Diana knocked on the glass wall of his office room. Peter waved her inside. She entered and closed the door behind her.
Peter opened a file behind his desk, hidden from view from the outside.
"This is the original art manifest from the U-boat," he said, showing her the damaged sheet of paper in an evidence bag. "I need you to translate these twenty-two paintings into English."
"I can do that."
Peter glanced at the kid out by his desk.
"Not here. Do it at home," he said. Diana glanced at Neal, too. "How long will it take?"
"A few hours."
"Don't use the Internet. I don't need someone piecing this together from your Google translation page."
"You're getting as paranoid as Mozzie."
"Maybe." But that funny guy and Neal were stunning when finding information. And if Neal was involved… Something got the kid curious and on edge any time Diana was in his room with the door closed; that was something he had noted.
"A cup of tea, a German-English dictionary, and I'll have it translated in a day or two."
"Good." He rose and picked up a briefcase and opened it on the table, dropped the file inside, and closed it. "Your copy goes to agent Melissa Matthews from D.C. Art Crimes. She leaves New York in the end of the week."
"You got it, boss."
"You know what they say. When they're out to get you, paranoia is only good thinking."
Neal glanced toward Peter's office when the door was opened. Diana left with a thin briefcase. He leaned back in his chair and stretched his arms. She walked down the stairs and picked up her coat over the back of her chair.
"Working late?" she asked when she passed him.
"No, just wrapping up paperwork on that black-market Lichtenstein."
He returned to his work.
"See you tomorrow, Caffrey."
"See ya."
He heard the elevator door open outside. He glanced in Peter's direction, but his handler was not watching. Without 'not working,' he sent a prepared text message to Mozzie: 'The swap is on.'
Neal was familiar with the briefcase Peter had in his office. It was used occasionally but always returned to the same place. Peter was a man keeping things in good order.
He and Mozzie had figured the list one day or another before Matthew left would be transported. The most likely option would be in the briefcase Peter had to keep Neal's eyes away from it.
So Mozzie had arranged for a briefcase matching Neal's descriptions and waited for Neal's message.
Neal shut down this computer and left the office. From his pocket, he pulled out Diana's scarf, which he had fished out from her coat during the day. Diana had just exited the building, and Neal jogged to the door.
"Diana!" he called out, and she turned. "You dropped this."
"Thanks."
She put the briefcase down and put the scarf on. Behind her, Mozzie came walking with a briefcase.
"Looks good on you," he smiled at her. "Was that a present?"
"No," she chuckled.
"It's nice."
"Di!" a new voice called, and a pair of gorgeous legs approached. Neal glanced in Mozzie's direction and made eye-contact. He shook his head, and Moz took another turn. This was not the perfect time any longer.
The two women greeted each other with kisses.
"Neal, this is my girlfriend, Christie."
"Christie," he beamed at her. "It's so nice to finally meet you."
They shook hands.
"The infamous Neal Caffrey," she chuckled back. "I think his smile's more charming than devious."
"Thank you," Neal said.
"Trust me, it's devious," Diana shot back and picked up the briefcase. "We should go. We'll be late for our reservation."
"Date night, huh?" he asked, taking a step along, prying for info. "Where you headed?"
"Babbo," Christie answered.
"Oh, excellent. Their truffle risotto was the inspiration for mine."
"You cook?" Diana rolled her eyes and smiled politely at her girlfriend's curiosity.
"I dabble," he answered humbly. He did more than that, but no one liked a bragger. "The secret's the cheese. I use raw milk pecorino."
"You see?" Diana broke in. "Unpasteurized dairy is illegal. Devious."
"Illegal to sell. Mine was a gift."
"You're a chef," Christie smiled. "I, uh, attempt desserts."
"Oh. Well, we should combine forces. Let's have a date night this week. I'll bring Sara."
"Sure. We'll put it on the books," Diana said and moved to leave again. "You ready?"
"Ready," Christie nodded. "Good to meet you, Neal."
"Good to meet you."
As they walked away, Neal watched them go. And Diana turned her head. To see if he was up to something devious? He smiled and made a gesture that she had picked a gorgeous woman.
He left in the other direction, meeting with Moz, who waited behind a bush.
"Foiled," his friend muttered. "By Ms. Lady Suit."
"Dr. Lady Suit," Neal corrected.
"Ah. Any idea when our Art-Crimes agent is heading back to D.C.?"
"The Bureau travel department has her flying out on Friday."
"Dare I say, our target has shifted?" Mozzie asked.
"Yeah," Neal agreed. "Assuming the list is in that briefcase, we need to get a look before Diana delivers it to her."
