The minibus pulled up in front of the Museum of Modern Art, causing Mr Harris to stumble on the way back to his seat. He had just finished giving the crowded bus of teens a speech about proper conduct in the museum – the usual stuff about no running in the halls or being rude to tourists. Always travel in groups of three or more. Ask before you use the toilet.
He sighed, swiping his glasses off his nose and polishing them with the end of his tie. This was going to be a long trip. All school trips were stressful: having to be in charge of a rowdy group of kids who were excited just to be out of the school gates was enough to give anyone a headache. But this trip to the art museum? It was going to be unlike any other. Because, as Mr Harris knew all too well, Neal Caffrey was here. And the kid was a known art thief.
He sighed again, wishing he was back in bed with a cup of coffee and his stack of paperback thrillers. He was a teacher, not a policeman. Why was it suddenly his responsibility to look after the criminal? But at least he wasn't completely alone. Peter Burke, Neal's foster parent and handler, had agreed to keep an eye on the kid. Mr Harris could see him now, parked in a mint green Volvo across the street from the museum, eating what looked like noodles even though it wasn't yet nine in the morning. It was nice to know that he had the feds on his side. And it wasn't like he was the only teacher, either. Mrs Cromwell the history teacher had agreed to come along, and there was even a young twenty something teaching assistant who looked fresh out of college. Mr Harris had never seen the balding youngster with the rectangular spectacles before, but he supposed that in a big school, they hired new TA's all the time. He wasn't complaining. The young TA had proved to be exceedingly helpful already, calming the kids down with his easy sense of confidence and offering to sit next to Caffrey and keep an eye on him. Mr Harris was only too happy to oblige. Caffrey gave him the collywobbles.
"All right!" he announced to the bus in general. "Everyone up. We're here!" There were scattered cheers from the teenagers and a lot of rustling as everyone collected their bags together and began to file off the coach. Mr Harris counted them as they left the bus. Neal was the last one. He gazed at Mr Harris with a knowing sort of smile on his lips as he passed him on his way to the door. Mr Harris watched as he thanked the driver and hopped off onto the pavement, landing with cat-like ease. Yep. That kid was definitely trouble.
Neal stood in front of the Museum of Modern Art, savouring its architectural glory. Thanks to the tracking anklet which stopped him leaving a two mile radius, it had been almost six months since he had last set eyes on the place. It was his favourite museum in the city, filled with priceless artwork and a café to rival most stand-alone restaurants. Unfortunately, he wouldn't be able to enjoy himself as much as he would have liked to on this trip. He had a painting to steal, and with the teachers and Peter watching him like a flock of hawks, things were bound to get interesting.
"How you holding up?"
Neal glanced over and smiled. Mozzie was standing at his elbow, eyes fixed straight ahead. His friend had refused to let Neal go in alone when it came to stealing the Raphael – it was, after all, his mess – so had somehow managed to get a job as a TA at the school. Neal was glad to have company; even if Mozzie did look ridiculous dressed in a suit and scraggly tie.
"Oh, I'm good. And yourself?" Mozzie gulped audibly.
"I'm going to die today unless you get a stolen painting to a master thief by sunset. Yeah, of course I'm fine." Neal raised his eyebrows, but said nothing. Mozzie wasn't that good at handling death threats. They always made his stress levels go through the roof.
The group started up the stone steps to the museum's grand entrance, chatting amiably amongst themselves. Neal caught Sara's eye and quickly looked away. They still weren't on speaking terms. Things had been off between them ever since she had made that speech about how he was "poison" and that he was "bringing her down with him." The chances of them getting back together were extremely unlikely, but the fact did remain that she hadn't turned him in yet. She knew that he was planning to steal the painting, but she hadn't told anyone about it. Perhaps their relationship still had a shot. At least, that's what he kept telling himself.
The gaggle of schoolchildren arrived at the ticket desk and there was a crush to get through the metal detectors. Neal slung his backpack off his shoulder and watched as it disappeared on the conveyor belt. Perhaps it was just the nerves, but he felt like the guards were looking at him funnily. He stuffed his hands in his pockets to hide the fact that they were shaking and joined the queue to the pass through the metal detector gate.
"Stop right there." Neal stopped dead in his tracks. Very slowly, he turned around. A bearded security guard was bearing down on him, holding his backpack aloft as though it might explode at any moment.
"Is everything ok, sir?" Neal asked, trying to sound innocent. His heart was beating painfully fast in his chest. What sort of thief was he if he couldn't even get through into the museum itself? He had failed at the first hurdle.
"No, kid, it's not 'ok'. I know you. You've been blacklisted."
"Um…" Neal stared up at the guard, unsure of how to answer the accusation. It was true that he had, indeed, been blacklisted from the museum when he was eight years old. But that had been years ago! Surely the ban wasn't still in place seven years later? "I didn't have any trouble the last time I came here," he said smoothly. It was true – he hadn't, and that had been last spring.
