Chapter 10: Confessional
Neal woke up with a choked gasp. He pressed his hands against his forehead in an attempt to erase the images. Another dream about Bianka. He could still hear her voice professing her love for him. He willed himself to think about Sara instead, but the two faces blurred, one transforming into the other.
Nauseated, he flung off the sheets and purged his stomach in the bathroom. After he splashed cold water on his face, he felt marginally better. His short-term memory was still shot from whatever drug they were giving him. He had fuzzy recollections of Klaus being there, urging him to eat, and more needles. His scruff wasn't very long. Maybe he'd shaved, maybe not.
Peter, Henry, Sara, Mozzie . . . nothing came into focus. All he had left were scattered voices in his head. He wasn't shaky, but he couldn't get his mind to cooperate.
So far, he hadn't approached the easel. The oriel windows in the art alcove projected out from the wall as if they'd been built into a turret. The view of the mountains was breathtaking even from his bed, but he had no desire to go any closer. Was he actually afraid or faking it? He couldn't distinguish the two, but stepping close to the windows seemed like a very bad idea. Just thinking about it made him dizzy.
After shaving, he inspected the contents of the armoire. He couldn't remember if this was the first time he'd checked. Klaus probably supervised the wardrobe selection. They suited his style. Neal gazed at the clothes for several minutes. Figuring out which items to select took more energy than he would have dreamed possible. He finally settled on a navy cashmere turtleneck and corduroy jeans. Was he in another virtual reality program? He couldn't be if he was questioning everything, right?
He'd just finished changing clothes when the door opened. That couldn't be a coincidence. He was being watched. And the fact he'd been able to figure it out made him feel better. Peter would like that. Peter . . . Had he spoken with him or merely dreamed it? An image of a cell phone held in front of him swam in his mind. It probably wasn't real. He couldn't recall any of the details.
Klaus walked in, pushing a cart. Neal blinked to focus. "Room service," Klaus announced cheerfully. "You slept through lunch. I hope you're hungry. You look like you're feeling better."
"I am." For some reason, he wanted desperately to please Henry. No, that wasn't right. This was Klaus, not Henry. He sniffed the aroma of fresh coffee coming from the carafe. It would help wake him up. "What are we having?"
"Goulash, cheese, and fruit." Klaus wheeled the cart over to the sofa and beckoned for Neal to sit down.
Nothing seemed very appetizing but he poured himself a cup of coffee. His hand didn't tremble when he held the coffee cup. He'd take that as a small victory. Klaus walked over to the alcove and moved the easel to the center of the room.
"I thought a change of scenery would do us both good," Klaus said. "I'll move two chairs into the alcove. It will almost be like we're dining on a terrace."
Neal's stomach lurched, voicing its revulsion of the notion. "Not a good idea. Not if you want me to eat anything."
"Have you even tried looking out the windows?"
Why was Klaus pressing him? "You know I'm still having issues because of whatever drug Jones gave me," Neal said uneasily. "I have nightmares of being shot . . . of Peter in prison."
"You didn't mention this before." Klaus looked at him with concern and sat down next to him. Peter's face flashed before his eyes. You can trust me. Who was next to him? Peter or Klaus? The images began to spin again and Neal hurriedly set his cup down.
"Can you tell me about them?" Klaus asked, seemingly oblivious to the chaos. "I may be able to help."
Anything was better than the vertigo he was now experiencing. In bits and pieces, Neal reviewed the scenes. Of Elizabeth dying in the car crash and his grief over what he'd done. The new nightmares of the botched theft. His longing for Bianka. "I don't know what's real anymore. Kate played me on orders from Adler. Sara pretended to be in love with me while spying for Sterling-Bosch." He stopped abruptly. "You know about the treasure?"
He nodded.
"Klaus, where am I?"
He hesitated for a moment before saying, "At Ydrus headquarters."
Neal stared at him aghast.
Klaus pressed the thumb of his right hand against the tip of his index finger—their old signal that they were being recorded. Neal blinked twice to acknowledge he'd received the message.
"We'll skip eating in the alcove today, but after lunch, I'll take you on a tour. You'll learn you have nothing to fear from Ydrus. It's provided me a safe refuge, and it will do the same for you."
When they left the bedroom, Neal noticed without commenting on the elaborate electronic lock. The door to the adjoining room was closed, but a light was on. Guards were monitoring his every move, but he already knew that. Klaus guided their conversation to potential heist targets as they walked. He didn't supply any details about the mansion they were in and Neal knew better than to ask. The elegant wood paneling was in excellent condition. From the little he saw, the initial construction appeared to have been in the early nineteenth century. The goulash made him wonder if they were in Eastern Europe, perhaps Bianka's home of Hungary, but the menu could have been chosen to mislead him.
