Chapter 9: A Phrygian Sky

Hotel du Jeu de Paume. Thursday, June 2, 2005

Peter grabbed a cup of coffee in the hotel bar and strolled onto the courtyard patio. El had already left. Still no sign of Henry or Neal. They hadn't seen each other for a couple of weeks and had probably stayed up most of the night talking. He wouldn't be surprised if they'd gone out on the town when Neal returned from dinner.

But it wasn't long before Henry walked onto the patio, carrying a tray loaded with pastries and coffee. He sat down across from Peter at the wrought-iron table. "Just coffee? Have you already eaten?"

He nodded. "El and I got up early. Chantal had offered to take her along on her morning shopping at the wholesale markets. Did Neal come downstairs with you?"

"I imagine he's still asleep." Henry picked up a knife and slathered raspberry preserves on his croissant. "We had quite a discussion last night. How's he been acting with you?"

Peter considered for a moment before replying. "He's had his game face on all week—tour guide for El and me, art heist expert for the French police, but you should know this business with Rolf has hit him hard. We're still waiting for the DNA analysis report, but the fact that Klaus's brother is most likely Azathoth has been tough on him." Peter explained to Henry what he'd found out from Chantal. "The way she and Neal describe Klaus is almost identical. On the surface the man was a charmer with a magnetic personality, but he used those attributes to manipulate both of them. He only revealed the bits of himself that he wanted them to see."

"You feel Chantal and Neal were both left battered by the experience?"

"That's an apt way of expressing it. When Neal offered to go undercover to take Klaus down, I realized how difficult it would be, but I didn't know the extent of his friendship with the thief."

"Did he consult a therapist after the op was over?"

"I recommended he do so, but he declined."

Henry's expression darkened as he swallowed a bite of croissant. "He must have had difficulties."

Peter didn't respond. Clearly Neal hadn't told Henry. Peter had only gotten him to admit having flashbacks because they were resulting in acrophobia.

"Let me rephrase that since your silence is alerting me I was right. How severe were they?"

"Since Neal hasn't mentioned them to you, I have to assume he'd rather we not discuss them. He worked through the symptoms on his own and hasn't had any recurrences that I'm aware of for several months."

"It's not a surprise that the guilt arising from Klaus's death would have resulted in PTSD. I won't mention this conversation, but I can tell you're concerned he may relapse."

"Rolf seeking revenge for the death of his brother? That's bound to affect him. The breakup with Fiona couldn't have come at a worse time. She was a stabilizing force in his life. Maybe I was deluding myself, but I hoped he'd be less likely to take risks."

"And now he'll throw caution to the wind?" Henry shrugged. "His emotions were all over the place last night. I wondered how much Fiona had to do with it. Do you think Rolf could have played any role in the friction between them?"

"I don't see how he could have caused it. Even for someone as devious as the man we've been calling Azathoth, to have researched Fiona's background, discover a man she used to have a crush on, and then arrange for him to be working on the same project in Amboise seems a bit of stretch. On the other hand, he could have been a factor. Neal was obsessing about my safety. It's possible he was also concerned that Fiona would be a target."

"I agree," Henry said. "Neal told me that Fiona thought she was in love with both him and Gerald. It didn't seem to me that he put up much of a fight to hold onto her. He may have thought Rolf would exact his revenge by hurting her."

"When you're dealing with a master manipulator like Rolf, I wouldn't dismiss anything out of hand. I confess that after the attack in London, I wondered if Rolf had rigged the painting competition to allow Neal to win and thus increase the likelihood of him visiting Scima."

"Does Neal know that you question the competition results?"

"I never told him, and I'd appreciate it if you don't either. Neal deserved to win, but as you know, excellence is no guarantee of success. There were many other outstanding entries in the competition."

Henry started to speak but cut himself off when Neal strolled onto the patio.

"I hope Henry hasn't already started talking about what he found out," Neal said. "He wouldn't tell me anything last night." He carried his breakfast of brioche and croissant on a tray. A waiter followed him out to refill their coffee cups.

Henry put down a puff pastry stuffed with chocolate to take a sip of coffee. "I made progress, but it took a lot of digging. The pre-war records were very sketchy. Many of them had been destroyed during bombing raids. Fortunately, I had a good team working with me. I started with Adler's father, Wilhelm. We were able to find records of him in Hamburg. During World War II, he was in his early 20s and worked in the shipyards helping to construct U-boats."

"This will make Jones very happy," Peter commented.

