White Collar: An unofficial novel - part 11

Escape plans

Neal was down by the shady areas of the docks, waiting in what once was a proud industry and now was a concrete skeleton. Lawrence was getting late. Maybe he had backed out and decided to prefer the safety of his freedom. Once, he had thought he would do the same.

"Beautiful day, Gary." Lawrence's voice.

"Yes, it is." He kept looking at the art of rundown concrete a moment longer before he turned his head. "I was wondering if you'd show."

"I didn't come this far to back out now."

"I wasn't ruling it out."

"Every day, that money sits there, just out of reach. Comes a point where you finish the job or it finishes you."

"You get caught, you lose everything."

"Already lost everything," Lawrence replied. "When I ran, I ran fast. Didn't look back." You still have your freedom, Neal thought but kept it to himself. "So, how's this gonna work?"

Neal grinned. This was a so good plan that he would have used it himself. They walked down to the docks where a worn but functional ship was being loaded with God-knows-what.

"On your go, the Ingenieur Minard will provide you and your cargo safe and discrete passage to the Island of Santo Antao," Neal said and handed David a big envelope. "All the documentation you may need upon arrival is in that envelope. I.D., passport, everything." Peter had arranged it, refusing to let him go through his ordinary channels.

Lawrence glanced at the contents.

"Getting in isn't my concern. It's getting out."

"Four steps. Step one, we move your money here by truck. Step two, my inside man at the gate, Mr. Ryan in Customs," Neal made a wave, and 'Mr Ryan' made a gesture towards his cap as to adjust it a little, "looks the other way while we transport you and your cargo to the vessel. Step four, Mr. Ryan files faux routing papers. Anyone comes looking for you, they'll start their search in Calais, France, Four thousand miles from your actual location." 'Mr. Ryan' was a worker at the dock who he had given a hundred bucks and a jacket that looked official enough for passing as a man from Customs at a distance.

"Not bad," Lawrance nodded. "But you skipped step three."

"Step three is the reason you hired me. Handle your end. Trust me to handle mine."

"Caffrey's pretty savvy at planning an escape," Jones noted as they watched and listened from the van.

"Yeah," Peter agreed. "Until Lawrence makes his move, he knows we'll keep his anklet off."

"You're gonna let him walk around unmonitored?"

"No. You're gonna keep an eye on him."

"Me? He recognizes me."

"That's my point. Lawrence does not, but Neal will know we keep an eye on him." Why was he still trying to keep the kid out of trouble? Peter asked himself. He saw Jones still watching him. "What?"

"It's your call, Peter, but since you blamed him for stealing that art... I don't know. Something's changed."

"He's right, Boss," Diana said from behind them where she watched her screens. "It worked because Caffrey was loyal to you."

"Yeah," Jones nodded. "I'm not sure that he is any longer."

Peter sighed. He had taken for granted that Neal still did his job, even if they had had a falling out. Now, would he have to reconsider that, too?

Neal passed them after leaving Lawrence, and they got the can moving fifty minutes later, picking the kid up on the way. It was a silent ride back. Back at the office, Neal briefed them about what had happened, and after that, Peter was alone with the kid.

"You are to check in every two hours on the hour. You go from home to the office, and that's it," Peter said on the way back into his office.

"I know the drill."

"You're not off anklet for good behavior. After Lawrence gets you to his money, take him to the harbor."

"We've been over this," the kid said, bored. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. What's step three?"

"Step three is you arrest him," Neal shrugged and smiled.

"Oh. Good thing you didn't tell him."

"I thought you might like that." His pet convict beamed.

"Hmm." Peter missed how they joked together. He put his hands in his pockets, as Neal had, a classic way to feel the other comfortable. "Heard you talked to El."

"Look, Peter, whatever you think I have done, you and me, hey, we're on the same team."

Peter glared at the charmer.

"Really?" El had been confident that the kid had been looking for something.

"Yes!" Neal's cell phone rang. "May I?"

"Yes. Get out!" He was tired of the kid's efforts to manipulate him.

"Thank you."

"Talk to you in two hours," Peter reminded him through the office door.

"And two hours after that."

"That's what I like to hear."

"Heard you talked to El," Peter said, jamming his hands in his pockets. Neal noted that his handler now stood in the same pose as he. Seriously? He would not spill any secrets by that simple trick.

"Look, Peter, whatever you think I have done, you and me, hey, we're on the same team." Focus on what was essential and not discuss the visit in particular, and he would not need to lie.

"Really?" Peter returned, watching him.

"Yes!" He had always done his job and always been loyal to the FBI. His cell phone rang. Better do the humble convict approach. "May I?"

"Yes. Get out!"

"Thank you."

"Talk to you in two hours," Peter said.

"And two hours after that," Neal returned at once.

"That's what I like to hear."

He took the phone call.

"Hey, Moz." He had no problem saying his name at the office. The more they heard, the less they thought he was up to something.

"Our hunch may be correct. Mrs. Suit is chatting up her old boss at the Dearmitt Gallery."

"What'd she say?"

"'Oh, what a spring we're having.' Blah blah blah. Oh, she's asking him about a lab test. Oh! She's giving him a scrap of burnt painting."

Neal fought to keep his face in front of all FBI agents working at the office. So he had been right. Peter had not played his game on a hunch.

"Is it mine?"

There was a pause.

"Oh, sweet Elvis Costello! It's your Chrysler painting!"

"It didn't burn," he hissed, and looked around to see if anyone was watching him. Stupid move. He walked casually to his desk, passing Jones and Diana, both focused on their own work.

"Flame is a fickle mistress. We're gonna have to steal it."

"No. No, no, no, no," Neal said at once. "Peter will suspect me," he whispered. "Let them run the tests. We'll swap it out."

"Risky but not impossible," Moz said. "We need a swatch of canvas and some paints from the 1930s."

"Which we have in great supply," he said and grabbed his coat. "All right. Meet me at the warehouse. I'm on my way."