There was a problem with the printer.

There were many problems with the printer. The army caught him in Namibia. The corrupt army captain had planned to harness the the printer's skills for his own benefit, and begin amassing an empire against his rival, but the captain also had keen and accurate instincts. He knew there was something wrong when you put the barrel of a gun against a man's knee and didn't see any reaction in his eyes. The printer had the face of someone who had all the goods on you. Someone who knew everything. Things you didn't want to know. The printer also rubbed off his fingerprints. This was not the kind of person you wanted printing your money and passports. This was the kind of person who eventually ran away with all your money and passports.

So the captain sold the printer to his rival at an extortionist price, but the rival became suspicious that the captain would let such a valuable property go. So he sold the printer at an even higher markup to human traffickers who specialized in moving skilled talent up the river: Egypt, Israel, the Levant. There were days trapped in hot shipping containers with scared young Asian girls. There were nights lost to seasickness and scopolamine, when he was locked in the hold of a ship with a pile of surface-to-air missiles. The Russian crew of the ship liked the printer. The printer was funny, good at cards, and could hold his liquor. By the time the ship docked in Greece, the Russians had also learned of the printer's value and reputation. Instead of letting him move on to his intended destination they, too, sold him off, to the Uzbek buyers of the missiles. (It was months before the Uzbeks realized that each one of their more lethal purchases had suffered exactly the same mechanical failure. The blame fell on the Russians, who ought to have known better.)

At that point the printer, whose skills were so valuable and so necessary and so attractive, had been a captive for something like two months, and in that time he had not printed a single American dollar or forged a single visa. You couldn't blame the Belgians for suspecting the entire thing was a scam. A very angry Belgian man nearly cut off the printer's little fingertip with a cigar trimmer. But then the printer slipped him a newly minted gold Krugerrand and nobody could figure out whether it was a forgery or not, not even clever little Baudelaire, the house printer. Fake or real, the Krugerrand was a pretty good trick, and the Belgians made the same deduction as each of the ones who had come before: the printer was too valuable to kill and too dangerous to keep around. They upped the price and made some phone calls. The printer was moved west, for the price of almost six million dollars.

Unusually for him, the printer was running no kind of scam. He was broke, exhausted, suffering a cold and actually quite frightened. Soon he found himself shipped south again, and across another sea. He spent a fortnight in Havana among a gang of drug dealers with more money than good sense, who eventually tired of him not being able to speak Spanish (the printer did speak Spanish of both the South American and European varieties but elected not to employ that skill after getting a sense of the level of discourse). The Venezuelans bought him at a markdown and the printer began to wonder if he was being used to launder money. The idea insulted his vanity but flattered his intelligence and sense of narrative: he wondered if, like a fine stolen painting, his very existence become an untraceable item of value. An underground currency. The irony of the idea was not lost on him.

From the oil state the road ran north, of course, and north, and north, and finally the printer found himself at the border. He was a passenger in a truck that was gravid with cocaine, and he happened to know that the street value of the drugs and his own street value were about equal.

The printer decided that it was high time for his journey to come to a close. While his Mexican captor's back was turned, the printer took a small vial of ipecac from the heel of his shoe. He took a deep breath—the next few days would be deeply unpleasant, and the next few hours worst of all—and downed the entire contents. By the time they reached the checkpoint, his head was swimming and his stomach was churning, and he was drenched in a cold sweat. The border guards had been handsomely bribed, but when the printer vomited all over the windshield and dashboard, calculations changed.

"Shut... the fuck... up..." growled the Mexican driver.

The printer put his hand on his stomach and moaned. "I'm s-ss—sick." He vomited again. "Ate... something..."

"I will kill you."

"Please," begged the printer, who was beginning to feel like he was going to die anyway. The driver couldn't exactly execute him two feet from the border checkpoint, or throw him out of the car, and the printer sure as hell wasn't going to stop projectile vomiting anytime soon. "I knew..." the printer gasped. "I knew I should've skipped the guacamole." He heaved again.

"Jesucristo," said the Mexican driver.

A badge slapped up against the driver's side window. "Border Patrol. Would you mind stepping out of the vehicle?"

The printer grasped his temples to hide his reaction. It had been months since he'd heard an American accent, and longer than that since he had heard an American cop talk. His eyes brimmed with tears. He never thought he'd miss that. His stomach clamped down again and he moaned. "Is it Christmas?" he asked in English.

"What?" said the Mexican driver.