"That's just the beginning. I'm gonna make his day. Wilhelm Adler was fairly easy to trace. Karl Huber's father was much more a challenge, but we eventually tracked him down. Franz Huber was a year older than Wilhelm. He served in the Gestapo and was stationed in Paris during the war, working with the Rosenberg task force in charge of confiscated art."

"Where did he work?" Neal asked eagerly. "The Jeu de Paume?"

Henry nodded. "And by the way, what does jeu de paume mean? Is it a coincidence that the hotel you like to stay at has the same name as the museum?"

"Jeu de paume is an early form of tennis," Neal explained. "The building that now houses the museum was built for tennis courts back in the nineteenth century. This hotel is much older. It was originally a royal tennis court for Louis XIII."

Henry looked up at the hotel wall. "Huh. History's never been my thing but it's hard to escape it in Paris. Here's some history you may find even more fascinating. Huber was reassigned to Berlin in 1944 and was killed in a bombing raid in 1945. His wife gave birth to Karl, an only child, in late 1944. Huber's widow immigrated to the States with little Karl in 1952."

"Were you able to trace any connection between Franz Huber and Wilhelm Adler?" Peter asked.

"That was the thorniest piece of the puzzle," Henry admitted. "There were no records on file about either Adler or Huber before the war. When I delayed my arrival to Paris, it was because an investigator discovered the name of a man who'd served with Adler in the shipyards. He's in his eighties now but still spry. He remembered Adler was from a small town in Bavaria called Holzkirchen. We visited the place— charming little town. By the way, Peter, you need to go with me to Germany sometime. The beer's outstanding. Anyway, we scoured the town for records and found what we were looking for. Huber also grew up in Holzkirchen. By combing old records, we were able to confirm Franz and Wilhelm's attendance in the same school. They were only a year apart and must have known each other."

Peter paused taking notes. "So what you're saying is Huber worked with the looted art at the Jeu de Paume while Adler worked with U-boats."

"Exactly," Henry said with a broad smile. "We've found our link."

"Did you find anything that points to the sons having worked together?" Neal asked.

"Good question," Henry said. "We're assuming they're not now, since an Ydrus operative was helping to fund Win-Win's investigation into Adler. We know Karl Huber's a member of Ydrus, but he's disappeared. The last report for him was in April when he was in Greece. Adler's presumably still in Argentina. Huber's mother is now deceased but we're trying to trace any contact she may have had with Wilhelm Adler in the States."

"They could be mounting completely separate searches for the plunder and unaware of the connection," Peter mused. He eyed Neal's brioche wistfully. Last day in Paris. He could eat one more. El would never know.

Peter's cell phone rang. He glanced at it and showed it to Neal before answering—John Hobhouse was shown on the display.

Henry and Neal froze as he talked with John. By the expressions on their faces, he didn't need to tell them what John reported, but it was worth repeating. "Positive confirmation. Alistair Chapman is Rolf Mansfeld. John just got the news. They're on the way to arrest him now."

"Diana asked for Azathoth in handcuffs as a trip souvenir," Neal said, breaking into a wide grin. "She may get her wish."

The Bunker, Aloha Emporium, New York City. June 3, 2005. Friday evening.

"That's right. Rolf escaped," Neal helped himself to another glass of wine. In honor of the occasion, Mozzie was serving a Château Margaux. Originally it was to be a celebration but the victory was bittersweet.

"But how?" Mozzie's voice ascended to a squeak in his outrage.

"We don't know yet, but you can believe it's being investigated. We got the news when we landed in New York. John was at a meeting in the morning. When he returned to his desk, he found the voicemail from the lab. He called the Home Office to notify them that they intended to arrest Chapman. When the police arrived at Scima Workshop, they were told Chapman had left thirty minutes earlier. Obviously someone leaked word of what was happening. My money's on a snitch in the Home Office."

"Why did the Euro Suit have to make the call?"

"He had no choice, Mozz. He was under orders."

"It should be easy to trace the source of the leak. If I were there, I'd have discovered it already. Has Aidan been able to hack into the plastic surgeon's files yet?"

"Aidan succeeded on Wednesday," said Neal, happy to have a piece of good news to report.

"What did he discover?"

"We'll have to wait to find out. The files are encrypted. Aidan says it may take weeks or longer to unravel them."

Mozzie groaned. "Another mystery?"

"I'm afraid so, but given everything's that's happened so far, that comes as no surprise. We take one step forward only to have new doors slammed in our faces. Peter told Diana and Jones that we were able to obtain the files, but he didn't mention how. They probably suspect the truth, but everyone's smart enough not to mention it."

