"Hey, boss," Diana said, walking into his office.
"Hey."
"So, good news and bad news on the Cézanne," she said.
"Start with the good news."
"D.C. says it's the genuine article." She handed him a photo of a painting. "Dates back to the 1870s."
"But it's not number 9 on the sub's manifest," Peter guessed.
"No. Number 9 is listed as 'Bridge Over a Pond.'"
Peter looked at the photo.
"Pond but no bridge."
"Hence the bad news." Diana was silent for a moment. "What if, after all this..."
"It's not out there?" Peter filled in and she nodded. He looked at his pet convict out by his desk, doing good work for the Bureau. A brilliant young man he liked to call his friend. "Honestly... I'd be relieved."
Neal glanced at Diana in Peter's office, the two of them talking. The envelope Diana had opened right before she walked up to Peter's office was still on her desk.
He rose.
"Hey, did you get those files?" he asked one of the agents he had helped earlier.
"Yeah, I got everything."
He walked along the desks timing passing Diana's as two others did, making the space thin. Or rather, he made it look that way, sweeping the envelope from the desk and down on the floor. The other bent to help.
"Ooh. I got it. Thanks."
He looked at it. From D.C. Art crimes, containing photos, it said. He put it back where he found it.
Later that night, Moz came over to his place.
"I got some news. Peter requested photos from D.C. Art Crimes."
"Why would he do that?"
"Moz, I think he still has a copy of the u-boat manifest." So he requested a photo of every painting turning up that could be on the manifest to see if it could be art from the sub.
"Our ticket to paradise," Moz said with a sigh. "You think he'd keep it at the FBI?"
"Well, if he suspects me..."
"Which he does," his friend made sure to remind him.
"...It'd be risky."
"But possible?"
"It's possible." Why wouldn't it be? He worked there. "I'll go back tonight and look around."
"Won't that look suspicious?"
"I'm a criminal. We keep odd hours." And he had made sure to forget his hat, if anyone asked.
However, when he returned, he found the light on in Peter's office. He watched his handler and friend. Why was life so complicated? He pushed the thought aside and joined Peter in his room.
"You still here?" he asked.
"Jimmy's bullet came back from forensics," Peter said, and now Neal saw what he had been studying. "What do you see?" Peter tossed it to him, and he caught it.
He turned it over in his hands. A bullet.
"Brass casing. Nothing strange about that."
"Look closer," Peter urged him.
The bullet at the top of the casing was a bit loose, of course. It was supposed to fly away when the propellant inside exploded, but this bullet was all too loose. He pulled it out and stared at a rod following the bullet. The rod was in the casing instead of the propellant.
"It's filled with palladium," Neal realized.
"Exactly," Peter grinned. "Doesn't make sense. Walk through it with me." Peter rose.
"All right."
"Van Horn personally sends Jimmy to the mine."
"Jimmy gets involved in something illegal there," Neal continued.
"The manager of the mine says she's gonna talk. She's killed," Peter said.
"And now Jimmy wants out because he didn't think it would escalate to murder."
"Or Jimmy's involved in the murder," Peter adjusted the story, "and he ran because he's guilty."
"Do you always presume guilt?" Neal asked.
"Guilty people do guilty things. Am I wrong?"
Neal thought that he was. And even if Peter wasn't wrong, there could be many reasons to feel guilty that wasn't a crime. But it was not the right time to have that discussion.
"For the sake of argument, let's go with my version," he said, placing the bullet on Peter's desk.
"Fine. Jimmy wants out. Van Horn realizes Jimmy's thinking of leaving, so he sits on him."
"Probably starts monitoring his calls, checking his mail…"
"That's when Jimmy sends Jones the microdot."
"Jimmy slips back into the country..."
"And gives me that," Peter said, pointing at the fake ammunition on his desk. "Why make a bullet out of palladium?"
"High-tech werewolves?" Though you could not shoot with that bullet.
"Keep thinking."