"Sir, you need to step out of the vehicle. Salir del vehículo, ahora, rápido."

The passenger side door opened and the printer fell out.

#

The printer said nothing. He was locked in a cold and bare room with a cot and a toilet and spent the next several hours getting to know the toilet intimately, and a few more hours sleeping it off. When they found out he had no fingerprints, the border patrol guys got very upset, but the printer still said nothing. They tried to intimidate him and cajole him. They tried in English, Spanish, French, Arabic, and even sign language, but the printer was silent. First men with dark uniforms tried to get a statement. Then men in white uniforms. Then men in very cheap suits, and finally men in mediocre suits. Things being what they were, they couldn't release a detainee with a thick bushy beard, a farmer's tan and no identity, but they couldn't charge him with a crime either. He hadn't actually crossed the border. We want a name, they said. All we want is a name. The bad cops said, We will deport you to Gitmo. We will drop you in the desert to rot. The good cops said, We will give you asylum. If you're in trouble, we can help you.

Just give us a name.

The printer held his tongue and watched the clock. The brighter agents and interrogators got the same sense as several captors before them. This guy was here for a reason and could walk whenever he wanted. It did not make them more inclined to release him. Finally, when it was 10:00 a.m. in El Paso and noon in Manhattan, on the second day of his detention, the printer snatched a Sharpie from the pocket of his interrogator. They didn't have pencil and paper and he didn't feel like asking them for anything. Asking implied an exchange. He wrote four words on the table.

The interrogator bent over it. "What the hell does this mean?"

The printer shrugged in a way that said: you figure it out, pal.

The interrogator pointed. "Is this you? Is this your name?"

The printer shook his head.

"What's it say?" asked the door guard.

"Peter Burke," read the interrogator. "White Collar."

The printer leaned back and folded his arms.

The door guard sighed. "Weirdo."

"Maybe," said the interrogator.

#

When the call came at 12:22, Elizabeth Burke was just about to dig in to some beef and broccoli. She was sitting across the desk from her husband in the Manhattan offices of the Federal Bureau of Investigation. Once or twice a week, Elizabeth left work to share lunch with Peter at White Collar. Usually they'd talk about her events, his cases, the movies they wanted to see, the places they wanted to visit someday, and which walls of the house they'd like to knock out. It was one of Elizabeth's favorite things to do. That day things were a little more serious than usual: their son Neal, only three, was going to have to have tubes put in his ears. Elizabeth would just be glad to see their boy healed of a chronic ear infection; Peter had pulled up the list of side effects.

"I'm not saying we shouldn't do it," said Peter. He pinched one of her wontons from the box before sliding it across to her. "I'm just saying that it's surgery and all surgeries have risks."

"You don't think ear infections have risks?"

"I know they do, hon," said Peter, dipping a crispy noodle in red sauce. "He's just so little."

"It takes less than ten minutes," said Elizabeth. "He'll be fine. He's a tough kid."

"I don't want him to have to be tough. Have you looked at the risks of the anesthesia drugs?"

"I don't want him to be in pain anymore," said Elizabeth. "The appointment is Friday afternoon."

Peter grimaced. "I'm supposed to be in court."

"All day?"

"Well, maybe I can—"

That was when Peter's desk phone rang. He looked at it for a moment as if suddenly remembering the existence of desks and phones and a universe that was not concerned with the tender problems of the Burke family.

"Take it," said Elizabeth.

Peter picked up the phone. "This is Burke." There was a long silence, and then something happened to Peter. He went white and reached across the table, casting for Elizabeth's hand. When he found it he slipped his fingers in between hers and held them tightly.

"What?" For a moment Elizabeth was terrified that something had happened to Neal, but in that case the nanny would call her cell phone. This was something else. "Honey, what?"

Peter shook his head at her. "I'm sorry." His voice was hoarse. "You'll have to repeat that."

"You're frightening me," said Elizabeth.

Peter nodded. "Okay," he said into the phone. "I'll be on the first flight out."

He hung up. He looked at Elizabeth. He looked at his desk. He looked out through the glass wall at White Collar. His gaze caught on Neal Caffrey's old desk, now occupied by a probie whom Peter did not like.

"You look like you've just seen a ghost," said Elizabeth.

"I need to go to El Paso," Peter murmured.

She blinked. "Texas?"

