An Evening with Genji - Silbrith (2024)

Chapter 1: Clouds of Gold

Chapter Text

Federal Building. November 30, 2004. Tuesday midday.

Something was going to drop.

On his way back to the bullpen, Special Agent Peter Burke spotted Neal Caffrey—full-time FBI consultant, part-time Columbia grad student, and current juggler badly in need of assistance—exiting the elevator. Neal was carrying an oversized evidence box in front of him, shopping bags dangling from both arms while a garment bag slung precariously over his shoulder was in imminent peril of falling to the ground.

"Are you training to be a packhorse?" Peter asked, rescuing the garment bag from his shoulder.

"I didn't realize the evidence box was going to be this bulky—or this heavy—when I offered to pick it up," Neal replied with a groan. "NYPD must have stuffed it with iron ingots. Next time I'll let the courier handle it."

"It's character-building," Peter retorted as he dropped the bag onto Neal's desk. "We make all probies carry their share of evidence boxes around the city. Now you won't feel like you missed out on one of life's great experiences." Peter pointed to the garment bag. "Is this ...?"

"Yes," he said, his face brightening, "along with these other boxes. It was ready yesterday, but this was my first chance to pick it up."

"And just in time. El showed me an article about the gala in the society column this morning. Quite the affair."

"What's this about a gala? Are you going high society on us, Caffrey?" Agent Diana Berrigan couldn't resist the opportunity to rib her favorite target. "Don't tell me the FBI is subsidizing your attendance."

"No need," Neal said smugly. "Do you remember Keiko from the Thanksgiving party?"

"Sure, she has an art studio close to yours."

"Her father is one of the powers that be at Azuma Bank. They're holding a gala tonight at the Plaza Hotel to celebrate the return of a pair of seventeenth-century Japanese screens. Keiko gave Fiona and me tickets."

"Are these The Tale of Genji screens that were recovered last month in Boston?" she asked.

"That's right. They'll be placed on permanent display at the bank. The gala is a benefit for Japan Society."

Diana picked up the newspaper on Neal's desk and pulled out the Arts section. "Hmm ... 'An Evening with Genji. Azuma Bank will host a benefit gala of unparalleled elegance at the Plaza Hotel. It promises to be the social highlight of the season.' Not bad, Caffrey. Oh, listen to this: 'The sumptuous screens portray scenes from the life of the eleventh-century Japanese courtier Genji. Strikingly attractive, Genji was a master of the arts and a great lover.'" Diana eyed Neal speculatively. "So, is Genji your role model?"

"I'm merely practicing due diligence," Neal said earnestly. "The gala will provide excellent job training. I need to be able to project the correct panache when I'm undercover as the idle rich."

She arched an eyebrow. "What about when you go undercover as a sanitation engineer? Don't you need to research that? The sidewalk outside my apartment could use extra help."

Peter smiled and headed upstairs as Neal and Diana continued to tease each other. This was Neal's first full week back at work after an attempted frame attempt had nearly ended his career at the FBI. Peter was pleased with how quickly he'd readjusted to the White Collar routine. Neal wasn't even complaining about paperwork. In a few short weeks, they'd leave for Hawaii where Peter's brother Joe would marry Neal's aunt Noelle on New Year's Day. In the meantime, Peter was confident that a normal caseload would smooth out any lingering rough patches from November.

Neal splurged on a taxi for the ride to his loft in June Ellington's mansion. Attempting to ride the subway with all his purchases wasn't the recommended way to start the evening. When he arrived home, he found June in the living room. Neal stopped to greet her before heading upstairs.

"I have an hour before my friend picks me up," she said. "Is there enough time for me to have a preview?"

"I wouldn't leave without having you sign off," he assured her and dashed upstairs to make the transformation. After a quick shower and change, Neal strolled back down the stairs to strike a pose for June.

She stood back and appraised the look for a long minute before proclaiming, "You were born to wear a tux."

"You approve, then?''

"It fits you perfectly. Ralph Lauren?"

"Calvin Klein. I can't thank you enough," Neal said, kissing her cheek. "It's beyond a doubt the most magnificent Christmas present I've ever received. And thank you for not making me wait till Christmas to open it."

"With your aunt Noelle's wedding coming up in a few short weeks, there's no need to wait, and I'm glad you have it in time for the gala tonight. Byron always said that a man needs to own a minimum of one tuxedo." June stepped back with a smile. "He liked to wear one when we went out dancing. Seeing you in one brings back happy memories."

"I'm a poor substitute, but I hope to have the honor of taking you out some evening."

"I'll look forward to it," June said. "In the meantime, we need to toast your new apparel. I think we have time for a co*cktail."

"What would you like?" he asked, going over to the carved oak wet bar. "Your standard?"

"Please," she said, sinking into a velvet sofa, "and put on some music. You know what I like."

Neal inserted a Frank Sinatra CD into the stereo system. While Frank crooned "The Good Life," Neal prepared two Manhattans. When they had their drinks, he raised his glass. "Here's to you, June. You've supplied both the threads and the wheels for tonight." June was letting him borrow her Jaguar for the occasion.

"There's no reason to let the car languish in the garage," she said, taking a sip of her drink. "Tell me more about this gala you're attending and, more to the point, your date. I haven't heard much about Fiona."

"She's from London. Like me, she's studying part-time for her master's in art history. By day, she works at Weatherby's auction house."

June tapped her forefinger impatiently on the arm of the chair. "All very well, but I need more than her resume. Tell me about Fiona the person. Paint me a picture."

Neal put his glass down on the side table. "How about an Impressionistic rendering? Her hair is the color of the finest flaxen honey. She has the nose of an elf-maiden on a spring night, the eyes the color of Irish moss under a brilliant sun ... Shall I go on?"

June nodded in satisfaction. "That's much better. You should bring her over so I can meet her."

"That's a promise."

"And who's escorting Keiko?"

"Aidan. The two of them have become very close. Aidan's also studying for his master's in art. I've mentioned him to you—he's my fencing partner."

"Ah yes, he's the one who refuses to wear a tie, isn't he? How will he manage on such a formal occasion?"

"Honestly, I don't know." Neal shrugged. "It will be a true test of his affection for Keiko. She came to me last week for assistance in persuading him not to wear his hoodie. I wound up fencing him to determine whether he had to listen to our advice."

"Do I need to ask who won?"

"Perhaps he lost to save face? In any case, he's now resigned to wearing a tux."

"The Plaza should already be decorated for the holidays. Byron and I attended many a charity ball there. The decorations were magnificent." June put her glass down and gazed off into the distance, her expression softening.

Neal pictured her and Byron waltzing on the ballroom floor, a big band playing in the background. "We should go to the Rose Club at the Plaza. They have live jazz on Tuesday nights." He grinned mischievously. "Or would you rather have afternoon tea at the Palm Court?"

"I'm much more a jazz lover than a tea sipper."

Later that evening at the Plaza Hotel.

As the parking valet whisked away June's Jaguar, Neal and Fiona walked up the red-carpeted stairs and through the opulent entrance of the Plaza Hotel. "You look radiant," Neal told Fiona and he wasn't overstating it. She was wearing a gold-beaded mesh co*cktail dress which set off her blonde hair. With the heels she was wearing, she was almost as tall as him. "That emerald necklace is spectacular."

Her eyes dancing, she said, "I thought you'd appreciate it. Mr. Branson at Weatherby's let me borrow it for the occasion. And may I add, you look positively smashing."

He shrugged casually. "Just something I pulled out of my closet."

"In that case, you must let me inspect your closet."

"You're welcome in my closet any time," he murmured back.

They'd arrived at the Plaza to find the gala in full swing. Neal gazed appreciatively around the hotel. This was a lifestyle he could get used to. When he pulled up at the Plaza in June's Jaguar, it felt like he and Fiona were stepping into a fantasy. The Terrace Room shone with the light from the crystal chandeliers reflecting off a thousand smaller tapers. It was as if the attendees were floating among clouds of gold like the scenes from The Tale of Genji on the screens.

The only comparable event Neal had been to was one at Cannes. That had been a few years ago, and he'd attended with an ulterior motive. The jewels being worn at the present event would have made the old Neal's eyes gleam with anticipation. In his new incarnation, he would simply admire them.

Neal took a couple of martinis from the silver tray of a passing waiter as he and Fiona proceeded to stroll among the well-heeled.

"I've never been anywhere so grand," Fiona murmured to Neal. "Was Keiko able to talk Aidan into wearing a tux? He's going to feel out of place otherwise."

"She and I both had to work on him. You know how he feels about her, but Aidan considers formal attire to be ironed jeans. The trump card was when Keiko said her father would be offended unless he wore a tux. Aidan hasn't met him yet and is already stressing."

"Neal?"

At hearing his name, Neal stopped and spun around. "Sara!"

Fiona joined the chorus, greeting Sara as if they were old friends. "This is a pleasant surprise!"

"What are you doing here?" They all said at once and burst out laughing.

"You start, Sara," Neal said. He hadn't seen her for over a month—not since she'd moved away to London.

"I'm here representing Sterling-Bosch. We were the insurers for the screens and facilitated their recovery." She slanted her head, giving Neal the once over, a smile on her lips. "You're looking very James Bond tonight, and Fiona, you could be out of Goldfinger. I love your dress."

"How do you two know each other?" Neal asked.

"Sterling-Bosch handles the insurance for Weatherby's," Fiona said. "We became friends when we worked together on an auction. Neal, where did you meet her?"

"Sara used to work at the same company as my cousin Henry. We met last spring." Neal turned to face Sara. "I thought you were still working in London."

"I am, but Sterling-Bosch brings us back for quarterly meetings."

A man approached Sara, carrying two glasses of wine. Tall with light brown hair, he had a rugged look and athletic build. Was this Sighin' Bryan, the guy Sara was dating?

She soon supplied the confirmation, making the introductions.

"Neal Caffrey, a pleasure." Neal offered a particularly gracious smile as he shook hands.

"So you're Neal Caffrey, the FBI's new wunderkind. Sara's told me about you." Bryan looked to be in his mid-thirties.

As they chatted, Keiko and Aidan approached them.

"May we join the party?" Keiko asked. She wore a long black chiffon dress with a bolero dove-gray jacket, a far cry from the Bohemian grunge attire she normally dressed in at Columbia. Aidan was fidgeting uncomfortably in a rented tux. What had he done to his tie to mess it up so badly? Neal sighed. He should have recommended a clip-on after all.

When Bryan began discussing his work at Sterling-Bosch, Neal pulled Aidan aside. "Do you want my help with the bow tie malfunction?"

"Bad?" Aidan passed a hand over his red hair as if smoothing it would help the tie.

This was not the time to be kind. Keiko's father could show up at any moment. "Grotesque is more appropriate."

"I can't help it. The collar's cutting off my breathing." Aidan yanked at the offending shirt. "How do people stand these things?"

"You're supposed to cowboy up," Neal said pointedly. after a couple of swift manipulations, he nodded with satisfaction. "Remember, this is for Keiko," he added sternly as Keiko mouthed a silent thank you in appreciation. "Hands off the tie."

The emergency repair proved to be timely since it wasn't long before Neal noticed a distinguished-looking man, impeccably tailored in formal tails, approaching them. "En garde," he muttered to Aidan and nodded in the man's direction.

Swallowing, Aidan squared his shoulders as Keiko said, "All, I'd like to present my father, Atsuo Nakahara."

After the introductions were made, Bryan said, "I've long been an admirer of Japanese culture, sir. I've trained in many of your country's martial art techniques."

Keiko's father gave a slight bow and expressed his gratitude to Sterling-Bosch for the recovery of the screens. Turning to Neal, he added in Japanese, "Keiko told me you're fluent in our language and how much she appreciated your help in settling in. She was very nervous when she started classes and you made her feel at ease."

Neal responded with polite thanks in Japanese and exchanged a few pleasantries. It wasn't his fault Mr. Nakahara preferred speaking Japanese with him. If Bryan glowered at the attention he received, so be it.

When Mr. Nakahara left, Aidan told Neal in a low voice, "Very smooth. You'll have to teach me some of those phrases. I'm going to need all the help I can get."

When Keiko took Aidan over to meet her mother, Sara and Bryan headed for the buffet. Neal and Fiona resumed their stroll in the hall. The crowd around the screens had grown so large they opted to visit the exhibits on various aspects of Japanese courtly life which had been set up along the sides of the hall.

Neal was pleased with how well the conversation with Sara had gone. It proved he was over her—not that there had been much to get over. Last summer in Baltimore, they'd watched the Fourth of July fireworks together, and he'd begun planning his own fireworks with Sara. His emotions were starting to run as hot as that fiery red silk dress she was wearing tonight. But his plans came to a fizzling halt when she'd informed him of her transfer to London and that she was dating Bryan. She'd moved on and so had he.

"Where did you learn Japanese?" Fiona asked.

"My mom taught me a few phrases when I was a child. For a while, we had Japanese neighbors. I went to school with the daughter and became friends with her father. He barely spoke English so we traded lessons."

"I'd love to travel the world. That was one of the reasons I accepted the offer from Weatherby's. They have branches in Asia as well as Europe." She hesitated for a moment. "Were you and Sara an item? From the way she looked at you, I wondered. Not that it would be a problem. I like Sara."

"No, we never dated. We saw each other over the summer since we were both volunteering at a shelter for runaways. We shared some lunches, but we're very much in the friend zone. Sara's dating Bryan now. Do you know much about him?"

"I've only seen him at Weatherby's a few times. I don't believe he comes to New York very often, but his name often appears on our internal bulletins. He's been involved with some of the most significant recoveries of artworks Sterling-Bosch has made. I'd no idea they were a couple. Sara hasn't mentioned him to me. "

"He was her first mentor at Sterling-Bosch. They started dating in the fall."

"A workplace romance." Fiona shrugged. "That can get complicated. Still, they make a handsome couple."

He and Fiona had stopped to watch a demonstration on calligraphy when Aidan came to see them. "You're missing out on fantastic sushi. Keiko's still there. She sent me back to alert you."

As they headed for the buffet, Neal was exasperated to see Aidan once more fiddle with his collar. He was going to wreck his tie yet again.

With a laugh, Fiona pulled Aidan's hand away but it was too late. The damage had already been done.

"I knew I shouldn't have bothered with this monkey suit." Aidan took a stab at stuffing the ends of the bow into place.

"You're only making it worse," Neal grumbled. "This is my last rescue."

"That's much better," Fiona said afterward. "Neal, you could give a demonstration of the refined art of tying a bow. Aidan's not the only one here who could benefit."

Once they'd feasted to their satisfaction on sushi and assorted other Japanese delicacies, they headed to the dais to view the stars of the gala—the pair of folding screens. The six-panel screens had been placed on tables on a raised stage at one end of the hall where guests could view them with ease. Each screen was close to six feet high and twelve feet long. They were lavishly painted in vibrant colors with scenes from The Tale of Genji appearing to float among clouds of gold.

"I love this scene," Fiona said, pointing to one of the panels. "It depicts a concert given by Genji's ladies at his mansion. Didn't he supposedly teach them how to play?"

"I believe so, and you can see his son tuning a koto in the same scene."

"I'd read the koto is considered to be the instrument of romance at the Japanese court." Fiona paused examining the screens to turn to Neal. "Do you consider yourself a romantic?"

"I've been called that, but I'm not sure it's accurate. How about you?"

Fiona looked thoughtful and shook her head slowly. "Realist, maybe? Or pragmatist?"

"Anyone who sings like you do has to have a romantic side. It may simply be hiding now. Once you find your Genji, it'll come out."

"You mean you're not my Genji?" Fiona's tone was light as she challenged him.

Neal arched an eyebrow and moved closer to her. "Do you want me to be your Genji?"

Fiona hesitated, her expression unreadable. What her answer was going to be Neal would have to wait to find out. Keiko was waving at them as she rushed up. "A demonstration of how to dress in a twelve-layer court kimono is starting in a few minutes. Fiona, would you like to see it? Sorry, Neal, it's for women only."

"Do you mind?" Fiona asked.

"Not at all, as long as I get a full report afterward." Once the women left, he dragged his wayward thoughts from Fiona and Genji musings back to the screens. The style of painting made the observer feel like a voyeur peering over the room partitions and spying on the occupants. The screens within the rooms had been painted with Chinese-style monochromatic ink landscapes, making a marked contrast to the vivid colors surrounding them.

"The colors are breathtaking, aren't they?" a familiar voice said.

Neal smiled at Sara, glad to see Bryan wasn't with her. "They're as bright as your dress. It's good to see you again. I've missed my lunch partner. How are the Thai restaurants in London?" Before Sara had moved away, they'd met for a few lunches at a Thai restaurant near the Federal Building. That was back in the days when Neal thought they had a future together.

"None as good as the Bangkok Inn."

"You and Bryan may want to go there while you're here. How long will you be staying?"

"Almost two weeks. In addition to the meetings, I'll attend a round of training workshops. How's life in New York treating you? It's only been a little over a month since we last saw each other, but you seem different."

"Hopefully in a good way?"

She considered him thoughtfully. "Perhaps it's the tux. That and speaking Japanese," she added, flashing an impish smile. "Very impressive, Mr. Bond."

"Careful," he warned. "If you persist in casting me as James Bond, I'll need to reciprocate. How about Tiffany Case?"

Sara's eyes lit up as she laughed. "I could play a diamond smuggler with no trouble at all. As I recall, didn't I trick you in the movie and make off with the diamonds?"

"Ah, but then I stole a moon buggy and not only saved you at least twice but also prevented a worldwide nuclear catastrophe." After the awkwardness of the farewell lunch, Neal was glad to see they could enjoy each other's company once more. It wasn't long before Bryan walked up to join them. "What are you two laughing about?" he asked as he slipped an arm around Sara's waist.

"Just comparing notes on Thai restaurants," Neal replied casually. "I'll place my money on New York having the best."

"I can't speak for New York, but the restaurants in London are a poor substitute for genuine Thai cuisine," Bryan said. "Once you've traveled to Bangkok, you won't be satisfied with anything less."

"Bryan's being unfair," Sara said. "We've dined at several that I thought were outstanding."

"I stand corrected," Bryan said, smiling at her. "Your Japanese sounded quite fluent, Neal. Did you live in Japan?"

Neal deflected. "Is that where you learned martial arts? Sara told me you're a master."

"Yes, I studied extensively both in Japan and China." Bryan launched into a long description of various fighting techniques, making Neal feel like he'd landed in a kung fu movie. He then switched to questioning him about his work at the Bureau.

Neal found himself wanting to evade all of Bryan's questions with noncommittal responses. He had the uncomfortable feeling of being grilled even though there was nothing hostile about Bryan's questions. Neal directed the conversation away from himself and onto the screens.

"They'd been stolen in Boston," Bryan said. "A collector later bought them, not knowing their provenance. When he offered to have them exhibited at a museum, we were able to identify them and return them to their rightful owner."

"How was the authentication carried out?" Neal asked out of genuine curiosity. Soon he'd need to choose a topic for his master's thesis, and art authentication would be particularly relevant to his work with the FBI. Sterling-Bosch was the insurer for many of the largest museums in the world and authentication was an essential element of any appraisal.

"For paintings, Sterling-Bosch employs museum experts for verification," Sara said. "We also have independent experts who are called upon. In the case of these panels, experts at the Isabella Stewart Gardner Museum were used. Bryan manages many of the authentications in Europe for us."

While they talked, Bryan kept an eye on the crowd, scanning them no doubt for clients. "Sara, there's someone I'd like to introduce you to. You'll have to excuse us. We're going to be staying in town for several days. Perhaps we can meet for drinks sometime."

Neal watched them as they strolled away. Bryan had a commanding presence. It was understandable why Sara was intrigued by him. But there was something about Bryan he didn't like. It was probably just sour grapes. For Sara's sake, he should give the guy a break. No more Sighin' Bryan comments.

Neal returned to the screens, circling to the back of the panels to examine the framing technique. In a small alcove several feet away, two young Japanese men were sitting at a table holding an animated conversation. Their faces were flushed and their voices loud. Judging by the number of glasses on the table, they'd taken full advantage of the free bar.

Neal paid little attention to them until he heard Samurai bonds mentioned. What they were discussing set off warning bells. They were speaking Japanese and didn't seem concerned about being overheard. Was that just the liquor talking or were they serious? Neal positioned himself in front of the screens to monitor their conversation without being observed.

Did they really intend to rob the bank?

Notes: Thanks for reading! Neal's floating among the clouds at the moment but that won't last for long. In Chapter 2, Mozzie gives unwelcome advice, Neal discusses what he overheard with Peter, and a new case begins.

Visuals and Music: An Evening with Genji board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website
Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation: pennasilbrithconversation.blogspot.com

Background on the Caffrey Conversation AU for new readers: The series was created by Penna Nomen and begins with her story Caffrey Conversation. Our blog has a list and short summaries for all the stories. The primary difference from canon is that Neal was never sent to prison and the characters are several years younger. Peter recruited Neal in 2003 when he was 24. In the fall of 2004, he entered Columbia University's graduate program in art as a part-time student. Working with the White Collar team are two non-canon characters: Travis Miller, a technical expert, and Tricia Wiese, a profiler.

Chapter 2: Samurai Bonds

Chapter Text

Neal's loft. November 30, 2004. Tuesday evening.

It was almost midnight when Neal returned to the mansion. Most of the downstairs lights had already been turned off, but the frosted glass globe of the brass lamp on the entry table was still on to welcome him home. He placed the keys to the Jaguar on a porcelain dish next to the lamp and headed upstairs.

When he entered the loft, the only light came from the full moon shining through the skylight. A shadowy figure sat with his back to the door, a wine glass beside him. Without turning his head, he said, "I've been expecting you, Mr. Bond."

"Why are you sitting in the dark, Mozz? You're not pulling an Ernst Blofeld, are you?" Neal turned on a floor lamp by the couch. "I wasn't expecting you back so soon from France. Have you already finished your job with Gordon Taylor?"

Mozzie rotated his chair to face Neal. "My part's done. It all went remarkably smoothly. Gordon runs a well-oiled machine."

"How did it go with André?" Mozzie had smoothed the way for Neal's friend to join Gordon's crew in appreciation for his assistance with the con that cleared Neal's name at the FBI.

"Gordon and André hit it off like they were long-lost relatives. When I left, Gordon was teaching André pool in exchange for fencing lessons. And, I might add, that my own luster was significantly burnished in the process." Mozzie reached for the bottle of wine on the table. "May I pour you a glass of your wine?"

"No thanks. Workday tomorrow."

Mozzie eyed him pityingly. "Ah yes, you're a member of the downtrodden masses now. June told me where you were when I arrived. I find the fact that you attended 'An Evening with Genji' quite amusing."

"Why is that?" Neal asked as he slipped off his jacket.

"You, floating among the clouds of the New York aristocracy ... You don't think you had a distinct resemblance to the night's honoree?"

"Not that much," Neal protested, not liking the comparison. "I've never heard of any nobles among my ancestors, and my record as a lover is definitely not on a level with Genji's."

"You've merely misplaced your affections. You've let yourself be seduced by a succession of Mata Haris."

Neal winced. Mozzie had never been a member of Kate's fan club, but she wasn't a Mata Hari. Although ... in light of her actions last spring, he'd have to admit there was a kernel of truth in the comparison.

"You should let me instruct you in the fine art of courtship," Mozzie continued. Neal spun around to stare at him. Mozzie didn't have a hint of a smile. "The fair Fiona is a much worthier pursuit. Beauty, brains, and a musical soul. Of course, her naiveté concerning the forces around her is an issue but I'll happily offer my services to instruct her. I could act as Professor Higgins to her Eliza Doolittle, Pygmalion to her Galatea."

"Fiona may not be ready for your revelations. Let's hold off bursting her bubble." Mozzie hadn't met Fiona. His knowledge of her was solely based on what snippets he'd gleaned from Neal plus a few photos. And Neal was happy to keep it that way. Fiona knew virtually nothing about his life before Columbia. She'd met El and Peter, but that was different. They were part of what Neal liked to think of as his life in the light. She didn't need to know about his life in the shadows. That included Mozzie and everything associated with his con artist past. "In any case, Fiona and I are just good friends."

Mozzie rolled his eyes. "Neal, please. Are you still using that trite expression?"

"Do you prefer amis-amants? But it's not what you think. Fiona's in the same boat as me. She's getting over someone else. We decided to hang out together. I don't know that our relationship will ever go much further."

Mozzie eyed him skeptically. "You're not sure if you're soulmates? Do you know what your problem with women is?"

"I didn't think I had one. Enlighten me, Dr. Phil." He dropped into a chair and yawned. This could take a while.

Mozzie pointed at him accusingly. "You wear your heart on your sleeve. Like a medieval knight wearing the ribbon of his beloved strumpet, you're only too eager to offer your heart to any minx who catches your eye."

"Now you're talking nonsense," Neal protested. "I don't do that."

"Oh really? Need I point out Sara? She strolls into your life, crumples up your tender emotions, and tosses them away. Then she sashays off to break someone else's heart."

"It was hardly like that. Sara's no minx. In fact, she was at the gala tonight. I enjoyed talking with her. No crumpled feelings, no angst. We're fine. Besides, what happened with Sara was not her fault. I didn't let her know how I felt about her."

"Who was she with?"

"Bryan McKenzie."

"Ah yes, her next victim. You probably found her more irresistible than ever."

"No, I didn't," Neal objected, glaring at him.

Mozzie, however, was not to be stopped. "Now that Sara's unattainable, you're no doubt more than ever attracted to her. The pattern is clear. You fall for Kate, who's in love with Adler. Next, you yearn for Sara who's also involved with someone else. You're conflicted by your feelings for Fiona. Perhaps you're in love with both Sara and Fiona while still being in love with Kate." Mozzie peered at him over his glasses. "Yes, your resemblance to Genji, in love with multiple women, is becoming more and more apparent."

Neal grimaced. It was late. He was tired and not feeling in love with anyone, particularly Mozzie, at the moment. "Shouldn't you focus on your own love life?"

"You need to be a Don Juan, not a Genji," Mozzie said, ignoring his comment. "Love them and leave them. Never stay too long with one. Never get tied down." He wagged his forefinger at Neal. "And above all else, never give your heart to any of them."

"Can we change the subject, please?"

"But your love life is so fascinating," he pleaded. "Especially in comparison to mine."

"Here's another topic for you—Samurai bonds. What do you know about them?"

"Apt name. Yen-denominated bonds. Can be quite valuable. I prefer Krugerrands. They're much more liquid. What sparked your interest?"

"Something I overheard. It could be nothing." Reflecting on the conversation, Neal was beginning to have doubts. At the time he was sure about what he heard, but how could they have been serious?

Mozzie got up from the table. "Let me know if the nothing turns into something lucrative. I must leave. I need to prepare for my next trip."

"You're taking off again? What's the destination this time?"

"Hawaii."

"Hawaii?" Neal repeated in surprise. "Is Gordon expanding his operations?"

"No, Billy and I are." Billy Feng was a retired cat burglar who owned a Hawaiian-themed store and café near Columbia University.

"But Billy already has a thriving business and his relatives in Hawaii supply him with whatever goods he needs," Neal pointed out.

"Exactly." Mozzie beamed as if all had been made clear. "The market for Hawaiian products in New York is ravenous and growing by the day. Think of New York as a hungry bear. We intend to supply the honey."

"And your honey will be ...?"

"Honey, of course. Raw organic, made by bees feasting on Hawaiian flowers honey. A nephew of Billy's has gone into the bee-keeping business on his farm south of a nature preserve on the island of Hawaii. He produces exquisite raw organic honey from Hawaiian nectar sources. I should thank you because it was through you that my path was revealed."

"And how did you reach that conclusion?"

"If you hadn't asked me to look into Apian wheels last October, I might never have had the idea."

Neal must have looked as puzzled as he felt, because Mozzie added, "Those early calculators were named after Petrus Apianus, who Latinized his name from Bienewitz. Biene means bee in German. If ever there was an omen that my destiny lay in bees, that was it. Oh, and did I mention we'll also produce honey wines? They'll be sophisticated blends of the finest varietals, herbs, spices, and honey to seduce the palate with a perfume of mesmerizing potency."

Neal shook his head wearily. "It's always about the wine, isn't it?"

"No, it's always about the bee. Our world depends upon them. They're essential pollinators. Without pollination, there'd be no strawberries, no almonds, and yes, no wine. Now, thanks to my refined palate and Billy's connections, I expect to have our business abuzz in a matter of weeks. We'll leave for Hawaii shortly."

"This may be a rather expensive undertaking," Neal pointed out.

"I can afford it. The finder fees I've collected and my services for Gordon Taylor allow me to pursue other interests. Your bank account would be much more comfortable if you'd listen to my advice."

Neal shook his head firmly. "Not happening. After the scrutiny the marshals gave me this summer about my lifestyle, I don't want to give them any more ammunition."

"You could use me as your banker. We'd keep it off the books. Trust me, they'd never know. The Genji lifestyle requires deep pockets."

"I'm not living like Genji."

"And that brings up the real question: why not?"

Federal Building. The next morning.

"What you heard could simply have been drunken daydreams," Peter said, not persuaded by Neal's interpretation. "You told me there were several glasses on the side table."

When Neal came to his office, Peter fully expected him to launch into a description of the previous evening's festivities. Instead, Neal was convinced that he'd overheard plans for a bond heist. Only Neal could go to a gala and come back with a case.

Neal shook his head emphatically. "I considered that but the more I thought about it, the more I realized my first impression was correct. You know what Samurai bonds are, right?"

"I've heard of them. They're bonds issued in Tokyo by non-Japanese entities. But you're asking me to believe those guys were openly discussing stealing a shipment of bonds at the gala."

"They were in an alcove. I was the only one in the vicinity, and I was standing behind the screens. If they noticed me, they probably wouldn't think I speak Japanese."

"Wait a minute—you speak Japanese?" That wasn't in Neal's file. It seemed with every case, Peter discovered a skill he hadn't previously mentioned. How long would this go on? "When did you learn Japanese?"

"My mother learned it as a child when her father was serving in Tokyo. She gave me a few lessons ... it's a long story." Neal got up from the chair and paced impatiently. "Peter, we don't have time for this. We need to investigate the bonds. The way they were speaking, the heist will take place in a few days."

Peter exhaled slowly. He was by no means convinced but Neal's instincts in previous cases had been sound. "You say Mr. Nakahara is a senior vice president at the bank. Give him a call. Tell him what you told me and we'll proceed based on his reaction. Use my phone and put him on speaker." Peter wanted to judge for himself whether Nakahara felt further investigation was warranted.

Neal dialed the number of the bank and after a few redirects was able to connect. Once Nakahara got on the line, things went downhill. Peter gave Neal points for trying to keep the conversation in English, but Nakahara kept reverting to Japanese.

At the end of the call, Peter needed to ask, "What just happened?"

"He's coming over to meet with us at eleven. He takes the threat seriously. He said the bank has had other Samurai bond shipments stolen." Neal eyed him expectantly.

"You've convinced me. Since you're so savvy on the Japanese, anything I should know in dealing with Nakahara?"

"I'm glad you asked. The Japanese place a high value on the observance of proper etiquette." Neal sat back and studied him. "How's your bow? You should practice with me first. Then after you bow to my satisfaction, we should have you do a dress rehearsal downstairs in the bullpen. I wouldn't want you to have stage fright and clutch at the key moment."

Peter groaned. "I knew I shouldn't have asked. Out of here. I have work to do before he comes, and you do too, judging by the stack on your desk."

The meeting with Nakahara went much better than Peter had feared. Apparently it was easier for him to speak English in person than on the phone. He'd brought over a laptop containing the files on the Azuma Bank employees.