"I don't care if you got in last time! It doesn't change the fact that you're not allowed to enter this facility." Neal made to swipe his backpack out of the guard's hands, but missed. Mr Harris chose that moment to stride briskly over.
"What's going on here?" Neal tried to answer at the same time as the guard, but stopped when he realised it made him sound guilty.
"This lad isn't allowed to enter the museum," the guard announced, puffing out his chest pompously. "He was banned seven years ago."
"Well don't you think that that is a little ridiculous?" Mr Harris hissed at the man, shooting furtive looks all around to make sure no one was listening. Thankfully, most of the schoolchildren were preoccupied with getting through the security point. "Neal is a student at my school and is part of this school outing. We're here for educational purposes!" The guard shrugged.
"Do I look like I care?"
"Ok, ok." Mr Harris took a step forward, hushing Neal with a gesture, "Ok, Mr Wise Guy. Let's talk about something that you do care about. How about your job? I'll have you know that my colleague over there," he nodded at Mrs Cromwell who was humming distractedly in a corner, "is on the board of managing directors for this museum. She's a historical expert in charge of the entire history section of this facility, you know what I'm saying? And she will not be happy when she hears that you refused to let this student in. Especially as he is one of our brightest and best." The guard chewed his lip undecidedly.
"Well?" Mr Harris demanded.
"Alright, alright. He can go in. But if he does anything, anything-"
"He won't. Will you?" Mr Harris directed this last comment at Neal, who shrugged.
"You have my word."
"Alright then." The guard handed him his backpack, which he shouldered, and shooed him through the metal detector. Mr Harris was quick to follow.
"I don't know what you did seven years ago, Neal, but I know how much you like art. I know this trip means a lot to you and well, I know that under the current circumstances, you don't get many chances to visit art museums."
"Thank you, Mr Harris. I don't know how to thank you enough-"
"Don't. Save it." Mr Harris pressed his forefingers to the bridge of his nose, looking exhausted. "The only way you can thank me is by not doing anything stupid. Follow the rules. Don't do anything you'll regret – don't be the criminal they think you are." Neal nodded thickly, a huge lump in his throat.
"I promise, Mr Harris."
"Good. Now go join your friends."
Once they had finally gotten through the entrance hall and were standing in the museum proper, Mr Harris let everyone divide off into groups of three. Neal found himself with Mozzie and Sara, who didn't look happy about it.
"Meet here in one hour, kids." Mr Harris announced, before shooting a warning look at Neal and letting everyone leave. Neal and Mozzie, with Sara tagging along behind them, headed straight for the North Gallery.
"So what's the plan?" Mozzie asked eagerly, scurrying to keep up with Neal's long strides.
"You don't know the plan?" Sara spluttered, incredulous. Mozzie rounded on her.
"Now why would I want to be responsible for potentially dangerous information like that? Nope, the less we know the better. The same goes for all heists."
"But… but surely you know some of the plan?" Mozzie tapped his nose slyly at her and turned back to Neal.
"We're going to the North Gallery," said Neal quietly.
"But the painting's in the South…"
"I know, Moz. Just have a little faith." They walked in silence for a few moments, conscious that they had left the rest of the school group behind. A pool of sunlight heralded the entrance to the North Gallery, which was framed by floor to ceiling windows backing out on a luscious inner city garden. They stopped in front of a tiny statue housed inside a glass security box.
"This is it." Neal said to no one in particular, staring down at the glass box with a ferocity that was uncharacteristic. He hated breaking promises. Especially seconds after he had made them. What would Mr Harris say when he found out what he was planning to do?
"You don't have to do this." It was Mozzie, staring down at his shoelaces. "You don't have to do this for me, Neal. I… I can manage. You don't have to go through with the robbery."
"Thanks, Moz." Neal closed his eyes. "But I'm your friend. And friends help each other. Take a step back, please."
Both Mozzie and Sara took three steps backwards. Neal took a deep breath, prayed to all the gods that this was going to work, and smashed his elbow onto the glass security box. Like he had expected, the thing shattered into a million pieces. And, also like he had expected, an alarm began to wail. Sara stared at him.
"What the hell did you just do?"
"I'm robbing a museum." Neal said, massaging his elbow which zinged with pain. "Christ… it'll be a while before I try that one again."
"But, correct me if I'm wrong, but I thought that the point of a robbery was to do it with nobody knowing about it?" Sara shouted over the screech of the alarm. Red lights were flashing all around them. "Are you trying to get yourself arrested?" The few members of the public in the gallery with them were staring around in amazement, blinking and yelling at each other. None of them seemed to have noticed that it was Neal who had set off the alarm.
"Please head for the main exit in an orderly fashion," a calming voice said over the intercom.
"Come on," Neal shouted over the noise, "let's go."
