Chapter 8: Swept Away
"Where are you taking me?" Peter demanded.
"You'll find out shortly, sir." The chauffeur opened the door of the black limo and gestured for him to enter.
Peter paused to scan the empty backseat before he slid inside. He'd left the Federal Building as instructed and walked one block north to Worth Street. The Lincoln was parked two blocks away. As Peter drew near, the chauffeur stood up and held a sign which displayed Peter Gilman in large letters. That was his surname in the Arkham Files stories. Any lingering doubt over who was calling the shots vanished.
The driver refused to tell him where he was going. The shades had been pulled down on the windows of the limo, and one-way glass separated Peter from the driver. No attempt was made to remove his watch. He assumed Rolf had jamming devices in place to prevent any signal from entering or escaping.
After a drive of twenty minutes, the car stopped, and a valet opened the door for him. Peter recognized the name of the restaurant on the awning. Pumblechook's was a newly opened restaurant on the Upper East Side. He remembered El mentioning a review. Supposedly it recreated the atmosphere of a Victorian reading club and was reputed to have the best steaks in Manhattan. A gesture from Rolf that he knew what Peter's favorite food was?
When he entered the restaurant, the maître d' didn't ask for his name but simply requested that Peter follow him to the wine cellar. It was situated in the back along with several other private rooms. The maître d' closed the door behind Peter when he walked in.
The small room was lined with racks of wine bottles. A bookcase contained a selection of newspapers and leather-bound volumes. Grouped around the polished walnut table were four chairs. Sitting in the one facing the door was Rolf Mansfeld.
When Peter entered, he rose from his seat and strode over to shake his hand. "A genuine pleasure to finally meet you." Rolf looked relaxed and confident as if he was welcoming a colleague to a business lunch. An open bottle of Chateau Lafite Rothschild and two glasses were on the table near his chair.
Peter's smile was not as warm. "I'm glad to see you decided to step out from behind the curtain, Rolf."
His foe must have been shocked that Peter already knew he was alive, but the only sign he made was a slight narrowing of his eyes. Rolf gestured for Peter to take a seat. This was Peter's first time to hear his voice, or was it? Rolf spoke with a slight British accent. The deep tones reminded Peter of the voice he and Neal heard when they'd been abducted to the house in New Jersey. He'd suspected Rolf had directed the staging. This could be the confirmation that he'd also cast himself to play a key role.
"Would you like a glass of wine?" Rolf asked. "Or do you prefer beer?"
"Wine will do. Lately, I've expanded my tastes. How's Neal?"
"You don't need to be concerned," he said, pouring him a glass.
"Permit me to disagree. Do you have any proof?"
"All in good time." Rolf refilled his glass and took a sip in a possible signal the wine hadn't been drugged. "Neal will be returned unharmed once we've concluded negotiations. I gather you're interested in working for me. Am I misinformed?"
"No, your analysis is correct," Peter confirmed.
"Why would a respected FBI agent be willing to change sides?"
Peter swirled the glass before taking a slow sip, a trick he learned from Neal to make the mark wait for his answer. He'd been preparing to answer that question for months. Finally, it was the playing field he wanted—just him and Rolf. "Don't waste my time. Here's what I'm willing to offer. Neal and I will execute the occasional job for you if it meets our criteria. We will not in any way, shape, or form be involved in the arms trade. Neal works under my supervision and will continue to do so. Anything you want of him, you come through me."
"What makes you think you can make demands like that?"
"I assume you've seen what he's like. Thanks to whatever you pulled in Los Angeles, Neal's head is so full of mixed-up notions, he can't think straight. You know the bond that exists between him and me. Your stunts have made him more dependent on me than ever. You want his expertise. You want his connections. Without my help, Neal is worthless to you. You either work with us, or you'll come away with nothing."
Rolf didn't respond immediately. Peter was so in the moment, he could have continued, but he reined in the urge. Neal had warned him not to overplay it.
"Does this agreement include forgeries?"
Peter nodded. "Within reason. I would assume a successful partnership would include several high-value forgeries per year."
"I'll consider your proposal. In the meantime, to ensure fruitful negotiations, I expect Bianka and Sandor to be released."
"You mean Jacek?"
At that, Rolf's lips twitched into a half-smile. "Precisely."
"In exchange, I want to be able to speak to Neal."
"That can be arranged." Rolf stood up. "Our business is concluded for the moment. I'll be in touch. The limo is yours for the return trip." He nodded toward the door in a signal for Peter to leave. All the questions that were sputtering inside Peter's brain would remain there. This was merely the opening volley. The hard sell would come in round two.