While Neal combed through the personnel lists to identify the two men he'd seen, Nakahara explained the history of the Samurai bond thefts. Two other branch banks had been hit over the past nine months: one in Sydney and one in Rome. In both cases, the thieves were able to gain access to the bank vaults and escape with the bonds without a trace of evidence being left behind. The thefts had only been discovered when routine inventories were made. The amount stolen was considerable—over sixteen million dollars.

Neal looked up from the laptop and reported, "I found them. Hiroki Bando and Shogo Awaji. They're associate investment analysts. Both are around thirty years old. They've been with the bank seven years."

Neal returned the laptop to Nakahara who studied their files. "Their job histories with the bank are without blemish," he commented. "They received excellent reviews from their supervisors. If they're involved, they've brought dishonor on themselves and Japan." Nakahara continued to examine their files and frowned. "But there's a problem. They aren't listed as having been in Sydney and Rome when those robberies were committed. However, it's possible they were on vacation during those times and could have traveled there on their own. When I get back to the office I'll have their personnel records sent to you."

"Neal, are you sure of your identification?" Peter asked.

"I'm positive," said Neal. "They're the ones."

Peter turned to Nakahara. "It sounds like there are more people involved than just these two. To obtain evidence, I'd like to place one of our agents undercover. Will you be able to make the necessary arrangements?"

"That won't be a problem," he replied. "I can provide the appropriate clearance. Based on what Mr. Caffrey said, we'll need to move quickly to prevent the robbery. It's being planned for next week, is that correct?"

"That's right," Neal said.

"I'll meet with my team and get back to you this afternoon," Peter promised.

At the afternoon meeting when Peter brought Jones and Diana into the loop, Neal was surprised he didn't immediately announce his decision about who was going in. After all, it was obvious who was the best qualified. Peter made the process so much more drawn out than it needed to be.

Keeping his cards close to his vest, Peter said, "We need someone young who'll be able to establish a rapport with the two suspects and who understands the world of investment banking." He turned to Jones. "How are your trader skills?"

"Beginners level, I'm afraid," Jones admitted. "I've done a little investing for myself, but nothing on the scale these guys do."

Peter ignored Neal's efforts to grab his attention and swiveled to face Diana, "Do you think you could handle it, Diana?"

She shook her head regretfully. "Sorry, this one is totally outside my experience."

"I would do it," Peter said, "but my age will be a factor. I don't know that I'll be able to gain their confidence. Perhaps one of the agents in another division."

Frustrated at Peter's obtuseness, Neal finally broke in. "Aren't you ignoring the clear choice?"

"Oh, really?" Peter eyed him skeptically. "This isn't a clandestine meeting with a thief or card shark. When did you become an expert on stock analysis?"

"I can fake it. I'm the only one who knows Japanese, and you know I'm the best person to gain their confidence."

"Have you ever built a financial model?" Peter challenged. "I don't recall you mentioning a mastery of macros. Or is that another of your hidden talents?"

"It's all a shell game," Neal dismissed. "Making a pitch is an aspect of the fine art of persuasion. The rest is unimportant."

Jones came to his support. "We could probably cram enough into his head to pass muster, Peter. I can help him with his macros. And Neal's right, he could sell anything."

"Richard's a stock analyst," Neal added. "I can ask him to give me some tips."

Peter sat back, looking unconvinced, as Neal smiled at him hopefully.

"But won't they recognize you?" Diana asked. "After all, they saw you at the gala."

"They saw Nick Halden," Neal corrected. "Rich playboy, gambler, always on the lookout for a good time. I just transferred from the Los Angeles branch. I'm friends with the boss's daughter and don't speak Japanese."

"All right," Peter said, finally acknowledging the inevitable. "You'll start on Friday." Fixing him with a stern look, he added, "But that means tomorrow you're having a crash course on investment banking."

"Stock analyst boot camp?" Neal said. "Sign me up!"

Peter had taken his words far too literally.

Neal set down his pen and stretched his back as he examined the mountain of manuals, papers, and diagrams spread out in front of him. When he'd arrived at work that morning, Peter had shepherded him into one of the smaller conference rooms. It had already been stocked with financial instruments of torture. Peter had left him with a stack of assignments and the admonition that only upon satisfactory completion of them would he be allowed to go undercover.

His one "break" had been provided by Jones who made a riveting presentation on Excel macros.

Neal groaned. Why didn't they believe him, when he said he could just wing it? He heard approaching footsteps and quickly buried himself in a thrilling account of stock market investment tools.

Peter entered the room and sat down beside him. "Time for a progress report. How are you coming on your assignments?"

"You're enjoying this far too much, Peter. I mastered enough in the first hour. The rest of this is merely for extra credit."

"Then you're ready for your pop quiz." Peter picked up the performance ratio worksheet Neal had filled out and scanned his answers.

"Maybe after lunch," Neal suggested. "Richard's coming by at noon. Over Chinese takeout, he'll entertain me with the death-defying tale of a day in the life of an investment analyst."

"That does sound gripping. Mind if I join in? Tell you what, I'll supply the takeout." He put the sheet down without comment. Apparently, Neal's answers hadn't raised any red flags.

Neal retrieved the menu from Federal Plaza Restaurant from a folder, sensing a welcome distraction. "I know how much you enjoy mu shu pork. Richard likes shrimp. Let's go with the Szechuan shrimp with chili, and —"

"I'm commandeering this," Peter said, snatching the menu away. "You get back to work. You have an hour to finish at least one other assignment." He slipped the menu into his jacket pocket and headed for the door.

Neal called out to his retreating back. "Travis is also joining us. Be sure to order enough for—"

"Focus, Caffrey."

"So, I'd just finished making the changes to our pitch, when a colleague dumped another stack of rewrites on my desk. Mind you, we were due to make the presentation in five minutes. I finished them with no time to spare and raced to the printer which of course picked that moment to jam. I realize this isn't as hair-raising as your life, but if you're looking for frustration and pain, nothing beats the life of a lowly investment analyst." Richard helped himself to more shrimp out of the container. "Excellent choice, by the way," he added.

Peter had called a timeout to Neal's studies at noon when Richard arrived. Peter had seen Richard several times, but always at Columbia where Richard's studio was next to Neal's. This was Peter's first time to meet his business persona, or at least Richard's interpretation of one. Neal didn't know if he even owned a tie. And his usual day-old scruff now looked like the two or three-day variety. Neal made a note to check with Nakahara about the dress code for the bank. If Richard were typical, he should have stopped shaving yesterday.

"How do you think our analyst-in-training will do?" Peter asked him.

"He'll make a killing," Richard said confidently. "Neal, when are you going in?"

"Tomorrow."

"I'll stand ready. With your luck, you'll probably bring on a Santa Claus rally in the market."

Slanting a glance at Peter, Neal asked, "I'm assuming it wouldn't be allowed for me to invest a little on the side?"

"You better believe it," Peter warned, pointing at him with his chopstick. "I don't want to be investigating Nick Halden for insider trading."

"You're taking away all my fun," Neal grumbled.

"Here's a toy you can play with," Travis said, removing a pen from his pocket. Travis was White Collar's answer to James Bond's Q in MI6. He'd met Richard a couple of weeks ago during the Marie Antoinette con. Now they were dating. Neal liked to think he'd had a role in it. Each of them had come to him separately, asking if the other was seeing anyone and he delivered glowing reports about both of them.

"That looks remarkably like the dog whistle you supplied me with a couple of months ago," Neal said, putting down his rice bowl to examine it.

"It does, doesn't it?" Travis acknowledged with a grin. "I find ballpoint pens to be remarkably adaptable. There's a miniature camera inside with 4 GB of internal memory. It records video and audio. Push the clip once to start and push it again to stop. The battery will last for three hours without recharging."

"Is this the lens?" Neal asked, pointing to a tiny dot above the clip.

"Yes. If Peter allows you to escape from investment analyst hell, we'll practice with it in the lab. It will take a little getting used to."

"You guys have so much more fun than where I work," Richard lamented.

"Don't let this fool you," Neal replied. "The amount of mind-numbing paperwork around here is enough—Peter, what are you writing down?"

"Simply making notes for your next performance review," he said calmly.

Travis quickly stepped in before fireworks erupted. "This should help relieve the tedium of stock analysis," he said, handing Richard a thick book. "It's the book I was telling you about."

Peter asked to see it. Not a surprise since a Klingon was on the cover. "Is Travis trying to get you interested in sci-fi?" he asked Richard.

"Something much more intense. He wants me to sculpt space aliens."

"The annual sci-fi convention, Tac-Con, will be held in February," Travis said. "It's the largest convention of its type in the world. Several competitions are held in conjunction with the show, including ones for artists. There are contests for space imagery, special effects makeup, and lots more. I'm trying to persuade Richard to enter a sculpture in the alien creations category."

Peter was thumbing through the book with interest. "I've never been but have read about it. It draws some of the most famous luminaries in science fiction. Didn't Arthur Clarke attend one year?"

"He did. Last year was the biggest year ever. Many of the stars of Stargate: Atlantis were there. But the best of all was an appearance by Leonard Nimoy." Travis paused. "I even got to meet him," he added in a hushed voice.

Peter closed the book, visibly impressed. "Were you able to get his autograph?"

"Not just his autograph. He even let me get a photo of the two of us together. He was unbelievably gracious." Travis's face softened. "I'll never forget that moment. Some kids have sports celebrities for heroes. Mine was Spock."

Neal knew Peter was an astronomy geek and into sci-fi himself. With any luck, he could draw out this conversation long enough to make Peter forget all about pop quizzes. "I've heard trekkies are divided into two camps over whether the original Star Trek or Star Trek: The Next Generation was more innovative. What do you think, Peter?"

Fifteen minutes later, the food containers were all empty and Travis and Peter were still debating the finer points of the Borg Collective versus warp drive. Neal's plan had worked better than he'd anticipated. Even Richard was holding his own with comments on the evolution of Klingon design over the various iterations.

"Travis showed me pictures from last year's convention," Richard said. "The costumes on some of the fans were so authentic they looked like they could have walked off a movie set."

"We attended N-Con, the gaming convention, last fall in an operation to recover stolen Roman artifacts," Travis said. "Several of the team members wore costumes. Neal went as Mark Antony. Peter rocked it as Julius Caesar."

"I believe there's a cosplay competition in conjunction with Tac-Con," Richard said, unaware of Peter's incomprehensible aversion to costumes. "It's one of the most popular events. Peter, would you like me to send you the link?"

Entertaining as it was to watch Peter slap that suggestion down, Neal knew they were wandering into dangerous territory. He quickly picked up the book Travis had brought and asked him about it.

"It's a review of space aliens and monsters used in the film industry," Travis said. "It's a great resource."

"I haven't sculpted any space aliens in a long time," Richard said, "but in high school, I made a series of clay busts of Star Wars creatures. They weren't bad."

Neal could feel Peter's eyes bore into him. Last September, Peter had gone undercover in a disguise that bore an uncanny resemblance to Han Solo's hirsute companion. It'd been a sensitive subject ever since. The prudent approach would be to ignore Richard's remark, but, realistically, Peter would insist on quizzing Neal anyway. He might as well take his fun while he could. "Was Chewbacca among them?" he asked Richard, keeping a straight face.

"Yeah, I think so."

"I hope you have photos," Neal said. "I could compare it with the one I have of Peter in—"

"I hate to break this up, but it's obvious Neal needs to prepare for a massive amount of exams this afternoon," Peter said hurriedly, shooting him a glare that would freeze a breached warp core.

It was still worth it, Neal thought with a grin as he cleaned up the lunch supplies.

Handing him his container, Travis muttered, "Show me the photo later?"

"It's a deal, as long as I get to see that photo of you and Nimoy."

Neal's co*ckiness is at a new high because of what happened in The Queen's Jewels. His attitude exasperates Peter even as he understands what's behind it. That will change next week. As for Neal's history with Kate, the details are in Caffrey Flashback.

Chapter 3: James Bonds

Chapter Text

Federal Building. Thursday, December 2, 2004.

After lunch, it was nose to the grindstone for Neal Caffrey, investment analyst-in-training. First Peter grilled him with questions on financial modeling techniques. Then Jones reviewed the thrilling world of PowerPoint pitches. Finally, Peter pronounced himself satisfied with Neal's mastery of the black magic of stock investing. Neal knew as long as he viewed it as a high-stakes poker game he'd be fine.

"When do I get my diploma for having survived stock analyst boot camp?" Neal asked, powering off his laptop. "I think I'll start a wall for all my boot camp achievements."

"You get that Columbia diploma, and I'll help you build the wall," Peter said as he stacked up the training materials. "I heard back from Mr. Nakahara. He's arranged for you to start tomorrow. Your workstation is next to one of the suspects, Shogo Awaji. Nakahara has designated the other, Hiroki Bando, to be your onboarding host. What's your plan to gain their confidence?"

"Nick's a social animal. From the way Shogo and Hiroki were downing their martinis, I'm sure they are too. I'll invite them to join me for drinks where I'll insinuate that Nick's gambling debts have become an issue. If I play it right, they'll invite me to join their crew."

"Stick with intel gathering," Peter warned. "Don't make any grandstand plays."

"Speaking of which, I'll need a healthy bankroll."

Peter narrowed his eyes. "How healthy are we talking about?"

"Twenty grand should do it," Neal said casually. If he started with an outrageously high number, the final compromise should be adequate.

"Not happening," Peter said firmly. "I could never get approval. Why do you need so much?"

"For Nick to appear like an easy mark, he'll have to throw money around to grease the wheels."

"How about five grand?"

Neal rolled his eyes. "Please. Are you trying to sabotage me? Ten grand is the bare minimum."

"Will we lose much of it?"

"Not if I can help it."

"I'll see what we can come up with." Peter checked his watch. "What's on your schedule for this afternoon?"

Neal grinned. "Practicing my James Bond technique with my new snooper pen."

Learning how to work the snooper-pen camera that Travis had developed was trivial. Aiming it correctly, however, was a different matter. Neal's first attempts were unusable. After practicing in the lab, he took it on a road trip around the bullpen. That was much more entertaining. He had a grand excuse to pester agents. While chatting with them, he'd take surreptitious photos of their monitors and papers. When he was shooed away from one, he'd hit another target.

Back at the lab, he and Travis went over the results. "Not bad," Travis said. "If you hold the pen closer to the object, the resolution will be better. When I get back from Organized Crime, let's work on it some more."

The Organized Crime Unit was three floors below theirs. Neal knew a few of their agents but hadn't worked with them. Mainly he saw them in the elevator. "Are you assisting on a case?"

"I modified some surveillance equipment for them. Would you like a break? I could use a hand with the boxes."

"Sure. And it will give me another opportunity to practice with the pen. I need fresh subjects."

The floor layout for Organized Crime was similar to that of White Collar with the lab off a short corridor from the elevator bank. As soon as they arrived, one of the techs grabbed Travis for help with a malfunctioning device. Travis's shrug alerted Neal that this was one of those so-called quick consults that could last for an hour or more.

Neal took a few pics in the lab but opted out of mingling in the Organized Crime bullpen. They probably wouldn't be as tolerant of him spying on them. Deciding to return to White Collar, he headed for the elevators. While waiting for one to arrive, he perused the bulletin board. There was the typical assortment of official announcements, reminders, and miscellaneous flyers.

"What are you doing here, Caffrey? Your master let you off your leash?"

Neal spun around to see Agent Joseph Ruiz approaching him. Jones had pointed him out once, but Neal had never talked with him. Evidently, he wasn't a fan.

Ruiz looked to be in his late thirties with slicked-back hair and a strong Brooklyn accent. He reminded Neal of a character in the musical Grease. The way he was acting, he was ready to rumble. "You casing our floor?" Ruiz demanded.

Neal filed away his snarky retort for later. On Ruiz's turf, it wouldn't be wise to add fuel to the flames. "I helped an agent deliver equipment to your lab. I'm leaving now."

Two other agents about the size of linebackers joined Ruiz. Neal usually didn't mind when others stood near him, but these guys were uncomfortably in his face.

Ruiz grabbed Neal's lapel and smoothed it down. Neal could smell his breath mint, a sickly-sweet peppermint. "A word of advice before you leave. Garrett Fowler is a friend of ours. We worked closely together when he was with Violent Crimes. And I take it as a personal affront what you did to him."

Cutting short Neal's protest, he added, "He was a good agent whose reputation was trashed by your lies and distortions. I don't know how you did it, but one thing I do know—you're a criminal and don't belong here. White Collar seriously messed up when they brought you in. The next time you step a millimeter over the line, I'll slam you so fast you won't know what hit you."

As Ruiz spoke, the others formed a tight circle around Neal. One of them shoved him against the wall.

"Ready to leave, Neal?" Travis asked, calling out from the lab door entrance. He strode swiftly towards them. At his approach, the agents stepped back.

"Yeah, let's go." Neal pushed the elevator button.

"I was welcoming Caffrey to Organized Crime," Ruiz said. "Isn't that so, Neal?"

"Sure, thanks for the intro. I look forward to the tour of your valuables that you promised me," Neal said with a cheerful grin.

Fortunately, the elevator arrived before Ruiz could fire back. Once they were inside, Travis asked, "What was that about?"

Neal shrugged. "They're friends of Fowler. I don't think I'll receive any Christmas cards from them."

"Did they threaten you?"

"They're just grade-school bullies," Neal deflected. "Forget it."

Travis wasn't convinced. "From what I could see, it looked like harassment. You should report it or at least inform Peter."

Neal shook his head. "If I make an issue out of it, that will make it worse. This reminded me of when I was a kid and was given a hard time because I wanted to paint rather than play football. Ruiz still has some growing up to do." Neal was comfortable that Travis understood where he was coming from. Travis had once shared his own experience with bullies in high school.

"Be careful not to provoke them. Don't wander around Organized Crime after dark."

"Agreed."

"Did you record it on your pen?"

"Of course."

Peter paused reviewing the report Agent Tricia Wiese had sent him and rubbed his forehead. Tricia had been on a training assignment with the Behavioral Analysis Unit in Quantico for the past several weeks. While there, she'd assisted OPR with the investigation into Fowler. Should he go ahead and discuss the findings with Neal or wait till after the mission? Peter walked over to the glass wall overlooking the bullpen and chuckled. Neal was still practicing with his snooper pen but everyone was on to him. Whenever he approached, they struck an outrageous pose.

This was Neal's first undercover assignment since Fowler attempted to frame him. He'd been cleared only a little over a week ago and was still riding a high from a successful con where he'd essentially gone rogue to clear his name. He was by far the most suitable person for the present op, but would he take the proper precautions? Was he ready to follow someone else's script or would his self-confidence lead him to take unacceptable risks? And how would Tricia's findings fit into the equation?

Peter stood outside his office and gave the double finger-point for Neal to join him in his office. Gesturing for Neal to take a seat, he asked, "So, you feel ready to take on Azuma Bank?"

"Macros: check. Spreadsheets: check. Data analysis: check." Neal glibly ticked off his accomplishments on his fingers. "Bring on Wall Street."

"Remember, you're back in the FBI now. Follow procedures. No wandering off script."

"Got it." Neal's expression grew serious. "You don't have to worry. I'll play by the rules."

"Good, I'm holding you to that." Peter paused and tapped a closed folder in front of him. "I have some news for you on a different front. I received a report from Tricia this afternoon."

At those words, Neal's relaxed sprawl transformed into full alert. "Has Fowler been found?"

Peter shook his head. "Not yet, but now we know where he went. Once Tramonte was arrested with the earrings, Fowler used an alias to rent a car. This was shortly after midnight the same night. It took old-fashioned legwork to trace his route. He'd taken a taxi to Times Square, paying cash, and then walked a few blocks to the Port Authority Bus Terminal where he rented a car and drove to LaGuardia Airport. At first, it was assumed he'd taken a flight under a different alias. Agents combed through all the flight records to verify passenger identities. When nothing turned up, they suspected he'd taken the shuttle to JFK or Newark and we went through the same procedure at both the other airports. That's why it's taken this long."

"That's the tedious part of being an FBI agent I'd rather avoid."

"You need to thank those agents for their perseverance. Eventually they discovered he rented a second car at Newark Airport and drove to the Ottawa International Airport."

"This is much more elaborate than I would have expected. What was his destination?"

"Buenos Aires."

Neal frowned. "So he was working for Adler."

"The probability is high," Peter acknowledged. "Local officials are trying to trace his movements from the airport after he arrived in Buenos Aires."

"Adler was our lead suspect," Neal said. "Now that it's confirmed, I suppose I should feel some satisfaction, but the fact that Fowler's out of our reach makes it a hollow victory."

"My working theory is that Adler tried to drive a wedge between you and the FBI so he could recruit you again. He probably thought framing you for the theft would disillusion you so much that you'd either quit or be forced to leave."

Neal nodded. "Not a bad plan. It almost worked. But I never would go back to work for him. Last spring when I saw Kate, she said Adler was planning something big. She tried to get me to agree to join them. When that didn't work, Adler must have decided to try this. But I still don't understand why he'd go to this much trouble for me."

"Your skills are well-known, and he's had the chance to experience them for himself. You told me that Adler acted as a father figure for a while. He could want you back in his family."

"Maybe, but he never struck me as the sentimental type. He had no trouble in giving me the shaft during the Ponzi scheme he ran. Is Wilhelm Salvage still being monitored?"

Wilhelm Salvage was a company operating off the East Coast. Its specialties were sunken ships and dropped cargo. Last spring it had been investigated because of possible connections to Vincent Adler. Adler's father had immigrated to the States from Germany shortly after World War II and had spent most of his career working at a company that built submarine parts. Jones had researched Adler's background and raised the possibility of Adler being aware of a sunken U-boat filled with looted assets. His theory had sounded implausible at the time—Peter had wondered if Jones's addiction to video gaming wasn't leaking into his work—but it was hard to think of any other reason why someone like Adler would be interested in Wilhelm Salvage. "It is," Peter said, "but there's been no report of suspicious activity."

"Jones thought Adler needed my help but there are many excellent safecrackers he could hire. I'm not an expert on looted Nazi art and I'm no Indiana Jones."

Peter sought to lighten the mood. "Maybe Adler's confused. Indy wore a fedora too."

Neal grimaced. "His was a little too beaten up for my taste. Although, I suppose I could get a whip, start practicing ..." He co*cked an eyebrow at Peter.

Peter gave an inner sigh. This conversation was going adrift. Hadn't he just told himself Neal needed to show more control? No more talk about Indy. "There's something about you that Adler wants. Figuring out what that is will be our next step. At least he's not trying to kill you. Possibly he'll give up and start pursuing someone else for whatever he has in mind, but I'm not counting on it."

Neal nodded, flipping a pen through his fingers as he looked out the window. "I suppose he may want me because he's comfortable with the way I work, but that seems a stretch. If I think of anything else, I'll get back to you."

"At least you don't have to worry about your mom and Ellen in WITSEC. The frame attempt doesn't appear to have anything to do with your father."

"Yeah, there's that." Neal didn't appear to draw any comfort from the thought.

"You needed to know, but I don't want you to be distracted when you're undercover. Will this be a problem?"

"No," said Neal. "It gives a little closure to what went on. It's easier to move forward, knowing why Fowler acted as he did."

"Good, that's what I'd hoped." Peter placed Tricia's folder in the top drawer of his desk. "Have you heard anything from your cousin Henry? This is his first week back at work, right?"

Neal nodded. "He called me Tuesday evening. He'd mentioned over Thanksgiving that he was looking forward to getting back to the daily grind. He meets with Allen Winston this week to determine how best to reintegrate into Winston-Winslow. It may not be easy. He's been on a leave of absence off and on for nearly nine months."

"Henry will make a quick study of it. Has he already started?"

"Monday was his first day."

"How'd it go?"

Neal shrugged. "I guess okay. We didn't talk long as I was racing to get ready for the gala, but he sounded fine." A look of amusem*nt crossed his face. "I think he was calling simply to touch base. At Thanksgiving, I'd given him a hard time for not letting us know what he was up to. "

"I'm sure his mother Noelle threw in her two cents on the need to communicate."

"How about El? Is she nervous about Saturday?" El's community theater had been working on an Agatha Christie play, The Hollow. Opening night was only two days away. Neal planned to attend it with Peter.

"Immersed in her part, that's for sure. All week she's been muttering her lines. When she prepares dinner, over dishes ... A couple of nights ago, she talked in her sleep." Peter chuckled at the memory. "It was a surreal experience to be awakened by someone saying, 'If I can't have you, no one shall!' "

"Is she practicing with Satchmo? He'd make a great Inspector."

"I'll have to suggest that. Are you ready to star in your own production of Wall Street?"

Neal grinned as he got up. "Greed is good, Peter."

"You sound way too comfortable when you say that. Don't let the role seduce you."

Peter maintained his smile until Neal left the office, but once the door was closed he pulled out Tricia's report once more. Had he made the right decision in not telling Neal that Henry was investigating Fowler? Tricia reported that Henry was identified by a ticket agent at LaGuardia who'd remembered speaking with him on Tuesday evening. From what Neal said, he was unaware Henry was in town. Peter was confident that Neal wouldn't conceal something like that from him. There was no reason to, and Neal would be worried about keeping Henry safe.

So whatever Henry was up to, he was hiding it from Neal. Peter got up and went over to the window. In his head, he could hear Henry's grandfather, Graham Winslow, grumbling about Henry being a young whippersnapper.

Neal had told Henry about Fowler over Thanksgiving. Peter suspected Henry wasn't only keeping Neal in the dark. Win-Win probably didn't know anything about it either. Henry had spent several years on a secret agenda to expose a corrupt music house. Had he embarked on the same course with Fowler?

Peter couldn't prevent Henry from researching Fowler, but he could try to keep Neal out of it. He was about to go undercover. The last thing he needed was to hear what Henry was up to. Henry's actions could easily plunge Neal into another round of hidden agendas and dangerous schemes similar to what had gone on last summer—not something anyone wanted. Henry knew that if Neal found out, he'd want to be included. That's why he hadn't told him.

Peter wanted to give Henry the chance to explain himself before taking any steps. Conceivably, Henry hadn't discovered where Fowler went and had dropped the matter. Perhaps his work would keep him too busy to pursue his inquiries. But Peter's gut was telling him otherwise. He'd just got Neal back on track. Now he'd have to figure out how to do the same with Henry.

"You must be Nick Halden. I'm Hiroki Bando. I've been designated your sponsor. Welcome to Azuma Manhattan."

With that, Neal was greeted into corporate America. On Friday morning, Hiroki was waiting for him when he arrived at the seventeenth floor of Azuma Bank. Hiroki's long hair was swept back behind his ears. He had the lean, hungry look of a predator about him. He wouldn't be easy to charm.

Hiroki led him down the corridor to the trading room. "How are you adjusting to New York? Quite a change from Los Angeles, I imagine."

"I was glad to leave. L.A. is a little too sedate for my taste."

"I hear you. You'll find all the action you want here." Pausing at the entrance to the trading room, he added, "When I saw your photo, I thought you looked familiar. Now I remember. Weren't you at the gala on Tuesday?"

"That's right," Neal said easily. "Were you there? I don't recall seeing you."

"Not the usual method of onboarding," Hiroki said, not answering his question. "How'd that happen?"

"I know Mr. Nakahara's daughter Keiko. We attended UCLA together. She gave me a couple of tickets to welcome me to New York."

"Nothing like connections with the boss's daughter to smooth your way," Hiroki commented. "It didn't take you long to hook up with someone. Who was that blonde you were with?"

"Friend of a friend. Nice, isn't she?" Despite the martinis, Hiroki had been remarkably observant that night. It was a valuable lesson to be careful around him.

Neal's desk was in the analyst section, toward the back of the large trading room. The traders and market-makers took up most of the space. As he scanned the four monitors in front of him and the array of electronic equipment and display boards on the walls, he couldn't help thinking about all the havoc he could create on Wall Street with a few clicks of his keys. This was power, and it was mesmerizing.

Orientation meetings took up most of the morning, but at eleven, a welcoming coffee gave him a chance to mingle with the other analysts. The trading floor was a melting pot of ethnicities. They were a friendly group. Nick Halden was in his element, making friends and exchanging trading room banter.

Shogo had been away from his desk when Neal arrived, but he introduced himself at the coffee. Shogo looked as young as Neal although he was several years older. On the surface, he didn't appear to be much of a threat. If Hiroki was a panther, Shogo was his cub. Neal suspected he went along with whatever Hiroki told him to do. Shogo's workstation was to the right of Neal's. Sitting on Neal's left was Vijay Khan, a friendly South Asian. Of everyone there, he was the most welcoming. He also seemed very capable. Vijay could prove useful.

Neal took advantage of the lunch break to take a walk. He called in a report to Peter from a coffee shop. "I spent most of the morning in orientation, but I'm making contacts. I'm working on revisions for a presentation to a client. No fire drills so far."

"Fire drills?"

"Gotta talk the talk, Peter. Emergency presentations. Richard gave me a glossary of lingo—bake-offs, beauty pageants, low-hanging fruit—I got 'em all covered."

Peter chuckled. "Adding Gordon Gekko to your list of aliases, are you? Any progress with the suspects?"

"Well, yes, as a matter of fact. Hiroki asked me about the gala. He's impressed I know the boss's daughter and has decided I'm a person worth cultivating. I've been invited to happy hour with him and Shogo. I intend to take advantage of that."

"I want a report of what you find out."

"It may be very late," Neal warned.

"Not a problem. Call me afterward. And be careful with those martinis."

"Don't worry, Peter. You called me James Bonds, remember? They're talking my language."

Peter only had Satchmo's company for most of the evening since El was at the final rehearsal before tomorrow's premiere performance. Even so, she returned home before he'd heard from Neal.

"How'd the dress rehearsal go?" he asked, meeting her at the door.

"Okay, but it took forever," El said, hanging up her coat. "There were several scenes that were not coming together like we wanted. Our nerves are all starting to show. Still, if we're nervous now, perhaps that means we'll be fine tomorrow." She reached down to stroke Satchmo who was rubbing a welcome against her legs.

"That's always been my experience," Peter assured her. "Worrying about an upcoming op is the worst. Once the curtain rises, you'll be in full control, and you'll love the adulation of the audience. Would you like a nightcap to calm those pre-performance jitters?"

"Please, a glass of wine would be heavenly." El curled up on the couch. She plumped a couple of cushions and placed them behind her back.

When Peter returned with her drink and a beer for himself, he sat next to her. "Neal will meet us here. He and I will go to the theater together. What time will you need to be there?"

"Five o'clock. We'll have one final rehearsal in the afternoon and then I'll have a couple of hours off before I need to get back. What are your plans for the day?"

The ringing of their phone interrupted what he was going to say. "That's probably Neal. I told him to give me a call when he got back." He picked up the receiver.

Chapter 4: Shaken, Not Stirred

Chapter Text

Neal's loft. December 3, 2004. Friday night.

It was after eleven by the time Peter arrived at Neal's apartment. June had given him a key for emergency use. Did this qualify as an emergency? Probably not, but he was glad he didn't have to wake her. If Neal was simply drunk, no need to rub it in by alerting June. Peter would be doing plenty of that on his own.

All was quiet on the ground floor. Trying not to make any noise, he climbed the stairs to Neal's loft.

There was no answer to his knock. After a second knock, Peter went in. Neal normally carried tidiness to what Peter considered was an obsessive extreme but not tonight. His jacket had been tossed on the couch. His tie was dangling on a lampshade. One of the chairs was overturned—that must have been the chair that wandered off. An opened bottle of water was on the table with another one, luckily unopened, on the floor. Groans and the sound of running water were coming from the bathroom.

"Neal?" Peter called out from the hallway. "It's Peter. You okay in there?"

