Neal introducing them to his dream crime.

He'd made his selection with Henry in mind. His cousin wasn't a fan of Baroque art, but this was one painting he'd approve of.

"I thought you'd direct us to Caravaggio's painting of the lute player," Bianka said, linking her arm with his.

"Dass ist viel besser, nein?" When Neal raved about his choice of painting in German, he was pleased to see they were both fluent in the language. It increased the likelihood that Sandor was Jacek. At Klaus's townhouse in New York, he and Jacek had spoken exclusively in German.

"Why are we speaking German?" Bianka asked. "Are you in a professorial mood?"

"It's best to take precautions," Neal said, casting a suspicious glance at a random pair of visitors standing beside them. "You never know who's listening in. Not many feds speak German."

"You aren't worried, are you?" she asked, regarding him with dismay.

"They have me on a tight leash," Neal muttered. He'd been pitching his voice low, and he decreased the volume still further.

"I don't understand," Sandor said. "Why would they be watching you?"

"Long story." For someone as paranoid as he was portraying himself, no way would he divulge those nuggets.

Sandor didn't press. "I'll grant you the painting is a masterpiece but I still don't understand why you were so eager for us to see it."

Neal didn't answer him directly. "Bianka's right—I was tempted by the lutenist. He has an array of other musical instruments displayed on the table in front of him, demonstrating that he's a man of many talents. He doesn't let himself be hemmed in . . ." Neal let his words trail off for a moment before picking up the thread. "But then I decided on The Musicians. I like the symbolism of the four players working together." He turned to Bianka. "They're like us. You, me, and Sandor are the principles. The fourth figure is partly hidden. He represents your parents that we're trying to protect."

Rolf should be pleased. By the time Neal was done, he'd realize Neal was subconsciously referring to himself, Klaus, and Peter with Rolf working behind the scenes.

"But how is this is going to help us?" Bianka asked. Then her eyes flashed recognition. "You want me to forge it?"

He shook his head. "That won't bring in the funds you need. For that, we'll need something much more daring. It's not safe to talk here. I'll explain over dinner."

Before leaving the museum, Neal took them on a tour, pointing out a couple of storerooms. He highlighted one in particular—the room where he and Klaus had hidden the night Klaus intended to steal The Woman in Blue. If Sandor was Jacek, he'd understand the significance. Neal refused to give any details about what he was planning, but chatted excitedly about his enthusiasm for many of the paintings, rhapsodizing at length on the Gentileschi. As they strolled through the museum, he increased the severity of his limp.

"Before we leave, we have to show Sandor the Vermeer paintings," Bianka said, clasping his hand. "I know he's one of your favorite artists."

Neal jerked as if she'd punched him. "You're wrong. I'm much more attracted to the Italian masters." He quickly added. "I wish the Met had more of Da Vinci's drawings. There's one in particular—Head of a Woman. It's in Parma. Have you ever seen it?"

Before she had a chance to respond, he described it in loving detail, mentioning how much the painting reminded him of her. Neal sped up his word flow till he was spewing a torrent of disjointed ideas. He caught Bianka and Sandor exchanging troubled looks. He left them alone while he visited the men's room and hoped that the agents following them would record their exchange.

Did Rolf think Bianka's mention of Vermeer would strengthen the implanted memories? Neal planned to act as if it had.

#

Sistina had reserved the table he requested. When they arrived, Neal chose the corner chair for himself. Sandor and Bianka sat on either side of him. They deferred to him to order, and he accommodated them with grilled shrimp and scallops and a Pinot Grigio.

"You should let me pay," Sandor said. "It's the least I can do for your help."

"Why do you say that? I haven't done anything yet." They were continuing to speak in German. A disguised Diana was sitting with Agent Badillo at a table next to them. They had brought along notepads and appeared to be conducting a business meeting while they ate—a good excuse to linger.

"But you said you had a plan," Bianka prompted.

Neal nodded. "I'll steal the Caravaggio I pointed out to you. That will provide sufficient funds for you to pay off your debt and set yourself up in a new identity."

Sandor and Bianka both stared at him dumbfounded. Sandor was the first to close his mouth. "Are you sure you could do it?"

"Of course I can." He smiled at them. "At the Bureau, I've studied the techniques of the best art thieves in the world. Liberating that Caravaggio will be child's play."

"But it's the Met!" Bianka protested, her voice a distressed squeak. "How could you pull it off?"

"My team developed the security software they use," Neal explained. "The man in charge of the operation sits next to me at work. He told me about a flaw in the system. They're working on a patch, but it's not ready yet." He hoped that when they reported back to Rolf, Neal's explanation would be confirmation of his value at the Bureau. There was no need to kidnap him.

"How would you accomplish it?" Sandor asked.

"I'll hide custodial gear in the storeroom I pointed out to you. Just before closing time, I'll retreat to my cubbyhole, change into a maintenance uniform, and wait till late evening. I will have already obtained the cleaning schedule. It will be a simple matter to place the painting in a trash bag, put it in my service trolley, and wheel it out to the landing dock where you'll be waiting for me in a truck. We'll hit the Met tomorrow night."

"That's too soon," Sandor sputtered. "There's not enough time to make the arrangements."

