Chapter Text
The nightmare was unfolding on the quiet tarmac of a private airstrip in nearby New Jersey. A Sikorsky S-92 luxury helicopter, with its rotors turning, awaited the boarding of three passengers. Peter, with his gun drawn and a sea of armed FBI agents at his back, felt both fear and frustration as he surveyed the scene. He watched impotently as one of three men hurriedly scrambled into the copter taking a bulky painting with him. The remaining two figures in front of him were locked in a deadly embrace. A tall, swarthy man had Neal pressed against his chest in a chokehold with a lethal-looking gun jammed into the conman’s temple. He was backing steadily towards the aircraft’s door, dragging along his captive whose eyes had locked onto Peter’s. What Peter saw in those blue eyes was unspoken pleading—Do something, Peter. Don’t let him take me because then I’m a dead man!
But Peter couldn’t risk a shot. He might hit Neal, or, even if his aim was true, the gunman might instinctively pull the trigger when he felt the bullet enter his own body. Thus, what Peter was forced to do was allow the thug and his human shield to fall through the open door. He then watched helplessly as the big engine took the aircraft up vertically and then rocketed off towards the Atlantic Ocean.
**********
Two Days Earlier
The New York White Collar office kept abreast of art crimes anywhere in the world. Their intel was always current because Interpol forwarded routine updates on heists, thefts, and robberies involving anything to do with the world of art. There had been several very high profile cases over the last eighteen months in which a brazen and methodical crew stormed distinguished museums and galleries throughout Europe and the Mediterranean. They were coordinated and lethal, using stun grenades and tear gas to breach venerable institutions in the middle of the day. Uzis took out any responding security, guards, local police, or patrons who got in their way as they snatched specific oil masterpieces before making a clean getaway amid the chaos that they left in their wake.
The National Galley in London had lost three priceless paintings by Raphael, Veronese, and Peter Paul Rubens. Rome was now minus a Titian from the obscure Doria Pamphily Gallery, and the world-renowned Uffizi Gallery in Florence was missing a Botticelli. Greece was not spared when a Tintoretto masterpiece was stolen from the Gallerie dell’ Academia in Athens.
Neal was sitting in Peter’s office reading the report from Interpol. Cocking an eyebrow, he flippantly remarked to his handler, “It would seem that someone is amassing a very exclusive 16th century Renaissance collection to fill in those pesky bare spots on their living room wall.”
“Maybe,” Peter responded, “but more than likely the paintings are being sold to the highest bidder on the underground black market. Lots of wealthy art enthusiasts with big bucks would shell out millions to possess something so rare. These people, who have more money than God, have dedicated individuals on their payroll who keep an ear to the ground for upcoming availability of a masterpiece. Art aficionados want the unattainable for their private collections and they do not care where it comes from as long as it is the real deal. There have been innuendos from time to time on the European front that the transaction of such goods have occurred, but the authorities were always two steps behind and could never nab anyone in the act. They still don’t have a clue.”
“You’re not telling me everything,” Neal looked suspiciously at Peter. “Did something pop up on your radar?”
“Indeed it did,” crowed Peter, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary. “Knowledgeable sources in the arena of art theft have whispered that Titian’s masterpiece entitled ‘Salome’ may be available to the highest bidder. That is the painting that was stolen in Rome. Maybe the heat was too intense in Europe, so the thief is now actually in the United States hawking his purloined wares.”
With a self-satisfied little smile the agent continued. “We have been investigating a Wall Street mogul for some time regarding his assets both here and abroad. Actually, the IRS is taking the guy’s life apart as we speak. In return for some leniency, the billionaire has agreed to be involved in our little sting operation. He has put out feelers to the right ears indicating that he is interested in purchasing the painting. The asking price is $60 million.”
Neal whistled appreciatively, “That’s an impressive figure.”
“But it’s in the ballpark for a Titian,” Peter replied. “There are only approximately 300 pieces of his artwork still in existence in the world. In 2009, the London National Gallery purchased his ‘Diana and Actaeon’ for 71 million.
‘Mr. Wall Street’ has made contact with the seller, and a meet has been set up for the day after tomorrow. I will be representing the buyer in this transaction. Mr. Peter Reynard—that’s me—has power of attorney from the purchaser to finalize the transaction with the push of a button on my smart phone after my authenticator—that’s you—gives me a thumbs up.”
Neal chuckled, “Reynard - the fox. I like it. And just who am I going to be in this little drama?”
Peter’s forehead crinkled in thought, “I hadn’t considered that it would be necessary to introduce you. I suppose you’ll just have to be the man with no name.”
Neal grimaced. “So now I’m relegated to a role just like Clint Eastwood in those spaghetti westerns—‘the man with no name.’”
Peter huffed out a laugh and slapped Neal playfully on the shoulder. It felt good to be going out in the field again as a team. For so long, their relationship had been strained after the debacle surrounding Neal’s father. The schism had widened after Peter had discovered Neal’s machinations to free him from prison. There followed a new anklet, a new handler, the tragic death of that handler, and Neal’s ill-fated attraction to a psychotic killer. It had been months of roller coaster ride emotions on both their parts. Now it seemed as if they were back to baseline on an even keel, and Peter was eternally grateful. Neal had just a year left on his probation, and Peter would really relish an incident-free twelve months.