#
Scattered images ricocheted through Neal's mind. Orderlies with needles. Penfold asking him questions. A woman with long brunette hair. Should he know her? He tried to picture Sara, Henry, Peter but they dissolved into fragments. Then nothingness.
The next time he became aware of sensations, he felt muddled and heavy. Drugs no doubt. Thinking was difficult.
He was lying on a soft bed with silk sheets. For an abduction that started badly, it concluded fairly well. He had a slight headache and probably a few bruises from being used as a punching bag but no other aches. Neal didn't move as he listened for sounds. A faint scent of lemon oil indicated the furniture had been polished recently. The room was on the cool side but he didn't detect the hum of an air-conditioner. No sounds of anyone breathing or rustling of paper. He decided to risk a peek.
He was in a large bedchamber. The expansiveness of the dimensions and high ceiling indicated a manor or mansion. His four-poster bed was crowned with a rose silk canopy. The oriel windows were embellished with gothic trefoil tracery. An easel and various art supplies had been installed in an alcove. A symbolic gesture or did Klaus intend for the room to be his studio?
Neal tossed back the sheet. Someone had clad him in silk pajamas. His legs felt weak as he stood for a moment, resting his hand on the bed for balance. He assumed he was being watched. He focused on the pain in his back, a constant dull ache. Was it actually there? He'd been faking it for so long, it seemed genuine. His head was too leaden to care.
He turned to survey the other side of the room and stopped in shock. Hanging on the wall was Nocturne in Black and Gold, the Whistler painting they believed Klaus had stolen in Los Angeles. It had hung in Neal's bedroom in the virtual reality world programmed by Rolf and now it was here, prominently displayed.
Without warning, his head split apart as a thousand images ricocheted in his mind. Scenes of the Met, Bianka, Klaus, Peter, Jones. They were pulverizing thought, scrambling logic. Neal's chest constricted in a vice. The images were slicing his lungs. He gave a ragged gasp as he sank to his knees.
The second trigger. The Whistler.
The images careened ever faster, spinning in all directions. What had Jacob said? Puzzle pieces . . . Silver . . . The voices were all screaming at him. He flailed his arms to find something solid to hold onto. Nothing made sense. Peter . . .
Hands grabbed his shoulders. "Can you hear me? Neal, answer me!"
Neal struggled to focus on the shape crouched in front of him. Images zipped by. He reeled backward before they struck him in the face.
"Don't you know who I am? Try to remember! Please, think!"
Through the blur, a face emerged. "Klaus!" Neal shrank back, terrified. "You're not real!" But he is real. I know that, or is this a dream?
"Yes, I am!" Klaus placed his arms around him and hauled him close. "You're safe now. Shhh. You're safe."
Klaus's voice echoed what Neal heard inside his head. He clung helplessly to the man as the images whipped around him.
#
"Why didn't . . . Bianka . . . tell me?" Neal's words were scattered leaves floating on a pond. Stringing them together wasn't worth the effort, but there was something else he'd meant to include.
When Klaus pointed to the teacup, he obediently took another sip. Lemon ginger with a spoonful of honey. Honey . . . Mozzie popped into his head. Don't drink the tea. You may become very small. Or will you be tall? I must check with Alice.
"She was worried you were suffering from some sort of psychosis." Klaus was speaking painfully slowly, but Neal had difficulty in following his words. "She was afraid you might have a nervous breakdown. She asked me what to do. I was leery of getting involved. If you saw me alive, wouldn't that increase your confusion?"
Neal blinked, trying to make Klaus less blurry. Whistler's painting was still acting on him. He felt like he'd lost days of his life. Maybe he had.
When the chaos began to clear, Klaus was sitting beside him on the small sofa in his bedroom. He was in a dream world where everything was in slow motion. After the earlier frenzied bombardment of images, the relaxed pace was a relief. There was no reality—only vague sensations. Images continued to slowly drift in and out.
Was he inside another virtual reality program? In Los Angeles, he'd never questioned where he was or stopped to analyze the scenes he was presented with. Neal looked down at his hands. They appeared real. Start with that. Add the puzzle pieces around them.
Memories were puzzle pieces. Who said that? He could have cried in relief when he remembered. Shift the pieces till they snapped in place. He could do this. Jacob had given him the tools. Peter was relying on him. The team trusted him. Neal tried to conjure up their faces but they were vague shadows compared to the reality of Klaus. How could he fit puzzle pieces together when he couldn't see their shapes?
The hysteria he'd first experienced had faded. On one level, Neal had already known Klaus was alive but his brain continued to tell him something else.