Peter Burke stood up and walked out to the balcony outside his office, which overlooked the White Collar bullpen. Down there, ten special agents ensured that Wall Street kept its hands out of the till and authentic fine art stayed on the walls of Manhattan's museums. Elizabeth didn't know whether to follow him or stay put. If something had happened to one of Peter's agents, this place would be turned inside out in a minute, and so would her husband. "Listen up. I need to be in El Paso, Texas," Peter bellowed. "And I mean right now. I don't care if you have to charter a plane. Spend whatever you need to spend. Yesterday's too late."

A loyal chorus of on it, boss came from the staff below.

Peter came back in, but this time he didn't sit in the chair behind his desk. He sat beside Elizabeth and took her hands in his. His hands were shaking. He took a deep breath. "El," he said. "Two days ago a man was arrested at the border."

"Fine," said Elizabeth.

"He doesn't have any fingerprints and he hasn't made a statement."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean they've been holding this guy for thirty-six hours and they have no idea who he is."

"So?"

"He asked for me. By name. El—"

"He knows you."

Peter nodded.

"Honey," said Elizabeth, but then she stopped, because what had dawned on him was dawning on her too and it was a peculiar and dangerous kind of hope.

"This could be him." Peter broke out into a joyful but complicated grin, as if he had just heard a hilarious joke, but was beginning to worry that he was the punch line.

Elizabeth said, "Yeah. It could. But it could be anything."

These last few years her husband had both hardened and softened. He was more vulnerable. More cautious. He still rolled with the punches, but when something bad happened, his recovery time was longer. Sometimes Elizabeth would find him sitting in the backyard at two or three in the morning, sipping a glass of wine and looking out at something she couldn't see. Or he would be playing with their boy, completely captivated by this beautiful, funny little person they had created, and then something would suddenly prey on him and he'd turn toward the door with a look in his eye like a fox on the hunt. Their home life was good. His work was good, her work was good, everything was good. But there was a time—and it wasn't very long ago—when their lives were also interesting. Sometimes it had been the good kind of interesting. Fun. Thrilling. Mysterious. Challenging. Like they were walking on air. And sometimes...

Sometimes it was the kind of interesting that left you unable to look yourself in the mirror. The kind that you came back from changed or not at all, and on those days you were gambling with your life and your family's lives and your stability and your freedom. Their son wasn't old enough to choose that gamble—he wasn't old enough to choose his own socks. She felt an echo of that excitement now.

An agent knocked once, then opened the door. "You're booked on the next flight out. Two-thirty."

Peter chewed a thumbnail. He could be there in six or seven hours. "Great work. Thanks, Stevens."

They waited until they were alone again.

Elizabeth sighed. "Do you have a go bag in the car?"

"I think it's him." Peter took a deep breath and furrowed his lip. "Feels like him."

"Well far be it from me to question the Burke gut."

"He could be coming home, El." He looked at her with desperation. He wanted it to be true.

"He burned his identity," said Elizabeth.

"I know."

"As far as anyone outside this room is concerned, he's dead. He can't come back. And you know sometimes I think—"

"Sometimes you think I just want him to be alive."

"I think hope looks good on you," said Elizabeth. "Beyond that, I can't—"

"You saw the same evidence I did."

"And that evidence could mean anything," she said. "He was an artist. He was a storyteller. He didn't like to hurt you. He always found a way to make the worst parts easier for you." It was one of Neal Caffrey's only reliable character traits. Despite the Burkes' game efforts, Neal had never been able to change what he was, but he was endlessly inventive in finding ways to shield Burkes from the blast radius—and the fallout.

Elizabeth had loved Neal dearly. She had known him as well as anyone had. She would love for Neal to be alive, and for him to meet the boy they had named after him. But everyone wished for a loophole around death and loss. Was there a chance that he was alive? Of course there was. This was Neal Caffrey. Reality bent around him. But in that case, he had still killed his identity, beyond hope of restoration. He did that for a reason. That reason had meant more to Neal than his friendship with Peter and Elizabeth, his job at the FBI, and his love for Manhattan. Elizabeth knew, even more keenly than her boys, that these were powerful and stabilizing motivations. They had anchored Neal for years when he might have slipped away. When he should have slipped away. What motivated him to leave must be still more powerful. Assuming it all wasn't just a lovely fiction.

He must have thought—

He must have known it was all going away no matter what he did. In his last moments, he must have been very afraid.

"He was my friend," said Peter. "I have to go."

She nodded. "I wouldn't dream of stopping you."