More groans. "Go away." The bathroom door slammed shut.

Wincing in sympathy, Peter put away the supplies El had packed: Gatorade, the Burke hangover remedy, breakfast makings. He left his overnight bag outside Neal's door. It looked like his fears were unfounded. Once he'd checked on Neal, he could probably go home. Neal would have a killer headache, but he'd be okay after he slept it off. Peter righted the chair and gathered up the clothes, putting them into yes, a heap, but a tidy one. Neal hadn't come out yet and the door was still closed. "You sure you don't need any help?"

"Just go—let me die in peace." It was painfully obvious what was going on. A good lesson to be more prudent next time, but he'd save his lecture for now. When Neal came out of the bathroom, he'd more than likely give Peter grief for overreacting, and then Peter would read him the riot act. Irresponsible kid, getting El upset ...

Peter rummaged in his bag for the latest issue of Sky and Telescope. At least he had decent reading material and didn't have to resort to Neal's art journals. Sitting down on the couch, he called El with a quick update, reporting that Neal was firmly entrenched in stage two and he had everything under control. Opening the magazine, he settled in to read.

Ten minutes later and Neal still hadn't emerged. With a sigh, Peter went back to the hallway. He was on the point of breaking down the door when it slowly opened.

"Peter, I ..." Neal was holding on to the doorjamb, barely managing to keep himself upright. His red-rimmed eyes stood out in sharp contrast to the sweaty pallor of his face. He was shaking so hard his teeth were chattering.

"Jeez, kid, what did you do to yourself?" Peter grabbed him as he swayed at the door. "You need to be in bed."

Neal clung to the jamb with a death grip. "Not ... good ... idea," he managed to say, breathing heavily. "Too far ..." He placed a hand over his mouth, swallowing convulsively.

"Think you can stay upright for a few seconds? I'll bring a chair over."

Nodding, Neal managed to avoid collapse till a chair was underneath him. Peter brought over the throw from the couch and wrapped it around him. Neal clung to the throw gratefully but the additional warmth didn't seem to provide much relief. Pulling over another chair, Peter sat opposite him and lifted his chin to look at his eyes. They were almost black, the pupils so dilated that his blue irises had virtually disappeared. "You need to see a doctor. I think you were drugged."

Neal grabbed hold of his hand. "No ... don't ... If I move an inch, I'll ... be sick."

Peter studied the disheveled wreck of his consultant and went through his options. He could call 911 but Neal was coherent and responsive. Was it really worth subjecting him to an all-night visit in the emergency room? The FBI had emergency medics on call. Neal staggered up and lurched back into the bathroom as Peter took out his cell phone.

Sunlight was streaming into the room when Peter awoke. Rotating his head, he rubbed the crick in the neck he'd gotten from sleeping on Neal's couch. It was already eight o'clock. When was the last time he'd slept in so late? On the other hand, when was the last time he'd stayed up till three o'clock in the morning? Rubbing his eyes, he looked over at the bed.

The man of the hour was a misshapen lump buried under the covers. He wasn't moving. A good sign? Peter went over to the bed and slipped his hand under the comforter to feel Neal's forehead. He was rewarded with a slap and what could only be described as a growl. His grandmother had said that as a baby, Neal growled like a bear when he was grumpy. Well, Baby Bear was in superb form this morning.

He pulled the comforter back from Neal's face, figuring he must need some fresh air by now. His face was flushed, his hair a matted tangle from the sweats he'd had during the night. His eyes were still closed. Peter felt his forehead again and wasn't slapped away this time. No fever. That had been one of the danger signs to watch out for. The doctor had assured him Neal would recover quickly.

After starting the coffee, Peter moved into the bathroom, relieved that El had insisted he bring a change of clothes. While he was shaving, El called to ask about the patient.

"Still asleep. The worst was over by around three and we were finally able to get some rest."

"I assume the symptoms didn't get any worse after our last call?"

"That's right. The toxicology report came back shortly after two. The dose he'd been given wasn't strong enough to require hospitalization."

"How are you supposed to treat it?"

"Liquids and food in his stomach. I talked with the doctor about the Burke pickle cure, and he said it was better than any commercial preparation we could buy. If it affects Neal as it does me, it will also take care of getting him to eat."

"You may have a hard time convincing him to take it but stand your ground. You're a good man, Peter Burke."

"Can't hear that often enough." He stepped outside the bathroom to check on Neal. "Gotta go, the lump's moving."

"Ur-hmphf?" Neal was still not at his charming best. Squinting up at Peter, his eyes swollen from sleep, he took one look at him and collapsed back on the bed, putting the pillow over his face.

Peter poured out a glass of water and removed the pillow. "Time to rejoin the living, sunshine."

"Must I?"

"Yep, doctor's orders. You're due for another pill. Trust me, this will help."

Neal looked pitifully at him, but dutifully hoisted himself up and took the glass. Swallowing the small pill as if it'd been the size of a hockey puck, he collapsed back on the pillows.

Peter sat on the edge of the bed next to him. "How are you feeling?"

"You don't wanna know."

"What was the last thing you remember?"

"I called you ... Then things went downhill. I was sick in the bathroom. You were there, right?"

"Yeah, I came over shortly after your call."

"That's when it got crazy." Neal rubbed his forehead. "I must have been tripping big time. There were other people here, poking and prodding me. A vampire sucked my blood."

Peter chuckled. "Not quite. That was a Bureau doctor drawing blood, not Bela Lugosi, but you weren't very coherent at the time. You appeared to be suffering from a drug overdose and I wanted a blood sample to make sure. I called the FBI emergency medic and reported your symptoms. The doctor arrived shortly afterward. By the time he got here, you'd started hallucinating."

"Will I live?"

Neal was joking but he needed to understand it had been a close call. "You were lucky it wasn't worse. You were given MDEA. From what you told me, it was probably administered at the poker club."

Neal's eyes widened. "Ecstasy?"

"Not quite. Ecstasy is MDMA. This is in the same family. Luckily, the effects are milder and dissipate more rapidly. Your symptoms weren't severe enough to require hospitalization. And, looking on the bright side, by the time the doctor arrived, there was no need to pump your stomach. You'd already done a very efficient job of that on your own."

"Don't remind me." Neal glanced around the room, his eyes focusing on the couch with the pillow and blanket still on it. "You stayed here the whole night?" At Peter's nod, he muttered, "God, I'm sorry. Was I as sick as I remember?"

"And then some." Getting up, Peter went to the fridge and got out the thermos of his magic elixir. He poured a small amount into a glass and took it over to Neal. "Drink up. You'll thank me."

Neal lifted his head and eyed the green liquid with disgust, wrinkling his nose at the smell. "What is that?"

"Pickle juice and a few other ingredients you probably don't want to know about. It replenishes your electrolytes."

"I'm already in enough pain. Are you a sad*st?"

"No, I'm your boss and we have mission-critical planning to do," Peter said relentlessly. "I need you alert. Drink."

"I'm dying here," Neal said with a moan. "Let me have my final moments in peace."

"You won't feel that way for long if you'll just drink this. Cowboy up, Caffrey."

Neal slowly righted himself and sat on the edge of the bed. With one last soulful look at Peter, he reluctantly obeyed. Sometimes his resemblance to Satchmo was uncanny, but Peter had long ago learned to resist pleading looks from both of them.

Gingerly sipping some of the juice, Neal said, "It's not that bad, you know. Looks and smells worse than it tastes."

"That's the spirit!" Peter beamed at yet another convert to the Burke miracle cure.

When Neal shuffled off to the bathroom, he took the pickle juice along.

With the recovery well in hand, Peter started on breakfast. Neal was in for a treat, and after the night they'd had, Peter deserved one too.

It was a Burke tradition that the men made pancakes for the family. One of Peter's earliest memories of his grandfather was of him standing at the stove making blueberry pancakes for Peter and his brother. Come to think of it, his grandfather's stove looked a lot like Neal's old-fashioned one. El had mixed up the batter while he packed last night. He had no idea what skillets Neal owned so brought along his cast iron griddle. By the time Neal emerged from the shower, looking noticeably more alert, the first buckwheat pancakes were ready. The coffee was made, and the maple syrup and butter were already on the table.

Neal looked at the table in confusion. "What's all this?"

Peter poured him a glass of orange juice. "It's called breakfast. A quaint New York tradition. You may have heard of it."

Neal stared at him. "You did all this for me?"

"Part of the package deal," Peter said with a shrug. "After your call last night, El insisted. Making breakfast is my get-out-of-the-doghouse card."

"It wasn't your fault. How did El ... oh, right." Neal sighed. "She overheard. You put me on speaker. Was that absolutely necessary?"

"Technically, I didn't. El pushed the button herself. You were quite entertaining."

Neal lowered his head into his hands. "Don't remind me. It's all coming back."

Peter poured him a mug of coffee. "Don't worry about it. I didn't record it."

"That's a comfort." Neal looked at the stack of pancakes and added, "I appreciate this, but I don't think I can eat two."

"Give it a try," Peter urged. "The doctor said food would be good for you."

Neal shrugged, poured a little syrup over the pancakes, and took a bite. "Peter, I'm impressed. This is good."

"Don't act so surprised. There's more to me than deviled ham, you know." Peter brought over a plate for himself and joined him at the table. "So about yesterday evening ... You told me you're part of their crew. How'd that happen?"

"Yesterday over drinks, I overheard them talking about me in Japanese. They were impressed that I know the boss's daughter. I'd given them the impression that Nick is quite the playboy, always ready for a good time, and they leaped on it. We regaled each other with tales of our escapades. Hiroki is the leader. Shogo does whatever he says. They've been in New York for a year." Neal seemed more alert now that he wasn't focusing on the misery of the previous night.

"Do they travel to the other branches?"

"Some, but I couldn't get many specifics out of them. I asked them about their travels—it was a natural fit after I'd talked about my worldwide adventures—and they mentioned the strip joints in Sydney. Talked about Italian women being babes. Nothing specific to Rome. Anyway, by the end of happy hour, we were all pals."

Peter helped himself to more syrup. "How'd you wind up at the poker club?"

"Nick may have let it slip that he has a fondness for gambling, often with disastrous results. Turns out they belong to a club and so they took Nick along."

"Where's the club?"

"Back room of the Golden Lotus restaurant in Chinatown. High-stakes gambling."

Peter made a note. "The vice unit may have further intel on it."

"The drinks came without my ordering any. I do know how to exercise restraint even though after last night you may not believe it. That stuff ..." Neal shook his head glumly. "Normally I drink wine or vodka during a con because it's harder to mask any additive. I only had two vodka martinis at the bar and I think only a couple of drinks at the club."

"Don't beat yourself up. MDEA is tasteless, so you couldn't have detected it. I'm glad you were trying to limit the amount. If you'd drunk much more, we would have been forced to make that trip to the hospital. After this op is finished we'll look into the Golden Lotus. Vice will be able to bust them for substance abuse but for the moment we don't want to raise any suspicions." Peter paused and raised a brow. "I assume Nick had bad luck gambling."

"The worst," Neal agreed sadly. "He was really getting upset. During a break, Shogo and Hiroki took him aside and offered their pal a sweet deal. They're about to make a big score. They told Nick they'd cut him in for a piece of the action. Nick's so gullible that I bet they're planning to make him their fall guy."

Peter eyed Neal uneasily. "How much money did poor Nick lose?"

"Funny thing about that. Just when it looked like he was down to his last buck, the gambling gods must have taken pity on him. On his last hand, when he was so plastered he could barely sit up straight, he cleaned up. Wound up being five grand ahead."

Peter chuckled. "After seeing you and Henry in action at Thanksgiving, I'm not surprised."

"Hey, Henry and I were kind to you guys," Neal protested.

"I'll give you credit for the first night. But the second?"

Neal grinned sheepishly and busied himself eating the remaining bite of pancake on his plate.

"More pancakes?" Peter asked.

"Maybe one more, thanks. You know, that extra five grand would be a good investment in future undercover work."

Peter poured two additional pancakes onto the griddle. "I'll take that under advisem*nt. Do you have any idea when this 'big score' will take place?"

"They promised Nick it'd be soon, but no specifics. They said they were waiting for the final arrangements. Their godfather, as they called him, was taking care of it for them. That must be the person who's also supplying them with the vault access information."

Peter took a sip of coffee while he considered Neal's words. It wasn't a surprise that there was someone higher up. But smoking him out wouldn't be easy. "Any hints as to who their godfather is?"

"No. They're playing it close to the vest." Neal stood up and refilled his mug. "When they were talking among themselves, they used the word kumicho to describe him. That's a term used within the yakuza crime syndicate to describe a boss. It strikes me that Hiroki and Shogo are entranced with the yakuza culture. They've probably seen too many samurai movies or played too many video games."

"They may not merely be fascinated by it," Peter warned. "They could be members." He carried over the plate of extra pancakes. "What's your experience with the yakuza?"

Neal reached for the syrup. "Only second hand. Keller tried to get me interested in doing a job for them. After researching them, I turned him down."

Peter knew Neal had confessed to a couple of thefts he'd made while working with Matthew Keller, but he'd given the bare minimum of supporting detail. Keller operated overseas and Peter's knowledge of the criminal was limited, but what he'd heard had been troubling. Someday he would have to get Neal to open up about what he knew.

"Hiroki and Shogo peppered their speech with yakuza terms, especially at the poker club after they'd been drinking. They even joked about cutting off the tip of one of my fingers as an initiation rite into their crew."

Peter put down his fork and stared at him. "You're taking that awfully calmly."

"They weren't serious ... I think." Neal grimaced. "Although, who knows? Nick is such a fresh-faced kid that they treat him with disdain. Their opinion of Nick—which they expressed quite openly—is insulting," he added contentedly. "But that's not all. I caught glimpses of their tattoos at the poker club. Shogo rolled up his sleeves while playing poker. I glimpsed Hiroki's tat on his shoulders when he loosened his tie. Both of them have the intricate full-color yakuza-style tattoo. That doesn't prove anything by itself, since that style's popular now with non-yakuza members, but it adds to the evidence."

"Do you remember the tats well enough to draw them?"

Neal nodded. "Hiroki's design in particular was distinctive. It included a symbol that may be meaningful. Monday I hope to find out more. They're the only Japanese in my section of the trading floor, and they like to use their native language to talk to each other. They're confident Nick's too much a lightweight to understand them."

"I don't like you going solo on this, and if they're with the yakuza, we should bring in Organized Crime. How can you sniff out who their godfather is?"

"I may be able to find a paper trail. Eventually they could drop a name."

"I have something else in mind. It's time for a squeeze play. While you work on Hiroki and Shogo, we need a big gun at the top." Peter carried his plate to the counter and refilled his coffee.

"Who do you have in mind?"

"I'll fill you in on the details this evening. I'm heading for the office straight from here."

"What's our schedule for tonight?"

"El needs to be at the playhouse at five. After we drop her off, I'll take you to Donatella's."

Neal's face lit up. "That's your favorite restaurant. I've been looking forward to going there."

"We'll open them up. It'll be quiet. I'll update you there." Peter glanced over at Neal finishing his last pancake. Chalk up another success for the pickle cure. "After you get dressed, I'll drop you off at Columbia on my way to work."

Neal blanched, staring wide-eyed at Peter like he'd just announced the coming of the Apocalypse. "I'd almost forgotten. This is the fourth, right?"

"Last time I checked. Why?"

Neal moaned and put a hand to his head. "I'm so screwed. Our fencing club's competing against Yale at one this afternoon."

Peter eyed him doubtfully. "You better call in sick. After being drugged, your coordination's bound to be off."

"You don't understand. They're counting on me—we don't have that many members. Jones is bringing his nephew Ethan to the match. And that's not all. Fiona's coming. This will be her first time to see me fence." Neal propped his chin on a propped-up fist while staring at his plate as if that last bite of pancake could provide a solution to the disaster looming in front of him.

"Sorry, but I don't think it's a good idea. Just tell them the truth. You got wasted on an assignment."

Neal glared at him. "Very helpful. They'll either label me a drunk or a wimp. No, I have to do this."

Peter went into the kitchen and poured out another glass of pickle juice. "Drink up, kid. This helped me survive college in some of my darkest hours. Maybe it will do the same for you."

"I'm so screwed." Aidan glared at Neal and Richard in turn, daring them to say otherwise.

The three of them were finishing an early lunch at Café 212 in the student center before heading over to the fencing match. If they hadn't already agreed to meet, Neal would have begged off. After all the pancakes he'd wolfed down in the morning, there was no way he could be hungry. But given that he'd slept through the morning lecture, a jolt of caffeine was essential to survive fencing. He really hadn't planned on eating that cheese sandwich. Now, glancing down at the few remaining crumbs, he was strongly tempted to get a second. What was in that pickle juice co*cktail anyway?

Richard regarded Aidan skeptically. "I fail to understand why an invitation to spend Christmas with Keiko and her parents is cause for panic."

"You haven't met her mom. She's nice but barely speaks English. How am I going to win any points with her? And then Keiko's dad ..." Aidan set down his burger and exhaled noisily. "Whenever he sees me, he fixes me with a cold stare like he's gotten out his magnifying glass and is scrutinizing every imperfection."

"This coming from our fencing captain," Neal said, rolling his eyes. "You're supposed to inspire us with your sang-froid. You'll be fine. Just don't wear your jeans with the knee rips."

Aidan pointed at him with a french fry. "You can do better than that. After all, you're the expert on Japan."

"Check your socks," Neal said. "I'm serious," he added when they laughed. "Make sure they don't have holes in them. You'll need to go around in socks at their place."

"Here's a surefire way to dazzle them," Richard suggested. "Get some reindeer socks like those turkey socks Neal and Peter wore at Thanksgiving. They're bound to impress them."

"You're no help at all," Aidan huffed. "What am I going to talk about with them? Not my hacks, for sure, and my videos are difficult to explain. Keiko said her father is still upset she's not going for an MBA, and her art is a lot more accessible than mine."

Hard not to feel for the guy. Aidan had been there for him during the frame attempt by Fowler last month, hacking FBI equipment with nerves of steel that would have made Superman jealous. Impressing a potential father-in-law was clearly several orders of magnitude scarier. "Why don't you learn a little about Japanese fencing?" Neal suggested.

Aidan's expression grew intent as he considered the idea. "Columbia has an active kendo club. I could compare European and Japanese fencing techniques and impress the hell out of Mr. Nakahara. He'll have to award me points for my interest in Japanese culture."

Richard chuckled. "When actually you're just interested in Keiko."

Aidan shrugged happily. "What about you two? Any Christmas plans?"

"I'm going to Hawaii after exams," Neal said, ignoring their groans. "Peter's brother is marrying my aunt. A family reunion is in the works. I'll think of you when I'm lounging on the beach." He turned to Richard. "I don't need to ask what you'll be doing."

Aidan chimed in. "Yes, how many sci-fi movies can you sit through during the holidays?"

"Travis keeps ordering more," Richard admitted. "He's taking advantage of our days off to kick-start my appreciation of the subtleties of space creatures. Between Christmas and New Year's we're going to binge on all ten Star Trek movies."

"You're not only focusing on Star Trek, are you?" Aidan asked. "Some of them are very dated."

"Don't let Travis hear you say that," Richard warned. "But don't worry. He also has several others on tap. We're hitting the ones with the best creatures. My favorite is Stargate Atlantis. I'm impressed at how well they manage the CGI on a limited budget, and their creature creation is state of the art." Richard's mention of CGI propelled Aidan into discussing digital effects, and the next several minutes were consumed with talk of alien creatures, special effects, and the upcoming convention. It made Neal tempted to participate in the convention too.

Aidan called a halt to the discussion of other worlds when he pointed out the need to head to the gym in this world. Neal could have happily postponed it a while longer. His head still throbbed.

"Are Jones and Ethan coming?" Richard asked.

"No, Jones texted me this morning," Neal said. "Ethan came down with a cold. I was looking forward to seeing him again."

"So just Fiona to cheer us on," Aidan said, standing up. "Keiko will be at a class."

Richard turned to Neal. "This is the first time she's seen you fence, isn't it? It's like a medieval joust. You'll be her champion."

"Just what I needed—more pressure." Maybe he should have brought along a thermos of pickle juice.

Aidan slipped on his jacket. "Didn't knights wear something in their lady's honor? Ribbons, a flower?"

"Better not ask Fiona to give you anything," Richard said. "She'll probably string a lute around your neck and make you sing between bouts."

Neal looked at them, surprised. "Where'd all this medieval jousting talk come from? You two are die-hard modernists."

Richard shrugged. "I saw that Pre-Raphaelite painting you're working on. Knights, code of chivalry—I figured I was talking your language."

"That was just a trial effort, an experiment that at the moment is going nowhere." The painting was a sore subject. He'd intended it to serve as a launch pad for a future abstract, but inspiration wasn't coming. "Can you imagine what Stockman would say if I told her I was trying to bring Pre-Raphaelite concepts into the twenty-first century?"

"Better not try," Aidan advised. "She'd get out her medieval rack to use on you."

As they exited the student center, Richard added helpfully, "She could be merciful and only boil you in oil."

From what they were saying, he might as well abandon the concept, Neal thought glumly. Better to toss it now before letting his advisor see it. He still believed the idea had potential. He'd been inspired by the Tale of Genji screens. Those enamel-bright colors had reminded him of the palette in Pre-Raphaelite paintings. And both painting schools extolled a romantic code of chivalry. What would a twenty-first-century interpretation of that look like? The world would have to wait a while longer to find out.

When they arrived at the gym, the floor was being readied for the competition. Neal didn't expect many spectators since Yale didn't have the large alumni base that Harvard had commanded a couple of weeks ago. They discussed strategy while suiting up in the locker room. Richard was a novice fencer and would only compete in the foil bout. Aidan and Neal were slated for both the sabre and épée competitions.

Aidan glanced over at Richard's locker as he got out his fencing jacket. "Is that the voodoo doll from your studio?"

"No, this is a new one, customized to bring out my pirate blood," Richard said, looking more nervous by the moment. "Have you heard anything about my opponent?"

"The Yale team's not that strong. You have a good shot," Neal said, seeking to reassure him. He leaned over to look at Richard's latest voodoo creation and lost his balance, having to grab onto the locker door to keep from toppling over. Not the smoothest move for Fiona's knight.

"You okay?" Aidan asked, giving him a startled look.

"Yeah, I'm fine," Neal said, giving himself a swift mental kick. He'd spent the past hour disguising how he felt only to blow it in the final lap.

"You sure?" Richard eyed him worriedly. "You look a little green to me."

Probably from all the pickle juice he'd drunk. Neal played Peter's words in his head: Cowboy up, Caffrey. He zipped up his fencing jacket and slapped on a smile designed to inspire even a novice like Richard with confidence. "That's my version of break a leg—a good luck stumble. All for one, guys. It's showtime."

Chapter 5: Love Is in the Air

Chapter Text

Brooklyn. December 4, 2004. Saturday evening.

When Peter and Neal arrived at Donatella's, they were early for dinner and had the restaurant to themselves.

Peter ordered a plate of calamari with his beer. "Do you want a glass of wine?" he asked Neal. He supposed one glass was acceptable, but if Neal said to bring the bottle, there'd be words.

"Thanks, I'll pass," Neal said sheepishly, waving it off. He looked fully recovered from his previous night's adventure. They would both sleep better tonight.

Donatella's was a neighborhood institution and a Burke family favorite. Peter liked the way the hostess greeted him at the door as if she was welcoming an old friend into her home. The exposed brick walls and rustic floor tile gave a casual feel to the place. The tables were spaced far enough apart that diners could engage in relaxed conversation without shouting at each other and the booths along the walls were comfortable with an extra measure of privacy. A holiday addition was the large Christmas tree which had been set up next to the hearth fireplace. Soft Venetian music was playing in the background.

"I can see why you like this restaurant so much," Neal commented. "How long have you been coming here?"

"Close to four years now. It's been the scene of many a birthday and anniversary celebration. We'll have to make a return trip with El." The hostess had seated them at Peter's favorite corner booth. Pete tore off a piece of hot Italian bread. "How'd your fencing match go?"

Neal raised his glass of water to Peter. "You can chalk up another triumph for the Burke pickle juice elixir. Fortunately, my competition was having a bad day. So even though I wasn't at the top of my game, I was able to squeak by."

From his look of satisfaction, Neal was being modest. Peter wasn't surprised at the outcome. Neal was tougher than he appeared. "I bet Fiona was impressed."

"She wants to come to more competitions, so I must not have disgraced myself too badly." The waitress served the plate of sizzling calamari and grated a generous amount of Parmesan over them.

"I enjoyed talking with her at Thanksgiving," Peter said. "You should bring her over for dinner sometime."

Neal's eyes widened. "Sure ... maybe." He tried to shrug off what apparently was an unsettling topic. "Big step, you know."

Neal reminded him of how he'd felt when he was dating in college. He couldn't remember if he'd ever invited anyone to meet his parents. For all his veneer of sophistication, Neal still seemed very young sometimes. "It'd just be dinner, not a prenuptial grilling. We could talk to El first and get her to promise not to play matchmaker."

"Yeah, I already have one love mentor in my life," Neal admitted. "I don't think there's room for more."

"Who's your mentor?" Peter asked, taking a drink of his beer. He'd lay odds it was Henry.

"Mozzie."

Peter snorted, almost choking on his beer. "First of all, I wouldn't think you needed one, and to have Mozzie of all people—"

Neal interrupted him with a gesture. "I didn't think I needed one either. Trust me, the irony of having a man whose own love life is, shall we say somewhat limited, be my guide in romance doesn't escape me."

"And what, pray tell, is your love mentor advising you?"

"Mozzie is a strict adherent to the love 'em and leave 'em school. To the best of my knowledge, he's never gotten to the point of loving 'em, so he's frustrated about not being able to leave 'em. I appear to have become his lab rat." Neal sighed slowly. "The only solution I can see is to find someone for Mozzie so he'll lay off me."

"Good luck with that challenge."

Neal looked at him hopefully. "You don't think El would be interested in helping?"

"You could try ... She likes Mozzie. But, honestly, among all her friends that I've met, I don't know of anyone who'd appreciate—and I'm being kind here—Mozzie's unique perspective. Besides, if you're asking me to recommend Mozzie as a date for someone, sorry, kid, but that's not gonna happen."

"I understand. I'm doomed." Neal sniffed appreciatively the scampi the waiter had set in front of him. "Did you make any progress on the godfather front?"

Peter sliced into his scaloppini. "Yes, we did. Diana joined me in the office and together we poured through the records Nakahara provided. We looked for a travel pattern that matched where the robberies had taken place. Several of the directors make frequent inspections of the various branches so it wasn't that clear-cut. However, one name floated to the top—Leonard Stratton. He's a managing director and specializes in mergers and acquisitions."

"Stratton? Hiroki and Shogo haven't mentioned him. Have you found any connection between them and Stratton?"

"They worked with Stratton on several M&A transactions. And this will interest you, I know. One of those transactions took them to Sydney."

"Same time as the bond theft?"

"You got it. Stratton was also in Rome around the time of that theft. There's no record of Hiroki and Shogo being there, but they could have traveled there on personal time or Stratton could have used others for the actual theft."

"What's his profile?"

"He's an American, fifty-two years old. He's been in his present post for five years. Stratton has an expensive lifestyle with a young wife, yacht, Manhattan townhouse, and a house in the Hamptons. He may have overextended himself and is dipping into the pot now." Peter glanced at the photo again before passing it on to Neal. Stratton's brown hair was artistically streaked with gray—probably a dye job. The guy looked suave and self-assured. How easy would it be to rattle him?

"The managing directors are on one of the upper floors. I could—"

"—Not necessary," Peter said, shaking his head. "You're looking at Peter Morris, Internal Bank Auditor, for Azuma Bank."

"You're working undercover with me on a case? Ditching your straight-as-an-arrow persona to be a corrupt bank executive?" Neal grinned mischievously. "This could be entertaining ... Wait. Can you fake being corrupt? I could give you a few pointers."

"Not getting nervous about me, are you? I'll have you know I've questioned more than enough corrupt businessmen to get into their mindset. I'll have no problem."

"You're sure you don't need to first go through bank auditor boot camp?"

"That won't be necessary," Peter said firmly. "Merely handling the taxes for El's business is keeping my accounting skills nicely honed. Nakahara has already made the arrangements. I'll start work Monday morning."

"How will we play it?"

"Morris will discover irregularities in Stratton's files and put the squeeze on him. Morris is lacking in the ethics department himself. He may turn out to be more ruthless than Stratton. I hope I can find an actual irregularity and not have to invent something."

"I can help with that. I'll spread the word on the trading floor about you on Monday. Hiroki or Shogo may take the bait and try to warn Stratton."

"Good idea." Peter was looking forward to going undercover. He'd had few opportunities recently, and this role was tailor-made for him. "Another report came in while I was at the office, and in the interest of full disclosure, I want to share it."

Neal paused with his fork in mid-air, his eyes locking onto Peter. "Azathoth?"

Peter understood his impatience. They were both frustrated over the lack of progress in the search for the cybercriminal nicknamed Azathoth who'd kidnapped them in October. "We have a lead on the house where we were held. The research department has been combing through the financial records of the owner, a plastic surgeon who lives in Montreal. He'd inherited the house in New Jersey eight years ago. There's one item in his records that's raised a flag. In November, the owner received a large payment from an Austrian biotech company named Maier Bioscience. He claimed it was for research but refused to give any specifics, citing the confidentiality agreement he'd signed. Maier has also declined to elaborate. Four years ago, in 2000, the owner also received three large payments from the same company."

"So we're looking at a possible connection between Azathoth and Montreal and Austria?"

"That's right. So far the only reports of the glowing branch malware being used in museum robberies are here in the States, but I'm convinced there's an angle with Europe. Interpol will monitor Maier's overseas activities. We've put the company on our watch list. Jones is researching their business operations in the States."

"Is there anything I can do?"

"Not till we have more information." Neal didn't look satisfied with his response, but Peter trusted him to realize that until Azathoth made another move in the States, he was out of their jurisdiction. The waiter carried away their plates and brought them coffee. Neal's appetite had returned with a vengeance. From the way he devoured everything on his plate, they would need dessert too. "Would you like some cheesecake?"

"Please," Neal said quickly and then made an embarrassed gesture. "What was in that pickle juice anyway? I've been ravenous all day."

Peter laughed. "It has the same effect on me. Dad swears the recipe goes back to our Viking ancestors."

Neal's face lit up. "So you admit you have Viking blood. I knew it! The Burke pickle-juice elixir is how your ancestors could go out pillaging after a long night of feasting and wenching in the mead hall. I need the recipe."

"I dunno." Peter hesitated, stroking his chin. "It's a powerful weapon. You have to promise to use it wisely."

"You have my word, and ... as long as you're writing down formulas, you don't happen to have a formula for a Viking love potion?"

Peter eyed him with pity. "I feel your pain, but even if I knew of one, I couldn't do that to the women of the world."

Over amaretto cheesecake, Peter decided to broach the topic he'd been saving for the right moment. "Diana and I had a discussion this afternoon about an incident at work. She wanted to alert me to some office gossip she heard from a colleague." Peter paused and checked Neal's reaction, but the news didn't appear to resonate with him. "It was about some agents giving you a hard time over Fowler. She didn't have the names but the incident sounded unpleasant. Anything you'd like to add?"

"My fan club could use a little work," Neal said, shrugging it off.

"If you're being harassed, you should report it."

"That would make it worse. I'm not surprised that Fowler still has friends at the FBI. It'll blow over."

"You should have told me."

Neal shook his head. "I'm already considered your pet by some. If I run to you every time someone makes a disparaging comment, that will only reinforce the impression."