Klaus steered him to a staircase. Neal trudged up the steps slowly, holding onto the rail. He knew he was supposed to be suffering from a back injury, but he couldn't remember how disabling it was supposed to be. The wound—a dull steady ache—seemed real enough.
The floor they exited upon appeared to be the top of the building. They walked down a narrow hall and then into a room built within a turret.
Klaus turned to him. "Now you'll understand why I told you to bring a jacket." He opened a door that led onto a small rooftop terrace perched on the side of a steeply sloped roof.
Neal choked back an exclamation and hastily grabbed the doorframe. A panorama of mountains surrounded him on three sides. Dizziness overwhelmed him. The goulash was threatening to bail . . .
Klaus turned to face him and gripped his shoulders. "You have nothing to fear. You know I won't let you come to any harm. Isn't this view worth it?"
Not to me. Hadn't he already confessed his fear of heights? Or was that another dream? Didn't Klaus tell him to fake his fear? Or was that Peter? Snapshots of Henry, Peter, and Klaus danced in front of him. They were all telling him what was real, what to do. Trust me. You can trust me. Was he afraid of heights or wasn't he?
Henry was staring at him anxiously, and Neal wanted to reassure him. "I trust you." In an instant, Henry's face was replaced by Klaus's. Neal simply stared at him for a moment. Where was he? Still in virtual reality after all? He wanted to curl up in a ball in the hallway, but Henry wouldn't let him. Peter blocked the door.
Neal staggered, only to be caught by Henry. The image shifted again. Klaus was beside him.
"We'll go out just a few steps." Klaus guided Neal away from the door so he could close it. Neal clung to the railing. The cold air blasted his face, forcing him to be alert. Was this how penguins felt on the Mountains of Madness? Why was he thinking of Lovecraft? He turned to Peter—he'd be able to explain what was happening. But Peter had vanished.
"Now we can talk, free of being overheard. I've already had the terrace swept, but extra precautions are warranted." Klaus retrieved a small electronic device from his jacket and switched it on. "This will jam any signal."
"I don't understand." Neal's headache increased as he tried to sort out the contradictory statements. "You said we're safe here."
"Ydrus is no friend." Klaus drew close to Neal, his eyes boring into him, "and Bianka is not the innocent you think she is. Her sister is the head of Ydrus. I believe you know her as Python. Her name is Anya Kaldy. Neither she nor Bianka can be trusted."
Neal leaned against the door, his chest heaving. The reaction was only partly fake. Why was Klaus telling him this? He must be hallucinating again.
For the next several minutes, Klaus poured out a confessional that Neal wouldn't have believed him capable of. He admitted everything he'd told Neal earlier was a lie. Jones hadn't drugged him. Klaus explained that an expert in virtual reality mind control had brainwashed him in Los Angeles under Python's orders. He admitted the parts he and Rolf played. There was no back injury. Neal hadn't been in prison. He hadn't tried to steal the painting at the Met.
Klaus's voice was low but his face conveyed an urgency which forced Neal to hang onto every word. Neal knew he should appear distraught and he summoned up a choked curse. It must have sufficed as Klaus looked even more dismayed. He said Neal was still being medicated although he'd pleaded with Python to stop.
"I know it will take time to sink in, but I can't continue with you like this. You need to know the truth. I was blind to the harm I was causing you in my desire to have you work with me again. I hope someday you can forgive me."
Neal studied every inch of Klaus's face. His mind felt clear for the first time since he'd arrived at wherever he was. Either the cold air or the shock of Klaus's confession was reviving him. Neal focused on the feeling, willing it to strengthen. He needed to keep the conversation going before his vertigo returned. "Why did you go into partnership with Ydrus?"
"At the time it seemed like a good idea," Klaus muttered, gazing out at the mountains. "Rolf was in favor of it. Do you remember how I warned you against personal entanglements? I should have listened to my own advice." He fell silent for a moment. "I met Anya during the last year you were in Geneva and fell head over heels in love. Me! The one who lectured you to guard yourself against being ruled by your heart. I fell into the same trap." Klaus's voice had the ring of sincerity. His jaw hardened as he admitted to cheating on Chantal. "What I told you about Rolf was true. He was in favor of the partnership with Ydrus. We planned to bring you in."
Neal kept quiet for a minute. He knew he was supposed to be shocked. "Then I returned to the States before you got around to it," he prompted.