"I'll be late if I don't leave now," he said.

"Do you want me to come?"

"I do." He kissed her. "But you shouldn't. You have work. Neal has preschool."

"And you don't think it's safe."

Peter shook his head. "Right now, El, I don't know what to think."

"Call me," said Elizabeth. "Whatever it is. You call me."

#

They left the printer in the room with the vandalized table. It was a small room. The table was bolted to the floor. So were the chairs. There was a one-way window, mirror glass, and there was a single door, which did not have a handle or a lock or anything interesting on the inside. Over the door, there was a clock. Up in the corner there was a small security camera. Down on the floor there was a heavy bolt, through which someone could thread a chain, but they hadn't chained him or cuffed his hands. Small mercies.

The silence was oppressive. The minutes crawled. It had been a while since he was allowed to wash and he smelled like sweat and dirt and ugly, mean places. The printer had stop himself from staring up at the camera. It was unlikely that anyone would be able to get a database match on his facial features but he was working the angles to make sure that nobody would try.

Could he escape this room? He thought about it for a while and then decided it was not an optimal situation. He would rather get himself moved, either to a room with more complicated security (which meant more exploitable flaws) or a simpler one (which meant fewer steps). Then he reminded himself that he didn't want to go anywhere. He'd reached his destination. Then, to divert himself, he imagined four and a half ways that he could escape this room. Wait-it had a drop ceiling.

Five ways.

If they knew who he really was, they would have chained his feet to the floor.

He glanced at the clock. Four minutes had passed.

The printer, still in possession of the Sharpie, wrote the name of the ship that had taken him across the Mediterranean with the Chinese girls. Underneath he wrote the numbers of the shipping containers, in neat lines. He had spent a long time memorizing them.

He glanced at the clock. Seven minutes.

The printer put his head on his arms and closed his eyes. His heart beat: there's always a way out, there's always a way out, there's always a way out.

#

Peter Burke was met at the door of the Customs and Border Patrol station by a smart young woman in a white uniform, who served him bad coffee in a small room plastered with pictures of wanted men. As was his habit, Peter scanned the wanted posters with intensity, as if he might see any one of these guys walking the streets of Manhattan. It wasn't likely. The kind of guys White Collar was interested in usually flew into New York with fake passports—or real ones. But it wasn't impossible either. An agent Peter knew at Quantico once saw a wanted poster in his office, and ten minutes later literally ran into the guy at a newsstand. Easiest collar in FBI history.

The Border Patrol agent's name was Gutierrez. "Damnedest thing," she said. "At first we're thinking accomplice, but the guy's not Mexican, and the cartels don't hire outside talent. The other dude we bagged, the driver, he says he dunno the guy's real name either. Nobody does. They just call him the printer."

Peter swallowed his coffee. "The printer. What does that mean?'

She chuckled. "What do you think, White Collar?"

"IDs," said Peter. "Or counterfeit cash."

"Sure," said Gutierrez. "That's what we thought. But we don't find ID on him, no ID on the truck, and the amigo who was driving used his own license. Cause he's stupid. Anyway the dude doesn't have any coke on him, no coke in his hair, he's not high. So we lean on the driver and he says they bought him. Like it's some kind of human trafficking thing."

"Human trafficking?"

Gutierrez shrugged. "Dude was pissed about it. He says the cartel paid more for this guy than the drugs are worth. Which is bullshit, but that's what he says. So we run that lead back to the cartel, and they say they bought him off the Venezuelan police."

"You dug this up in two days with no name?" said Peter. "I'm impressed."

"Well, don't blame it all on us," said Gutierrez. "This printer leaves a trail."

"Is he OK?" said Peter.

"Huh?"

"Is he hurt?"

"Medically... he checks out, I guess. He had some kind of stomach flu when they brought him in. That's how we busted him. We double check sick guys when they come through the border. You never know when you've got a mule who's dying cause he swallowed too much. But that wasn't it. He was just sick. He also got his ass kicked pretty good a few weeks ago—either that or he fell out of a truck, judging from the bruises—but that's not my problem." She hesitated. "We called in a shrink."

Peter scratched his chin. "Why?"

"He's been locked up for two days. Hasn't said a single word. And we'll help, you know. If it's human trafficking. We'll bust the guys who took him. It's not something we want here. I'd rather bust a human trafficker than a drug mule. This guy has left a trail of high value transactions from here to Caracas. He could be a US citizen. A hostage. We just don't know. We were thinking it might be some kind of mental trauma."