Klaus had patiently gone over how he and Rolf faked their deaths. Neal asked Klaus to repeat the tale several times while he forced himself to process the signals the painting was broadcasting. Klaus was not only beside him but inside his head. He could hear both voices, telling him different accounts. The inner Klaus was telling how he knew Neal was in love with Bianka. He was reassuring him the aborted theft hadn't been discovered. Bianka had been working with Klaus to rescue him.
"Neal, are you listening?"
Obediently he nodded. He didn't have the strength or will to do anything else.
"Sandor was in town," Klaus said, his eyes boring into Neal's. "We were worried about Bianka's health and yours too. I enlisted his assistance."
"Jacek disguised himself as Sandor?"
He smiled, some of the tension leaving his face. "Good. I worried I was showering you with too much information. Jacek was my eyes and ears. He wouldn't let anything happen to you. He stopped the theft at the museum and hid you till we could evacuate you."
"I still don't understand what happened," Neal admitted. "The theft seemed so straightforward. All I needed to do was dismantle the security system, and remove the painting from the wall. What went wrong?"
"From the reports we received, you were suffering hallucinations. Rolf suspects Jones was drugging you."
Neal stared at him, horrified.
"He was sneaking a hallucinogenic into your coffee," Klaus added.
"Like LSD?"
"Could be. I had a sample of your blood drawn."
You can trust me. Everything I tell you is true. Klaus's voice resonated in Neal's skull, instructing him how to behave. All he had to do was listen to the voice. Neal closed his eyes, imagining Peter inside his head, Sara, Mozzie, anyone else. Not Klaus.
"I should let you rest."
Neal opened his eyes. "No, I was just trying to make sense of what happened." He felt the crook of his elbow where a gauze pad had been taped in place. "Do you have the results yet?"
"It will take another day or two."
"Where am I?"
"I've already told you," he said patiently. "You're safe now, well-protected."
"I can't simply disappear. Peter will worry. He needs to be warned about Jones. He could strike Peter too. I have my job, my classes."
"Calm yourself. Until the drug is out of your system, it's too risky to let you return. As for Peter, Rolf is in communication with him. You'll be able to talk to him soon."
It was getting difficult to keep his eyes open. Was his tea drugged? How come Klaus wasn't showing any reaction? An image of a man wearing a white coat popped into his head. Neal could see the needle plunge into his arm. When he rubbed the spot, he could feel the outline of a bandage. Was that proof it had happened or was he still dreaming? Neal had the sensation that this scene had already been reenacted several times but he couldn't remember the details. Everything was fuzzy.
Klaus was repeating what he'd told Neal earlier. How he should relax and let himself heal. No harm had been done. The Met didn't know anything about the attempted theft. Jacek had removed all the evidence. Peter had verified that no one suspected Neal had tampered with the security software.
It would be so easy to believe he actually had attempted the theft and that Jacek and Bianka had rescued him. In his mind he was going for The Lute Player, the painting Bianka had referred to at the Met. She must have been given the script and was instructed to reinforce the image of the painting. They'd fled to the roof, but Neal had a panic attack at the thought of climbing down the side of the building.
"You're falling asleep," Klaus murmured. "Time to return to bed. When you wake up, you'll feel better."
"When can I see Bianka?" he mumbled as Klaus wrapped an arm under Neal's armpits and helped him stand. The world tilted sideways. Klaus needed to grab hold of him to keep him from falling.
"Soon, but don't you want to be in better shape for her?" He steered Neal to the bed.
"Jones did this to me?"
"Yes, now rest."
#
When Klaus left the bedchamber, he reset the alarm. Before heading downstairs, he checked in with the guards in the adjoining room. A bank of monitors displayed the various surveillance feeds. Klaus paused at the one aimed at the bed. Neal appeared to be already asleep.
Klaus fished in his pocket for his cell phone and texted Anya for her location. She replied that she was in the conservatory and had a surprise waiting for him. The conservatory was in the back of the castle. He hoped the long walk would give him enough time to formulate a strategy.
He should be feeling on top of the world. Neal was back and trusting him once more. The cub looked to him for guidance exactly as Klaus had longed for and wasn't angry about Klaus faking his death.
Rolf had insisted that Neal's deteriorating condition demanded the use of the second trigger. There had always been a slight risk of memories seeping through, and Rolf had prepared contingency measures. The Whistler painting was designed to only be activated if an extraction was necessary.
Klaus had argued that Neal should be left in New York. Using the second trigger when Neal was already displaying signs of emotional instability was foolhardy. But he'd been unable to convince Anya. Rolf was on Anya's side. Klaus's pleas to first try approaching Neal in New York fell on deaf ears.