For the rest of that day and the next, Neal studiously poured over everything available on the Renaissance artist, Titian, and his style and mastery. He felt reasonably confident that he could spot a fake, if that’s what was being pawned off as the original. It would be a big coup for the Bureau if this operation actually took down the person responsible for the worldwide art thefts. However, if the painting turned out to be bogus, there would still be an arrest made for an attempt to sell forged goods. So, a win/win situation for the good guys.
Everything was progressing according to the script on the day of the meet. Peter and Neal had driven up to the airstrip in a limo, but FBI agents had been embedded in the hanger over an hour before their arrival. At precisely the designated meeting time, a privately owned helicopter swept in from the south and landed as elegantly as a butterfly onto a flower. The door swung open allowing two men to alight—one was carrying a parcel, and the other, a more substantial bodybuilder type, was most likely the muscle backing up the bearer of gifts.
The contingent of buyer and seller, accompanied by their seconds, met halfway. The smaller of the two visitors extracted the painting from a canvas bag and held it up for perusal in the harsh outdoor light.
Peter nodded in Neal’s direction as he explained, “My expert would like to take a look before I part ways with my money. I just want to make sure that we’re on the same page when we conduct our business so that there are no misunderstandings.”
Neal then chimed in. “Perhaps we can take the painting inside the hangar. There’s a table in there with a high intensity lamp where I can examine the piece more easily.”
The man holding the painting shook his head adamantly as he ignored Neal and stared at Peter. “We do this here, now, or not at all. If your ‘expert’ is worth his salt, he can see what he needs to see while I’m holding it right in front of his face.”
Peter looked at Neal with a wry expression. “Well, ‘Mr. Authenticator’—authenticate away!”
Neal took out something from his pocket akin to a jeweler’s loop and began going over the work from top to bottom and side-to-side. Finally, after several tense minutes, he concluded his thorough examination and made his pronouncement.
“The brushwork is good with the effortless flowing and subtlety of line and tone. However, Titian was known for his vibrant use of red, and this particular red depicted in Salome’s gown lacks the translucent luminosity that was the hallmark of Titian’s style. This is not an original masterpiece, although it does have its merits as a fairly decent copy.”
“Are you absolutely certain that it is a forgery?” Peter asked his partner.
“I’m sure,” Neal gave the phrase that had been pre-determined for the takedown.
Suddenly, agents began pouring out of the hangar with guns drawn shouting “FBI” at the top of their lungs. The tall bodyguard, who until now had simply been hovering alertly, reacted by pulling a gun and simultaneously grabbing hold of Neal. The panicked man with the painting fled, quickly climbing aboard the aircraft with the evidence.
The standoff continued as FBI agents reiterated their demand that the bodyguard lay down his weapon while they kept their own at the ready. The menacing captor wasn’t buying that routine, and step by step, he and Neal were moving closer to a means of escape. Within seconds, Neal was clumsily dragged into the darkness of the aircraft’s body while Peter stood helplessly on the ground enduring the gale from the revving rotors. He watched in dismay as the copter rose vertically and moved off with amazing speed. He could hear Jones and Diana at his back barking orders into their handheld devices to local as well as state police. They were requesting assistance with aviation capabilities that could intercept the aircraft and force it to turn back. The getaway vehicle, with its powerful Mercedes engines, was now just a small dot on the horizon.
“Make sure to tell them that there is an innocent on board—one of us—so no shooting or forcing it into the ocean,” Peter hoarsely demanded.
On the tension-filled ride back to the FBI building, Peter realized what he had said in the heat of the moment. Desperate times have a way of exposing what we keep tucked away in our soul. Peter now realized a truth that he had never voiced to the one person who should have heard it. Neal was indeed “one of them!”
**********
That terrible afternoon saw an FBI office resembling a hyperactive beehive, with agents scurrying from phones to computer monitors and back again mimicking some sort of perverted breakdance routine. Peter was apprised that the response time by local NYPD choppers was not quick enough to reach the fleeing suspects. However, they were being tracked on radar as they made their way north. Eventually, they crossed into Canadian airspace and officials there were made aware of the pursuit and promised to respond. The chopper had finally landed at Pierre Elliott Trudeau International Airport in Montreal. When the local police surrounded the aircraft and ultimately breached it, they found that all the previous occupants had vanished.
Efforts to trace the ownership of the impressive Sikorsky S-92 were a challenge. Jones valiantly sifted through registrations that were mired down in offshore shell corporations that bounced around the globe. He came up empty, but he was determined to keep at it for the duration. Anything to keep his mind and his fingers busy so that he would not have to think about the ramifications for Neal.
Peter sat tensely at his desk, not daring to think about his CI’s fate. Much later in the day, Diana came hesitantly into his office requesting that he come into the conference room. With a look of anguish, she inserted a flash drive into a laptop computer that immediately projected a silent black and white image onto the large screen on the wall.