He nodded. "That started a domino effect. Chantal left shortly afterward—not that I blame her in any way. I was convinced I was in the ultimate position of power. Rolf was working on software with Jacek and Marta to render security software impotent. Anya provided us with all the financial resources we needed. But we needed an expert forger."
"That's why you approached me in New York."
He nodded. "After I attempted to recruit you, I knew you weren't interested, but Rolf said he had a way to make my dream come true. That dream has turned into a nightmare and you're now living it."
Neal wanted desperately to believe that Klaus was sincere. "What's going to happen now? Can we escape?"
"That's the plan. But we need to do it in such a way that we can keep the art. Stacks of paintings are being held hostage too." He glanced at his watch. "We can't stay out here much longer without arousing suspicion. Anya thinks I'm engaged in therapy to remove your fear of heights." His lips twisted into a lopsided smile which made him look like Henry. "Is it working?"
"I haven't had time to think about falling off a castle," Neal grumbled, attempting to keep it lighthearted.
"Then we need to do more of this." His expression grew serious. "You must do everything you can to fight the fake symptoms the program gave you. Are you aware of your limp?"
Now it was Neal's turn to redden, a technique he'd learned by thinking of himself standing naked in front of Hughes at work. "I'd hoped it wasn't noticeable."
"It's slight," Klaus assured him, "but we need to make it even less. We also need to prove your worth. I have a forgery in mind which you should like."
"What is it?" he asked.
"Do you remember the Da Vinci you were sketching the first day we met?"
"Head of a Woman?"
He nodded. "I thought we'd start there." Klaus had referred to their meeting in Parma during their first virtual reality program. Was he intentionally reinforcing the memories from that first session? His motive could be innocent. Klaus knew how much Neal admired the piece. Years ago, they'd discussed forging it in Geneva. "I'll bring the supplies by this afternoon," he promised. "What can I do to help?"
"Can you stay in the room while I paint?" If Neal were alone, those images flashing in his head would be even more disorienting.
Klaus looked pleased with the request. "It will be just like in Geneva. You and me in your studio. I can work in your room. I'll bring in a CD player for music . . ." He hesitated for a moment as his words trailed off. "Anya wants you to undergo another treatment with Dr. Penfold. I'm doing my best to prove to her it isn't necessary. If you start producing, my task will be much simpler."
Neal's lungs slammed shut on him as his breath escaped in a cloud of white smoke. Penfold was here, perhaps on the same floor. He'd be subjected to still more nightmares.
His panic must have registered on his face as Klaus gripped his shoulders in a vice. "Listen to me," he urged, his eyes boring into Neal's skull. "You don't have to worry. That's my problem and I'll handle it. No matter what, I won't let Penfold perform another procedure. Now, we really must go inside."
"Wait. What about Peter? Does he know? Has he been threatened?"
"Rolf's with him. Don't worry. He's not in danger, nor is his wife."
Neal wished he could believe him.
#
"Once more," Mozzie said patiently. "Excuse me. I lost my way."
Sara wrapped her tongue around the unfamiliar syllables. Ever since Mozzie called her—could that really only be a day ago?—she'd been giving herself a crash course in Hungarian. They'd both practiced nonstop on the overnight flight from New York to Budapest.
She normally slept well on a plane but now whenever she closed her eyes, all she could see was Neal. What kind of drug were they using on him? Python talked about him as if he were a robot designed to do their bidding. And now she wanted to reprogram him. The thought was an iron vice to her stomach as Sara pictured him wired to some diabolical machine.
Focusing on Hungarian gave her a way to partially divert the stress onto something useful. By the time they landed, she'd mastered a basic vocabulary. Mozzie, to her ears at least, sounded like a native speaker. Apparently not only did he have a photographic memory but also a photographic ear. Why couldn't she have similar genes?
"If anyone asks, tell them you're from Bacau, Romania," he advised. "They speak an obscure dialect of Hungarian. That will account for any mispronounced words. You appear to be in your fifties. They'll take pity on you."
Sara nodded glumly at her companion. Mozzie had become Pygmalion, coaching her not only in the language but the role she was to play.
When he heard their destination was a remote castle in the mountains of Hungary, he opted for an ornithologist cover. Sara had selected a wig with short frizzled brunette hair. With the addition of wireframe glasses and a nose Richard had made for her, no one could recognize her. Mozzie had a full beard courtesy of Richard. He didn't need anything else but had pleaded for a large nose so Richard had supplied him with one which Gandalf would envy.