Penfold had assured Klaus that Neal's physical issues would cease once Klaus revealed himself. He'd lied. Penfold had promised that Neal's personality would be unaffected. More lies. Neal's hands were shaking so much, he had difficulty holding the teacup. And the grimace he made when Klaus helped him stand up? That damned procedure had torn him apart.
Now Penfold warned that Neal was exhibiting signs of schizophrenia. The doctor claimed that the program wasn't at fault and that he hadn't been told of Neal's earlier emotional issues. That was nonsense. Rolf assured Klaus that he'd reviewed Neal's acrophobia with Penfold at the very beginning. Nothing the doctor said could be trusted. He'd lied repeatedly. He'd continue to do so. But the knowledge came too late. The damage had already been done.
The sick man in the bedroom was a far cry from the kid he'd known in Geneva. Klaus should never have agreed to the procedure in the first place. What kind of monster was he?
He stopped for a moment in the corridor, the bile rising in his throat. Diana's picture of him as the unthinking leopard Sornoth was accurate. Sornoth had maimed Neal on Merope, infected him with an alien drug. Wasn't Klaus doing the same now? Poisoning him with whatever drugs Penfold dispensed?
Klaus needed to act immediately before the damage became irreversible, and for that he'd have to convince Anya to disregard Penfold's advice.
Her conservatory overlooked the valley below. Built into a tower, the walls were made entirely of glass. When Klaus entered, she was standing next to one of the reptile terrariums she kept among the plants. Klaus had heard the staff complain that the snake quarters were more luxurious than theirs.
"Come meet your namesake," she said and picked up a python from the enclosure.
Klaus seethed at the sight. Leopard spots? Was that necessary? She'd mentioned she had a new pet, joking that since he'd gotten one, she needed one as well. Klaus resented the implication of her denigrating Neal into pet status. She had no understanding of what Neal meant to him.
"This handsome fellow is a leopard python. I thought you'd be pleased." The snake coiled itself around her arm. "Now when you're off thieving with Neal, I'll have a stand-in." She raised her arm to kiss the python on the top of his head. "You'll be my little Leopard."
Klaus choked back his resentment. He'd chosen his sobriquet. Now she was mocking him with it. How could he have ever believed he was in love with her? He'd given up Chantal for this? He, Neal, and Chantal had been a family. Anya was incapable of understanding what that meant.
Was Bianka as unfeeling as her sister? She'd conned Neal to fall in love with her, and Penfold's programming had reinforced his attachment. Neal would suffer the same fate as Klaus—an impotent plaything of the Kaldy sisters.
"I hope you're pleased now that you have your protégé back with you," Anya said casually, seemingly unaware of his churning emotions. "Penfold is ready to reprogram Neal tomorrow."
"You can't be serious!"
Her face hardened. "Don't act surprised. That was always the intention. Check with your brother if you've forgotten. Rolf signed off on it months ago. You should support my decision. The longer Neal's away from Columbia and the FBI, the harder it will be to reintegrate him." She softened her voice. "It's for his benefit, too. All his doubts and fears will be removed. Penfold has used the same program on several of our operatives with outstanding results."
If you like subservient robots. Neal's personality would be destroyed. Was Anya right that Rolf knew about this or was it a bluff? Surely he wouldn't have agreed to it, and Klaus knew he never had. "Neal hasn't recovered yet from the earlier program. He's limping. His back bothers him. His hands are trembling. I don't know if he can paint."
"He better," she warned in a low voice.
"And he will," Klaus hastened to add. Anya's patience was nearing an end. If she thought Neal had no value, she wouldn't hesitate to eliminate him. "Give me time to work with him. A second procedure won't be necessary."
She frowned as she let the snake wrap itself around her arm. "I'll consider it, but he'll need to continue on the medication."
"That could be part of the problem."
"You're not the doctor. With all of Penfold's test subjects, the treatment has been much more effective if they were medicated. The drug suppresses their resistance but is not harmful. I believed your claims about Neal's ability. Sedated, he poses no risk of escape." She turned her back on him and gently placed the python back on a branch. He wished she showed as much care with humans.
"But I'll discuss Neal's situation with Penfold," Anya said. "A modification in the dosage may be acceptable."
There was no surety in her words. They were designed purely to placate him. Klaus strode out of the conservatory and down the stairs, grabbing a jacket from the coat rack. Rolf wasn't here to provide advice. And even if he were here, he might not have Neal's interests at heart. He hadn't told Klaus about the intended procedure. What else had he concealed?
Notes: The second trigger is not only acting on Neal. Klaus is also experiencing doubts. Guilt-ridden over his actions, he's angry at Anya and Penfold. He even begins to criticize Rolf. I wrote about Klaus for this week's blog post: "Klaus Mansfeld: A Rude Awakening."