After dinner, Peter and Neal left for the Fort Greene Playhouse. Many of the seats had already been taken when they arrived. This was the first community theater event Neal had attended, and he didn't know what to expect. How amateurish would it be? Would El be worse or better than the others? Neal was familiar with Broadway performances. He'd seen Shakespeare in London. What would Agatha Christie in Brooklyn be like?

It was startling to realize he was having the kind of nervousness for El that a parent might experience over his kid. Would he have to dig deep into his con man reservoir to praise her performance afterward? Looking over at Peter, Neal could tell that he was also growing tense.

Their fears were groundless. The production was outstanding, and El was easily the star of the evening. The curtain closed on the final act of The Hollow to the sound of thunderous applause. The actors had played the mystery with a large sprinkling of humor and milked each character's idiosyncrasies to the hilt, much to the enthusiastic appreciation of everyone there.

"El stole the show," Neal told Peter as they made their way back to the dressing rooms. "You'll need to fight off the talent reps from Hollywood."

Peter's face was flushed with pride. "The audience was really into the mystery. Did you notice that some of them were taking out binoculars to scan the faces of the actors for clues?"

"I hardly recognized El in her red hair. She looked every inch the diva, and a very sexy one at that. Peter, you should have her keep the wig."

"You remember Janet Dodson, the costume designer?"

"How could I forget the person who outfitted us so regally as Romans for N-Con? She's a genius with costumes."

"Janet volunteered for the play. She insisted El wear the wig, and coupled with that black slinky dress, she was a knock-out."

Neal grinned at him. "Still smoking, are you?" El had told them to go backstage after the play. From there, they'd go together to the after-party. As Neal and Peter walked down the back corridor, Neal noticed a furtive shape ducking around the corner. Wearing a large hat and immense muffler with dark glasses, he looked like Truman Capote. The height, the walk—it had to be Mozzie. But why hadn't he mentioned he was coming? Neal assumed he'd already left for Hawaii.

When he and Peter arrived at the backstage rooms, they discovered a large flower arrangement on a side table addressed to El.

"Did you send these?" Peter asked Neal.

"Not me. I should have though." The arrangement included birds-of-paradise, orchids, and red gingers. They looked like one of Maggie's creations from the Aloha Emporium.

When El walked in, they greeted her with hugs and congratulations. Her eyes sparkled when she saw the flowers. "Peter, are those flowers from you? You shouldn't have."

"I wish, but they're not from me," Peter said, checking the card. "It says Your radiant presence sets the stage on fire and eclipses all others"—Peter looked over at El who was glowing at the words—"Sounds like I have a rival."

"I wouldn't be concerned," Neal said. "I believe I know who the secret admirer is. How many Truman Capotes can there be?" He explained about spotting Mozzie in the crowd.

A look of pleased astonishment crossed El's face. "He came to my play? Do you think he's still around? See if you can find him."

Neal dashed into the hallway and after a short search of the theater found the mystery man near the exit. "You made quite an impression, 'Truman,' with those flowers."

"I thought she'd like them," Mozzie said, looking pleased.

"So much so that she wants you to join us." Persuading Mozzie didn't require much effort. As they headed backstage, Neal asked, "Why didn't you let me know you were coming? We could have sat together."

Mozzie hesitated. "This was family time. I didn't want to intrude."

"You're becoming family, too. You're the highly eccentric uncle families rarely get to see but always treasure."

"Pshaw," he mumbled, his face reddening. Neal grinned at him. When was the last time he'd seen Mozzie blush?

Even Peter greeted him warmly upon their return. "I'm going to have to redouble my surveillance of you now. Make sure you're not making any moves on my wife."

"You're safe, Suit." Kissing El's hand, he added, "I'd been planning to forge letters to Broadway agents about your performance, but now I know I won't need to. A star's been born!"

The area was filled with cast members and crew being congratulated by their supporters. Neal spotted a familiar face in the throng approaching them.

"Bravura performance!" Janet exclaimed. The costume designer was a tiny woman with short black spiky hair and immense glasses that gave her face an owl-like appearance. Her glasses tonight were malachite green to match a silk tunic she wore over black leggings and black suede boots. The tunic was hand-painted to resemble a dragonfly with the sleeves representing its iridescent wings.

Putting an arm around her, El said, "Janet designed our clothes, M—"

Peter quickly jumped in. "Mr. Haversham is a friend of Neal's."

"Dante Haversham, at your service," Mozzie said, bowing. "May I kiss the hand of such a talented designer?"

"Why, yes, you may," Janet said, looking amused. Eyeing his clothes, she added, "It's not often I see a man of such distinctive style in the audience."

Janet appeared quite intrigued with Mozzie, amazing as that was to contemplate. "You will stay for the after-party, won't you, Dante?" she purred.

"Please call me Mozzie," he murmured, drawing even nearer to her. "It will be my honor."

The pheromones flying between them crackled with intensity as they strolled off, leaving Neal and the others gaping in their wake. As they fell in step behind them, Neal couldn't resist giving Peter an ecstatic thumbs up.

"What's that about?" El whispered to Neal.

"I've been hoping to fix Mozzie up. Janet may be the ticket to my freedom."

"Janet and Mozzie?" El looked doubtful. "I've never met anyone she's dated, but Janet's such a creative person, and there's no doubt Mozzie's an original."

The after-party was held in the banquet room of a Chinese restaurant adjacent to the theater. Along one side of the room was a buffet table of appetizers with chafing dishes filled with hot hors d'oeuvres. In the corner, a table had been set up with bottles of wine provided by the participants and coolers of beer and sodas. El and Peter headed straight for the buffet. She'd been too nervous to eat most of the day, and now that the butterflies were gone, she intended to make up for it.

Neal had joined Mozzie and Janet by the drink table, and Peter was pleased to see Neal pour himself a club soda. Neal spotted Peter looking at him and gave him a grin while lifting his glass to him. Peter chuckled.

"What's so funny?" El asked.

"It's hard to believe Neal was sick last night. Maybe I should market that pickle juice."

"We could couple it with my events. I'll handle the party and you the hangovers. We'd be a one-stop-shop."

"As long as my presence isn't required," Peter cautioned. "After last night, I want to stay as far away as I can from any hangovers."

Neal strolled back to join them and together they made the rounds of El's fellow actors and their friends. Throughout the party, Peter kept an eye on Mozzie, and Neal was too. Mozzie persisted in staying close to Janet, buzzing around her like an enraptured bee. Peter pulled Neal aside. "Is Mozzie veering into harassment territory?"

Neal shrugged. "I'll go see if Janet wants to be rescued."

Friends walked up to talk with El and Peter, and it was several minutes before Peter looked over at Janet and Mozzie again. She apparently had no desire to be saved. Neal had lingered with them.

El nudged Peter. "Aren't you curious to know what they're discussing? Let's go find out."

"I think of the human body as a canvas for my art," Janet said as they walked up. "Costumes are a powerful statement of artistic expression. They can also act as a metaphor for our deepest desires."

"Janet's costumes have appeared in exhibitions," Mozzie told Peter and El, his face glowing with admiration. "If I'd only known, I would have gone."

"You'll soon have another chance," Janet said. "My new exhibition—The Insect Perspective—opens next month in SoHo."

"Insects?" Mozzie asked, his eyes widening.

"Yes, for the exhibit I've created costumes inspired by butterflies, grasshoppers, bees, and dragonflies." Janet's face flushed as she talked about her fascination for insects. Sometimes she worked from photographs but her preference was to take her sketchbook into the field and draw them in their natural surroundings.

Mozzie hovered ever closer to her. "I too am passionate about bees."

Mozzie's words propelled Janet to new heights of lyricism. "The fur muff of the bee's thorax in combination with the metallic goth abdomen and the lace gauze of its wings is transcendental." Gazing into Mozzie's eyes with what only can be described as fiery ardor, she added, "Don't you find the sensuality of the bee's body to be overwhelmingly erotic?"

"Let me get you more wine," Neal murmured. "You two continue your conversation." He practically skipped away in his enthusiasm. Could the sting of a honeybee act as Cupid's arrow? Janet and Mozzie appeared to be living proof.

After Saturday's excitement, Peter and El both were grateful to have a quiet day at home on Sunday. El declared it the official decorate-the-house-for-Christmas day. Usually they went to a tree farm to buy a tree, but since this year they would be in Hawaii over the holiday, they'd settled for a small artificial one. In the afternoon, Peter strung miniature lights on the patio while El hung red balls in the shrubbery. Afterward, they celebrated with an early supper in the dining room from where they could admire their handiwork.

Peter was grateful El didn't take him up on his offer to attend her evening performance. She probably thought he wanted to prepare for his undercover role, but that wasn't a concern. Thanks to Henry, he had another matter to stew about. He wished he could discuss it with El, but she was on the phone with Henry's mother Noelle practically daily. Planning a wedding in Hawaii in addition to all her other events was stressful enough.

That Henry had made an inquiry or two wasn't so troubling, but how far would he take it? Recent history was not reassuring. Last spring, Henry made a deal with Kate Moreau to help her flee the country in exchange for information. He'd dragged Neal into the plan at the last minute and almost caused a catastrophe. Yes, he'd succeeded in discovering Adler was hiding in Argentina, but the reckless manner in which he endangered his and Neal's lives was unacceptable. Then this past summer, he dropped out of sight for months in an effort to bring his father to justice while at the same time working a long con to bring down a corrupt music company. Neal's concern over Henry's actions caused him to develop his own secret agenda, and the resulting layers of obfuscation and deception were something Peter never wanted to reexperience. If Neal felt Henry was putting himself in danger to protect him, Peter would be unable to keep him out of it.

Peter looked at his watch. Eight o'clock on a Sunday evening was as good a time as any. He made himself comfortable on the couch and dialed Henry's number. He answered on the third ring and didn't appear to be surprised to hear from him. Peter opted for the low-key approach. "How's it feel to be back at work?"

"Good, although I could have gone longer without wearing a suit." Henry's voice was relaxed. "I'm not as fond of them as Neal is."

"Who would be?" Peter and Henry exchanged a few remarks about Win-Win and returning to work. Peter hoped Henry would sense the opening and bring up the subject himself, but it wasn't happening. He was polite but unrevealing in his answers. Even when Peter asked about what kind of work he'd be involved with, Henry only replied he was weighing his options.

"So you haven't started a case yet?"

"No, not yet."

Peter took a breath. So much for being subtle. "Then your inquiries about Fowler were not part of an official investigation?"

"I wondered how long it would take for you to get around to this." Henry sounded amused. Peter wasn't surprised Henry deflected his question, but it did make him wonder if Neal had picked up the technique from him.

"Who else is involved? Have you informed anyone at Win-Win?"

Henry paused at that. When he'd been missing over the summer, his grandfather Graham and Graham's wife Julia had secretly aided him with communications and research. Henry knew Peter would see them in Hawaii and could easily take it up with them there. "No, I didn't need to. All I did was nose around a little. After Neal told me what happened with Fowler, I was angry. I was in town on an unrelated matter—a meeting with a nonprofit I'm volunteering for. I can provide you with the contact information. They'll confirm it. I knew Neal was busy that night. I decided on the spur of the moment to see what I could find out. I'm glad I did. Not that I learned anything, but doing something helped calm me down. It also made me realize I don't have the resources to pursue the matter. Fowler's your mess. I trust you to handle it."

"So you're not planning to investigate it further?" Peter asked.

"No. Even if I wanted to, without a client I'd have a hard time justifying it." Henry hesitated. "Have you told Neal?"

"Not yet."

"Good. I'd rather you not. If he thinks I'm investigating Fowler, he might try to go after Fowler himself. You don't want that."

"No, I don't." Peter grew silent as he considered what to do next. Henry's explanation was a reasonable one, but had he prepared it in advance, knowing he might have been spotted? "I'm willing to accept your word, but if at any time you resume your investigation, can I count on you to let me know?"

"I'll consider it."

"You'll do more than that. You know we can track your movements. If you don't keep me informed—"

"—you'll do what? Ground me?"

Peter's reply was prompt. "No, I'll tell Neal."

Dead silence on the other end.

Peter had known in advance what his best bargaining chip would be, and his gamble paid off. By the time they rang off, Henry had promised to notify Peter if he picked up the investigation. After the call, Peter sat back on the couch and replayed the conversation in his head. He was inclined to believe Henry that at least for the moment he wasn't actively investigating the case. How could he with Fowler in Argentina? But Peter also was willing to bet this wasn't the end of it.

"Help yourself." Neal had arrived at the trading room floor on Monday morning loaded with boxes of Christmas doughnuts for his fellow analysts. As the gang gathered around, he added cheerfully, "This is a thank you for the Friday morning coffee."

Munching on a frosted snowman doughnut, Shogo said, "I could have used some of these after poker on Friday. I was wasted. Did you have any problems?"

"Nah, I slept in but by midday I was ready to roll again." Neal savored the look of shock Shogo sent Hiroki at his words and decided to toss out an additional zinger. "I called up Tiffany and we partied all night." Friday, Hiroki and Shogo had displayed too much interest in Fiona. James Bonds would rely on Tiffany Case from Diamonds Are Forever to sideline Fiona from any further discussion.

"Was that the woman you were with at the gala?" Hiroki asked.

"No, Tiffany's a redhead. The blonde's a little too tame for my taste."

"Then you won't mind giving me her number. She looked plenty hot for me."

Maya, another analyst, approached them and provided a convenient excuse to avoid answering. "Thanks for the doughnuts, Nick," she said, helping herself to a Christmas tree doughnut.

"In Los Angeles, we always started with doughnuts on Mondays," he replied. "Nothing like a sugar rush to overcome any hangovers from the weekend."

"Great idea!" Vijay said enthusiastically. Vijay had become Neal's lifeline in navigating the treacherous waters of stock analysis. Friday afternoon he'd helped Neal with a tricky valuation analysis. He was only a little older than Neal, had a quirky sense of humor, and appreciated Neal's jokes. Neal made sure Vijay got plenty of doughnuts.

"I heard from a friend that a colleague from L.A. will be in town for the week," Neal said casually.

"Another analyst?" Shogo asked.

"No, this one's the scary sort. Internal auditor. My advice? Steer clear of him. The guy knows how to strike fear in your heart. He called me in once on a business expense claim I'd submitted. I'd taken a few friends to dinner and filed for reimbursem*nt. It was all on the up and up, you understand. Completely justified."

Supporting murmurs of "Of course" and "Naturally" echoed among the analysts as Neal added, "In L.A. going to a nightclub is an accepted method of conducting business." He helped himself to a doughnut and continued between bites, "Well, Morris the Inquisitor didn't think so. That's our name for him. He raked me over the coals like you wouldn't believe. Not only did the jerk deny the reimbursem*nt but he placed a reprimand in my file and made me take a course on ethics." Neal shuddered. "He made my life miserable. It was like I was shackled to him. When the chance to transfer to New York came up, I seized it. I didn't dream he'd follow me here." Neal shook his head forlornly. "I must be cursed."

"Do you think he'll make us cancel the holiday party?" Vijay asked.

"He wouldn't be that much of a Scrooge, would he?" Maya said, shocked. "My husband's already gotten a babysitter."

"How come I haven't heard about the party?" Neal asked. "When will it be?"

"This Thursday evening, on the main floor. There's music, a catered feast. Spouses and dates are welcome. You should bring Tiffany, or the blonde, or both," Shogo said. "What was the blonde's name again?"

Neal sighed to himself. Why did Fiona have to be so memorable? He needed to spin a wild tale about Tiffany to distract them. While he continued to chat with the other analysts, Neal began fabricating the adventures of Nick and Tiffany at the casinos in Vegas. In Diamonds Are Forever, James Bond had driven a moon buggy. In his version, he'd be in a golf cart. They'd sneak onto a golf course and go on a moonlit ride. Thinking about Sara made it easy to picture a crazy scenario.

Neal later overheard Hiroki and Shogo talking in Japanese. They were discussing what he'd said and what they should tell their godfather. They still didn't refer to him by name. Hopefully one of the bugs he'd placed in their jacket pockets would provide more information.

Pulling up the premiums analysis, Neal settled down for a long morning of data crunching. If he played it right, he could get Vijay to run the comparisons for him while he regaled him with outrageous stories from his days in L.A. After all, it was excellent reinforcement for Nick's playboy character, and besides, Vijay looked like he needed more practice in analyzing median share prices.

Neal had quickly discovered the flaw in the op. When Nakahara arranged for Neal to work there, they'd decided it was too risky to let his supervisor know. So Nick Halden was actually expected to produce. But with a little ingenuity, Nick shouldn't have to overexert himself.

Notes: Neal's difficulties with being considered a pet started in Caffrey Disclosure by Penna Nomen. Others resented the special relationship he had with Peter. As for Agent Ruiz, he was a problem for Neal in canon and he continues to be one in our series.

Chapter 6: The Inquisitor

Chapter Text

Azuma Bank. December 6, 2004. Monday morning.

"These are the last of the files, sir." Peter watched resignedly as his secretary Melody rolled in a second file cart of folders.

He'd arrived at the bank promptly at 8 o'clock. Nakahara had shown him to his office on the thirtieth floor. The managing directors had their offices on the same floor. Peter was assigned a secretary, a young woman named Melody Wright, to assist him. Melody was a new hire and still seemed a little overwhelmed by her job. Checking her resume, Peter discovered she'd received her B.A. in French in May and had only joined the company last month.

Later that morning, Nakahara had taken Peter around to introduce him to the managing directors. In his remarks, Nakahara explained that due to tightened procedures and the heightened focus on ethics, an intensive audit of their records had been mandated by the home office. Peter had been brought in from the West Coast to conduct the initial review of their books.

Leonard Stratton was smooth and polished during the introduction. From his designer suit to his gold Rolex watch, the man radiated prosperity and self-confidence. Finding a chink in that armor wouldn't be easy, but Peter had seen the type before. Once the chink was found, the man would probably crumble. His eyes weren't those of a predator. Peter suspected the façade he presented to his colleagues didn't extend very deep.

Most of the records were digital, but there were also enough paper files to keep Peter busy for days. Since he didn't want Stratton to suspect he'd been targeted, he'd had Melody collect the files of all the managing directors. But for now, his focus was squarely on Stratton. He hoped that there was something in his files they could use as leverage. But that meant ferreting out the needle in the immense haystack in front of him.

Permitting himself one moment of grumbling, Peter sighed. Why was it that his undercover work never wound up being glamorous? Was this cosmic retribution for his insistence on file work at White Collar? Peter scowled at his coffee in an anonymous ivory china mug from the floor's breakroom and wished for the FBI mug El had given him. Moment over, he resolutely opened the first file.

At the end of the workday, Neal entered Peter Morris's room in the Lexington, a luxury hotel in midtown Manhattan. Azuma Bank was less than a block away. It leased several rooms for use by its visiting executives. Nakahara had arranged for one of them to be available for Peter, and the White Collar team had turned it into their field office for the op. When Neal arrived, Jones and Travis had already been in place for several hours. Jones was studying spreadsheets on his laptop. Travis had a headset on and was fiddling with the electronics. Peter hadn't shown up yet.

Neal gave them the bugs he'd planted on Hiroki and Shogo. "You two look like you need a break. Shouldn't we order room service?"

Jones grinned as he closed his spreadsheet. "Hard day with the macros?"

"I did my best to avoid them." Neal flopped on the bed and idly picked up a magazine lying on the nightstand. "Miskatonic Gazette? Who does this belong to?"

"That's mine," said Jones. "It's from one of the Lovecraft fan clubs I joined. I've got memberships in both the States and the U.K. My knowledge of arcane Lovecraft lore is approaching the expert level."

Travis took off his headset. "You should consider starting a wiki to bring the rest of us up to speed. We could start a Lovecraft Trivial Pursuit championship at work, perhaps as an online exercise."

After the team discovered Azathoth's fondness for Lovecraft references, Diana suggested he might have a connection to one or more of the Lovecraft fan groups. She and Jones volunteered to monitor them as well as the gaming communities. Both of them were avid gamers, and the chance to conduct gaming surveillance as part of their jobs was likely their concept of the dream assignment.

Neal thumbed through the magazine ... Long articles on Lovecraft lore. Scattered references to various video and board games ... An upcoming art contest caught his eye.

The door opened and Peter stepped inside. Neal was pleased to see he'd gotten into his role of a prosperous banker, wearing the wool overcoat Neal had recommended rather than his standard rumpled beige raincoat.

"How'd your first day as an auditor go?" Neal asked as Peter hung up his coat. "Did you feel like you were returning to your first love?"

Peter settled into an upholstered chair by the desk next to Travis. "After a day of poring over financial records, I'm glad I chose the Bureau instead."

Neal handed Travis his snooper pen. "I took several shots of Shogo and Hiroki's monitors. There's probably nothing incriminating on them." Plumping the pillows behind his head, he asked, "Did my bugs pick up anything useful?"

Travis gave a satisfied nod. "Shogo placed a call to Stratton in the morning on his cell phone. He repeated the story you'd spread during doughnut time."

"The doughnuts were a good idea," Jones said. "Thanks for dropping off a box for us."

"It was the least I could do. Hiroki and Shogo took me to lunch. Only one martini this time. Nothing incriminating on the surface. I tried to find out more about the heist, but they're keeping it under wraps. This afternoon I overheard them talking. They're concerned the Inquisitor will find out something."

Peter raised a brow. "So I'm the Inquisitor?"

Neal nodded. "Morris the Inquisitor. The story about how you persecuted me in L.A. was the hot topic of conversation over doughnuts. That and the holiday party. It's scheduled for Thursday evening."

"I saw the notice," Peter said. "It'll be held in the bank lobby. If they plan to pull something off, they may take advantage of the event." He turned to Jones. "You've been working on Stratton's digital files. Any discrepancies show up yet?"

"Not so far. We have records for the five previous years. If there's anything to be found, it could be buried deep."

While Peter and Jones talked about the projects Stratton had been involved with, Neal reached for the notepad on the nightstand. Tearing off a sheet, he began folding it into a frog. It'd been a long day. His mind started to wander to the topic for his evening class. His paper was due in ten days and he was only about halfway done—

"Several records on Kigiku," Jones said, looking down at his notes.

"Kigiku?" Neal repeated, sitting upright, origami forgotten.

Peter shot him a questioning look. "That's right. Ring a bell?"

"Shogo and Hiroki mentioned Kigiku. I didn't make the connection at the time, but that must have been what they were talking about." Neal exhaled in relief. It wasn't Fiona after all.

"Kigiku Health Products is a company in the Philippines that was a recent acquisition target," Jones explained. "Were you thinking it referred to something else?"

"Kigiku means yellow chrysanthemum in Japanese. They'd been talking about Fiona and I assumed that was the name they were using for her. They'd been bugging me for her name and I wouldn't give it to them."

Peter's brow furrowed. "They know about Fiona?"

"Unfortunately, they noticed she was with me at the gala. They've been trying to get me to bring her to the holiday party. I invented a new girlfriend named Tiffany to distract them."

"Probably just idle talk, Caffrey," Jones said. "I wouldn't stress over it."

Easy for Jones to say. It wasn't his girl they were talking about. Still, they'd have a difficult time tracing Fiona. "Do you want me to stay and help with the files?"

Peter shook his head. "You've got a class tonight. Not many left before the end of the semester."

"Actually this is the last one. Papers are due next week."

"You better focus on that then. Jones already offered to stay and help. We can give you a lift to Columbia on the way back and drop Travis off in the Village."

"I can take the subway, Peter. It's out of your way."

"Not so much."

Peter wasn't completely altruistic in his offer to drop Neal off. He reasoned that if he and Jones had to sacrifice their evening, their stomachs didn't have to be tortured too. Leo's Deli, home to his favorite comfort food, wasn't far from Columbia. He needed to show his appreciation for Jones staying late and Jones had never had the thrill of Leo's. On second thought, maybe he was being altruistic after all.

Back at the Bureau, loaded down with pastrami and corned beef sandwiches, potato salad, and cherry cheesecake, Peter figured they were good for several hours. They set up shop in the upstairs conference room. Diana hadn't left yet. When she caught sight of their feast, she offered to research the yakuza. An hour into their marathon, Peter called a time-out. They spread out their supper supplies in the breakroom.

Anything incriminating pop up yet?" Diana asked as she smeared mustard onto a corned beef sandwich.

"We're concentrating on the Kigiku acquisition," Peter said. "I hope Neal's right. We need something to filter all the deals Stratton's been involved in."

Jones spooned out some potato salad. "I've pulled his tax return data from the IRS and have been correlating it with Azuma's records. It's slow going."

"How much time do you have?" Diana asked.

"Not much," Peter said. "We know the heist is planned for this week, most likely during the holiday party. Diana, I'd like you to work with Travis tomorrow on a stakeout at the event. Hughes will meet with both of you tomorrow to coordinate the op. We may want to call on extra units for assistance."

"Have you unearthed any gems about the yakuza?" Jones asked Diana.

"Nothing specific. This is my first opportunity to research them since Quantico. Normally this is Organized Crime's turf. The yakuza have made significant inroads into the New York crime scene over the past several years. Smuggling firearms and drugs, gambling, fraud, extortion, prostitution, you name it."

"That club Hiroki and Shogo took Neal to could be a yakuza stronghold," Jones said.

Diana nodded. "I've already spoken with Organized Crime about it. The Golden Lotus is on their radar." Between bites, she added, "The yakuza trace their roots back to samurai times and they haven't lost their love of swords. Nowadays, it's mainly knives and finger amputations. Has anyone found any link between Stratton and the yakuza?"

"Not yet, but they're so secretive, he could easily have a connection we don't know about." Peter made a mental reminder to remind Neal to proceed warily. He'd been much too casual about the threat on Saturday.

After the supper break, Diana headed home while he and Jones hunkered down over the files. Peter liked to think it was the cheesecake that caused the eureka moment. There, buried in the Kigiku file, was the proof that Stratton had accepted paybacks. After texting Neal to call him when his class was over, Peter and Jones headed home. The plan was coming together.

Thanks to the lift, Neal arrived at Columbia ahead of time. He decided to stop off at the Aloha Emporium for a quick bowl of Billy's tiger shrimp noodles before class. When Neal walked through the door, the mellow tones of bamboo wind chimes blended with Hawaiian music to make him feel like he was in Hawaii. Coconut-scented candles added to the effect. Neal wasn't the only one who found the emporium appealing. Most of the tables in the cafe were already filled.

Billy was sitting at one of the tables with Mozzie. Blueprints were spread out in front of them. Neal suspected they were making plans for their new venture. After he placed his order at the counter, he went over to join them.

"Aloha!" Billy said. "Did Steve take care of you?"

"Yes, is he new? I don't remember seeing him here before."

Billy motioned him to a chair. "Steve is one of my sister's boys. He arrived from Hong Kong a couple of weeks ago and will be working here for a while. His English isn't very good yet, but he's a quick learner." Pouring him a cup of tea from the teapot on the table, Billy added, "You should try this. It's a new addition to our line: Hawaiian organic shade-grown forest tea. Lovely floral bouquet. Very soothing." Something about Billy's smile as he poured the tea was troubling. Neal eyed him and Mozzie suspiciously. Did they think he would need soothing?

Mozzie beamed at him. "Billy and I've been working on a design for the honey display. Something impressively large "—Mozzie waved his arms expansively as he gestured toward one of the walls—"made of bamboo. We'll need to have room for both the honey and the wines. It will probably fill the entire wall."

Neal glanced over at Billy to judge his reaction to having his cafe taken over by the new display. He appeared equally enthusiastic.

"The white walls will have to go," Mozzie continued. "I envision large paintings—murals perhaps—of Hawaii's fauna and flora: orchids, birds, butterflies, bees—lots of bees—all in their natural settings. You won't have any problem with that, will you, Neal? Oh, and did I mention we'll need wine labels? They should be in the same style. What do you think, Billy, something similar to Gauguin's style?"

"Gauguin sounds good," Billy agreed.

Neal dropped his chopsticks, food forgotten, as he listened to Mozzie's plans with growing dismay. When had he become a partner in this venture? He'd just come in for a quick bite, not for a major undertaking. Mozzie was right about the walls though. They'd provide ample space to work with. There was even a small patio in the back that had potential. Neal could include elements from the patio in his paintings to extend the space. But what was not in generous supply was his time. He'd counted on cutting back over the holidays after a semester of non-stop work and classes.

Two pairs of eyes were looking pleadingly at Neal. Billy sweetened the proposition with the offer of free food and Kona coffee. Neal felt his resistance weaken. He did love Billy's tiger shrimp, and a free supply of Kona coffee wasn't to be sneered at.

Mozzie was relentless. "Your classes don't start till after Martin Luther King Day. That should give you plenty of time to finish everything. When the new semester begins, the transformed emporium will be ready to welcome all those returning customers."

Neal gave them a tenuous smile. Mozzie must have been working on this for a while. He'd even checked on Neal's schedule. If Neal hadn't shown up, Mozzie would have probably cornered him in the loft. Neal could have gone over the thousand and one reasons why he didn't have time, but he had to admit, the idea was tempting, and once Mozzie latched on to a scheme, he didn't give up easily.

Billy was sensitive to his hesitation. "Perhaps only one painting to start? Then you could let us know if you have time for the others."

"Neal doesn't mind. Make it at least three." Mozzie started searching through his notes and muttered, "Now where did I leave my list of suggestions for you?" He became increasingly frantic. "I must have left it in my office. I won't be a moment."

He scurried off before Neal could quiz him, so he looked to Billy for enlightenment. "Since when does Mozzie have an office?"

"He's carving out a space in my basem*nt for his use. I haven't been allowed to see it yet."

"My sympathies, but my loft thanks you."

Billy smiled ruefully. "I didn't appreciate when Mozzie suggested the partnership that I'd be adopting him as well, but what's one more relative?" Billy replenished Neal's cup. "And what about you? All is going well?"

Neal nodded. "I'm working on an interesting case. There may be yakuza involvement. Do you have any experience with them?"

Billy's eyes narrowed. "Kamakiri, that's my name for them. The kamakiri is a giant Japanese mantis—a dragon of the insect world and a fearsome predator."

Neal rotated his cup of tea, sniffing the potent fragrance. "Any suggestions on confronting a giant mantis?"

"The kamakiri is a dangerous foe. It's hard to defend against." Billy eyed Neal thoughtfully. "Are you familiar with the Japanese stone orchid?" When Neal shook his head, he said, "It's a white orchid with variegated leaves. Some view variegated leaves as a defense mechanism of the plant. By feigning sickness, it escapes being eaten. A strategy that could be instructive."

Neal wound up staying longer than he should have at the emporium. Mozzie came back with his list. It was wildly impractical, but Billy and Neal succeeded in whittling it down to something not quite so overwhelming. Neal left with the promise to get back to them and then raced through campus to Schermerhorn Hall. As he ran, he tried to put thoughts of Gauguin and giant mantises out of his mind.

This was the final session of Dutch baroque painting. It was taught by his advisor, Ivan Sherkov, and was his favorite course. Fiona was also taking the seminar and seeing her in class was an added enticement.

Neal slowed to a walk as he neared Schermerhorn, thinking back on Peter's invitation to have them over for dinner. That had been awkward. He and Peter hadn't discussed Fiona. Just as well. He had a hard enough time explaining their relationship to himself. Mozzie's criticism of his love life had stung. He couldn't deny he'd deluded himself about Kate. And he was growing to accept the misfire with Sara had been his fault. He'd been too complacent. He'd prided himself on his ability to read others. It was humbling to learn that when it came to matters of the heart, he had some blind spots.

Now he was less sure of himself. Fiona had shared mistakes she made with Philippe, a man she'd dated throughout her university years. She and Neal bonded over their failures and they both vowed not to make the same mistakes with each other. There'd been too much drama in the past. This time would be different. No strings. No pressure.

