The Golden Hen

Chapter 1: Flying Solo

White Collar Breakroom. Monday, August 23, 2004.

"This time last year I was in Paris," Neal said, arching an eyebrow at Peter. He knew that remark wouldn't go unchallenged. "Given the current heatwave, our breakroom does possess certain advantages to a sidewalk cafe. But it's woefully deficient in charm. A mural or two would work wonders."

"You should count yourself lucky," Peter said, retrieving his deviled ham sandwich from the fridge. "Need I remind you that you could have been in the surveillance van instead of enjoying the ambiance of our breakroom?"

Neal winced. "I'm beginning to sense potential with the decor. We can hold off on the murals for a while. An espresso machine is much more urgent."

"Besides, if you were in Paris, think of the opportunities you'd miss out on," Peter continued, warming up to the subject. "For one thing, you wouldn't be able to study at Columbia. Isn't pursuing a master's better than clambering over rooftops and being chased by Interpol?"

"I'll take that under advisement. Once classes start, I'll get back to you."

"Not getting butterflies, are you, Caffrey?" Clinton Jones joined them at the lunch table. "You do realize your evenings of leisure will come to a blistering halt, not to mention any other free time you once possessed."

"Reminders are unnecessary. Orientation has already begun even though classes won't start for two weeks."

"And then there are the papers, the countless hours of research," Jones added, obviously enjoying himself.

"Don't pile it on too thick," cautioned Peter. "I don't want him changing his mind."

"No chance of that," Neal scoffed as he helped himself to a yogurt. "After all the exams I had to take, I'm not backing out now. I'm meeting with my advisor after work to go over my schedule."

"How are you getting on with your advisor?" Jones asked. "I heard he's Russian."

Neal nodded. "His name is Ivan Mikhailovich Sherkov. I met him when I took the entrance exams. He was a member of the art history panel." Neal's expression grew thoughtful. "When he found out I speak Russian, he started chatting with me like I was already in one of his classes. He gave me hope I might actually be admitted."

Peter remembered well how tense Neal had been about those exams, particularly the one in chemistry. Had Sherkov been so impressed that he persuaded the other members of the panel to accept someone without an undergraduate degree? Something told Peter, Neal owed the man a debt of gratitude.

"At our first meeting, we bonded over baroque art," Neal said. "He then invited me and the other grad student he's advising to his place for borsch. He even brought out a samovar for tea. We toasted the upcoming year with pepper-flavored vodka."

Jones shook his head in disbelief. "You liberal arts types have all the luck. Sherkov's much more colorful than any of the advisors I had."

"Let's just say, Sherkov understands the artistic thought process," Neal replied loftily.

"How many courses are you taking to keep this artistic thought process alive?" Peter asked.

"There's a required lecture and I'm also taking two seminars. In addition, I'll need to work on my studio pieces for the exhibition in May. Did I tell you they've assigned me a studio with 24-hour access?"

"Impressive. And a good thing. Your loft is too cramped for all the art you'll be working on."

Neal shrugged acknowledgment. "June will be relieved to not have my paint fumes waft through her house. I'm lucky to live so close to Columbia, but even so, the commuting back and forth between classes, studio, and work will keep me hopping."