"So? What did the psychologist say?"

"Nothing. He wouldn't talk to her either."

Peter set his jaw. "He'll talk to me."

"I hope so, White Collar," said Gutierrez. "Brass would like this resolved."

"I'll bet." Peter had avoided the question for as long as he could, because he was worried he wouldn't like the answer. "What does he look like?"

"Ringo."

"The Beatle?" She was about twenty years too young for a Beatles reference.

"They all look like Ringo to me," said Gutierrez.

It could be, thought Peter. It could be. He swallowed a cold pit in his stomach and shook a tremor out of his hand. "I want to see him."

#

After nine hours, the printer heard Peter Burke's tread outside the door, and then the jangle of keys.

He rubbed his eyes. He thought, wow, fast. Then he thought, thank Christ.

The interrogation room door opened.

The printer looked up at Peter. He watched the FBI agent shuffle through a fifty-two card deck of emotions: anticipation, confusion, relief, disappointment, anger, sadness, suspicion. It was the face of someone who had walked through the door expecting birthday cake and gotten a punch in the gut instead. Peter had to brace himself on the door jamb. "Well," Peter said at last. He swallowed. "Now I know why this felt like him."

The printer crossed his arms and put his feet up on the table. "Thrilled to see you too, suit."

Peter gripped the bridge of his nose. "What is this?"

The printer grinned. Aside from the physical inconveniences this had been a pretty fun one, and he'd needed it. "What do they think it is?"

Peter pounded his fist on the door. "Mozzie, for the love of—!"

"Suit." Mozzie let his voice shake a little. "I'll tell you. But please get me out of here."

"Fine." Peter was settling into a sort of patient frustration, a slow burn. There were times when Peter required the patience of—well, the parent of a three-year-old.

Mozzie dropped his feet to the floor and stood.

Peter held up a finger. "Wait."

Mozzie sat back down.

Peter said, "Have you committed any crimes?"

Mozzie studied his fingernails. "Specify."

Peter spread his hands. "OK. Let's say within a hundred miles of the border in the last thirty days. Either side."

"No. I have far too much respect for you."

"And you've been held captive," said Peter.

"And I've been held captive," Mozzie agreed.

"In that case, Moz, why would you—?"

"Not here." Mozzie inclined his head toward the cameras.

"OK." Peter held up a hand. "OK. Give me an hour."

"Jeez," said Mozzie. "You used to be able to bust us out in fifteen."

"Oh, I still can," Peter assured him. "I'm gonna go somewhere and think about this for forty-five minutes."

"Fed," griped Mozzie.

"Con," Peter replied.

"You know how long I've been in here?"

"Not long enough."

It was petty, but neither of them felt too guilty about it. People were what they were.

#

Mozzie wouldn't stay in a hotel, so they went to a white stucco safe house in the suburbs.

Safe houses made Peter lonely. They all had the same sad, mean feeling. They had all been abandoned in a hurry, and before that they had been used for evil purposes. They were nobody's home. Peter texted Elizabeth—he wasn't ready to talk to her—and then took a couple of bags of groceries into the kitchen.

Freshly showered and shaved, freed from the grip of the Panopticon, back in the arms of his Lady Liberty after almost a year, Mozzie rifled through the bags. Peanut butter. Jelly. Bologna. Mayo. Macaroni and cheese. Chicken nuggets.

"Miss your kid, suit?" Mozzie asked.

Peter sat at a cheap kitchen table, scowling at him. "Yes."

"Whoa." Mozzie flinched. "Sorry." He pulled out a sixpack of beer and a bottle of cabernet. His little yessss trailed off as he inspected the wine label. He frowned. "When you bought this, did you really think Neal was back?"

Peter shook his head. "I don't know."

"Your best friend mysteriously rises from the dead after three years and you buy him wine from the grocery store?" Mozzie found a brand new corkscrew in the bag, and a set of wine glasses. He popped the top expertly and served himself. He came out of the kitchen with the bottle and the sixpack—he figured they would finish both—and handed Peter a beer. Peter curled his hand around the bottle with a look on his face like he might crush it.

"I'm sorry I'm not him," said Mozzie, staring into his glass. "I didn't mean to worry you."

"Sure you did. You did everything you could to worry me."

"If you knew it was me and not Neal, would you have come all the way down here to get me?"

"Yes." Peter twisted the top off his beer. "I would have."