"Why does Henry think Rolf attacked Peter?"

"We discussed that at length on the flight home. Henry believes Rolf was trying to insinuate himself into being our ally. Look at all the so-called help he provided me—pointing out the location of the Underwater Stage, personally driving me there. Henry's convinced that if I hadn't asked about the site, Rolf would have suggested it."

"Not a bad plan," Mozzie mused aloud. "Infiltrate yourself into enemy lines. Sun Tzu would approve. Remember the supreme art of war is to subdue the enemy without fighting. Learn what they're thinking. Just like you have with the FBI."

Neal felt the heat rise to his face. "That's not what I'm doing."

Mozzie shrugged. "Perhaps. But that's why everyone believes you're playing the long con. Rolf was doing the same. In his Chapman disguise, he would have become your trusted ally. The man who helped save one of your closest friends."

"You're right about Rolf playing the long con. Both he and Klaus were. Klaus let both Chantal and me think Rolf was dead. Why would he do something like that?"

Mozzie took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. "I don't know. This has been difficult for me. I've had to reevaluate my opinion of a man I'd placed on a pedestal. I now have a much better understanding of what you went through. I agree the church was a trap and the only person who could have set it was Rolf. Klaus must have told him where he hid the painting and he's been biding his time."

Neal nodded. He found some comfort in being able to voice aloud the thoughts that that had been troubling him ever since the night of the theft. It made him appreciate how much he missed being able to discuss what happened with Peter. "Rolf must have heard of Adler's offer for the painting and spread the rumor I knew where it was. I've been puzzling about that ever since Chantal first contacted me. How had my connection to the Braque been discovered? Now we know. Rolf followed Peter and my movements in the fall. He must have continued throughout the spring. He knew about our travel plans. He could have hacked my email correspondence with Fiona. He was biding his time, waiting to spring his trap. And if you hadn't been there, I would have been ensnared."

Mozzie refilled both their glasses. "I wonder what his plans were after you were arrested. That would have destroyed your career with the Bureau, Interpol, and probably Columbia as well. Is that what he wanted? Or did he have something else in mind?"

"Any ideas?" asked Neal, curious for his opinion. Tricia and Peter continued to believe recruitment was a strong possibility. It was unfortunate Neal couldn't reveal this new data point. Throwing him in prison sucked badly as an inducement tactic.

Mozzie thought a moment as he sipped his wine. "We think Rolf would have rescued Peter at the last possible moment. Would he have done the same with you? It would have been difficult. He would have needed to pay off gendarmes . . . A challenge, yes, but achievable. Perhaps Rolf planted a couple of his own crew members. They might have claimed they were taking you back to the gendarmerie, only to abduct you instead."

"With the intent to blackmail me."

Mozzie nodded. "But even for a twisted genius such as myself, the execution would have been problematic—too many unknowns for my liking. I'll continue to ponder the matter. In any case, Rolf's now escaped into the ether."

Neal gazed around the bunker. There was no sign of the painting. "Where did you hide it?"

He smiled. "We're taking no chances, mon frère." Mozzie rolled his commander's chair to the computer station. He reached into the keyhole of the desk and slid forward a side panel to reveal a concealment space.

"Slick," Neal said, admiring the workmanship.

"Every piece of furniture in the bunker has been customized. You should let me modify yours, too."

"I don't have any furniture," Neal pointed out. "It all belongs to June."

"I'll talk with her. I'm sure she'd approve." Mozzie placed the portfolio on the table and opened it to reveal the canvas inside. "What's your secret, my dear?"

Neal echoed his thoughts. The Violin and Candlestick was safe now, but was she ready to sing?

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Evidently not.

No music came from the violin, although he and Mozzie had worked through the night to try to coax something out of her. No hidden messages. No code to be deciphered. Neal had intimate knowledge of the painting from having copied it after he and Klaus stole it. She hadn't disclosed anything then and she still didn't.

In Diana's stories, Neal Carter spent every free moment trying to decrypt the starfish script. Had Diana inadvertently foretold his own struggles with the painting? Which object would cough up its secrets first?

The next day Neal headed for his studio to work on his own paintings. He hoped they wouldn't be as frustrating. During his absence the building had been transformed. While classes were in session, there were always students around, no matter how late or early the hour. Background noise was a constant—snippets of conversation, snatches of music, the random sounds of artists at work.

But not now.