But was that possible? Neal wasn't seeing anyone else and neither was Fiona. Others assumed they were a couple well before they had. And this business with Hiroki and Shogo ... Neal had been surprised at how upset he'd been over their mention of her. Was he fooling himself about his feelings toward her? Or was it simply he didn't want her associated with what could be a dangerous assignment?

Neal shook off the dark thoughts as he entered Schermerhorn. During the seminar, the students were called upon to discuss their papers. He was writing about Rembrandt's technical innovations, focusing on his impasto technique. Neal wanted to bring his painter's perspective into the analysis. No need to mention his forgeries of Rembrandt, although there was one he was especially proud of.

At the end of the seminar, Sherkov brought out a bottle of his favorite pepper-flavored vodka and shot glasses. "A toast to all of you, my friends. I am looking forward to being enlightened and swept away by the revelations in your papers. Please do not disappoint me."

It would be so much more pleasurable to paint an example of Rembrandt's technique than write about it. Too bad he no longer had that Rembrandt forgery. Neal chuckled as he put away his notes.

Sitting next to him, Fiona turned to look at him. "Private joke?"

"Strategizing how best to dazzle Sherkov with my brilliance."

"When you figure it out, clue me in. He's reputed to be a harsh critic on final papers. I'll spend the next several evenings in front of my laptop to finish mine."

"How about taking a break on Saturday? You're heading back to the U.K. after exams. I'll be in Hawaii. We should spend some time off to enjoy a New York Christmas before we leave."

Fiona's face lit up. "I'd love to. We could hit the holiday display windows, watch the skaters at Rockefeller Plaza ..." Giving him a mischievous grin, she added, "I'll start a list."

Fiona's fondness for keeping spreadsheets had become a favorite subject for teasing. "Do you have a list about me?"

"Of course. Color-coded with multiple tabs."

"Any chance I could see it?" Neal asked hopefully.

Fiona smiled. "Not in this lifetime."

Peter had just finished a crossword puzzle when Neal's call came through. He filled Neal in on what they'd learned about the Kigiku acquisition. "So now we have our weapon. We just need to convince Stratton to include me in his scheme."

"I was thinking about that on the way home," Neal said. "Stratton's vulnerability is his wife. You have something in common with him."

"I do?"

"Yes, not your wife, of course."

"Thank you, Neal. El will be so relieved to hear you say so."

Silence on the other end. When Neal came back on, he was noticeably subdued. "She's not listening in again, is she?"

Peter chuckled. "Not this time. So if El isn't my vulnerability, who is?"

"Your son. A real spendthrift. Always getting into trouble. Yes, the kid is to you what Strattons's wife is to him. Peter, you'll like this. It'll be so easy for you to milk the countless ways your son has disappointed and manipulated you."

Neal's idea was a good one and would be easier than he realized. Given how much Neal and Henry were on his mind these days, this tactic would be a no-brainer.

The next morning Peter called his secretary into his office. "I want you to go to Stratton's secretary and request all of Stratton's paper files on the Kigiku acquisition."

A look of dismay flashed over Melody's face. "She may not be able to comply without a written requisition, sir."

"And that's why I'm providing you with this." Peter handed her the form. "Make a special point of asking if there are any outstanding documents that have yet to be filed."

Melody nervously smoothed her hair behind an ear. "He won't be very happy, sir."

"No, I don't expect he will be."

She returned a half-hour later, looking somewhat flushed.

"Everything go okay?" Peter asked.

"His secretary tried to intimidate me," Melody confessed, "but I held my ground. She conferred with Stratton and told me you'd have everything within the hour."

"Good. Make an appointment for Stratton to see me at three o'clock this afternoon." Peter then texted Neal the status. When they'd talked last night, Neal felt that Stratton would contact Hiroki and Shogo to pump Neal for more information about Morris. An hour later, his prediction proved accurate. Neal texted him he'd been invited out to lunch. Peter smiled. With Neal laying the groundwork, his meeting with Stratton that afternoon should be revealing. Their double-teaming was working out as well as he'd hoped, even if he was the one stuck with file duty.

"More sake, Nick? We can't leave without sampling at least one more. The restaurant would be offended."

"Great idea." Nothing better than a three-sake lunch. Neal sighed inwardly. He would definitely need Vijay's help with the presentation this afternoon. Hiroki and Shogo had invited him out to Sakagura down the street from the bank. Hidden away in the basem*nt of an office building, it seemed more like a private club. Sakagura was renowned for its extensive sake selection and his two hosts seemed intent on trying as many as they could. "So when will I hear more about what you're planning? You mentioned on Friday that you were including me on some score, but I haven't heard anything since." Neal revved up the whine in his voice. "I bet there isn't anything. Are you trying to pull one over on me?"

Shogo quickly shot back. "We wouldn't kid you. This is huge."

Neal put on his grumpy face. "Yeah, right. You gonna superglue the manager's coffee mug to the desk? Been there. Done that."

Hiroki poured him more sake. "This is no grade school prank. We're still working out the details, but I can tell you this. It will be unlike any other holiday party you've been to before."

Neal grinned broadly and added a slight slur to his words. "That sounds more like it. The last holiday party in L.A. was a total sleeper. Figures. That was during the dark days of Morris the Inquisitor."

Shogo clinked cups with him. "Here's to leaving those days behind. You know, the guys who are the worst tyrants are usually the ones that have the most to hide. They have such guilty consciences, they take it out on us poor hardworking grunts."

"You got that straight."

"Let's play a game," Hiroki suggested. "Dream up what Morris the Inquisitor could be hiding. One shot per guess." At Shogo and Neal's enthusiastic agreement, Hiroki said, "I'll start. Check forgery when he was a kid."

Shogo poured more sake into their cups. "Wire transfer fraud."

"Forged loan document," Neal said, tossing back a sake.

After another round, Neal said morosely, "If we were only talking about his son, this could all be true."

Hiroki topped off his sake. "Do I hear family scandal? Come on, Halden, dish the dirt."

"The word is his son's a real loser and a major source of embarrassment. I dated the Inquisitor's secretary for a few months last year. Delightful girl. Her name was Mona. I called her my Mona Lisa." Neal let his voice slur even more. "She used to tell me all the family gossip."

Hiroki leaned so far forward he nearly planted his face in his sashimi. "What was the son like?"

"The exact opposite of Morris. Into fast cars and fast women. Couldn't get enough of either. Went through money like it was potato chips. Morris has hauled his ass out of the fire so often his hands must be permanently singed. Mona gave me one particularly outrageous example." Neal paused to make sure he had their full attention. "A couple of years ago, he had to pay off his son's gambling debts. Supposedly he didn't have enough funds, so he fabricated expense reports. Mona said he even forged receipts. Can you believe it? Then he gives me grief for my little dinners. What a jerk."

It was 1:30 by the time Neal got back to the office. He texted Peter: "Easy shot, inside pocket."

"Take a seat, Leonard," Peter said, giving him a friendly smile when Stratton arrived at his office.

The managing director projected his usual assurance. Sliding into the leather chair opposite Peter's desk, he gave no hint of anything wrong. His face had the tolerant expression of an indulgent parent watching his child's fumbling attempts to tie his shoes. "I understand you have some questions on the Kigiku acquisition," he said. "I'm happy to clear up any confusion."

"Excellent, I'm sure it's a simple misunderstanding. One file in particular gave me pause. It contains the financial transactions during a two-week period last August."

"Last August, let me see ..." Stratton's face remained outwardly calm as he faked an effort to recollect, but Peter noticed his foot starting to tap. After a half-hour of intense drilling, Stratton became defensive and argumentative. "I can pay the money back. It was an innocent mistake."

"That won't do, Leonard. Like all banks, Azuma faces intense pressure. Regulators hold our feet to the fire to not even have the whiff of impropriety. The board at Azuma has made it a personal mission to stamp out any malpractice. If I were to allow this to go unpunished, it'd be my neck on the line."

Red-faced, Stratton said, "I know it looks bad, but in some parts of the world, bribery is routine in conducting business transactions." He paused as if waiting for Peter to commiserate with them, but that wasn't going to happen. Finally, he admitted he'd needed a quick influx of cash because his wife had drained their account. "I'm sure you can understand the extremes our families can take us to."

"No, I can't."

"Really? You're not familiar with the problems that can occur between fathers and sons? I think we have more in common than you realize. We should discuss our mutual situations over dinner tonight."

Stratton left after persuading Peter to join him at one of Manhattan's top steak restaurants, Sparks Steak House. This was an evening he was looking forward to. Peter Morris would be out on the town with no surveillance duty and or files staring him in the face. For once, he was going to enjoy the perks of undercover work.

Notes: New York City is home to so many fine restaurants that I indulged in using real restaurants rather than making them up. You can find pins of Sparks and Sakagura on the Evening with Genji board on our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site. And, yes, Sakagura does have an amazing sake selection. Peter's favorite deli, Leo's, is an invention based on several Manhattan delis.

Chapter 7: On the Town

Chapter Text

Sparks Steak House. Tuesday, December 7, 2004.

Peter gazed around the restaurant in contentment. Tonight Peter Burke, aka Peter Morris, was living it up in style at Sparks, one of Manhattan's premier steak houses. Thank God Stratton wasn't a vegetarian.

Sparks had been an institution since 1966 in midtown Manhattan. Some took potshots at its opulent surroundings, lush carpets, and paintings, but Peter wouldn't be one of them. He relaxed in his upholstered chair and prepared to be wined and dined. Tonight he intended to enjoy himself.

Stratton looked up from the voluminous wine menu. How many pages was it? Mozzie would have been buried in it for years. Reminder to self: never take Mozzie to Sparks. "How does a Chateau Margaux 1994 sound?" and Stratton pointed it out on the list.

At $1,099 a bottle, Peter thought it should be drinkable, and assented readily. Stratton had reserved a quiet table in a secluded alcove for them. "Do you come here often?" Peter asked.

Stratton laughed jovially. "Now, don't write me up. I'm not putting this on my expense account. My wife prefers French cuisine, but I say, give a man a decent steak."

"My thoughts exactly. Do you have any children?"

"No, we haven't been that lucky. How about you?" Although the remark was casual, Peter could see him eyeing him expectantly.

"One son—Henry."

"You're a lucky man. Someone to carry on the family name."

"If he lives that long," Peter said, shaking his head gloomily. "He means everything to me, but he can be a challenge. You may be better off with only a wife, someone who can cater to your every whim."

"I wish! Don't get me wrong, I love my wife dearly, but I had no idea how demanding a young wife can be."

"Better a young wife, than a jughead of a boy who's in one scrape after another. Passing on the family name may not be worth it."

Peter continued to lament the kid's shortcomings while the waiter wheeled up the cart of steak cuts for them to make their selections. Neal was right. As Peter lubricated his tongue with expensive wine, the examples of Henry's misdeeds flowed out of his mouth in rapid succession. By the time they'd polished off the lump crabmeat co*cktail and Caesar salad, Stratton was matching him with stories, spreading it on with a shovel about his wife.

"You were fortunate you didn't marry a starlet," he told Peter, gesturing with his garlic bread to emphasize the point. "She may not know how to act, but can she ever spend the money. I put the blame squarely on all those star-studded parties she goes to. They fill her head with visions of yachts, skiing in St. Moritz, furs, and jewelry. Last year it was a vacation home in Cannes because"—adopting a falsetto, Stratton whined—"'we can't just stay at a hotel for the film festival.'"

"You could leave her," Peter pointed out. "I can't ditch my son even if I wanted to. Someone needs to create prenatal agreements for kids, so I could get out of my contract to be responsible for him."

"He isn't of legal age yet?"

"Technically he is, but he's such a charmer, I keep forgiving him and giving him another chance." Peter shook his head despondently." I'm too gullible. No sooner do I persuade myself I can reform him than he messes up again."

A discreet waiter refilled their wine glasses and then placed their steaks on the table.

Stratton sliced into his filet. "The two of us have so much in common, we should form a club."

"I agree. How did a couple of brilliant guys like us get saddled with such challenging relatives?"

"And it's not just relatives. Azuma doesn't begin to appreciate us enough. If it weren't for me, half of their mergers and acquisitions wouldn't have gone through. Azuma's success is largely attributable to me, and they probably wouldn't be solvent except for your expertise."

"You're so right," Peter said, clinking glasses with him, "I don't know about you, but I feel sorely undervalued. Last year's bonus was a pittance, a feeble token of what they should have given me."

Stratton sighed expressively. "I'm right there with you. I don't know where they get off making those huge profits and not acknowledging the people who made it happen."

"And yet, here I am forced to report on Kigiku. Leonard, I regret having to do it, but what option do I have?" Peter spread his hands wide in a gesture of helplessness.

Stratton stroked his upper lip. "What if I paid back the money? Could you then overlook it?"

"I'm returning to Los Angeles on Friday evening. Can you get me the funds before then? This filet mignon is truly excellent, by the way. It slices like butter. The amount you siphoned off was over three million dollars. For me to bury what happened would demand a lot of work. But for an extra million, I'd be willing to sacrifice the time."

"Cough up four million?" Stratton swallowed and took a quick glug of water. "Surely it wouldn't take that much time."

"With the extra scrutiny and oversight now demanded, that's the minimum I could manage it for," Peter said ruthlessly. "You're asking me to break the law. I could be sent to prison if this was discovered."

"When did you say you'd need it?" Stratton asked in a strangled voice.

"No later than noon on Friday," Peter repeated firmly. "Any later and I'll have no choice but to file my report."

Stratton put a hand to his brow, wiping off the sheen of sweat that had suddenly appeared. "There's no way I could get the money together in time."

"There's always a way. Think, man. Your career's on the line. If you're so lacking in imagination that you can't think of a way, I can't help you. But I sense greatness in you. You're a man of vision. Together we could make this a long-term partnership."

"Perhaps." Stratton smoothed his hair back. "Would you consider payment in Samurai bonds? As you know, they're highly liquid."

Peter considered the offer as he slowly buttered a roll. "They're not as liquid as cash ... You're positive you can have them available?"

"I'll have them for you by nine o'clock in the morning on Friday."

Peter smiled. "I believe this calls for more wine."

A week ago Neal had been at the Plaza Hotel to attend a gala. Now he was back, but this time he was leading his date to a more intimate venue—the Rose Club. And his date? An elegantly attired chanteuse by the name of June Ellington.

"What memories this brings back." June's eyes were dancing as she gazed around the jazz lounge. "I haven't been here for years."

"Then it's way past due," Neal said as they made their way to the hostess, "and I'm glad I'm the one who can rectify it."

The walls of the Rose Club were paneled in walnut burl with thick Persian rugs covering the floor. Club chairs upholstered in dark claret velvet were grouped around Edwardian co*cktail tables. Neal had reserved a corner table near the stage for them. He took June by the arm when the hostess escorted them to their seats. As they sat down, the jazz trio started to play "Fly Me to the Moon." He couldn't have asked for a better song to start their evening.

For their night on the town, June had chosen a sophisticated ensemble in navy silk. Neal was wearing Byron's black velvet smoking jacket with a dark burgundy shirt.

"I'm glad I insisted you wear his jacket," June said. "It makes me think Byron's here with us."

"I like to think he is, too."

"I haven't been here since they renamed it. It used to be called the Persian Room. I sang here several times in the early '60s. The Persian Room was the premier nightclub in New York. All the most famous performers used to come here—Carol Lawrence, Patti Page, Andy Williams—"

"June Ellington," Neal interjected.

She smiled mischievously. "It's much more refined now than it was back then."

"You need to fill me in on those stories," he said as the waitress brought them their co*cktails.

"Where should I start? Perhaps the time Cary Grant marched on stage when Carol Lawrence was performing and swept her off her feet ..."

Neal was entranced to hear June's anecdotes of the Rat Pack and the biggest names of show business. She seemed to know them all.

"A toast," Neal said, raising his glass. "Here's to this evening and being here with you."

June raised her martini glass. "About a year ago you moved in with Byron and me, and now I wonder how I'd manage if you weren't there."

He clinked glasses with her. "Does that include Mozzie dropping in all hours of the day and night?"

"Definitely!" she acknowledged with a laugh. "Tell me more about Janet. Does she play poker by any chance?"

Neal tried to picture Janet playing poker and failed. "Candy Land may be more her style. She might even make costumes for the three of you to wear."

The evening passed much too quickly as they reminisced over events of the past year and their plans for Christmas. Neal realized with a start he'd yet to ask her to dance. "Is there any song you'd like to request?" he asked.

"Why don't you pick one for me?"

"That's an easy choice." Neal wrote down his selection on a piece of paper and handed it to the waitress. Before long, the strains of the Frank Sinatra classic "Young at Heart" started, and Neal took June's hand to lead her onto the dance floor.

When Wednesday morning rolled around, Neal was back at work, immersed in his role of Nick Halden—an up-and-coming investment analyst whose promising career path was being paved with PowerPoint presentations. He suppressed a sigh as he tackled the eighth revision to a presentation he thought he'd seen the last of yesterday. This morning he'd also learned a new thrill: preparing a pitch book for an IPO. He hoped to copy and paste his way out of that one.

The boss came by at ten and requested Neal work on yet another PowerPoint. What was he—the king of PowerPoints now? Neal's claim of not having the bandwidth— and he mentally gave himself points for using the banking lingo for time—because he was working on the IPO pitch fell on deaf ears. Neal glumly twirled his pencil in one hand while propping his chin on another.

Next to him, Vijay leaned toward him. "Thanks for the cartoon. I pinned it to my monitor. Your cartoons of the trading room are fantastic. You should publish a collection. I bet analysts would snatch them up like parathas fresh off the griddle."

"I'm glad you liked it. I wish I had the time to draw more."

"What are you working on?"

"A cost analysis for the pitch book," Neal said mournfully. "I'm having a tough time getting the numbers to reconcile."

"Perhaps I could help?"

"It wouldn't be too much trouble?"

"Not at all. I've already finished my revision. Let me take a look at it." Vijay rolled his chair over to Neal's station.

"Okay if I grab a cup of coffee? I'll bring you one back too."

"Of course, go right ahead."

Neal quickly ducked out only to be stopped by Hiroki. "Very smooth, Nick."

Neal shrugged. "A good division of labor."

"Care for a friendly wager?"

"Since when have I turned down one of those?"

"Okay, smart boy. See Roberto over there? I want you to distract him while I remove his backpack. I'll bring it back in a few minutes. If you want to win the bet, Roberto can't realize I took it. Think you can manage it?"

Neal looked over at Roberto. His station was at the end of the row. His backpack was lying on the floor next to his desk.

"What are we playing for?"

"Lunch at Vitae."

"You're on. You want me to do it now?"

"Sure. Any problem with that?"

"None at all." Neal tossed him a confident smile. Hiroki wanted to test his ability. Smart move. He was going to like what he saw.

Peter was due to give a briefing on the Azuma case on Wednesday morning. He directed Melody to block out the morning for a meeting with the IRS in case anyone inquired about his absence from the bank. In addition to Hughes, Jones, Travis, and Diana, Agent Joseph Ruiz was also sitting in. Hughes had ordered the operation to be run jointly with Organized Crime because of the yakuza connection. Peter had only met Ruiz casually. He'd recently been promoted to Acting Special Agent in Charge of Organized Crime and had a good reputation.

Peter summarized the results of his Tuesday dinner with Stratton. Based on what he'd learned and Neal's report from his Tuesday lunch, they were certain the robbery would take place during the upcoming holiday party on Thursday.

"What do we know about the extent of yakuza involvement?" Hughes asked.

"The poker club at the Golden Lotus has been rumored to have ties to the yakuza," Ruiz said, "but we didn't have any complaints to justify an investigation. Based on Caffrey's experience at the club, we plan to conduct a follow-up as soon as the op is concluded. The drawings he provided of the tattoos add weight to our suspicions. One of the symbols on" —Ruiz glanced down at his notes—"Hiroki's tattoo appears to be the emblem of the Yamaguchi-gumi yakuza group."

"We've researched the backgrounds of the suspects," Jones said. "Nothing we've been able to dig up on Stratton shows any links to the yakuza. He never lived in Japan. His entire professional career has been in finance. As for the other two, their backgrounds have several parallels. Both were schooled in the States but spent extensive periods back in Japan. They attended the same private boarding schools. They have wealthy parents but are estranged from their families."

"They may have been recruited by the yakuza in Japan," Diana added. "Some aspects of yakuza culture go back to the days of the samurai and shogun. Their emphasis on ritual and ceremonies could hold a strong appeal to someone who thinks of himself as a misfit."

"We haven't had a prior instance of yakuza infiltration at this level in a financial institution," Ruiz said. "This could be a breakthrough in our efforts to combat their influence."

"Do we know how they plan to commit the robbery?" Hughes asked.

Peter pulled up a floor plan of the vault floor on his laptop and projected it onto the wall screen. "The vault is one floor below the main floor. Access is regulated through a security keypad in the elevator. We assume Stratton will have arranged for Hiroki and Shogo to have the code."

"What will Caffrey's role be?" Hughes asked.

"We believe they plan to use him as a diversion for the guard," Peter said. "You can see his station here on the map." Peter indicated the position with a laser pointer. "Hiroki and Shogo could either access the vault floor via the elevator or use the emergency stairs located between the guard station and the vault. Probably they'll have Neal take the elevator. It has a camera but they won't be concerned about him being recorded. The guard will spot Neal who may act under the influence or simply claim that he got lost. While he distracts the guard, the others steal the bonds."

"During the past heists, the thieves wore masks," Travis said. "The heists were only discovered after a review of the surveillance footage."

"Neal will attempt to get them to describe in advance what they're planning and record it as evidence," Peter said. "We want them to think they've gotten away with it. We don't simply want to capture them but also implicate Stratton. Jones and Diana will be undercover: Jones at the bar and Diana as a waitress. Travis will coordinate surveillance with Agent Badillo in the van. We don't have to worry about the suspects getting away with the bonds. The numbers will have all been written down and will be non-negotiable. Once Stratton hands me the bonds the next morning, our case against them will be airtight."

"But what if Hiroki and Shogo aren't satisfied with just the bonds?" Ruiz objected. "All the securities and cash in the vault will be ripe for the picking."

"In the previous robberies, only the Samurai bonds were stolen," Diana noted.

"I disagree that the main objective is Stratton," Ruiz persisted. "He's a small fish compared to Hiroki and Shogo. They're the ones with the yakuza connection. Our top priority needs to be stopping the yakuza from making any inroads into the banking system."

"What do you propose?" Hughes asked.

Ruiz borrowed Peter's laser pointer. "The corridor leading from the guard's desk to the vault has three file rooms off it. These are limited-access rooms. They're used for wills, trusts, and confidential documents. We'll set up a camera in the vault which can be monitored from one of the rooms where a team of Organized Crime agents will be in position. Once the two suspects have entered the vault and opened the container holding the bonds, we move in and take them down."

"But won't the suspects hear you when you come out of your hiding place?" Peter asked. "They could flee, or if they're armed, the situation could quickly escalate into a shootout."

Ruiz looked skeptical. "Have you seen the size of the bank's vault room? It's immense— larger than your bullpen. The Samurai bonds are stored on a back wall behind an array of safety deposit boxes. If we mount a camera there and wait till they remove the bonds, they won't have a chance of discovering us. But if it makes you more comfortable, we could simply close the vault door on them and wait till you've moved your team into position before making the arrests."

"What if one of them is stationed outside the vault?"

"We can mount a camera here," and Ruiz indicated the position next to the stairwell. "That will give an overview of the corridor going into the vault. If one of them does keep a lookout outside the vault, we'll alert the reinforcements to move in. They can access the floor from the elevator which is far enough away that the suspects won't spot them until it's too late."

Hughes turned to Peter. "If the arrests are made that evening, could you make it work with Stratton?"

"Stratton won't be able to supply the bonds. He may be desperate enough that we can squeeze a confession out of him," Peter replied. "It's hard to predict what he will do. It will be more straightforward if he has the bonds."

"We can't rule out the possibility that Stratton is also a member of the yakuza," Ruiz said. "If we let the other suspects run free, he could flee too. For all we know, this may be the last heist they're planning and they're all going to take off."

Hughes listened to both sides of the argument without giving a hint about which one he favored. At the end of the meeting, he said, "I'll let you know my decision this afternoon."

Peter went to his office for a quick check of his email before heading back to Azuma. Or so he'd intended, but his computer had other ideas. Even though he'd checked his mail before leaving for work, his inbox was once again stuffed with a new collection of requests. Some of the emails required detailed, immediate responses. His "quick check" rapidly turned into an hour of prolonged writing.

While he was replying to one message, an email came in from Tricia, asking him to give her a call when it was convenient. She knew he was working undercover that week and wouldn't expect him to be in the office. Had she heard something more about Fowler? Peter reached for the phone.

Tricia answered it on the second ring. It was a relief to hear she was calling about Fowler and not because Henry was causing problems. "We heard back from Argentina. The local police were able to trace Fowler to a hotel in Buenos Aires where he'd stayed on the night of the twenty-fifth of November. The plane from Ottawa had arrived at three o'clock after a stopover in Miami."

"He stayed only the one night?"

"That's correct. The hotel personnel were questioned, and the doorman remembered that a private car picked up Fowler the next morning. He couldn't provide many details about the car. He thought it might have been black." Tricia gave a small huff. "That's not going to get us very far, but at least the hotel could confirm Fowler's identification."

Peter jotted down notes as he listened. "Anything more on Henry?"

"No, we were lucky to discover his involvement in the first place. When the FBI agent interviewed a ticketing officer at Newark, she told him that someone else had been making inquiries and provided a detailed description. The agent had also worked on the missing persons case last summer and was familiar with Henry. He returned with a photo and the officer confirmed his identification."

"I called Henry on Sunday. He confirmed that he hadn't mentioned it to Neal. No one at Win-Win knows about it either. Henry claims that he's no longer investigating the case."

"Did you believe him?" Tricia asked bluntly.

Peter took a long breath. "For the moment, yes. How could he travel to Argentina without it being an official case? I was able to extract a promise from him to let us know if he picks it up again. I threatened to tell Neal if he doesn't cooperate."

Tricia gave a soft chuckle. "That's the best and probably only leverage we have. Did Henry mention anything to you about Adler?"

"It didn't come up. He also didn't reference Buenos Aires. I don't believe Neal's talked to him about the case for the very reason we discussed. He doesn't want Henry to get involved with Adler." Peter noticed Travis in the corridor outside his office. When he saw Peter was on the phone, he didn't linger.

"The agents on the Fowler case all have Henry's photo now and are aware of his interest. I'm to be kept informed of any news."

It was reassuring that Tricia was so familiar with how Henry operated. Peter would like to think that Henry had learned a valuable lesson from the events over the summer, and he now realized that going rogue was unacceptable. But until Henry proved himself, Peter would continue to label him a loose cannon.

Tricia continued as if she'd heard his thoughts. "I know it's hard to maintain your objectivity in this situation, but I can't help wishing Henry would involve Win-Win in the case. As it stands now, Fowler and Adler are outside our jurisdiction and we have to rely on the Argentinian authorities and Interpol. Win-Win's resources are considerable, and their international presence could be invaluable."

"I agree. My concern, though, is whether Henry could act as a team player. How do you feel?"

The sound of her chair creaking came through the phone. Tricia took her time to answer. "I'd like to think so," she said finally, "but that's yet to be demonstrated."

"You're coming back next week, aren't you? Henry may give you an opportunity to put those newly honed analysis skills to work."

"About that." Tricia paused for a long moment and when she came back, her voice projected an unexpected hesitancy. "Did you hear regional behavioral analysis groups are being set up as part of the reorganization enacted after the September 11 attacks?"

"I did. I noticed New York's rollout will start in January."

"My former mentor at Quantico has recommended me for the team. Peter, I have to say it's tempting. I haven't made my final decision yet, but I'm inclined to accept it."

Peter gave a slow exhale. He was glad she couldn't see his expression. He should be happy for her. She was overdue for advancement, and her new role should guarantee her promotion to senior special agent within the year. Tricia had been interested in profiling since her days in Quantico. To have her former mentor at Quantico recommend her for the Behavioral Analysis team in New York was a high compliment. "Putting aside my personal feelings, this is a great opportunity for you," he said. "You're a natural in the area. Your assistance with Kate Moreau and Robert Winslow demonstrates the skilled analysis you bring to criminal profiling. But please tell me that we'll be able to continue to consult with you on cases."

The call ended with Tricia's assurance she wouldn't be a stranger, but afterward Peter set aside any thought of working on his email as he considered what the change would mean to his team. With her transfer, Jones was the natural candidate for second-in-command. He'd already demonstrated an aptitude for the role and had displayed good leadership potential. Peter made a mental note to begin providing him with more command opportunities.

Tricia's news wasn't a shock. If the Behavioral Analysis Unit hadn't been in Quantico, she probably would have asked for a transfer long ago. Peter suspected her reluctance to relocate was because of her husband Mitch who was a professor of anthropology at NYU. Tricia had once mentioned that NYU had one of the best anthropology departments in the States. It couldn't be easy for a professor to relocate to a different university.

The assignment sounded perfect for her, but he'd miss working with her on a daily basis. Tricia said she hoped to be called in to support White Collar whenever they needed a profiler and he was going to hold her to that. What with Fowler, Adler, Azathoth, and now Henry, if he had his way, she could consult full-time for White Collar.

Peter looked up to see Travis was once again standing outside his door and beckoned him inside. "Take a seat. Something on your mind?"

Getting Travis to speak up could be a challenge. It was like he was calculating all the cosmic ramifications of each word in advance. After a long moment, Peter gave him a nudge. "Yes?"

Once he started talking, he was blunt enough. "I don't have a good feeling about Ruiz participating in this op."

"Why's that?"

"I may be speaking out of turn, but in light of what happened on Thursday I have my concerns."

Travis acted as if Peter knew what he was talking about, but Peter was clueless. "What happened on Thursday?"

"Neal had a run-in with Ruiz in the afternoon. I'd hoped he'd told you about it."

Peter could feel his stomach start to churn. "No specifics," he said. "How was Ruiz involved?"

"From what I saw, he was the ringleader, but I only witnessed the tail end. Ruiz and a couple of other agents from Organized Crime were in Neal's face. Giving him a hard time over what happened with Fowler. I advised Neal to report it. He resisted—said he didn't want it to get blown out of proportion. But now, having Ruiz and his agents down there with Neal on the vault floor ..." Travis shrugged.

Peter considered Travis's revelation. "Ruiz has a good track record at the FBI. He's Acting Special Agent in Charge and I'm sure he doesn't want to blow his chances for promotion. I'm inclined to believe like Neal that Ruiz is all bluster. When it comes down to it, I don't believe he'll let personal feelings interfere with his professional judgment. But after what happened with Fowler during the last case, I'm not going to take that for granted."

After Travis left, Peter considered how best to handle it. If he spoke to Ruiz, it would serve to reinforce the ridiculous notion that Neal was Peter's pet and keep the wound festering. Picking up the phone, he called Hughes.

"That's a nasty business with Ruiz," Hughes said. "That sort of attitude needs to be stamped out. I made a promise to Caffrey after the incident with Fowler that I wouldn't tolerate any more abuses and I meant it. I'll speak with Ruiz."

"I thought it was important you understood the situation, but we have to be careful not to make it worse," Peter cautioned.

"Leave it to me. In any case, I need to let him know about my decision."

Later that afternoon Hughes called Ruiz to his office. "I'd rather err on the side of caution. Go ahead and make plans to position your agents in the side room. We'll arrange with Nakahara to grant you access and allow you to set up the necessary camera feeds. White Collar will handle the undercover work at the event. Agent Jones will serve as the liaison for the two groups."