"Today?"

Peter didn't answer.

"See?" Mozzie lifted his glass. "To absent friends. May they always be available to bail us out." He sipped, then made a face. "Seriously, suit, this wine is horrible."

"I'm saving up to buy Elizabeth a good bottle. Speed it up. I thought you were in London."

"I was," he said. "Consulting with the lovely Miss Sarah Ellis on a thrilling case of forgery for hire. She sends her regards."

"How'd you get to Caracas? Did someone grab you?"

"Yes. And no. I took some time off from Sterling Bosch."

"Too boring?"

"Sure. Let's go with that," said Mozzie. "Anyway I left the UK in the spring. Went to the Continent. Have you ever been to Europe, suit?"

"Yes," said Peter.

"Really? I thought you were psychologically incapable of leaving Manhattan."

"I chased Neal there in '09."

"Oh, right. Paris."

"And Belgium."

"Bruges?" asked Mozzie.

Peter shook his head. "No. I heard about Bruges after. I picked him up at the Vatican Library."

"Oh yes." Mozzie steepled his fingers over his lips and stared off into the wistful distance. "How I've missed it."

Peter's brow furrowed. "You were at the Vatican?"

"Not with Neal." Mozzie held up a hand, as if to halt that train of thought.

Peter pulled up Google on his cell phone and typed in security incidents vatican library. "So when was this exactly?"

"Let's continue," said Mozzie.

Peter nodded. "I think that's wise."

"I was touring World War II battlefields."

"Yes, I remember your keen interest in 20th century European history."

"Quite. While on this intellectual and spiritual journey..."

"Ha!"

Mozzie pouted. "I met a mysterious stranger."

"Mysterious." Peter finished his beer and popped open another one. Despite everything, he was beginning to relax and enjoy himself. He was still annoyed with Mozzie, missing his family, sad about Caffrey, worried about the work he had abandoned to come here, but he also felt like he was returning to a familiar country he had not expected to see again. White Collar wasn't like this. Not anymore. White Collar wasn't fun.

Except when it was. "So," Peter said. "Tell me about mysterious."

"The venue," said Mozzie, "was a medieval tavern."

#

After a long day of walking the fields of Verdun, Mozzie, traveling under his perfectly legitimate and legal name of Teddy Winters—which you can totally check out if you're so skeptical, suit—returned to the tavern to put himself on the outside of a cold pint. Normally a drinker of fine wines, Mozzie had taken a shine to the tavern, which was supposed to be the oldest in the city. There were still singe marks on the wooden exterior from World War II! Mozzie was an easy mark for touristy kitsch, if it was done well, and he also had the fatal flaw of all conmen abroad: he liked to have a home base. The tavern also served the finest beers in Europe, lovingly crafted by Benedictine monks, and in his two weeks in Verdun, Mozzie was learning to love the hop almost as much as the grape.

Going back to the tavern was a mistake, because that evening, at the bar, Mozzie picked up a tail. The tail was not inconspicuous. He was wearing a Benedictine robe with a hood that hid his face. Even in French taverns, even to Mozzie, that kind of thing did not happen very often. Mozzie saw him sitting in a corner of the room, puffing on a pipe. The monk was staring at him and Mozzie caught a glimmer of the monk's dark eyes and beard.

Mozzie slid a few euros across the table to the bartender. "Do you know who that is?"

"Oh, he comes around from time to time," the bartender said. (This was in French, natch). "He always sits in the same place. What his given name is, I don't rightly know, but around here he's known as Strider—"

#

"Mozzie," Peter interrupted.

"What?"

"I have read Tolkien before."

"One does not read Tolkien," said Mozzie, holding a prissy finger up in the air. "One experiences it."

Peter arched an eyebrow and opened another beer.

"Cope, suit," said Mozzie. "Strider is all you're ever getting. Don't ask me again later. You'll want to."

"Fine. But he wasn't dressed like a Benedictine monk. For one thing they don't have hoods."

"It didn't even really happen in a tavern," said Mozzie. "Use your imagination."

"You certainly are," said Peter.

"Anyway," said Mozzie. "I went to talk to him."

#

Mozzie bought two of the Gregorian beers and sat down next to Strider. "Take a picture," said Mozzie. "It'll last longer."

The monk said, "You're the printer." He had a thick Middle Eastern accent.

"Printer. That's a name I haven't heard in a long time," Mozzie replied.

#

"Mozzie—" said Peter.