"Van Horn said Barrett-Dunne had contracts in China and India," he mulled.
"Countries with a high demand for palladium." With all their development in electronics, they should be.
"Yeah, but it's not illegal to import palladium into those countries." They were not talking about plutonium but palladium. There was nothing illegal about palladium.
"No, but there are tariffs," Peter said, grinning over his face. "It's a tax dodge."
"Murder, break-ins, fake bullets, all so our soldier of fortune can save a few tax dollars?" That did not sound reasonable at all.
"Oh, try tens of millions every year," the agent returned.
"Wow. Glad I don't pay taxes."
His handler grinned. Then chuckled. Neal stared, not getting it. His remark could not have been that funny.
"What?" he asked.
"We're good at this."
Neal's eyes went down to some spot on Peter's desk. He would miss this.
"We are." Would he miss it so much that he would stay? He looked back at Peter. "What now?"
"I think it's time van Horn and I had a little face-to-face."
Somehow, the moment was lost.
"Sounds like a great idea." He turned to leave.
"What are you doing here, by the way?" Peter asked.
"Oh, nothing. I just forgot my hat."
"You couldn't wait until tomorrow?"
Neal shrugged.
"I planned on having another suit. I was out walking anyway." All was true.
"Get your hat. I'll drive you home."
"Peter..." Jones said, walking into his office. "Van Horn's on his way up."
"Good." Peter arranged his file.
"No." Jones sighed. "It's really not."
Peter stared at his agent. The man was tense and worried.
"Why?"
"He's got a lawyer with him."
"So?"
"Peter, if he wins this…"
"Jones, we work for the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We handle this professionally. It's not a contest." The man nodded, not convinced. "Jones?"
"The Department of Justice protects him."
Peter sighed.
"The better reason to do this correctly."
He and Jones walked down to the door to greet them. Less than a minute later, the elevator pinged, and Henry van Horn stepped out with another man.
"Afternoon, agents."
"Let's see it," Peter said at once. The other man handed him a paper.
"'In the interest of national security,'" Peter read from it,"'all Barrett-Dunne interviews to be conducted by, and scheduled through, the U.S. attorney's office.'"
"My friends over there say they're busy," Van Horn said smugly. "Although they may be able to fit you in sometime next spring."
"You got the D.O.J. in your pocket," Jones said beside him. "You must think you're pretty special, huh?"
"Agent Jones. I almost didn't recognize you without your best friend's wife on your arm."
"This doesn't end here, van Horn," Peter said, not letting Jones retaliate. "Not like this. You got friends in high places? So do I."
"I almost considered having my attorney deliver the news for me," their villain said, backing away on his way out. "Glad I didn't. This was fun."
"Come on," Peter said to Jones as a signal for him to return to the office. Jones, however, did not.
"Jones," Peter called after him, but Jones continued towards the elevators. "Jones, Jones." He did not want to raise his voice too much, degrading his agent. Instead, he joined him.
"You know what kind of fun we're gonna have?" Jones hissed to Van Horn. "We're gonna find Jimmy, and then we're gonna take you down."
Van Horn didn't move a muscle. He leaned close and sniffed.
"Hmm. Then I'd suggest using less cologne. You wouldn't want Jimmy smelling you on his wife when he gets back."
That hit precisely where the man wanted it to hit. Jones grabbed the front of Van Horn's shirt and pushed him up the wall.
"Hey!" Peter took hold of Jones. "Easy. Let him go. Come on." Jones looked as if he was ready to kill. He had seen that look before in Neal's eyes when he held a gun at Garret. "Come on! Let him go! Let him go!"
The elevator arrived, and Jones shoved him inside, letting him go at last. The lawyer jumped in after him. Henry van Horn chuckled.
"You got stones. I respect that. Tell you what. You get tired of cheap suits and government wages, you give me a call."
Jones moved towards him, but Peter stopped him. The doors closed, and they were alone.
"You're above this," Peter said. Jones did not object. He collected himself.
"So, how we gonna get this guy?"