"Sure there is. And if anything goes wrong, I'll simply go to the roof and scale down the exterior wall with the painting on my back." He lifted a shaky hand to toast them. "To the heist of the century!"

#

"Slow down, Neal," Peter cautioned. "You're still racing a mile a minute."

"It's better this way," Neal insisted. "I don't know when I'm being monitored. At this point, I have to live the con."

"You sound just like Mozzie."

Neal's jaw hardened. "He knows what he's talking about."

Peter didn't press the point. Neal was every bit as hyper as he'd been the previous night. Peter had called the briefing to update the team on the events of the previous evening, but he had an ulterior motive, and that was to evaluate Neal's condition. The limp as he walked in was more noticeable. Neal's thinness accentuated the wild-eyed look on his face as he made his report. He'd developed a head jerk that evoked the onset of rampant paranoia, occasionally tossing in an eye twitch to confirm the prognosis.

It was terrifying to watch. Peter had to constantly remind himself it was simply an act. He was relieved Neal didn't have a wife or girlfriend who had to watch his descent.

The translation team had worked overnight to prepare transcripts of the recordings. Jones, Diana, and Travis all had copies in front of them.

"Why did you mention the Da Vinci?" Travis asked and checked his notes. "The work you called Head of a Woman."

"I was sketching that painting in Parma when Klaus first approached me," Neal said. "It was something he referred to during the virtual reality program. I used it to help confirm that the implanted memories were surfacing. Did anyone catch Bianka and Sandor's conversation when I left them alone at the museum?"

Jones nodded. "They continued to speak German. That in itself is a tell. If Sandor was really Bianka's brother, he'd have switched to Hungarian. They were particularly interested in your response to the Vermeer."

"Sandor said, 'It's working,' " Peter confirmed. "Bianka asked if they should insist on visiting the Vermeer gallery, and Sandor advised against it. He was concerned about your behavior. You'll particularly like this—Sandor said you were a changed man from a year ago. Your behavior wasn't what they'd intended and Bianka wanted to know how they should handle it."

"What did he reply?" Neal asked, placing his arms on the table and leaning forward.

"Sandor said he'd seek instructions. He didn't mention any names."

"You already suspected Sandor was Jacek," Travis said. "His words corroborated your belief and we have additional hard evidence. Last autumn, Klaus had taken you and the Kolars out to dinner. We'd bugged the restaurant and recorded the conversation. When I fed Jacek's voice through voice biometrics, there was a near perfect match to Sandor's."

"Man, I wish we could arrest him now," Jones said, letting out a sigh.

"So do I," Peter said, "but we've got to let him run free. We're luring those ghosts out from hiding. We can't stop till we have their leaders." Sandor was under constant surveillance. They didn't dare bug his room in the hotel on Broadway where he was staying since all known Ydrus operatives used detectors, but a van was in position outside the hotel to monitor his movements. Peter turned to Neal. "Thanks to your performance at dinner, that shouldn't take long. When you left the table, Sandor and Bianka discussed your proposal. It didn't escape his notice that your scheme has some glaring similarities to what Klaus devised a year ago."

"When you indicated the same storeroom you and Klaus had used last fall, Sandor was chewing his lip so hard, it's a wonder there's anything left to it," Diana added.

"So? Do they want to act on it?" Neal asked eagerly. "My attempts to convince them went nowhere."

"Bianka questioned Sandor about it," Jones said, "and he was adamantly opposed to moving forward."

"Don't look so dismayed!" Peter added, hoping Neal's disappointed reaction was simply part of the con. "Sandor's seriously worried about your mental state. He pointed out it would be impossible to arrange all the necessary details in twenty-four hours. Sandor's no fool. He wants to check with his bosses before agreeing to anything."

"You mean I won't scale the wall of the Met tonight?" Neal asked, assuming a woebegone look.

"NO!" everyone thundered in one voice.

"Besides, you'll be much too busy," Diana said. "We saved the best for last."

"Which is?"

Diana swiveled her chair to face him. "After you got in the taxi to speed off for van duty, Bianka and Sandor strolled down 81st Street. On the corner of Madison Avenue, they stopped for an embrace. We have the photos to prove it."

Neal's mouth dropped open. "He hit on my girl!"

Jones nodded knowingly. "I've seen the photos. No way would a brother kiss a sister like that."

Diana reached over to pat him on the shoulder. "I know this comes as a blow, but Bianka's been playing you. Judging by the looks she sent him, Bianka's crushing big time on Sandor."

"Who initiated it?" Neal demanded.

"He started it," Jones confirmed. "Why?"

Neal exhaled, looking relieved. "She'll have an easier time playing the victim card. And that's exactly what we want her to do."

Peter was breathing easier as well. Bianka was unwittingly helping them. Would Joanna be equally accommodating? According to Henry's itinerary, he was attending the python husbandry workshop in England today. Was he about to go head to head with Python?


Notes: I've added pins to the Caravaggio works mentioned in this chapter on the Pinterest board. This story is not the first time the Italian artist has been featured in Caffrey Conversation. I've been finding parallels between his works and Neal since The Woman in Blue. They're the subject of my blog post this week: "Caravaggio in Caffrey Conversation."