"Do you want to find out how I got to Caracas or not?"

"I care more about the why than the how. If you wanted to see me you could just come over. Elizabeth misses you."

"Ah. Mrs. Suit. A likely story."

"Will you please stop?"

"Nope," said Mozzie. "To shorten this story—thereby depriving it of much thrilling local color—"

"Please," said Peter.

"And details about who punched me in the kidneys—it was some very angry Cubans—"

"Angry? With you? I can hardly imagine."

"Strider told me that someone was shipping something from Namibia to the United States, and that as a resident of Manhattan, this should concern me. So I plied a few skills and took the safari of a lifetime, and I mean that in every sense of the word. I went to Namibia, I found the item, and I followed it. I leveraged my reputation—I'm sorry, 'the printer's' reputation—and had myself sold along the same illicit route this item was using. It's a long journey, suit, and a roundabout one. I'm tired. I have seldom been more tired. But it works. If I had not decided to disembark from the world cruise from hell, I'm quite certain I would have made it across the border. You're welcome for the cocaine bust by the way. And a couple of other little favors and considerations I don't want to talk about. This was the underworld of the underworld. I feel like I could drink a gallon of hand sanitizer." He made a face that said it would still be an improvement on the wine Peter had bought, but he also topped off his glass.

"Your favors always come at a price."

"Don't complain. You're still on the Friends and Family Plan. Ten percent discount. The someone is an Australian by the name of James Quincy Bean. Better known to Interpol, White Collar and you as—"

"The Postman," said Peter, his eyes taking on a predatory gleam.

Mozzie pointed at him. Bingo.

Peter pulled on his chin. "I thought he only worked East Asia."

Mozzie shrugged. "Global now, I guess. I met him."

A smile played on the edges of Peter's lips. "You met the Postman."

"Lifted his wallet." Mozzie wiggled his fingers. "That's how I got his name."

"So that's the someone. What's the something?"

Mozzie stopped talking. It was like his mouth just dried up.

Peter said, "Come on. It's me. There's nobody else here. What's the Postman shipping to America?"

"I need a break." Mozzie smiled a rictus smile, stood up and stretched. He walked across the stucco house. It was an open floor plan, black slate floors, a huge pueblo fireplace, and windows that looked out on the desert. The furniture was cheap and ugly and the place was badly maintained. But you could buy furniture. "This is a good house, Peter." Out there the orange sun was setting. "You guys should keep this one."

Peter shook his head. "We don't keep them."

Mozzie was fidgeting, tapping his fingers on his thigh, glancing over his shoulder at Peter, walking to the window, ducking to look into the fireplace.

"You OK?" Peter checked the level of the wine bottle. Half gone.

"I'm not drunk," said Mozzie, without turning around.

Peter put his damp beer bottle on the table. "You know the only thing Neal was worse at than seeing the big picture?"

"Asking for help," said Mozzie.

Peter nodded. "That's a mistake that cost him everything."

"More than once," said Mozzie. "I know."

"You wanted me to be here and I'm here. I dropped everything. You have to tell me."

"I want to." Mozzie held up a hand, then ran it over his head. "I will. I just need a minute."

"OK," said Peter. He waited.

They watched the sunset.

"Did you like Italy?" Mozzie asked, after a while.

"What?"

"Rome. The Vatican. Did you like it?"

"I don't know. I was kind of busy."

"We have to go. Not to Rome. Obviously. Sardinia. Cagliari."

"Moz."

"Tomorrow. I want to sleep in." He rubbed his eyes. "We need money."

"Teddy," said Peter firmly. "I'm not going to Sardinia."

"The hell you aren't, suit."

"Take a deep breath," said Peter, "and tell me. Whatever it is, I promise I'll do everything I can to—"

"Uranium."

Silence.

Mozzie looked over his shoulder. "The Postman, James Quincy Bean, is illegally mining uranium 235 in Namibia."

"Stop," said Peter.

"He isn't selling it. He hasn't sold a gram. He's shipping it. I've seen it. I followed it. He's shipping it here, Peter. A lot of it. Hundreds of pounds. Yes, I said hundreds. And he's done it so quietly and so well that maybe three other people on Earth know about it. That's why I came in the way I did. That's why I lit a fire under you. Why I've spent a quarter of a year in places that smelled like a toilet, with people who scare me, and why it took me so long to get it out. Cause it's good to see you and I liked pretending everything was going to be OK. And now things are going to be different."