"I'm glad to hear it, sir. I believe this has the greatest chance for success."

"Good. You have an excellent reputation. I reviewed your record." Hughes tapped with a pen on a closed folder in front of him. "The Organized Crime Unit doesn't have any consultants working with them so some of your agents may not be familiar with working with consultants in the field. You no doubt plan to remind your agents that Caffrey will be unarmed. As a consultant for the FBI, his safety is a paramount concern in any operation."

"Since he'll be with the guard in the front while we're handling the suspects in the vault, that shouldn't be an issue."

"Good. See that it's not." Hughes paused and scrutinized Ruiz long enough that he began to squirm. "I'd hate to have your record blemished by any unfortunate occurrence. Are we clear on that?"

Ruiz nodded slowly. "Yes, sir."

Notes: Peter can rest easy about Tricia. In her new role as profiler, she'll continue to be actively involved with his cases. But it was high time for her to have an office of her own.

Diahann Carroll, the actress who played June Ellington in the TV series, appeared often at the Rose Club—or Persian Room as it was once called—in the 1960s. Back then, the Persian Room was considered to be the most prestigious of all of New York's nightclubs. I've pinned a couple of publicity photos from her Persian Room performances on the Evening with Genji board at our Caffrey Conversation Pinterest site. There are also a couple of examples of investment analyst cartoons like Neal drew for Vijay.

Chapter 8: The Impaler

Chapter Text

Lexington Hotel, Manhattan. December 8, 2004. Wednesday evening.

At the end of the work day, Neal left the bank for the daily briefing at the Lexington Hotel. When he arrived, he found Peter had already joined Jones and Diana in the room.

"How many martinis for lunch today?" Jones asked. "Or was it sakes?"

Neal took off his coat and lounged into a chair. "Martinis. We slummed it at Vitae's."

Diana made a face. "While I was eating tuna salad? That's Christie's favorite restaurant. Did you get their burrata appetizer?"

Neal nodded. "And the duck confit with endive marmalade."

"I can't stand it," Diana moaned. "I'm calling her up. We're going there tonight."

Neal crossed his arms behind his head. "Brown-bagging it once this op's done is going to be a real comedown, but I want you to know that lunch was well earned. They challenged me to distract a co-worker for ten minutes so he wouldn't notice Shogo carrying off his backpack and later returning it. The results were never in doubt as far as I was concerned, and lunch wound up being on them."

"I'm not surprised they wanted to test your ability," Peter commented. "Aside from poisoning your liver, did the lunch produce any results?"

"Why, yes, I'm glad you asked. You see Nick had grown skeptical that anything was actually being planned. He accused them of stringing him along. Tiffany, the babe I'd created, had rung Nick up and invited him to a party that night. He told them he'd decided to skip the bank event, which undoubtedly would be much too staid for a playboy like Nick."

"Smart move, Caffrey," Jones said. "How'd it play?"

"Now that they know I can deliver, Shogo and Hiroki fell over each other in their efforts to persuade me to change my mind. First of all, this is no ordinary fruit punch and cookies affair. Azuma has the tradition of combining a bonenkai with the holiday party."

"Bonenkai?" Peter repeated. "Never heard of it."

"A bonenkai is a Japanese tradition, a drinking party held at the end of the year. The idea is to drink to forget your troubles and woes from the past year and celebrate moving on."

"We need those at White Collar," Jones commented. "I'll add it to the suggestion box."

Neal looked hopefully at Peter, but Jones's comment didn't cause a ripple of a reaction. Apparently the team would have fruit punch and cookies to look forward to at the White Collar event.

"The Japanese businessmen I've met are very reserved," Peter said. "It's hard to imagine them as party animals."

Neal shrugged. "Almost everyone has a hidden side. I researched the subject this week and bankers are renowned for their elaborate holiday parties. The ones Azuma throws are rated among the best. As for my role during the heist, Hiroki told me that he and Shogo placed a bet with the traders on the floor that they could sneak into the vault and—you'll like this—leave an inflatable Santa Claus in the vault without the guard knowing about it. They're paying me five grand to distract the guard."

"You're joking," Diana scoffed. "Five thousand dollars for a simple diversion?"

"I suspect they sweetened their offer to convince me to do it since I was holding out on them. They claim to belong to an investment club with eight traders on the floor. They set aside a certain percentage of their gains over the year as prize money for an outrageous holiday prank. This year Shogo and Hiroki drew the lucky number."

"It's crazy enough that it almost sounds plausible," Diana said. "For a gullible patsy like Nick Halden, not a bad hook."

Jones looked thoughtful. "I've been researching the other thefts, but so far haven't detected any common link. An investment club could make an ideal recruiting tool."

"I agree," said Peter. "Once this op's concluded, you should take it up with our Interpol contacts. The timing's too sensitive to pursue it now." Peter then proceeded to review the plans for the joint operation.

Neal knew that they were consulting with Organized Crime, but it was disappointing to hear White Collar wasn't in charge of the takedown. He'd hoped the other team would only be involved in an advisory capacity. He didn't like working with unfamiliar associates on a con. They were too unpredictable. But a dry run was out of the question in this case. "What kind of presence will White Collar have?" he asked.

"We'll have support people at the party and will coordinate communications both with Organized Crime and NYPD," Peter said. "I'll stay close to Stratton. Diana will be undercover as a co*cktail waitress, Jones as a bartender."

Neal glanced over at Diana. "Have you seen your costume?"

Diana glared at him. "There aren't any costumes. Going undercover doesn't imply that I'll need to dress up in some ridiculous outfit."

"Hey, I'm just trying to give you a heads up," Neal said. "My buddy Vijay on the trading room floor told me about the party last year. He also showed me some photos. Don't say I didn't warn you."

"The catering company didn't mention anything in particular when we talked with them," Jones remarked, "although I have to say they appeared very pleased when they interviewed Diana."

"We'll pick the uniforms up tomorrow," Diana said. "They can't be worse than our costumes for N-Con, can they?"

Neal simply smiled. Based on Vijay's photos, she might prefer to be dressed as Cleopatra.

"He's teasing you," Peter said. "I'm sure they're standard wait staff uniforms."

At the end of the briefing, Jones volunteered to drop Diana off at her apartment in Chelsea on his way home, and Peter offered to give Neal a lift to Columbia. He'd caught Neal glancing down at his watch several times during the briefing and suspected he was running late. "Sorry the meeting took so long," Peter said as he unlocked the Taurus. "You got something special on tap this evening?"

"I was hoping to make a final run-through of a presentation scheduled for tonight," Neal admitted. "But I still have time to practice the key parts."

On the way to Columbia, Peter took advantage of the stop-and-go traffic to bring up the subject of Ruiz. He hadn't wanted to discuss it in front of the others, but the issue needed to be addressed. He'd watched Neal closely when he explained the joint operation to the group, and it didn't seem to bother him, but Neal could have masked his emotions.

"Ruiz was present for the briefing," Peter said. "Travis came to me afterward and described the confrontation he'd witnessed between you and Ruiz. He said he only saw the tail end. Care to give me the specifics?"

Neal shrugged. "I didn't report it because I didn't want it blown out of proportion. The agents were trying to intimidate me. There were no specific threats. They resent me over what happened with Fowler and wanted to be sure I knew it. I'm not concerned, and you shouldn't be either."

"Hughes talked to Ruiz." When Neal started to protest, Peter quickly added, "Don't worry. He didn't mention the incident. He reminded Ruiz that as a civilian consultant, you're unarmed. Hughes expects Ruiz's men to provide due diligence for your safety. He also may have noted that anything less would be a black mark on his file."

They were stopped at a traffic light, and Peter glanced over to assess Neal's reaction to his words. He was staring gloomily out the window.

"If you're concerned about Ruiz, I can have Hughes request a replacement." Neal didn't answer but his mouth tightened into a frown. If he hadn't said he needed to be at Columbia, Peter would have pulled the car over. Neal was more clearly more upset than he'd admitted. "After what went on, I can easily justify his removal. Ruiz brought it on himself. Should I go ahead?"

"Yeah, sure," he said, waving him off. "Wait, I take that back." Neal grinned sheepishly. "What was it I almost agreed to?"

Crisis averted, Peter tried again, "Agent Ruiz, the guy who harassed you. Do you want me to file a complaint?"

"Nah, I'm not worried."

"Something's got you on edge. What is it?"

Neal exhaled noisily. "Tonight. My doom awaits me."

"What are you talking about?"

"Myra Stockman, the Dragon Lady as Keiko calls her. She has many other names. My personal favorite is the Impaler. I'm scheduled to have a one-on-one with her tonight. She's going to review my works for the exhibition."

"Your art's fantastic. I've seen those pieces. She'll sing your praises."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, but Myra's a harsh critic. She gave Richard his review on Monday and he told me about it afterward. He said it was the most ghastly ordeal he'd ever endured. You remember the kinetic sculpture he's been working on for the past three months?"

Peter had seen it in Richard's studio. The complex mobile consisted of steel balls suspended by thin wires. The balls were electronically controlled to form abstract patterns. "What about it?"

"She castigated him for attempting to pass off an Erector Set as art."

"Ouch."

Neal nodded glumly. "On the other hand, he'd whipped together a clay model of a space alien for Tac-Con—just a rough, preliminary design—with no plans to use it in the exhibition. She spotted it and raved over it. Called it 'evocative of primitive eroticism.' Now he's so confused, he doesn't know what direction to go for the exhibition. She could do the same with me. Axe all my works and I'd have to start from scratch." Neal resumed staring out the window as if the solution to the crisis was written on the doors of the passing cars.

Instead of worrying about the heist and Ruiz, Neal was stressing to the point of obsession over his art. If Henry only knew, he'd focus on Stockman rather than Fowler. Maybe Peter should tell him. Then his own life would be so much simpler. "Look at the bright side. You've dealt with a lot worse. She can't be as bad as Azathoth, right?" Neal didn't answer him, so he repeated the question. "Right, Neal?"

"Don't rush me. I'm thinking."

"Walk me through your concept," the Impaler said.

Promptly at seven o'clock, Myra Stockman had marched into Neal's studio. He'd spent the past several minutes arranging and rearranging his pieces while rehearsing his pitch. Neal gave her a bright smile while swallowing down the hordes of butterflies threatening to escape from his mouth—and wouldn't that make an interesting painting.

Myra didn't look as fierce as her reputation. Short with a bouffant Afro, she wasn't much older than the grad students she oversaw. She seemed too young to have already added so many one-woman shows to her resume, but underneath that sweet exterior lurked a dragon poised to strike. Myra's works were known for her exploration of race, gender, and sensuality. Neal didn't want to contemplate what terms she'd use for his works.

Tonight's torture was designed to update her on the status of his paintings for the first-year exhibition which would be held in May. Neal had been working on seven pieces: Exposed, The Rock, Spheres, The Shapeshifter, Sandpipers, The River, and Bicycles. They were in various stages of completion. Myra had recommended students focus on their personal journeys, and so he had. He'd started Exposed right after watching Klaus plunge to his death. Sandpipers had been inspired by Jones Beach where he and Peter had been kidnapped. Spheres was an abstract of the Rose Space Center at the Museum of Natural History. Surveying the works propped up on the walls of his studio, Neal felt they encapsulated his own experiences over the past three months. But what would she say about them?

Myra didn't waste any time on pleasantries but launched into a rapid-fire barrage of questions on each work. How did the technical elements contribute to the mood? Why had he selected those particular shapes, colors, and textures? What he was trying to express in each work? She particularly grilled him on The River, the one he'd started when he was wearing the tracking anklet and felt that his world was crashing around him.

Myra had claimed possession of one of the rolling work stools in the studio. Sitting on it like a Grand Vizier thirsting to impale him at the first hint of a misstep, she launched her volleys at him. "You call this The River. Which river?"

"The Hudson along Riverside Park," Neal said. He'd perched on the edge of the other stool but stood up to defend the painting.

"What made you decide to paint it?"

"I got the idea during a morning run along the river."

Myra gave a dissatisfied huff. "What idea? Why then?"

Neal thought back to that morning. His resentment at being forced to wear the anklet. His anger. His fear that his life was being ruined. How could he possibly explain that to Myra?

"I'm waiting," she said impatiently.

"I felt a kinship to the river, to its movement." The words began to flow in a torrent as Neal relived the emotions. "I longed to run free, but I was being constrained by the riverbanks. I was being channeled to follow a direction I had no desire to go. I wanted to spill over those banks and flood the park and the streets." Neal stopped abruptly and waited uneasily for her reaction.

She jotted a few notes on a pad of paper. "Take a seat. Let me tell you what I see in these pieces. Normally at this stage, I expect to have a fairly good idea about a student's style and his identity as an artist. But I don't for you. Your technical expertise is not in question, but your identity ... What identity? I look at your works and it's as if they're painted by seven different artists. The styles have very little in common. The brushwork only has occasional similarities. I joked that one of your pieces should be called Lost in Space but I could say that for you in general."

Here it comes. Neal braced himself for the onslaught. The dragon was rearing back, ready to launch her flames at him. He'd soon be a singed lump of charcoal.

"Take this latest painting. I wouldn't have recognized it as yours. It expresses a rage that is lacking in any of your other works. I like it, but it also points out your greatest weakness. How could the same artist who paints The River toss off a work with bicycles floating through the clouds? If I had to say what your identity is, I'd be at a loss. There's no cohesion. You express it yourself in The Shapeshifter. You didn't mention it but that's a self-portrait, right?"

Neal nodded.

Tell me about your teachers. What methods did they employ?"

"I learned through copying the art of the masters."

Myra shook her head unhappily. "I suspected as much. That method's held in disfavor and you're a prime example of why. Were you ever encouraged to develop your own style?"

"No," said Neal briefly. Telling her that his technique was based on the experience he'd gained as a forger was not on the agenda. Neal eyed his works as she talked. He couldn't dispute what she was saying. Was she even going to let him exhibit? What happened then? Could she throw him out of the program?

"With any other student, I'd order them to halt what they're doing immediately and perform an intensive self-analysis to understand who they are before taking up any more of my time." She fixed her probing eyes on him. "With you, on the other hand, I'm beginning to believe that your identity is the lack of one."

Neal shot her a startled look.

"This painting you call The Shapeshifter has something in common with The River. In both, you've captured the essence of motion in a static medium. In The Shapeshifter the medium is gas, in The River, liquid. I'd requested you paint something that expresses how you regard yourself, what you view your essence to be. And what do you give me? The Shapeshifter. Do you know what this tells me?"

She waited, but Neal didn't think she really expected him to say anything. It probably would have been gibberish anyway.

Jabbing her finger at him, she continued. "It confirms my theory. You're like water, molding yourself to whatever container you're in, be it a riverbank, a bottle of wine, or a jelly jar. You're an enigma, Neal Caffrey. And if I were to name your exhibition, that's what I'd call it: Enigma."

Myra exhaled sharply. Neal couldn't tell if it was out of disappointment or disapproval, probably both. "In the exhibition catalog, we include a photo of each artist. With you, I'm tempted to use a fedora resting on the corner of an easel, like what you've done tonight. All I can say is continue with what you're doing."

Neal gave her a smile of relief.

"Yeah, yeah. That Cheshire cat smile of yours. You're probably going to vanish and leave the smile behind. Perhaps that's what I should use for your bio."

Myra stood up and stored her notes in her tote. As Neal opened the door for her, she glanced at a painting that had been stacked behind one of his exhibition pieces.

"What's that?" she demanded.

"Just a preliminary sketch," Neal said, dismayed that she'd noticed it. "Trust me, you don't want to see it."

"Oh, yes I do." Her eyes glittered malevolently.

Neal reluctantly retrieved the canvas. Only a few sections had been painted. Luckily, he'd hidden the one he was finishing for the weekend. If she saw it, he'd be pilloried.

"What did I just say?" she said triumphantly. "Look at this. You've switched over to what appears to be a Pre-Raphaelite palette. Don't tell me you aim to resurrect Rossetti as a cubist? Do you know the meaning of the word focus?" She held up a hand, "Don't answer that, but I want to see it when it's further along. I'm leaving now. You can tend to your wounds."

At Neal's relieved chuckle, she broke out in a small smile herself. "You're on the right path. Although the collection isn't cohesive, each of the pieces is revealing. You're showing us your heart. You're breaking the mold, and that's always a good thing."

After Myra left, Neal stowed his paintings, feeling almost lightheaded. He'd squeaked through. Thankfully, she hadn't quizzed him on The Bicycles. Explaining that he'd painted it while Mozzie led federal marshals on a wild goose chase wouldn't have impressed her.

Neal was putting away his final painting when his cell phone rang.

"How did it go?" Fiona asked.

"Still alive and in one piece."

"I knew it," she said happily. "I told you, you had nothing to worry about." He could hear her turn down the music playing in the background. It had a soft, harp-like quality to it, but it sounded more percussive. Maybe a dulcimer?

"I wasn't nearly as confident." Neal sat down cross-legged on the floor against the wall. "I was blithering."

"Sorry, but I can't imagine you blithering. I've seen your presentations. You don't show a trace of nerves."

"This one wasn't the same." Fiona thought he was exaggerating, but he'd felt more exposed with Myra than he ever had during a con.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I first performed one of my own pieces? I was so nervous I forgot half the lyrics—lyrics that I'd written myself. I was mortified. Simply thinking about it makes me blush." Neal could hear her taking a sip of something, probably tea. Fiona liked to drink herbal tea in the evening. "You didn't let her see the painting that we're delivering on Saturday, did you?"

"No, fortunately. But she did want to talk about The Token."

"You showed her your Pre-Raphaelite? Brave move!"

"It was unintentional, believe me. I hadn't hidden it as well as the other one."

"I think that painting took matters into her own hands. You're too hard on yourself about it." Fiona and he continued to talk for a half-hour, switching from art to their plans for Saturday.

He'd intended to call Henry that evening but by the time the call with Fiona ended, it was late. He could hear Peter lecturing him in his head to get to bed for a decent night's sleep before the op tomorrow. The call could wait till the weekend.

Despite Peter's confidence, Neal suspected the transition back to the daily grind at Win-Win wouldn't be an easy one for Henry. He'd been driven for years by his desire to take down a corrupt music company, and now that case was over. Would he be bored by the Win-Win routine? How would he channel his restless energy? Neal hoped he'd found a challenging case to focus on.

Peter had scheduled a final pre-op check with his team at his hotel room during the lunch hour on Thursday. He ordered box lunches from the hotel restaurant. Jones, Diana, and Neal were gathered around the round table that Jones had shoved into the center of the room.

"Hiroki told me to be ready by 6:45," Neal said. "He said they'd figured out how to hack into the security system of the elevator. When they give me the signal, I'm to take the elevator down and keep the guard from looking at his monitors for fifteen minutes."

"During the party, I'll stay close to Stratton," Peter said. "Neal and I won't be able to use our earpieces at the party—they're simply too obvious—so we'll only have one-way communication through our watch-communicators. But we'll carry the earpieces with us to use if needed. Travis and Badillo will coordinate communications and surveillance from the van which will be parked near the bank entrance. Additional agents will be stationed outside and available if necessary."

"Travis told me to remind you to treat the watches carefully," Jones said. "This new model is less rugged than the old one but it has better GPS."

"When will the Organized Crime unit move into position?" Diana asked.

"At 5:30. They'll use the service entrance in the back."

Jones ripped open a bag of pita chips and passed them around. "Diana and I will be there beginning at 5:00 to help with the party preparations. What's the panic phrase again, Neal?"

"Wild Party," Neal said, raising his soda to the others. "Relax. Everything's covered. Peter, you got your holiday hat ready?"

Peter eyed him suspiciously. When he'd read the notice that employees were encouraged to wear holiday hats, it sounded so much like something Neal would have dreamed up that he wondered if Neal hadn't instigated it. "You didn't happen to have a hand in that, did you?"

"Not me. Perhaps it's another bank holiday party tradition?" Neal turned to face Diana. "How do you like your uniform?"

She grimaced. "You did warn me. I'll give you that."

"Nothing wrong with mine," Jones said smugly. "In my role of expert bartender, I've had an excuse to practice my shakes and twists."

"So when I saunter up to the bar, I can order my martini while doing this." Neal tapped with his index finger on the table.

"Right back at you, Caffrey," and Jones tapped a reply.

Peter put a stop to it, tapping his own message.

"You're going too fast," Diana complained. "When did you become such experts at Morse code?"

Jones chuckled. "Caffrey and I've been practicing during lunch hours. I figured it might come in handy."

"Didn't they teach you Morse code at Quantico, Diana?" Peter asked.

"A brief overview, but I didn't become proficient."

"Back in my day, competency was required for all the plebes at Quantico," Peter said. "It can be a vital tool in emergency situations."

Diana turned to face Neal. "So what urgent message did you just send?"

Looking pleased with himself, Neal said, "Hot chick on the right."

"And you, Jones?"

"Babe on the left," he admitted.

She glared at Peter. "And you were a party to this?"

"Don't look at me," Peter protested. "I transmitted Cut the crap. And that goes for tonight. Stay sharp, everyone."

As far as Neal was concerned, the holiday party couldn't start quickly enough. Today he'd nearly lost it when the ninth revision to the presentation he'd prepared for one of the managing directors came back with yet more demands for rewrites. He was sorely tempted to replace all the charts with cartoons—he'd amassed quite a collection of sketches over the past week and personally found them much more edifying than the charts he'd been obliged to insert. Still, the pain he'd endured had its upside. He'd gained valuable knowledge for any boiler room scam in his future. Plus, stock trading would be a lucrative way to gain extra funds—a legal way to gamble that the FBI couldn't give him grief over.

Vijay leaned over from his workstation. "Do you have your hat ready? I'm glad the planning committee recommended employees wear holiday hats. I'm in the mood to party."

"Vijay, you're a wild man." Slight exaggeration there. Vijay had donned a snowman Laplander hat, which made him look like an elf from Santa's workshop. Neal reached into a desk drawer and pulled out a red felt fedora.

They ran into Shogo at the elevator bank. "I have a feeling this will be one party to remember," Vijay said excitedly. "I found a website that reports on the most outrageous investment banking holiday parties. Do you think we'll make the list this year?"

"I hope so," said Neal. "Last year in L.A., Azuma rented out a Hollywood western set and had the party at a saloon. It got so wild the police had to be called in. Now that was a party."

"In Tokyo one year, they had a pole-dancing act," Shogo said. "I heard rumors there was even a lust room with a twenty-foot wide bed covered in purple satin."

Vijay's eyes widened. "I wonder how difficult it would be to get transferred to Tokyo."

The elevator arrived, and Shogo stepped in first. He flashed them a grin as he adjusted his red and green plush jester cap. "Let's make this party happen."

Notes: The accounts of wild bank holiday parties are based on actual news reports, but I can't vouch for their accuracy. This story takes place before the financial crisis of 2007-2008. Supposedly, holiday parties are now much more subdued.

Chapter 9: The Bonenkai

Chapter Text

Azuma Bank. December 9, 2004. Thursday evening.

The holiday party was just getting underway. During the ride down in the elevator, Neal could feel the familiar surge of adrenaline that accompanied the beginning of a con. Vijay was excitedly talking about outrageous pranks pulled at past bank parties. Shogo in his Christmas jester's hat looked like a coiled Jack-in-the-box, impatient to be sprung. But the expression in his eyes reminded Neal more of a cobra rearing back in its basket than any child's toy.

When they exited the elevator, they were greeted by the sounds of Mannheim Steamroller Christmas music. The event was being held in the bank lobby. Few extra decorations were needed since the two-story lobby with its ornate plaster ceiling, soaring Ionic columns and overhanging mezzanine had already been lavishly decorated with Christmas trees and greenery. Neal counted four bars as he scanned the space. Buffet stations were set up at several locations while wait staff circulated throughout the lobby with platters of snacks. Two sushi tables manned with chefs and their assistants were at opposite ends of the lobby. A yakitori station was particularly popular with a line already forming in front of it.

The wide assortment of Christmas hats ranged from the cartoonish to the elegant. Most of the women had opted for headbands festooned with antlers, Christmas bows, or poinsettias. A large number had also added a sprig of mistletoe. Many of the men had chosen more outrageous headgear—transforming themselves into elves, Christmas trees, Santas with dreadlocks, or reindeer with comical antlers. The holiday hats added a note of unreality to the proceedings. It was as if Christmas tree ornaments had come to life and sprouted limbs.

Neal and Vijay strolled to one of the bars. On the way, Neal spotted Peter talking with a couple of managers. El had picked out his hat. She'd been kind. His red velvet Santa hat was one of the more restrained ones there.

Vijay nudged him. "Check out that waitress. I want to get whatever she's offering."

Neal glanced at the object of Vijay's desire and hid his grin behind his shrimp toast. Diana was a sugarplum vision in her emerald-green uniform with a short bouffant skirt. Red pompoms dangled from her petticoat. Complimenting her attire were her red-and-green-striped tights, ankle boots, and long green gloves with faux red fur. She wore a matching green Santa hat with a large red pompom which was also bordered in red fur. This was one look that would require a snooper-pen photo at the first opportunity.

"Vodka martini, please," Neal requested when they arrived at the bar. Jones was also wearing a Santa hat. No pompoms to be seen on his red plaid vest and bow tie. He was handling his bartender chores with aplomb.

"You got it. Like an olive or twist with that?"

"Dry with a twist." With a wink at Vijay, he added, "Shaken, not stirred."

Vijay ordered the same for himself. "What's a yakitori?" he asked. "Is it worth waiting in line for?"

"Japanese shish kebabs. You'll love them. If you go over, grab me one too."

Vijay took off on his mission to acquire yakitoris, giving Neal a chance to touch base with Jones. Afterward, he cruised the room, stopping to talk with his fellow analysts. He spotted Hiroki and Shogo by one of the sushi tables.

"Canapé, sir?" Diana offered him a napkin.

"Do you have any of those smoked salmon bruschettas?" he asked, knowing full well she didn't.

"I'll have to check in the back," she said with a long-suffering sigh.

Neal got close to her as if to make a pass. "Keep an eye on the sushi chef in the northeast corner. Shogo and Hiroki were talking to him earlier. Could be nothing."

"On it," she said. "I'll see what I can find out while looking for your salmon."

Diana didn't get back with the salmon, but Neal didn't miss it. He was enjoying the party. His fellow analysts were a lively crowd. Hiroki kept his distance but Shogo wandered in and out. A clump of directors had formed around one of the bars. Peter and Stratton were among them. Neal spotted Peter on his cell phone once. At 6:45 p.m. Hiroki made his way through the crowd and stood next to him. "You ready for some fun?"

Out of the corner of his eye, Neal saw Jones watching them. "It's about time. I was getting restless."

Hiroki passed him a plastic ID card. "This will get you into the secure elevator." In a low voice, he gave him the security code. "Use that for the keypad. Enter the elevator at 7 p.m. When you step out, the guard's station will be in front of you. Think you can distract him for fifteen minutes?"

"Will that give you enough time? I could keep him occupied for longer."

Hiroki laughed. "That kind of can-do attitude will get you far in investment banking. Let's make it twenty to allow a safety margin. You can then head back upstairs."

Neal strolled toward the bar after Hiroki left. Glancing over at the sushi table he'd pointed out to Diana, he noticed another chef had taken the first one's place. Neal looked for Diana and spotted her surrounded by several young bankers. Catching her eye, he gestured for her to join him.

"I asked about the sushi chef," she said in a low undertone, rotating the platter for him to make a selection. "He claimed to not be feeling well and was replaced."

"I'll leave for the elevator at seven. I'm to distract the guard for twenty minutes." He gave her a sloppy leer and fingered one of the pompoms on her petticoat.

"Good luck," she murmured as she swatted his hand away.

"What can I make for you, sir?" Jones asked when Peter stepped up to the bar.

"Scotch on the rocks." He'd waited till Jones wasn't busy with other customers before approaching him. The party had been going for an hour now, and the decibel level of noise was drowning out the music. Leaning over the bar as if to make himself understood over the noise, he asked Jones if he had anything to report.

"Spoke with Caffrey a couple of times," Jones said as he poured Peter's drink. "No problems."

"Good. I'll be with Stratton." As Peter walked back, he saw Neal flirting with Diana. They made a good pair. It reminded him of the convention in October when they were Cleopatra and Mark Antony.

Peter had stayed with Stratton throughout the party. Like Peter, he'd adopted a restrained look, wearing a black top hat with a sprig of holly in the red ribbon. His tie, crimson with tiny Christmas trees, contrasted with the garish ties most men were wearing. Stratton was chatting with another manager when Peter walked up with his drink. He had a relaxed, benevolent air as he gazed around the crowd. That wouldn't last. Peter intended to give him a major case of heartburn.

He pulled Stratton aside and asked, "Is there any chance I can have payment tonight?"

Stratton jerked his head around to stare at him. "We agreed on noon tomorrow."

"Yeah, but I would have thought a man of your expertise would want to demonstrate your skill by being early."

He swallowed. "Tomorrow morning's as early as I can make it." Stratton took him by the elbow and led him to a relatively empty spot behind one of the columns. "Do we have to talk about this now?" His eyes darted around to the other managers nearby. "Here?"

"What better place? No one transacts business at a holiday party. And we're not either, are we?"

"No, of course not." Stratton fiddled nervously with his tie.

"Good," Peter said jovially. "How are you coming on your Christmas shopping? Have you bought your wife the diamond tiara she's demanding or is it the villa in Nice?"

"More likely Milan," muttered Stratton. "She's been nagging me for a townhouse there. Claims she needs it for her shopping during Fashion Week. How about your kid?"

"Henry?" Peter rolled his eyes. "He may only get coals this year after the losses he racked up in the market this quarter. I don't think I'll ever be able to control him. But he's family. What can you do?"

"Got that right." Stratton eyed Peter appraisingly. "You know, we have a pretty sweet arrangement. What would you think of extending it a while longer? With your position in internal audit and my access to the funds—we could have plenty to remove all our worries."

"More fun with Samurai bonds?" Peter remarked. "Like in Sydney?"

Stratton looked at Peter in shock. "How'd you—"

"I'm good, Stratton, very good. You can't hide stuff like that from me."

Stratton exhaled sharply. "Yeah, okay, I do have a source for Samurai bonds. You might even say I've cornered the market."

And I cornered you. Prosecutors wouldn't have any difficulty with the case thanks to Strattons's unwitting help. It didn't seem possible that he was the brains behind the robberies. Hiroki fit the profile much better. Ruiz may have been right in his assessment. Hiroki or his yakuza boss could decide at any time that Stratton was no longer useful and cut him loose.

During his conversation with Stratton, Peter continued to monitor Neal's movements. He was now moving toward the elevators. Peter glanced at his watch. Seven o'clock. The timing was working out well. He'd gotten all he needed out of Stratton and could switch his entire focus to the vault floor.

Peter approached Jones at the bar and waited till he'd finished making a drink for a customer. "I went ahead and put my earpiece in," he said. "My hat covers it—there's gotta be some good out of wearing this ridiculous headgear—and I don't want to stay out of communication with what's happening in the vault. Keep an eye on Stratton. Make sure he doesn't leave the room. Have you got your earpiece in?"

Jones nodded. "My hat disguises it. I'll get my relief to take over at the bar."

Peter could hear the elevator door close. Neal must have just gotten off. Footsteps sounded in his ear. "Hi ya, are you all alone down here? You're missing a helluva party! Want me to bring you anything?"

Nick the party boy was in his element. He was slightly slurring his words. The guard appeared to be amused by his ramblings.