Neal's footsteps echoed eerily in the quiet corridors. He'd known that only a few were paying to keep their studios in the summer, but he hadn't realized it was such a small number.

He hoped to get a head start on his paintings for the master's exhibition next spring. Last year it had been brutal trying to find time to paint when most of his evenings were taken up with art history classes and course assignments. Neal had reasoned that if he could do most of the work on the paintings in the summer, he could then focus on his courses in the fall.

If he didn't go crazy from the silence.

He didn't usually play music while he painted, but today he made an exception. First he spread the drawings he'd made in Paris on the worktable. There was an underlying emotion to all of them. He was glad Henry hadn't picked up on it. But then again, he probably did—it was Henry, after all—and he was giving Neal the freedom to deal with it on his terms. Neal appreciated the gesture.

Henry hadn't commented on their conversation that last night in Paris. When Neal apologized the next day, he shrugged it off. That in itself told Neal that Henry took it seriously. Otherwise he would have razzed him for his behavior.

Henry most likely suspected Fiona was the cause. He didn't know Neal's connection to the Braque, and Neal intended to keep it that way. Rolf knew about the painting. Henry, like Peter, had to be kept completely free of it, or he could wind up becoming a pawn on Rolf's chessboard too.

Neal pulled out a blank canvas from the storage cabinet and set it on the easel. He stood motionless in front of it for several moments, collecting his thoughts. To transfer emotions to canvas, first you need to re-experience them.

In the wall unit he had a box of CDs. He didn't have to dig far for the one he wanted. It was right on top. He'd listened to it shortly before leaving for London.

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

"Have you heard of the expression rubbing salt in a wound? Do you know why that's not recommended?"

Breaking into a smile at the familiar voice, Neal spun around to see Richard at the doorway. "I didn't think you'd come in today."

"I still have a few items left to pack before I vacate the place for the summer. And don't change the subject. How could you possibly think that listening to Fiona sing is a good idea?"

"Stockman said to pour our emotions into your work," Neal said with a shrug. "I thought it would be cathartic."

"And masochistic," Richard added bluntly. "You could have waited a few weeks before putting on your hair shirt."

"I prefer to get the blood and gore over with early."

"Obviously. Did you make a special CD of her top melancholic hits? 'The Old Ways'? Seriously? I heard the mournful strains of 'Beneath a Phrygian Sky' as I walked down the hallway. You'll probably play 'Dark Night of the Soul' next. You've made me feel morose and I wasn't in love with her. I can only imagine what you must be feeling like." He strode over to the CD player and turned it off.

Neal watched him, feeling a little sheepish but glad he'd already told him about Fiona.

Richard began studying the painting Neal was working on. "That's Amboise, I assume."

Neal nodded. "A preliminary effort." He showed Richard the drawings on his worktable, curious at what his reaction would be.

"You did all of these in Paris? I need to go there. If it can inspire me like it did you, it's worth the expense. I wish I had the time to sculpt this summer, but Scima is keeping me too busy. Ian told me they'll make a decision on whether to retain me at the end of the summer."

"I already know what it will be. They won't let a talent like you escape. I understand why you didn't keep your studio, but I'll miss having you next door."

Richard perched on a work stool. "I will too. I have no one to jam with at Scima. They play video games to relieve the pressure. I know this will shock you, but I've discovered that being repeatedly outwitted by bad guys who always seem to have an inside track does little to alleviate my stress."

"I know where you're coming from." Richard's situation didn't sound that different from his own.

"If you don't have any plans this evening, why don't you come down to the club and jam with Travis and me? Our pianist is out of town." Richard was a skilled jazz guitarist who performed Saturday evenings at Marmalade's in the Village. He'd roped Travis into playing drums with his group. "This will be my last evening there before I leave for L.A."

"I'm tempted but you know I don't have much experience playing jazz."

Richard made a face. "As opposed to Travis? He hadn't played much of anything before he started. You should come. It'll give you a chance to do something you're not good at. That's the problem with you overachievers. Me, I don't have to worry about failing. I do it all the time."

Neal snorted. "Right, and this is coming from the guy who won the internship at Scima and is such a talent that they're sending you to L.A. for training. Just to prove you wrong, I'll show up and disgrace myself horribly."

Richard grinned. "A likely story, but I'll forgive you if you should happen to not totally suck. I'll even let you sing the blues, if that makes you feel better. Nothing like the blues to rip your heart out."