“This is footage that was sent to us from one of the state police helicopters that kept the fleeing aircraft on its recording monitors,” she said quietly.
Peter’s gut tensed as he watched the dark-colored aircraft move relentlessly across the sky. Suddenly, an object the size and shape of a human being was thrown from an open door. It plummeted rapidly downward, barely making a splash as contact was made with the vast, ominous ocean. Peter’s jaw clenched as the information tried to penetrate a brain that was refusing to accept what his eyes were seeing. He remained frozen in place until Diana’s voice cut into the static filling his mind.
“Boss, I’ve been in touch with the Coast Guard and they are sending all available vessels to the scene. However, the analysis of this footage……….well, they estimated the chopper’s altitude at approximately 8,000 feet. They claimed that a human body could not withstand an impact from that height and survive intact. With the ocean currents and predators, they are not even hopeful that they can recover a body. They are now in ‘search and recover’ mode rather than ‘search and rescue.’”
Diana waited a few seconds, shifting from one foot to the other. The behavior was so unlike the steadfast, dynamic agent who usually kept a damper on her emotions while on the job. Finally, she had to fill the shocked, painful silence. She needed to wrest her boss back to the present. She needed his rock-hard stability, as would the whole White Collar crew when this knowledge was shared. Neal had managed, with his smiling charm, to worm his way into each of their lives.
Diana was right. As quiet descended in the bullpen, agents clustered in tight little circles and whispered. A few intrepid souls would glance up at Peter in his office, but then quickly avert their eyes if he seemed to notice them. They need not have worried about embarrassment, because Peter probably wouldn’t have noticed an elephant waltzing through the FBI doors. His mind was stuck in a loop.
“Authenticate, Mr. Authenticator.”
“Are you absolutely certain that it is a forgery?”
“I’m sure.”
And the last tortured image of Neal’s frightened, beseeching eyes.
Like a robot, Peter started filling out a report in fits and spurts. He was making precious little headway when someone knocked with authority on his door. Bruce Hawes, the FBI Section Chief above Peter stood there and gave Peter a rueful little smile.
“I was briefed regarding the fiasco that happened earlier today. I’m sorry in so many ways, Peter.”
“Thanks, Bruce. I appreciate you’re taking the time to come,” Peter said perfunctorily.
“Any new developments of which I’m not aware?”
Peter took a breath and gamely stated the facts. “We are in constant contact with police officials in Montreal. They are searching but have precious little information to go on except a description of the men, which is so generic that it could describe almost all of their citizenry. They don’t know what kind of vehicle the fugitives are now using. The helicopter has been impounded, but so far, that is a dead end. In actuality, there is no progress.”
The section chief persisted, “Are you sure that Caffrey wasn’t in on this, colluding with the thieves? A cut of the transaction would have netted him a tremendous windfall.”
Peter reacted instantly. “Neal would have never been a party to this. He only had one year left on his sentence. He wouldn’t risk his freedom for any amount of money!”
“Well, looking at Caffrey’s past, he has been known to act impulsively and make quixotic decisions. Didn’t he break out of a federal prison just three months short of completing a four year sentence, all supposedly, for the love of a girl?” Hawes challenged Peter to say that he was incorrect.
Peter countered by leading Hawes into the conference room and showing him the video feed.
“Neal became collateral damage as soon as they were safely out in the open sea,” he said quietly.
“Well, let’s not make any assumptions,” the Section Chief said definitively, “until we have a body and can make a positive identification. If it is true, then you have my heartfelt sympathy. I know how close the two of you had become over the years.”
When Peter didn’t respond, Peter’s superior quietly made his exit.
Peter gave up trying to finish his report. He needed to go home to his wife, the one person who truly would be able to know the depth of his sorrow, and who would commiserate without doubts and reservations. He needed someone that he could lean on, if only temporarily, until he could process his grief and go on.
El had arrived home just minutes before Peter with Chinese carryout now sitting on the kitchen island. She only had to look at Peter’s devastated face to know that something was horribly wrong. He led her to the couch and related what had transpired during the sting. El’s face immediately crumbled and tears streaked down her cheeks. They held each other and rocked back and forth until her weeping subsided into occasional hiccups. Dinner was eventually packed away uneaten into the refrigerator and husband and wife sat in silent mourning as the night hours settled. The living room had now become a haven of shadows. Finally, El rose shakily and said that she was going to bed. Peter promised that he would walk Satchmo and join her soon.
Innately, the Lab seemed to sense the pathos of his owner and made quick and unenthusiastic work of the necessities of his walk. Fifteen minutes later, after Peter unclipped his leash, he slunk away to the security of his dog bed. Peter then stepped outside onto the back patio. Wearily, he sat down at the small garden table and took a deep breath. The tight bands across his chest refused to lessen their constriction, and he wondered idly if he might be having a heart attack. He was sure that this pain was in his heart—“heartache” caused by an unfathomable loss. Alone and engulfed in the anonymous cloak of night, Peter finally gave himself permission to put his head down onto his folded arms and let gut-wrenching sobs escape.