She and Mozzie met Richard on the day before their departure at Aidan's studio in Prentis Hall. The makeup workshop for theater students was in the basement, where both Richard and Aidan had privileges. Richard taught them how to apply the prosthetic noses and gave Sara tips on how to age her face. Travis dropped off some extra electronics for Mozzie. He'd disguised them as bird monitoring devices. They both were carrying additional clothes and wigs for different looks.
Mozzie gave her the necessary papers and passports during the taxi ride to the airport. They were supposedly scientists for the British Raptor Trust. Mozzie was traveling under the name of Leonard Urskwith. She'd picked Gracie Walters.
When they arrived in Budapest, a battered Barkas van was waiting for them, supplied by a shady-looking character wearing dark glasses. Mozzie only gave a vague friend-of-a-friend comment to her question about him and Sara didn't pry.
The tan German van would be their home for the next several days or however long it took. Sara had only limited camping experience, but the van appeared to be equipped with enough essentials for her to manage.
Their destination was a mountain estate owned by Count Lamberg. Travis was certain that the cell phone signal had come from somewhere inside the castle-like fortress.
John Hobhouse, the head of the Interpol art crimes task force, had made discreet inquiries to his Hungarian contacts about the count. The reclusive nobleman was in his eighties. A widower, he lived alone on the property with his staff. He'd been a banker and now used his considerable fortune for various philanthropic causes. On the surface, it was difficult to believe that someone like Count Lamberg could be associated with Ydrus, but he might have been manipulated or even replaced. The last public event he'd been seen at was several months ago. Hobhouse believed the Hungarians would demand concrete evidence before taking any action against the fortress. That was where she and Mozzie came in.
The estate was in the mountains north of Budapest. They stopped at a village for fresh provisions—fruit, wine, cold cuts, and bread. Shopping gave them a chance to practice their new vocabulary, or rather for Mozzie to practice. Sara simply listened and realized she had a lot more work to do.
They'd been bumping along the mountain road for the past thirty minutes. Sara had absorbed all the Hungarian she could manage. Had there been a second trigger? What if Neal were being held in a different location? Was he hooked up to a computer and being fed fake memories? Penfold could have discovered a different, more effective brainwashing technique.
"Gracie?"
"Hmm?" she asked absently, her mind still on Neal.
"Gracie Walters is an unusual combination for a name. Did you select it for the trip?"
"No, I've used it before."
"Walters is a good choice, easily forgotten, but Gracie? Do you have a hidden side?" His nose twitched. "I sense a story."
"It's a friend's name," she confessed, "which I appropriated." She hesitated for a moment, debating whether or not to tell him. Mozzie must be feeling equally stressed even if he was hiding it better. Something to laugh at would be good for both of them. "The friend is a giraffe."
He cocked his head and smiled. "Does the giraffe have a pedigree?"
"She's very special," Sara assured him. "She belonged to my sister. Emily gave her to me shortly before she ran away."
"You must introduce me to Gracie when we get back."
"I will, and that brings up a question. How did you acquire your nickname of Mozzie?"
"If you can guess what it stands for, I'll confirm your answer," he said with a decided glint in his eyes.
"Our version of Rumpelstiltskin?" she said with a laugh. "How many guesses do I get?"
"I'll give you three."
"I bet I can manage it in one, and if I do, you have to tell me why you chose it."
"An acceptable negotiation. Please proceed."
"I would say it's short for Mozzarella but I know you're lactose intolerant, and that would be cruel. The word mozz is Australian slang for a jinx, but you'd hardly call yourself a jinx, so I'll wager it's derived from Mozart."
"Correct!" he said, beaming at her. "Explain your reasoning."
"You were humming arias from Don Giovanni on the plane, and that gave me the idea. Did you devise the nickname because you're a genius like him?"
"A highly logical assumption, but incorrect. When I was a child, I had a teddy bear named Mozart."
"We both assumed the aliases of our animals? I knew we must be related," Sara said happily. She wished she could claim Mozzie as an uncle.
"You now know something about me Neal doesn't. When we rescue him, you can tell him if you wish."
"Does Neal have any nicknames from his childhood?"
Mozzie smiled. "He does, but that's for him to tell you."
Notes: The Da Vinci painting Head of a Woman closely resembles the drawing that was displayed on an easel in Neal's loft in canon. Mailath Castle in Croatia was a source of inspiration for Anya's fortress in Hungary.
My blog post this week is "Sara and Mozzie: An Evolving Friendship." I hope you're enjoying their new closeness. Now that Mozzie's a member of the Clueless con, it can only strengthen.
The Da Vinci painting Head of a Woman closely resembles the drawing that was displayed on an easel in Neal's loft in canon. Mailath Castle in Croatia was a source of inspiration for Anya's fortress in Hungary.