Peter went over to one of the buffet tables. He took his time making his selection while continuing to listen. As he stepped back to let others approach the table, he noticed Diana striding toward him. Peter didn't wait for her to come to him but met her in the middle of the room. The din of the party was so loud he wasn't worried about being overheard. "Anything wrong?"

"I'm not sure and I don't like it," Diana said. "Neal told me about a sushi chef that he'd seen Hiroki and Shogo talking to. He asked me to check on him. The chef disappeared around 6:30. The staff said he wasn't feeling well. It sounded okay, but he's still not back. I just searched the back area, and he's nowhere to be found. The coordinator hadn't heard he was sick. This is an unknown variable and it bothers me."

Peter shared her concern. The chef could be an accomplice. "I'll alert Ruiz. Tell Jones what you know and then both of you report back to me. We may need to change plans."

She nodded and took off.

Pulling out his cell phone, Peter called Ruiz and told him about Diana's suspicions.

Ruiz was skeptical and argued with him in a low voice that was hard to hear. "Look, Burke, everything's good at our end. The two suspects just entered the vault. We can see them well in the camera feed. They're wearing dark clothes and hoods. Haven't taken out the bonds yet. We'll wait till they do and then move in."

"What about the camera in the corridor?"

"We've got clear views of the vault entrance and the stairs. There's no one else there. Your agent's overreacting. She's young. Probably has probie jitters."

Peter continued to listen to Neal's banter through his earpiece while he talked to Ruiz. After he signed off, he checked his watch. Neal had exited the elevator seven minutes ago. Ruiz could be right, but Diana's instincts were good. Neal was prattling on about the party and other holiday bank parties. Was he making this stuff up? The tales were becoming increasingly preposterous.

"In Tokyo two years ago—now that was a wild party—you should have been there."

Peter snapped to attention. He looked over at Jones and Diana and they were already moving toward him. Neal sounded relaxed, but that was his panic phrase.

"Man, I'm telling you it was a wild party."

Why weren't Ruiz and his people moving in? They should have intervened at Neal's first use of the panic phrase. Peter called Ruiz on his phone. No answer. Travis broke in through the earpiece. He couldn't get through to Ruiz either and was directing the standby team to move in. "Diana, find Nakahara and bring him to me," Peter ordered. "Jones, take Stratton into custody. Once your backup's arrived, report back here."

In his earpiece, Neal mentioned wild party a third time. Suddenly Peter heard the rapid pops of gunfire. Neal was yelling to the guard to take cover. Now Peter's earpiece was crackling with gunfire and screams. His heart hammering a fierce drumbeat, Peter headed for the elevator doors.

Neal whispered rapidly, "Two gunmen on the stairs. Guard dead—" His voice cut out abruptly. Pounding footsteps. Voices ... It sounded like they were speaking Japanese. Damn it, where was Ruiz?

"Don't shoot!" Neal's voice projected real terror. Peter had a nightmare vision of Neal on the floor, holding a hand up in a futile gesture to ward off the gunmen approaching him.

An FBI unit in assault gear swarmed into the lobby and closed off the exits. When the revelers caught sight of them, their cries of panic became deafening. NYPD officers arrived on the scene and acted swiftly to control the chaos. Jones joined Peter close to the elevators. Holding his watch-communicator close to his mouth, Peter asked Travis, "Any word from Ruiz?"

"Still trying to reach him," Travis reported. "Nothing coming through ... Wait, he's calling on his phone. I'll patch him through to your phone." Peter put his cell to his other ear while continuing to listen to Neal's feed through his earpiece.

Ruiz sounded out of breath. "Had to retreat into the holding room. When we opened the door to go to the vault, we were ambushed by two gunmen on the stairs. I have two men injured. We had no other option but to retreat. When we closed the door, they must have used the security code to lock it. We're trapped now."

Diana had arrived with Nakahara in tow and had fitted him with an earpiece. He'd have to serve as their interpreter until the NYPD interpreter arrived. Nakahara's Santa Claus hat appeared to be someone's idea of a cruel joke as he listened with an anguished expression.

"I'll check on the feed from the security cameras in the vault," Diana said and sprinted off.

Through Peter's earpiece, he continued to hear Japanese. "What are they saying?"

"They're debating whether to kill Neal," Nakahara replied, his face pale. "Two, perhaps three, voices. One of them is arguing that he's more valuable as a hostage."

His mind racing through the options, Peter couldn't find any he liked. "We can't take the elevator down," he muttered to Jones. "They're most likely at the guard's station. We'd be sitting ducks."

"The stairs aren't any better," Jones warned. "Should we coordinate an assault through both the stairs and the elevator?"

"If we charge in, it'll be a bloodbath." Peter shook his head slowly. "But they're not giving us a choice." He gave himself a few seconds to consider and then told Jones, "We'll move into position in the stairwell."

Peter raised his communicator to his mouth to have Travis patch him through to the auxiliary unit when the voices in his earpiece started speaking English. He motioned to Jones to go ahead.

One voice, probably Hiroki, said, "On your feet, you gutless pansy. You wanted thrills. How's this?" Sounds of a scuffle. A gasp—that must have been Neal. Peter could hear heavy breathing, a choked-back cry.

"Not had enough?" The audio dissolved into random noise as a loud crackle ripped through Peter's earpiece. Grimacing, Peter rode out the static while Travis adjusted the feed.

Travis's voice came through a few seconds later. "Looks like the watch was damaged. The feed's breaking up."

Through the static, Neal's voice could be heard, speaking raggedly, "The guard pressed the alarm ... The place will be swarming with police. You need me." Peter raised a warning hand for everyone to stay in place while Neal tried to negotiate his way out of the crisis. They couldn't storm in on them now.

"He's right." That sounded like Hiroki. "He'll be our ticket to escape."

The feed was breaking up badly now. Impossible to piece together everything that was going on. One voice came through. "Stop squirming." That was probably Shogo. "You'll only make it worse."

Neal screamed. More static. Sounds of heavy panting. Peter flailed for the trained response which should come automatically. He couldn't allow himself to think about what had happened. Neal was still conscious. That was a good sign. Focus on that.

With a final ear-splitting pop, Neal's transmission went quiet.

Peter frantically surveyed the others, demanding, "Don't we have any eyes on what's happening?"

Diana had rushed up during the last seconds of transmission. "We brought up the auxiliary camera, but there's no feed. It's dead." She stopped, appalled at what she'd just said. "I meant equipment failure."

"We can't wait any longer. We're moving in now." Peter barked his orders to the assembled agents. Some were in riot gear with protective shields ready, not knowing what was awaiting them on the vault level. Peter took the stair route with five other agents while Jones led a team to the elevator.

The alarm on the entrance door to the stairwell was still off, and they encountered no hostiles on the stairs. As Peter and his team descended the stairs, the silence was disquieting. Every step, every rustle of gear cast a jarring note and set his nerves more on edge. When they arrived at the door to the vault level, they stopped and listened intently for any sounds inside, but nothing could be heard. Speaking in muffled tones, Peter coordinated with Jones on the timing of their teams to open the doors simultaneously.

When they burst through the doors, the corridor was quiet. No hostile fire. No gunmen. From the emergency stairs, the guard station was to the right. The vault and storage room where Ruiz and his agents were still trapped were to the left. Peter ordered agents to free Ruiz using the lock code provided by Nakahara while he joined Jones and his team at the guard station.

The guard was lying in a pool of blood on the floor, dead from multiple gunshot wounds. No sign of Neal and no indication that any of the perps had been wounded.

Ruiz ran up as Peter was conferring with Jones. "What happened?"

"You should be telling me," Peter said angrily. "How could you let yourself get trapped like that?"

Ruiz didn't attempt to answer.

Peter stilled his anger. It wasn't clear how much of this was Ruiz's fault. An inquiry would have to sort that out. "How badly are your men injured?"

"A couple were hit by gunfire. Their wounds are not life-threatening," a subdued Ruiz responded.

"Medics are on their way," Jones said.

Peter ordered Ruiz to divide up his team. Most of them would join the manhunt immediately with one to remain with the injured. Travis reported that the entrance to the parking garage below the bank had been barricaded off. An NYPD unit was handling traffic control and monitoring the entrance. No one was allowed to leave.

Agents had already moved into position along the exits of the emergency stairs. The stairs from the vault terminated on the fourth floor. The suspects could have exited on any of the floors and were now hiding in one of the offices. Peter withdrew to the main floor lobby and entered a side office that had been commandeered to be their command center. Blueprints of the building were spread out on a desk. The Japanese NYPD interpreter had arrived and had been fitted with an earpiece. FBI and NYPD forces were conducting a door-to-door search while other agents combed through the multilevel garage.

Peter beckoned Jones and Diana over. "The parking garage is three stories deep. It's going to be tough to cover. How many stairs lead down to the garage?"

Jones scanned the blueprints. "Two, one at either end of the building."

"Diana, check on the status of the garage. We may need additional units brought in."

"On it, boss." She took off to consult with the NYPD officer who was coordinating the search.

Peter turned to Jones. "Were you able to get any information out of Stratton?"

"Stratton is sweating big time. Claims not to know how they'd planned to get the bonds out of the building. He's admitted to being part of the robberies in Sydney and Rome. In both cases, Hiroki had given him his share the day afterward at a prearranged location."

Travis called in while they were speaking. "Agents on the second floor are reporting a shootout in progress."

Peter sprinted for the stairs, accompanied by Jones. They could hear the gunfire inside the stairwell, but by the time they opened the door to the second floor, the battle was over. Several NYPD officers in riot gear were sweeping the offices. A burly officer strode over to Peter when he arrived and explained that two suspects had fired on them when they entered the floor and had both been killed.

One of the gunmen was the missing sushi chef. Jones was able to ID him. The other wore a suit. The middle-aged Asian could have been one of the bank employees. An Organized Crime agent was searching the body. He looked up at Peter. "No wallet or ID that I can find."

All the offices were searched but there was no sign of Neal, Hiroki, or Shogo. Bags of cash and bonds were found close to the gunmen. It was a significant haul, much larger than they had anticipated. Had the earlier robberies merely been dress rehearsals for the heist in New York?

Peter told Jones, "These two probably took off immediately with the money after the initial confrontation on the vault floor."

Jones nodded. "They may have intended to stash the cash in one of the offices and then disappear in the crowd."

Peter and Jones returned to the command center on the main floor where Peter updated Diana. All the other searches were coming up blank. "They may be hiding in the garage," he told Diana.

"There are agents on all floors of the garage," she pointed out. "So far they haven't found anyone."

Peter shook his head. "That's where my gut's telling me. Get me the blueprints. I'm going to Stratton."

Stratton was being held under armed guard in a small office off the lobby. Jones had already questioned him and Stratton had been made aware of Peter's true identity. When Peter walked in, he was sitting at a desk, arms folded in front of him, his head bowed. He jerked his head up and flinched at Peter's arrival.

Peter didn't mince words. Grabbing a chair and sitting down across from him, he said, "You know who I am. You know you're going down for bank fraud and a host of other charges."

Stratton mutely nodded.

"But here's the thing. I don't think you're a murderer."

Stratton shook his head, his eyes wide with fear.

"But your goons, the men who work for you, who steal for you, who you control—"

"Now wait, I'm not responsi—"

"Who are acting on your orders," Peter continued ruthlessly, "have already killed a guard. They've taken an FBI operative prisoner and are holding him hostage. If we don't find him, they'll kill him as well, and you're going down for murder right along with them."

"I didn't give the orders, you have to believe me." Stratton was stumbling over his words, his face white.

"Where are they?"

"I don't know. I've already told you I don't know!" His voice was shrill with fear and denial.

"You must know," Peter said, slamming a fist on the desk. "Does either one own a car?"

"I don't know," Stratton moaned.

"Yes, you do. Think. One of them must have said something. You help us. You have a chance of not spending the rest of your life in prison."

Stratton squinted his eyes in concentration. "Mustang. Hiroki was bragging about how he had a new Mustang. It was red, I think, or maybe black."

"Where does he park it?"

"I've no idea, but most of them use the second floor of the garage."

Peter was already out of the door. He found Diana waiting for him in the command center. She spread a blueprint of the garage on the desk. Together they scrutinized the layout. Pointing to the north wall, he said, "This wall is thicker than the others. What do you think?"

"Lockers, perhaps? Crawlspace?"

Peter held up his hand. "Shhh." His earpiece was crackling. While listening, he got on the phone to Travis. "Is that Neal's communicator?" he demanded.

"I'm pinpointing it now."

The crackling sound came in and out as if the watch-communicator were being shorted. A short burst of Japanese could be heard between the static. Peter fixed his eyes on the interpreter, who was listening intently. "They're arguing over if it's safe to leave," he said. "Two voices."

"We can't afford to wait any longer," Peter said. Pointing to Jones and Diana, he ordered, "Stairwell now." The signal was breaking up badly with very little except static now being heard.

Travis called in. "The signal's coming from the second-level garage, north side."

Peter let out a quick exhale. Jones and Diana exited the lobby with him. Once they left the lobby, there was no sign of anyone but NYPD and FBI agents. As they started down the stairs, Diana said, "Boss, I have an idea. If we find them, we'll most likely have a hostage situation, right?"

"What do you have in mind?" Peter asked, not pausing.

"You think if you used Morse code with your fingers on your pants leg, Neal would understand it?"

"Maybe something very simple," Jones said. "We know he's injured."

Diana explained her idea. They'd reached the second floor of the garage. Peter stopped and considered her proposal. "You're assuming Neal can move rapidly enough to make it work," he warned. "He may not be able to."

"We could use it as an option," Jones said. "If he doesn't respond, we haven't lost anything."

Diana's plan would give Neal the best chance of getting out of the line of fire. But Peter kept hearing his anguished cry before his communicator cut out. What kind of condition would they find him in?

Chapter 10: The Dinosaur and the Bumblebee

Chapter Text

Warning: The first scene describes what happened when Neal was held prisoner and may be too graphic for some readers. If puncture wounds are a trigger for you, please skip the first scene and begin reading after the scene break.

Azuma Bank. December 9, 2004. Thursday evening.

It must have been at least thirty minutes since Hiroki and Shogo hustled Neal to the garage. He'd tried to remain conscious throughout the ordeal, but he was sure he'd blacked out more than once. The pain from the skewer was relentless.

How long had it been since Shogo plunged it into his side? Maybe an hour? Seemed like an eternity. The first minutes of going down endless stairways were a blur. Hiroki had allowed him to collapse on the floor when they finally entered the utility closet. He had no choice. Neal's legs were shaking so badly he couldn't support himself.

At the moment, they thought he was still unconscious, giving him a chance to think of a brilliant scheme to free himself. What did he have to work with? Hands? Not much help there. His wrists had been zip-tied behind his back before they left the guard station. If he'd been alone, he might have been able to free them, but not with his two captors practically on top of him. Watch? Broken. He'd seen its cracked face when Hiroki slammed his wrist against the guard's desk. It probably wasn't sending a signal. There was no sign of the cavalry.

Neal pressed his wrist against the floor. If he could force the parts together to make contact, there was a chance it could still transmit a signal. One stroke of luck. The watch was on his left wrist. If it had been on his right wrist, the side where the skewer was, he couldn't have managed it.

Shogo was crouched next to him. He was keeping a firm hand on him next to the skewer. Neal had been warned against making any sound or he'd plunge it in deeper.

Shogo and Hiroki were whispering in Japanese. The words came too fast for his sluggish brain to process. Something about police, guns, a car ... what to do with him. Hiroki was arguing they needed him. Yeah, you want to keep me alive. Shogo wasn't happy about it but agreed.

The space they were in was barely deep enough to contain them. Heavy steel doors. Concrete floor with electric conduits and meters on the walls. The cold penetrated his bones, reinforcing the pain. Neal willed himself not to shiver but his body wasn't cooperating.

Hiroki slapped his face. "Hey, Nick, old boy, wake up."

After a few more slaps it was obvious Hiroki wasn't taking no for an answer. Neal slowly opened his eyes.

"That's better. We're gonna take a little trip now. You behave yourself, and we'll drop you off after we're outta here. Sorry we had to hurt you, but we couldn't take a chance you'd do something silly like try to escape."

Neal concentrated on faking a greater weakness than he felt. If they left the closet, he might have a chance to break free and escape. It was the best chance he had. Billy had told him to be an orchid. Time to cowboy up and be a flower.

Hiroki and Shogo got on either side of him and hoisted him up. When Shogo had first skewered him, Neal screamed so loudly that he retracted it a little. It might work again.

Neal focused on the pain and amplified it. His head dropping forward, he let out a low moan. Hiroki cursed at Shogo in Japanese for being too rough. Neal moaned again. His plan nearly backfired when Shogo grabbed his shirt and caused the skewer to move. Neal reeled, his senses swimming, as Shogo hissed, "Not another sound if you want to live."

"Cool it! " Hiroki ordered. "He's our shield in case the cops are out there. He's in such bad shape it won't be easy getting to the car. Don't make it worse."

"Then we better leave now before he faints again."

Hiroki switched places with Shogo so he could control the skewer. "Don't try anything, understand?" he told Neal in English.

Neal nodded. Now that he was on his feet, he was growing increasingly dizzy. No need to fake his weakness.

Shogo opened the door. After the dim obscurity of the locker, Neal had to blink several times to adjust to the bright light. Hiroki and Shogo each had an arm around him. They slowly stepped into a vast space.

Neal hadn't seen the garage before tonight. It was filled with vehicles. Didn't look like anyone had left. The bank was probably on lockdown. There were no sounds. No hum of car engines, no screeching of tires, no voices. They were alone.

They'd advanced about ten paces when Neal heard the most beautiful words in the world: "FBI! Freeze!"

Peter, Jones, and Diana appeared from nowhere to face them. Their guns were drawn. They must have been crouching behind a car, waiting for the right moment. Neal blinked, trying to get rid of the sweat dripping into his eyes. He wished he could alert them he wasn't in as bad of shape as he appeared, but he couldn't take the risk. Shogo had pulled out a gun and was holding it to his neck.

"You can't escape," Peter said. "You'll never be able to leave the garage. Let your hostage go. It's your only chance." Neal saw his eyes flick over him, pausing at the skewer. His wound hadn't been bleeding much at first, but all the jostling on the stairs had done it no favors, and once they'd hoisted on his feet the bleeding intensified.

His captors were in no mood to make a deal. Hiroki was doing all the talking. "Pull your agents back! We want free passage out of here or he dies. Stand back now!" He was practically screaming, his voice echoing loudly.

Shogo shoved a knee hard into Neal's leg, making him falter. "Keep moving," he muttered. "Go for the red Mustang."

Neal slanted a glance to the right and saw the car they were aiming for, maybe fifty feet away. They were moving backward, dragging him back with them, always keeping him between them and the agents. Neal tried to stall, faking imminent collapse.

Peter continued his efforts to persuade them to surrender. While he was talking, Peter looked straight at Neal and then moved his eyes to the right. Neal followed his eyes. What was he looking at?

Jones had his eyes fixed on Neal's face. When he saw Neal look at him, he moved his eyes down to his knees. Neal stared at his hand. He should know those movements. Morse code. V ... A ... N. Neal blinked slowly once and hoped they realized he understood.

Peter sounded so calm, so reassuring. Why weren't they taking him up on his offer? Neal would have in a heartbeat. He focused his eyes on the hands of the agents. He caught Diana tapping on her watch.

Off to his left, he heard the screech of tires and the roar of a racing engine as simultaneously a horn blared. For an instant, Hiroki and Shogo eased up on him. Neal kicked out at Hiroki, making him slacken his grip enough that he could jerk himself free. Neal flung himself behind a car in the direction of the sound, twisting to land on his uninjured side. He slid along the concrete, crashing into the tire of an SUV.

His leap caused the skewer to move and the waves of pain were crippling. He lay as still as possible, trying to ride it out. Dimly he was aware of the sounds of gunshots and pounding footsteps.

Someone crouched next to him. Neal forced his eyes open. It was Travis. He slid his arms around his upper chest and said, "We gotta get you out of the line of fire." Badillo had moved alongside him and was preparing to lift his legs. Despite himself, Neal moaned at the movement. The van was only a few paces away. Lifting him into it, they eased him onto the floor where he lay like a fish flopped onto the deck of a boat.

"The medics are waiting outside," Travis said. "As soon as the shooting stops, they'll come in."

Neal didn't attempt to answer. Outside the gunfire continued. Hiroki and Shogo weren't giving up. Travis reached for his knife and cut the zip tie binding his hands. When Neal reached for the skewer to pull it out, Travis grabbed his hand and held it. "We have to leave it in, sorry. If we pull it out, it may cause worse damage. Just a few minutes more."

Neal focused on breathing as shallowly as possible to still every muscle. He felt someone wipe his forehead with a cool cloth. It made him forget the pain for a moment.

He heard the sound of the van door opening. A familiar voice, low and worried, was right above him. Neal reached out blindly to Peter. "Pull the damn thing out!" he pleaded.

"Can't do that, buddy. Not yet. Hold on to me. The medics are on their way." He could hear Peter's voice continuing to reassure him but it was hard to follow the words.

More hands on him. Voices, talking fast and low. He tried to open his eyes but his eyelids had turned to concrete. The last thing he felt was a needle prick.

He was resting on a soft, billowy cloud. He vaguely considered sinking into it, but his limbs were too lazy. He let his eyes drift around. More clouds. Strange shapes. He hadn't realized clouds could be so angular. They almost looked like ceiling tiles, but fuzzy, soft ... Dimly he was aware of being injured, but that was so long ago. His cloud rose even higher. If he could just break through the clouds overhead, maybe he could see the sky. But no hurry.

Neal sighed blissfully and started humming "Up, Up, and Away." He heard someone chuckle. Peering over the edge of his cloud, Neal saw a meadow filled with flowers. Peter was standing in the meadow, looking up at him. "Hey, Peter," he called out.

Peter didn't act like he'd heard him. Neal gave a big yawn and looked again at him and laughed.

"Feeling better?" Peter asked

"Yeah, why are you a ...?" Neal's cloud must have drifted down to the ground or maybe Peter had risen on his own cloud. No matter. He could touch him now. Neal patted the top of his head. Green and furry, but it felt nice. Like something he'd felt before. Couldn't quite place it.

"Whatcha doing?" Peter smiled at him.

"Why are you in that getup? Although, don't get me wrong. It's really cute. The green tail is a ... nice touch. Those red spikes on your back ..." Neal blinked his eyes. Too bad he was so sleepy. "Did Janet make you wear this? Gotta say—you make an awesome dinosaur. She should take ... picture." He reached out to touch him, but then his cloud started soaring back into the sky. Peter seemed to be a very happy dinosaur. Neal waved at him and he waved back.

Somewhere down below a door opened. Neal was trying to catch a hummingbird as it zipped by but stopped to look down. "Hi, El!"

El flew up to greet him. She patted his head. Said something. Neal couldn't figure out what. When had she grown wings? They went well with her bumblebee outfit. Did he say that or think that? Neal wished he could touch her antennas, but she flew off before he had a chance.

He smiled down at El buzzing around the flowers. Now Peter was ambling along the meadow with her. He was getting awfully close to El. "Peter, watch out! She's gonna sting you!" Had Peter heard him?

Neal tried to raise himself to alert him, but his arms weren't working so well. His cloud started to rock. Oops. Nearly fell off his cloud. Peter had flown up to steady him. When did he grow wings? Why was Peter helping him? He should keep his eyes on El. She was buzzing very close. Was she going to sting him too? A big bumblebee like her would really hurt.

"Shhh. It's okay." Peter's voice sounded reassuringly low in his ear. "I won't let her sting you."

"But, Peter, she's ..." Neal's cloud was rising again. Carrying him away. Bumblebees couldn't fly this high, could they? He wished he weren't so sleepy.

Peter knew that too. "Rest. It'll make more sense later, I promise you."

Up, up, and away ...

El placed a hand on Peter's shoulder, her eyes bright from suppressed laughter. "What was that all about?" she whispered. She'd left the room to fetch them coffee when Neal was still unconscious. After all the anxiety they'd experienced for the past few hours, Peter was glad she'd returned in time for the show.

He glanced over at Neal who was apparently fast asleep. He motioned her away from the bed so they could talk without disturbing him. "The closest I can figure out is that he thought I was dressed up as a dinosaur and you were in some sort of bumblebee costume getting ready to sting me."

She smiled softly. "I told him my folks used to call me Bumblebee when I was young. That must have made quite an impression."

"I never said anyone called me Dino when I was a kid," Peter grumbled.

"But you loved dinosaurs. It all makes sense, Dino."

Peter harrumphed as he clasped her hand. "Maybe to him. The part where he worried about being stung certainly does."

The door opened and Christie stepped into the room. He supposed he should call her Dr. Vintner. But after she took part in the Thanksgiving feast at Columbia, she'd always be Christie to him. Peter was relieved to discover she was on duty at the Bellevue Hospital Emergency Room when they arrived last night. During the initial hours of uncertainty about Neal's condition, she'd been a reassuring presence.

"How's our patient?" she asked in a low tone, as she checked the readings by his bed. "Has he awakened?"

"Briefly, but he wasn't alert. He was hallucinating."

"I'm not surprised." Christie motioned for them to follow her outside Neal's room so they could talk. "The painkiller we used can have that effect. I'll make a note on his chart. Did he seem in distress?"

"No, he was humming and smiling. He appeared to be enjoying himself, that is until he thought El was a giant bumblebee out to sting him."

Christie laughed. "Neal has a vivid imagination. I'm sorry I missed that."

"The fact you're so relaxed leads me to think Neal's injury wasn't too severe?" El asked.

Christie turned more serious. "You're right. Neal was very fortunate. Although extremely painful, that skewer was the equivalent of a gigantic splinter. It had lodged against one of his ribs and caused some tearing to the musculature on his side, but didn't penetrate any internal organs. We needed to diagnose the extent of the injury before we could remove it. The drug kept him comfortably sedated. If the skewer had gone in any deeper or slightly lower, it would have caused significant injury and elevated our concern for peritonitis. We'd be holding a very different conversation right now."

That had been Peter's worry as well.

Christie smiled at them. "But the good news is that it didn't. We were able to extract it with a minimum of additional damage. It's like when you remove a splinter. The relief is instantaneous."

"What will the recovery be like?" El asked.

"He can be discharged as soon as he's sufficiently alert. That should be in a few hours. I don't expect he'll want to do anything but rest today, but tomorrow he should be able to resume normal activities. He'll continue to experience some pain from the wound. I'll send him home with a prescription which should help with that. The puncture was sealed with a few tiny stitches which will dissolve in about two weeks. He'll need to take antibiotics and monitor the site to make sure no inflammation or swelling appears."

"I assume the blood work came back negative?" Peter asked.

Christie nodded. "We wanted to verify that the skewer hadn't been dipped into a chemical, but that doesn't appear to be the case. There were no toxins in his blood. Infection is really the only cause for concern at this point. His muscles will need time to heal. He should avoid anything strenuous for a couple of weeks."

After Christie left, El rested her head on his shoulder. "We just got our Christmas miracle."

"Door's open," Neal called out.

Peter stepped into the loft to find him stretched out on the couch, reading a book. He tossed off his throw and started to get up, but Peter held up a hand. "You stay put. I got this." Peter headed to the table and set out the containers of takeout he'd brought. He'd gone into the office for a few hours in the afternoon but had left early so he could be at Neal's by five.

"You're not gonna make me eat lying down, are you?" Neal groused. "I haven't mastered the art of using chopsticks while horizontal. It's not going to be a pretty sight."

"All right, you're allowed to sit at the table, but I'm dishing up. Where's your teapot?"

Neal looked at him incredulously. "You're kidding. You're making me tea? Aren't you overdoing the mother-hen routine?"

"Wouldn't you rather hear me cluck than roar like a dinosaur?"

Neal groaned. "You're never going to let me live that down, are you?"

"Nope," said Peter smugly, having found the teapot. "I only wish I'd thought to record you. You would have been the smash of the office holiday party."

"Don't mention holiday party ever again. I've crossed them permanently off my list." Neal moved over to the table and watched with a look of amusem*nt as Peter bustled about the tiny kitchenette, getting out plates and setting the table. When he pulled out a teabag, Neal snorted. "Since when do you carry teabags in your coat pocket?"

"Since today. I figured you might not have any so I filched some from the breakroom." Peter eyed the table with satisfaction. "Dinner is now served. El sends her regards, by the way. If she didn't have a performance tonight, she would have joined us. The Hollow is sold out again tonight. I'll be in the audience too, but don't worry, I'll make sure she doesn't sting me."

Neal dropped his head onto his crossed arms on the table. "This is what my life will be like from now on," he moaned. "Next time I'm injured, just drop me off at the morgue and let me die quietly."

"No more injuries for you, kid. You've had enough for a lifetime." Peter dished out some Sichuan shrimp on his plate and ordered, "Eat."

Neal looked around at the table. "Where are the chopsticks?"

"Somehow, after last night ..." Peter's voice trailed off as he fumbled for words.

"Hey, I have to eat Chinese food with chopsticks," Neal insisted. "Don't worry about last night. I'm fine. Although, I may not order any shish kebabs for a while."

Peter retrieved a pair from the takeout bag. "How are you feeling?"

"Great. Christie was right. That was just one monster-sized splinter. Now that it's gone, so is the pain."

"That's good." Neal did look relaxed, but once the pain medication wore off he might not be feeling as comfortable. Peter planned to persuade him to go to bed immediately after dinner.

"About last night, my screams"—Neal hesitated, looking embarrassed—"I'm sorry you had to hear that."

"Hey, you were being skewered. You had every right to complain."

"It wasn't as horrific as it must have sounded. I was trying to mislead them so they'd stop before more serious damage was done. I wish there'd been a way to let you know."

"Smart move. Christie explained to us what a close call you had."

"Sometimes it's best to be an orchid," Neal said cryptically.

Peter puzzled over that remark, but Neal didn't show any inclination to explain. He was probably still a little loopy from the drugs. Peter wouldn't tease him about it. If Neal wanted to think he was a flower, that was fine with him.

Between bites, Neal asked, "So tell me about the case. Where do we stand?"

"Stratton's falling over himself to be helpful. He claims not to have known that Hiroki and Shogo are members of the yakuza. I tend to believe him. He was clearly terrified last night. The death of the guard, not to mention what they did to you, was more than enough to make him plead for a deal. He's identifying all the people who worked with him on previous frauds."

"Were Shogo and Hiroki involved in any of the other heists?"

"He worked with them in Sydney. For the theft in Rome, they'd given him the names of two other employees to do the job. Local authorities have already been alerted to take them into custody. As the extent of yakuza infiltration becomes known, it's likely more arrests will be made. The sushi chef has been identified as yakuza. We assume his accomplice was too but that's not confirmed."

"You said those two were found with stolen funds in their possession?"

"That's right." Peter checked the tea and poured out two cups for them. "Over forty million dollars in bonds and cash. Stratton claims he was unaware they were going for more than the Samurai bonds and I believe he's telling the truth. It appears the yakuza were taking advantage of the bond operation to stage a heist much larger than anything previously attempted. If you hadn't overheard that conversation at the gala, they would have succeeded. I suspect the earlier heists had been trial efforts to test their procedures. They were counting on scoring big last night."

"What's the report on Hiroki and Shogo?"

"They'll live. Shogo was alert enough to be questioned briefly, but he's not saying anything."

"I'd be surprised if either one of them talks. It would be a betrayal of the yakuza code." Neal added with an overtone of bitterness in his voice, "You don't want to know about the ritual atonement they'd have to perform."

"You're right," Peter said firmly, laying a hand on Neal's arm. "No more talk of yakuza."

"Don't worry about it, Peter. I'd rather discuss what happened than wonder about it."