"OI! YOU!" For the second time in fifteen minutes, Neal stopped dead in his tracks. A security guard was standing at the entrance of the gallery, arms folded.
"Yep?" Neal asked, cheerfully. He held his hands behind his back and made frantic gestures at Mozzie and Sara to get the hell away whilst they still could. Both of them turned and headed towards the main exit where the rest of the school party were surely waiting.
"You Neal Caffrey?"
"Indeed I am."
"Follow me." With a nonchalant smile, he followed the guard through crowds of people heading the other way. They stopped in front of a door the colour of milky tea, deep in the museum. The alarms were quieter here, almost undetectable.
"Get in." The guard opened the door and beckoned Neal inside. He followed reproachfully.
"You know, I really should be with my school party. My teacher might be wondering where I am…"
"Shut it, Caffrey. My manager wants to speak with you. And then we're calling the police."
"Um, ok. If you want, but I don't think it'll do you any good. I haven't done anything wrong."
"Yeah. And I'm the President of the United States." Neal raised his eyebrows and sat down on a chair in the middle of the room.
"No need to get all sarcastic." They waited in silence for a few moments, then Neal looked up at the guard.
"Could I… could I please have a glass of water?" The guard stared at him. There was a long pause, during which the guard seemed to mull the proposition over, before finally saying,
"Sure." The guard got up and lumbered out of the room, locking the door behind him.
Neal let out a great sigh of relief. Everything was going to plan, though it had taken the guard forever to leave. He dragged his chair over to the corner of the room and stood on it, reaching up with both his hands. He shoved a ceiling tile and it came loose, showering him with dust.
Neal had known that he was blacklisted. Being banned from a museum was not something that you were likely to forget in a hurry. He had also known that if there was a security alert, he, the blacklisted criminal, would be brought to this very room until the problem was sorted out. So he had created a problem. Smashing the glass security box had caused the alarms to go off and his subsequent imprisonment in this storeroom. And now that he was in this storeroom…
Neal heaved himself up into the ceiling, carefully replacing the tile behind him. He then started to crawl along the vent, one hand in front of the other, spitting the dust out of his mouth and cringing as cobwebs tangled in his hair. This was his least favourite part of the heist – especially as his elbow still ached from smashing through the glass. Next time, he would have to bring a crowbar. Not that there was going to be a next time. He had made too many promises to turn back into a criminal now.
He crawled for five more minutes, carefully tracking his progress on a map of the vents he had committed to memory. A blue pipe ran adjacent to his position and he stopped, chest heaving from the exertion. This was the place. The South Gallery below would be empty now – everyone had cleared out thanks to the alarm. Very slowly, Neal lowered the ceiling tile down and swung himself out of the vent, landing on the floor of the gallery with feline grace. He would just have to hope that Mozzie had shut down the cameras. He strode right up to the Raphael, snapped plastic gloves over his fingers and very carefully peeled it off its frame. The thing about the security system that this museum employed: it can't be set off twice. He could be brushing through all the sensors he wanted – it didn't matter because the alarms were still blaring and while they were, any additional break-ins went unnoticed. It was a flaw in the system, (and this wasn't the first time he had exploited it.)
Once the painting was out and safely stowed in its special container in his backpack, Neal set about replacing it with the forgery. He had just slotted the fake painting into the frame when the screaming alarm fell silent. The timing couldn't have been more perfect. Grinning, Neal zipped up his backpack and swung it gingerly over his shoulder, all too aware that there was a priceless work inside. He wiped his sweaty palms on his trousers. It was over. He had done it. Now all he had to do was get back out.
He marched across the silent gallery and out into the corridor. He would have to be extra careful here. If he ran into anyone, it would be hard to explain why he wasn't outside with all the others. He kept walking until he reached the gift shop. The place was also deserted, which was creepy as anything. He resisted the urge to shoplift something pretty for Elizabeth. Down the stairs he went, back through the metal detectors. Through the doors.
He was out.
Neal stood on the top of the stairs, breathing deeply and shaking all over. Success washed over him in waves. He had done it. Mozzie was saved, the painting was stolen… and he had gotten away with it too.
Something moved in his peripheral vision. Something mint green. Neal turned.
Peter Burke was climbing out of the family mint green Volvo which had been parked outside of the museum. His gun was in his hands. And it was pointing right at Neal.
Neal stared at Peter, the man who had fathered him for six months. The man who had taken him in when nobody else seemed to give a damn. The man who had done the best to make him a better person. Peter's eyes flickered to the backpack, and that was when Neal knew that there was no hope. Peter knew. The warm feeling of success turned to ashes in his mouth.
Neal Caffrey stood on the museum steps for a heartbeat more. Then he turned on his heel, and began to run.
Hey guys, hope you enjoyed this chapter! I would love to hear what you thought about it so please drop me a review! I love reading them and hearing your comments :)