"I'll follow." And so Mozzie was gone.
Peter was waiting in the corner of a park, with a file under his arm, and saw Jones.
"Thanks for coming, Jones."
"Sure, Peter. What's up?"
"You know who Helen Anderson is?"
"Yeah, executive editor at Circumspect," he answered without blinking. "Wrote that killer exposé on big oil."
"That's her," Peter nodded and opened the file. "Take a look at these." He handed over a few photos of Helen, taken when she was moving on the street, without her knowledge.
"Ah, someone's following her."
"Someone's threatening her," Peter corrected and handed him the last photo where a cross-hair was drawn in red over her face and written the word 'die' under it.
"Wow. She called us in?"
"Her boss did, Leland Shelton. He owns the magazine."
"And the paper I read and the news channel I watch every morning."
"Leland is golf buddy with the head of the white-collar division," Peter grinned, "so looks like we're helping out."
They walked towards the office of the magazine.
"Got to love country-club politics. So we're here to find out if the threat's coming from someone she's digging into."
"That, too. When was the last time you were on protective detail?"
Jones was silent for a long moment, gazing at him.
"Really?"
"Mm-hmm."
Leland Shelton met them at the entry. Peter saw Jones checking the man up and down. Yeah, Peter nodded to himself. You could not take Leland for a media tycoon. There was not this air of flashing expensive items about him.
Peter figured this was a man genuinely worried about an employee.
"This came this morning," he said and handed Peter an envelope. "I'm the one that pulled Helen out of the field and onto the masthead of this magazine," he explained, walking through the office. "I appreciate your help. Helen?" He knocked on the glass wall of her office. "Do you have a minute?"
"Four-thousand three-hundred and twenty," the woman behind the desk answered. "That's how many minutes I have till my deadline. Not now, Leland."
"Oh, this won't take long," he assured her. Helen put her work down and folded her hands on her desk, focusing on her guests. "These are agents Burke and Jones from the FBI."
Her eyes immediately shifted to Peter, and she bolted out of the chair, rounded her desk, and yanked the envelope he was holding from his hand.
"What are you doing with these?"
"They got them from me," Leland said. "I'm concerned, Helen."
"And I know where you got them." She turned. "Melinda!" A young woman appeared in the doorway. "I told you to throw these out!"
"She was worried about you," Leland defended her. Helen did not listen.
"You're done. You're fired. Now."
"Helen!"
She turned to her boss, unyielding.
"And don't interfere with my staff."
"Ms. Anderson," Peter said, feeling it was time to get a productive conversation going, "our job is to figure out who made the threat. Could it be related to a current story?"
"Current story," Helen repeated. She turned to her massive bookshelf. "This..." she said, holding a sharp knife. "Stuck in my door in Kabul. This grenade thrown in my camera bag in Chechnya." She threw it to Jones, who caught it. "This effigy burned outside my door in west Virginia. I write stories that make enemies. If I share my information with you and you screw it up, it all falls apart. All these pictures mean is that I'm on the right track."
Peter relieved Jones of the grenade.
"Whoever took these photos knows your routine. They got close. All they had to do was pull the trigger." He handed the grenade back to Helen. Peter doubted it was legal to store a live grenade in an office bookshelf. She took it back.
"But they didn't."
Peter slid the envelope, now on the desk, back into his file.
"I'm not asking you to drop the piece, Helen," Leland said. "Just let them protect you."
"You won't even know I'm there," Jones assured her.
"Oh, really? I won't see your black S.U.V. parked a half a block away or your wingtips following me down the hallway? I don't need a government shadow. If you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a deadline."
They walked with her boss back to the entry.
"Keep her alive. Do whatever you have to do. I'll help in any way I can."
He left.
Jones scratched his neck.
"So we're supposed to protect someone who won't let us within a hundred yards of her."
A world-class sprinter would make the distance in nine seconds. Jones had many virtues, but he was not a world-class sprinter.
"Yup."
Melinda, who Helen had just fired, walked passed them carrying a box with her things.
"Hey," Jones said. "Sorry about that."
"Don't be. Been here a month, and I've aged ten years. Well, good luck to her next assistant."
She left with what seemed like no regrets. But Peter got an idea.
"What?" Jones asked.
"Check up on her previous assistants, will you."
"You don't think she angered one of them enough to make those kinds of threats, do you? I mean, they can just leave."
"No, no," Peter shook his head. "I was more thinking of how to shorten those hundred yards."
Jones smiled.
"Diana will hate it."
"Yup."