"This may surprise you. Ruiz came by this afternoon to ask about you. He seemed genuinely concerned. What's your take on his actions?"

Neal shrugged. "He should have responded immediately when I used the panic phrase, but if he had, the gunmen on the stairs would have opened fire. As far as I can tell, the results would have been the same." He put his cup down. "But why didn't Ruiz respond? Was he asked about that?"

"He claimed he believed you said the phrase by mistake, but that's no excuse. Ruiz didn't follow protocol. He'll face a formal inquiry for his actions." Neal appeared satisfied, but Peter was a long way from feeling anything approaching equanimity with how the Organized Crime unit had performed.

"Was the stairway camera spoofed with a photo?" Neal asked.

Peter nodded. "The photo was still in place when we stormed the floor."

"It's a classic. One of the easiest tricks to carry out and still one of the most effective in that kind of situation."

"Stratton claims to have no knowledge of it. In the previous thefts, there'd been no indication that the surveillance cameras were tampered with. We suspect the gunmen did it when they moved into position. Ruiz and his men should have been alert to the possibility, but they claim they didn't notice the switch."

"That's why the spoof works so well. To carry it off, all it takes is one second of the guard not focusing on the camera feed."

"Ruiz says he tested the cameras when they arrived, and everything was functioning normally, but you can be assured that the issue of the security cameras will be explored during the inquiry." Peter was pleased to see Neal handle it so maturely, but he didn't want him to dwell on it now. There'd be plenty of time next week to evaluate what steps should be implemented to prevent the situation they had last night. "What are your plans for the weekend? You gonna behave yourself? Remember what Christie said. Give your muscles a chance to heal. No strenuous activities. No fencing. No—"

"Am I hearing clucks again?" Neal said, relaxing into a smile. "What happened to 'Cowboy up?'"

Peter shook his head in disapproval. "No cowboying up for injuries that require hospitalization."

"You can stop worrying. My Saturday morning lecture involves no heavy lifting. Later, Fiona and I plan to visit the holiday window displays on Fifth Avenue and go out to dinner. I have tickets for the Broadway production of Phantom of the Opera. I should be able to carry tickets without keeling over."

"You're pulling out all the stops tomorrow. Is this a special occasion?"

"Early Christmas. She returns to London late next week. What are your weekend plans?"

"I promised El I'd take her shopping Sunday afternoon. We need to find a wedding gift for Noelle and Joe. El has tried to wheedle suggestions from both of them, but they insist on no presents, which, of course, El translates into 'surprise us with something wonderful that we never would have thought of ourselves.'"

Neal smiled in sympathy. "You've already been working on this for a while, haven't you?"

Peter nodded glumly. "If their wedding had been in Iceland like I recommended, it would have been so much easier. We could have given them warm socks and been done with it."

"Don't forget, you're meeting me for Sunday brunch at La Palette."

"You're trying to cram a lot into one weekend. We can take a rain check."

Neal was adamant. "Not allowed. I owe you after wrecking your Friday night last week. Besides, Jacques outdid himself with Christmas decorations this year. El should like it." La Palette was a small bistro and wine bar on the Upper East Side. Neal had introduced them to La Palette in the fall and El was now making use of the owner's catering services for her event-planning business.

"If you feel up to it, you could join us for shopping afterward," Peter said hopefully, trying not to sound too desperate. If Neal came along, El would worry about him overexerting himself and would curtail the amount of shopping. Otherwise, he was doomed to spend a long afternoon fighting the holiday hordes.

"Sorry, but I'm already booked. Keiko and I are teaching origami at your stomping grounds at the American Museum of Natural History."

Peter looked at Neal in surprise. "I didn't realize you volunteered at the museum. I love their origami tree, especially the dinosaurs."

Neal grinned. "Couldn't resist that, could you?"

"Nope. Tell you what, after brunch we'll drop you off at the museum. El can check out the museum shop and I'd like to see this year's tree."

Neal's cell phone rang. He'd left it by the couch and went over to answer it. Fiona was on the line. Based on the snippets Peter heard, she was asking about their plans for the next day. Neal wasn't mentioning his injury, and Peter's fuse started a slow burn. When Neal was wrapping up the call, Peter strode over and grabbed the phone from his hand.

"Hey!" Neal glared at him. "Give me that back."

Ignoring him, Peter explained to Fiona that he'd been injured on a case and was under strict orders not to overexert himself. "No gymnastics tomorrow, okay?"

Turning off the phone in smug satisfaction, he faced his glowering consultant.

"Was that really necessary?" Neal asked, clearly indicating what he felt the answer should be.

"You want to complain about Fiona showering you with TLC? I just did you a big favor, buddy."

The meds made Neal yawn during dinner, and he went to bed shortly after Peter left. It felt like the middle of the night when his cell phone rang. His first inclination was to let it roll over to voicemail. When he saw it was Henry, he went ahead and answered. His voice came out sounding groggy even to him.

Henry's voice was loud in his ear. "You asleep? Did I wake you?"

Neal sighed. "Yeah, you caught me."

"Why are you sleeping at eight o'clock? What happened?"

Neal sat up and grunted at the movement before he could suppress it. His wound was yelling at him to go easy. "Hold on a minute." He turned on the bedside light and plumped up pillows behind his back. By then, Henry's alarm was blasting at full tilt. Neal hadn't told him anything about the op so it took a while to explain what had gone on. Fortunately, he had a glass of water by his bed. Neal saw no reason to go into all the details. Any discussion of dinosaurs and bumblebees was off the table. But Henry was persistent, and Neal found himself going into a lengthier description than he'd intended.

"Organized Crime should have mounted more security cameras," he said. Neal could hear the anger in his voice. "You think there's any chance they were deliberately negligent?"

"They wouldn't have had any reason to be," Neal pointed out, taking a sip of water.

"Fowler could have friends in Organized Crime. He may be out for revenge and persuaded some of them to go along."

"That's not ..." Neal stopped. He hadn't even considered Fowler could be involved. Granted, Ruiz was Fowler's friend but if Ruiz had been acting under Fowler's direction, he wouldn't have given Neal a hard time. Much more likely he'd have acted like Neal's new best friend.

"Why not?" Henry challenged.

Neal hadn't planned to tell him about the incident with Ruiz, but he decided to go ahead and lay it all out. Then Henry would understand that Ruiz might be Fowler's friend but he wasn't his minion. Henry was acting like he had at Thanksgiving when he grilled Neal about the frame attempt, and he needed to give it a rest. Not everything in life was a conspiracy.

"You're probably right," Henry said. "It doesn't sound like Ruiz acted under orders. I should let you sleep. Sorry for talking your head off, kiddo."

"It's okay. So, how's it going at Win-Win? Do you know where you'll be working?"

"The facial recognition project seems the best fit. The software has developed to the point that we can start marketing it."

They wound up talking another half-hour before hanging up. Henry had also signed up to volunteer with a UNESCO group. Something about education through music. Neal made a mental note to find out more about it. But that could wait. Sleep beckoned. He turned off the light and sank back under the covers, this time muting his phone.

Chapter 11: A New York Christmas

Chapter Text

December 11, 2004. Saturday morning.

Neal fell into a blissfully dreamless sleep after his phone call with Henry. The next thing he knew, it was eight o'clock the next morning.

He gingerly pressed the wound on his side. It hurt more to the touch than he'd expected. Luckily, he'd been under the influence of whatever they gave him at the hospital when Peter was over yesterday. Convincing Peter he could stick to his original plans for the weekend hadn't been difficult. If Peter had insisted on canceling the brunch at La Palette, he would have ruined the surprise.

Neal considered taking another one of the pain pills, but he decided not to risk another bout of loopiness. He had a full day of activities ahead and needed to be sharp. Before the lecture, he planned to stop off at his studio at Columbia and make a final inspection of the painting. He and Fiona would drop it off at La Palette later in the day. He'd finished the painting the previous Sunday.

He tossed off his comforter and got out of bed. After a shower and leisurely breakfast, he was in the holiday spirit. There was the small matter of papers to finish but he'd tackle them next week. For today and tomorrow, Neal Caffrey was off duty, and he was going to make the most of it.

When he arrived at his studio, he retrieved the painting from its hiding place and placed it on an easel. Fiona was stopping by before the lecture, and he wanted to give her a chance to see it before wrapping it up. She'd only seen the paintings that he was preparing for the spring exhibition. What would her reaction be? Neal stood back to study it one last time. Would she find it too derivative?

He heard a knock on the door. Fiona must have arrived early. "Come in," he called out without turning around. Big mistake. The voice he heard behind him wasn't Fiona's unless she'd become a bass overnight.

"I thought I might find you at your studio," Sherkov said. "If you have the—what's that?" He stopped in mid-sentence when he spotted the painting. His relaxed, jovial features hardened into an intense stare. It would have been futile to try to stop him from looking at the painting, although Neal for a fleeting moment considered flinging a cloth over it and pleading for a do-over.

He stepped to one side and waited uneasily for what his advisor would say. He knew he'd been foolhardy to paint this in his studio. But if he'd painted it in the loft, Peter might have seen it. Now he'd have to face the consequences.

Sherkov had visited him before in his studio and had seen several of his works, but they'd all been contemporary pieces. The professor was too shrewd to simply brush off the implications of what he was now studying.

He ignored Neal while he scrutinized the painting first at a distance and then close up. At times his nose almost touched the canvas. He muttered to himself in Russian about the technique. After what seemed like hours, Sherkov wheeled around and addressed him in a rumbling voice. "Did you switch topics for your paper?"

"No, sir."

"That's unfortunate. If you'd informed me you were making an analysis of Gerrit van Honthorst and were going to present this as your paper, you might have scored a hundred."

Neal let out a sharp exhale when it became clear Sherkov wouldn't immediately pillory him, but he knew he wasn't off the hook. Before launching an attack, Sherkov liked to lull his victim into a false sense of security. Neal compared him to an immense Russian bear who appeared amiable from a distance but didn't hesitate to reveal his fangs when approached.

"If you hadn't chosen a modern subject, I very well might have proclaimed this a lost masterpiece." Sherkov sat down on a stool and motioned Neal to do likewise. "I've seen other paintings of yours, but none like this."

Neal shrugged. "My teachers emphasized copying masterpieces as a means of developing a solid foundation for my own works."

"But this is no ordinary copy. The technique, the brushwork, you captured Honthorst perfectly. It's as if you transformed yourself into the artist." Sherkov studied Neal for a long minute. "The art world should consider itself very lucky you've chosen art history rather than forgery as your career. Now that I know what you're capable of, it's up to me to make sure you succeed so you never feel tempted."

"So about that paper," Neal said with a hopeful smile. "I no longer need to write it?"

"That offer's off the table. I shall expect an even longer paper, with fresh insights into Rembrandt's technique based on your perspective as an artist. Unless ... do you intend to present me with one of Rembrandt's lost masterpieces?"

This was working out better than he'd dreamed possible. He could start work on it this morning. It'd be a tight squeeze, but he already knew the subject he'd use.

"I should clarify. That was a joke," Sherkov broke in, banishing his pipe dream to the netherworld. "I could tell from your eyes what you were thinking, and there are already far too many Rembrandt forgeries. I've no intention of encouraging you along the path of a master's in forgery."

Been there, done that. Neal contented himself with a good-natured laugh. "No fears on that score. You'll get your analysis in writing."

"Good." Sherkov fixed him with a no-nonsense look that was out of Peter's playbook. "And be advised, if the art world ever announces that a lost masterpiece by Honthorst has been discovered, I'll remember this discussion." The bear retracted his claws as his expression softened. "Tell me about this painting. What's the story behind it?"

"Those were the best windows yet," Fiona said with a final admiring glance. She and Neal had spent the past hour strolling along Fifth Avenue looking at the holiday displays. The sky had been a brilliant sapphire blue when they started. Now the sun was low on the horizon, and their breaths came out in white puffs, but they were enjoying their walk too much to mind. Their coats were warm, and Fiona was wearing boots. When she walked, her coat parted to reveal a short red dress underneath.

"Better even than Barneys?" Neal asked. "Or Bergdorf's? I especially liked their vaudeville scenes."

"The one with the magician pulling the rabbit out of the hat? That could have been you. After seeing that painting you created out of starlight and fairy dust, I'm tempted to call you Merlin." She slanted her head and scanned him appraisingly. "Perhaps Neal the Wizard?"

Neal broke into a grin. "Did I ever tell you, I was once mistaken for the main character in the School for Wizards series?"

"Of course, I should have seen the resemblance! I can't wait to tell my niece in London that I'm dating the chosen one."

They continued their stroll, stopping to look at Henri Bendel's display. "I still give the prize to Bloomingdale's," Fiona remarked. "How could you not go with Phantom of the Opera? Their windows were truly magnificent. I've never seen the musical. Maybe I'll see it in London." Fiona was going to like her Christmas present. He planned to tell her over dinner.

"My wizard has a mysterious smile on his face," Fiona said. "It wouldn't have anything to do with our plans this evening? You've been resisting all my efforts to coax it out of you."

"All in good time," Neal said. "It's still early to go to dinner. We could hit one more store. Where do you want to go?"

Fiona hesitated. "You're sure you're not overdoing it? I don't want to get in trouble with Peter."

"He got a little carried away." Neal waved airily with his hand. "There, I just cast a magic healing spell."

Fiona wasn't dissuaded that easily. "How exactly did you injure your side? I didn't think white-collar crimes were violent."

"They're not generally. This was a fluke incident. Not worth mentioning." Fiona had more than once expressed her concern about the crime situation in New York. Hearing about an attempted bank robbery and the yakuza wouldn't ease her fears. "So where to next?"

She put her arm through his. "Okay, my wizard with magic powers, how about whisking us off to Regnier's? It's only a block away. I've been so busy at work I haven't had time to see The Queen's Jewels exhibit. It's been on my list ever since you told me that your group recovered Marie Antoinette's diamond earrings."

Fiona knew the earrings had been stolen from the truck delivering them to Regnier's from the Smithsonian, but she knew nothing about how the earrings had been used to frame him. And the forgery he'd made of the queen's ring would also remain a closely guarded secret.

The interior of Regnier's—with its colonnades, tall vaulted ceilings, and chandeliers—sparkled any time of the year, but over the holidays it was a winter fantasy. Lavish displays had been a seasonal highlight for decades. The theme this year was Marie Antoinette at Versailles. Replicas had been built of several of the rooms as well as the more rustic retreats on the palace grounds where the queen led a simpler life. The jewelry exhibit included copies of her famous diamond necklace and the Hope Diamond in addition to the earrings and ring.

As they studied the items on display, Neal heard their names being called out. When he whirled around, he saw Sara and Bryan approaching them.

"Are you two following us?" Fiona asked with a laugh. "First the gala and now here!"

"We're combining work and pleasure," Sara replied. "Regnier's is a client. After a recent robbery, they called on us to advise them on strengthening their security. We decided to get in some Christmas shopping. Are you shopping, too?"

"Only the window variety," Neal said. Sara was carrying a couple of Regnier's lacquer-red shopping bags.

"Have you seen their purses?" Fiona asked Sara. "Some of them look like museum pieces."

"Sara now owns one," Bryan said. "I bought her a Lana Marks clutch."

Fiona's eyes widened. "Not the one encrusted with diamonds?"

"Not quite," Sara said with a laugh. "She designs some that Bryan didn't have to ransom his soul for." Evidently, Fiona shared Sara's love for purses as she continued to ply Sara for details. Sara's clutch had already been gift-wrapped so Fiona insisted on Sara showing her which one she'd chosen from the display.

When they took off, Neal exchanged wry smiles with Bryan. He'd vowed to make an effort to get to know the guy better. This was a good opportunity. But it wasn't easily accomplished. Bryan deftly evaded Neal's questions, riposting with several of his own. "I heard about how your team was instrumental in the recovery of the earrings," he said. "White Collar is building up an enviable record. Your skills must be impressive to be hired as a consultant. How did you acquire your expertise at such a young age?"

"I lived in Paris for many years," Neal said calmly. The marshals had provided him with a history going back for ten years which was adequate for such questions. He redirected the topic to Sterling-Bosch's authentication methods which Bryan in turn deflected into a discussion of Neal's art. Anyone listening to Bryan would believe he was simply engaging in polite conversation. But Neal's distrust of him was growing with each question.

"Have you exhibited anywhere?" Bryan asked.

"Sara must have exaggerated my skill. I'm not ready for that yet."

Bryan eyed him speculatively. "You're being overly modest. If what I hear is true, your talents are considerable. That was a complicated case around the earrings. The manager said they'd been stolen from the FBI vault and then recovered, but he was unsure of the details. Can you fill me in?"

That distrust was turning into warning pings to tread carefully. "The case is pending. I'm not allowed to discuss it—sorry."

"Quite a black eye to have such valuable items stolen from your own vault."

"We've improved security measures to ensure it doesn't happen again."

What was behind this interrogation? Bryan's smile stopped at his mouth, and his eyes were sizing him up as if he were a fencing opponent. Did he consider Neal a rival? Had something leaked out about him being suspected of the theft?

It was a relief to see Fiona and Sara return. The conversation became much more congenial as the four of them resumed their stroll through the jewelry exhibit. They'd almost finished when Bryan's cell phone rang. He said it was a business call and went over to a less noisy area of the showroom to take it.

Sara shrugged as she watched him depart. "I've learned to expect that. I've never seen anybody get so many calls on weekends. I hope that won't be my fate at Sterling-Bosch." Looking over at Neal, she added, "Fiona mentioned you'd been injured on a case. Nothing serious, I hope?"

Neal waved it off. "A couple of stitches and I'm as good as new."

She smiled understandingly at him. "Danger follows you wherever you go, Mr. Bond."

"The same could be said of you, Tiffany. Done any diamond smuggling recently?"

"As a matter of fact, I'm hot on the trail of a jewel thief in Paris," Sara said, looking pleased. "If I manage to corner him, I just might be covered in diamonds myself."

Fiona listened to their banter with an amused smile. "You're two of a kind. My life at the auction house pales in comparison."

When Bryan returned, Sara said, "We should take off. Bryan's never seen the Christmas tree at the Metropolitan Museum of Art and then we have reservations at La Grenouille." That was one of New York's most expensive French restaurants. Just how much did Sterling-Bosch pay its agents?

With a final exchange of holiday wishes, they went outside to hail taxis. Neal was taking Fiona to a restaurant near the Theater District for dinner. It might not be as prestigious as La Grenouille, but Neal consoled himself that the restaurant he'd selected had live jazz for his music-loving girlfriend. Located on the ninth floor of the Museum of Arts and Design, the restaurant also had panoramic views of Central Park and Columbus Circle.

During the taxi ride, Fiona said, "Sara and I worked on the same project this week—the insurance arrangements for an upcoming auction."

"Which one?"

"A February event focusing on European Masters. Sara said she may come back for the auction. We should go out together, perhaps go to a play."

That was welcome news. Neal enjoyed being in the friend zone with Sara and was glad Fiona liked her too. But at the moment all he wanted to think about was the green-eyed blonde sitting next to him.

On Sunday morning, Peter was in a festive mood. The bank case had been successfully resolved, Neal had made a quick recovery, and El was glowing from the favorable reviews of her play. It was time to celebrate the moment.

When he and El entered La Palette, they spotted Neal at the bar talking with the owner, Jacques Legault. Neal had mentioned El would like the Christmas decorations, and he was right. Her eyes widened as she gazed around the interior. Peter knew that look. She was getting decorating ideas for her events. Grapevine garlands woven with twinkle lights and birds had been strung between the rustic wood beams of the ceiling. Holiday greenery decorated with red velvet bows added warmth to the wood paneling and paintings. A large Christmas tree next to the bar was decorated with antique glass ornaments.

The walls of La Palette were covered with art. Jacques gave the artists who had been chosen to display their works a discount off their tabs, a winning strategy that provided publicity for the artists and a unique attraction for the bistro. Peter knew Neal had a painting on permanent display but he'd yet to figure out which one. Neal wasn't making it easy and hadn't provided any hints. Today Peter was determined to solve the puzzle. In the spirit of the holidays, Neal would have to share at least one clue. Peter had already discussed it with El. She planned to initiate a stroll among the paintings so Neal wouldn't be suspicious. A carefully dropped hint or two should suffice and he'd be able to check off another of Neal's secrets.

After an exchange of greetings, El took the first step. "Before we sit down to eat, let's look at the paintings. Peter won't mind if our shopping's a little delayed."

"Good idea," Neal agreed readily. "The origami workshop I'm leading doesn't begin for several hours." He ordered glasses of wine for them to have while they strolled.

The walls on all sides of the bistro were thick with paintings. Peter knew he'd have his work cut out for him. Watercolors, oils, landscapes, abstracts, the assortment was far-ranging. His eyes narrowed as he wrestled with what style Neal would have chosen. Nothing realistic. Maybe something with a lot of splotches? Peter looked over at El who was having a great time discussing the works with Neal. When he caught her eye, he nodded toward the paintings. It was time to wheedle a clue.

Several minutes later, he was forced to admit that it was not going as well as he'd hoped. Despite El's efforts, Neal remained annoyingly vague and charming. Peter sighed as he continued his search. He already knew Neal hadn't signed his work, although it would have been just like him to sign it with Henry's name.

The bistro was already crowded with brunch patrons, many of whom were also checking out the art. A group of people had gathered around a work in the back. El nudged Neal. "That painting's getting a lot of attention. Do you know what it is?"

Neal looked over to where she was pointing. "Probably a new work."

"Let's go over and see it," she suggested.

As they approached they could hear the people talking. "Amazing piece." ... "It reminds me of Caravaggio." Peter knew the crowd at La Palette tended to be an artsy one. If they liked it, it must be good. The Italian Renaissance wasn't known for abstract works.

Glancing over at Neal, Peter saw a half-smile flit over his face. As they got closer, one of the patrons caught sight of Peter and exclaimed. "You're the one in the painting! You have to tell me about the artist."

Peter looked at the painting in astonishment. No doubt who the artist was ... or the subjects. Neal had recreated their night of stargazing at the family cabin in the Catskills over Halloween. The three of them were seen in a close-up, their faces reflecting the glow of the red-filtered lantern. Peter and El's faces were clearly visible; Neal's profile was in the shadows. The telescope was next to Peter. The night sky rose high above them with faint stars in a midnight-blue sky. As Peter got closer, he saw the three constellations. That night Peter had explained he was the herdsman Boötes protecting El, the mama bear or Ursa Major, and they'd joked about Neal being Perseus. The constellations were all there, faint but recognizable. The scene moved from the chiaroscuro of the people to the midnight blackness of space.

Peter stood speechless staring at the painting while El wrapped Neal up in a hug. "It's beautiful!" she exclaimed.

"Do you like it?" Neal asked Peter, his expression growing anxious.

Peter finally found his voice. "I love it." How to express in words the joy he felt?

"It's yours. An early Christmas present."

Jacques came up. "But don't feel that you need to take it home right away. You're welcome to display it here as long as you like."

"Sorry, Jacques, this is coming home with us today," Peter said firmly.

Jacques laughed. "I'm not surprised, but I thought I'd try." He removed a Reserved card from the table in front of the painting. "This is your table. When you're ready to order, let me know."

They sat down but Peter continued to stare at the painting. "You're going to mock me, but it reminds me of Honthorst."

Neal was unexpectedly serious. "You told me how much you liked the style I'd used for the documentary paintings of Azathoth's house of horror. I wanted to give you something in that same style that evoked happiness instead of terror. Besides," he added with an impudent grin, "I figured it was time you had an authentic Neal Caffrey forgery."

They took their time over a brunch of Gruyere cheese soufflés followed by crepes with raspberry-cassis sauce. Peter sat back with a sigh of contentment as the waiter whisked his plate. Now if he could only talk El out of shopping, the day would be perfect.

El's mama bear side surfaced when she quizzed Neal about his injury. "Any redness? Does it appear swollen?"

Neal appeared amused by the interrogation. "Do I hear more clucks?" He waved a hand in Peter's direction. "Peter's already done a remarkably good imitation of a mother hen. Not that I mind. But there's no need for ruffled feathers. No signs of inflammation and I'm behaving myself. Even yesterday," he added in response to Peter's raised brow. "Fiona remembered to be gentle with me."

"Peter explained he'd dropped the hint," El said. "That was clever of him."

"I loafed around the loft all morning. Called Henry. He'd phoned Friday night and insisted on knowing what happened. I figured if I didn't call in with a progress report, he'd be checking on me, too."

"What's Henry up to these days?" Peter asked.

"He's joined the facial recognition team at Win-Win. They're focusing on the global airport security market. Early next year they'll start beta trials. Henry's also signed up to volunteer for a UNESCO project. Have you ever heard of GEMI?"

El looked thoughtful. "Is it the nonprofit that uses music as a teaching aid? I recall reading an article about them in the paper."

"That's right. GEMI stands for the Global Education through Music Initiative. Henry heard about them when he was in India last fall."

"I missed the article," Peter said. "What's it about?"

"They work primarily in underdeveloped regions with a high rate of illiteracy," El explained. "The theory is an intriguing one. Kids make music whether or not they can read. Music can help educate them and lift them out of poverty."

"Henry's sitar teacher is involved in GEMI," Neal said. "Supposedly, rock musicians are getting involved. They help groups make CDs and provide promotional assistance. Henry contacted GEMI last week to offer his services. He's been looking for a way to do outreach and this is a good fit."

"That's a wonderful way for Henry to give back and it's an area he has experience with," El said. "Did he share any specifics on what he'll do?"

"Not many. He thinks a fair amount of travel could be involved. Since he'll be traveling with the facial recognition project, he could volunteer his services while on the job. GEMI's headquarters is in New York at the UNESCO Liaison Office, so I'll get to see him more often."

While El and Neal continued to talk about GEMI, Peter made a mental note to contact Tricia. If Henry had discovered Fowler's connection to Adler, he'd set himself up with an excellent cover to travel to Argentina. Adler had been on the FBI's radar for years, but as long as he remained out of the country, they had to rely on Interpol working with local authorities for assistance. So far they'd had zero success. Henry told Peter he'd dropped the case, but was that just an act?

When Peter's focus returned to the conversation, El was saying, "When Peter told me about you and Keiko leading an origami workshop, it reminded me of something I've meant to ask. How did you get interested in origami?"

"I started doing origami when I was a kid in St. Louis. The same person who introduced me to fencing taught me."

Peter gestured to the waiter to bring more coffee over. "I'm sensing a story, and what would Christmas brunch be without a Christmas tale?"

Neal stroked his chin. "Let me see ... 'Twas the night before Christmas."

"Not that Christmas tale," El said with a laugh. "I want the one with three origami cranes and two fencers leaping."

"How about three fencers leaping? When I was in the fourth grade, a Japanese girl named Asami was in my class. She lived down the street from me. Her dad worked at a Benihana restaurant as one of the chefs. They'd been in the States only a year—Benihana used to bring in teppanyaki chefs on temporary work visas— and she wasn't very fluent in English." Neal hesitated for a moment. "As you know, I had my own issues with speaking at the time. This was in the fall and my first term back at school."

Peter nodded in sympathy. After Neal had been hospitalized for child abuse, he'd been too traumatized to speak for a couple of months.

"Anyway, we became friends. Some of the other kids gave her a hard time over her broken English. One day at the end of class, she and I were talking when one of the bullies began taunting her. I got mad and tried to get him to stop. He was a lot bigger than I was and fisticuffs have never been in my skill set." Neal winced. "It wasn't my finest moment."

Peter could feel the papa bear in him emerge as he imagined what the results were like.

"I walked her home afterward. Mom had taught me a little Japanese, so when I met her dad, I used it. It turned out his English was worse than my Japanese. Mr. Yamamoto was grateful for my help with Asami. He cleaned me up, gave me a snack, and I wound up staying there till he needed to leave for work. I started going over to their house more and more. He'd fenced in Japan and began giving me lessons along with Asami. I helped him with English, and he taught me Japanese. Asami loved origami and the three of us used to practice together. That was a period in my life when I didn't want to spend any more time than necessary at home. I used to go to their house every day after school. About two years later they moved away when his visa expired and he wasn't able to renew it. I never saw them again." Neal's voice trailed off as for a moment the shadow of an abandoned kid crossed over his face. But he quickly replaced it with an easy smile as he looked up at them. "And thus concludes the tale of Three Fencers Leaping."

"And a lovely tale it was," El said approvingly. "Do you have any pictures of Asami and her father?"

Neal took a sip of his coffee. "No, I don't have any pictures from my childhood. Scrapbooks weren't my thing."

Neal's tale was more revealing than Peter had expected. That had been a difficult period in his life when he was forced to deal with the issues of an alcoholic mother. The Yamamotos must have provided a welcome escape. Peter had wondered about Neal's familiarity with Asian cultures. He'd assumed it was at least partly due to the Asian federal marshal who'd befriended him in St. Louis. Neal had just filled in a few of those troubling blanks in his life. "Disclosures make the best stocking stuffers," Peter declared.

Neal grinned. "Remember that. I expect my stocking to be stuffed with Christmas tales from your childhoods."

The American Museum of Natural History was a short drive away from the restaurant. El had already expressed a desire to visit the museum shop for presents for her family and after hearing Neal describe this year's origami tree, they both wanted to see it for themselves. The tree was impossible to miss. It was in the center of the ground-floor lobby. Neal told them it was thirteen feet tall with over five hundred origami models.

"Are any of the origami ornaments yours?" El asked.

"A few." Neal pointed out a blue peaco*ck. "That one's mine."

"Isn't that your Columbia lion?" Peter asked.

Neal looked pleased. "You remembered. That's a larger version of what I made for you when I found out I'd been accepted at Columbia."

"It's on our tree too," El said. "We didn't put up a big tree this year, but I decorated a small one where it has a place of honor."

"You kept it?"

"Naturally," she said. "When I insisted you refold it for me, did you think I was going to throw it away?"

While they talked, Peter circled the tree, scanning through the models.

"On the prowl for dinosaurs?" Neal asked.

"There's a stegosaurus from last year I particularly admired."

"I'll help you search," El said. "Didn't you say it was green with red plates?"

"Yes, I believe I did. Let me know if you find any bumblebees hovering around it."

Neal stopped searching to roll his eyes at Peter. "Any chance of escaping dinosaur and bumblebee purgatory?"

Peter nodded slowly. "We may be able to negotiate an acceptable arrangement. Perhaps a trade for no more Wookiee jokes?"

"It will be a sacrifice but under the circ*mstances, I think it'll be worth it." He smiled mischievously. "Besides, I'm counting on you supplying me with new material next year."

The three of them continued to scan the tree for Peter's stegosaurus. "Found it!" El called out and began giggling.

Peter went over to look. "Neal, did you put that bumblebee next to my dinosaur?"

Neal didn't answer but stayed rooted in place, his eyes fixed on something on the tree. Peter went over to see what he'd found.

"Got any latex gloves with you?" Neal asked.

"Yeah, why?" He'd acquired the habit long ago of always carrying a pair in his jacket. He'd lost count of the number of times he had an unexpected need for them.

Neal slipped on the gloves and reached into an inner branch of the tree. "What do you make of this?" He held out an origami shield on the palm of his glove. Peter studied it. There was no doubt. Painted on the shield was the glowing branch, the symbol of the cybercriminal Azathoth.

Neal arched his eyebrows. "Holiday greetings from Azathoth? What's he trying to tell us?"

Notes: Whatever Azathoth is plotting will wait till the new year to unfold. The next Caffrey Conversation story is Caffrey Aloha by Penna Nomen where Neal and his friends celebrate Christmas as well as Noelle and Joe's wedding in Hawaii. Azathoth returns to plot new devilry in my next story The Dreamer. The action begins in January 2005, as Neal starts a new term at Columbia.