Neal was happy to agree. Compared with the alternatives of self-flagellation while painting the scene of Amboise or another frustrating evening of staring at a mute violin, Richard was tossing him a life-preserver.

"Have you had lunch yet?" Richard asked. "We could grab a sandwich."

"I could use a change of scenery," Neal admitted, screwing on the caps on his paint tubes. "Until you showed up, this place was a mausoleum."

"You won't be the only one here this summer. There are a few others who are keeping their studios." Richard grabbed Neal's brushes to clean. "You're a polyglot. Did you ever pick up any Hungarian?"

"No, why?"

"I met a new student last week. She's been assigned the studio next to yours."

"Not your studio?"

"No, on the other side. Her name is Bianka Kaldy. She's signed up for a dual master's in art and is getting an early start. She's taking English courses this summer." Richard shrugged. "She seems nice. A smoky-eyed blonde some might find attractive."

Neal groaned. "Not me, that's for sure."

"Yeah, right. Neal Caffrey the monk. How long will that last?"

Riverside Park. Sunday morning.

Neal slowed to a jog on his favorite trail along the Hudson River at Riverside Park. He'd already been running for an hour. In the afternoon, he might go for a swim in the Columbia pool. Then it would be back to work on the Braque painting.

The previous day, when he returned home he sat down at the piano and rehearsed a few numbers for Marmalade's. June was out. No one to hear his choice of music. As he sang he thought about Richard's suggestion. Did he really want to expose his soul before a crowd of strangers? Instead he opted to do it in the quiet of June's music room, belting out "Warning Sign" by Coldplay and several other angst-ridden selections, finishing with an angry "Fake It" by Seether. With that out of his system, he was in a much better mood to enjoy the evening.

Marmalade's had worked out well. Aidan and his girlfriend Keiko had shown up at the club with Michael, Angela's boyfriend. He was a bachelor these days like Neal since Angela was working on a field project in West Virginia.

Neal was suspicious that the others hadn't just chanced by, and when Henry and his boyfriend Eric arrived too, the setup was obvious. After dropping in on Neal at his studio, Richard must have rounded up the others for an intervention. Neal was embarrassed that he'd appeared that pathetic, but he enjoyed the company too much to be bothered by it.

When he saw his friends at the club, Neal was relieved he'd already decided to restrain his lover's blues. He only sang one solo piece, a Muse version of "Feeling Good," aimed at reassuring everyone he was done with wallowing. The rest of the time he restricted himself to backup. Richard called Henry up to play as well. Of course, he'd insisted on showing off, singing Santana's "Oye Como Va" and jiving on stage. Hanging out, making music . . . Neal had spent worse Saturday nights.

He sat on a bench to look out at the Hudson. The summer would pass quickly. The weekends shouldn't be too lonely. He'd have his paintings to work on. He could go to Marmalade's on Saturday nights. If he could solve the mystery behind the Braque, events could move quickly. He, Peter, El, as well as most of the group would be in San Diego in six weeks when Aidan would be presenting his video. Yep, plenty to do.

When his cell phone rang, Neal's first thought was that it was Fiona calling. After she moved to France, they used to talk every Sunday. Instead, it was another familiar voice and a welcome one.

"Did I catch you loafing on the terrace?" Sara asked.

"I'll do that later." Neal hesitated. Had she talked with Fiona? He should let her know to prevent any awkwardness. But before he could broach the subject, she beat him to it.

"Fiona called me to explain what happened. I wanted to say how sorry I am things didn't work out."

"Thanks."

"I hope you don't think I misled you. I honestly didn't realize her feelings were becoming so conflicted."

"I understand. Fiona didn't know it either." Sara had experienced a worse romantic disaster than him. Less than two months ago he'd been consoling her about Bryan McKenzie.

"We really should try to avoid emotional train wrecks in the future," she said. "Next time you spot me getting in the path of a locomotive, please shove me out of the way."

"Agreed. You do the same with me. Although, I have no intention of being anywhere close to a train track for a long time to come."

"You and me both. Dating's not the only thing in the world. We have our careers, friends, hobbies . . ."

He watched the boats on the river and nodded. "Workouts are on my list. I was running in Riverside Park when you called."

"Highly recommended for exorcising frustrations. I've started a regimen too."

"You do realize that shopping doesn't count as a cardio workout?"

"That shows how little you know. I've taken shopping to new heights. Besides, I have other interests."

"How could I forget? I wouldn't have thought historical romances qualified either, but if the scenes are sufficiently steamy I suppose they could get your heart rate up."

"Would you like me to send you a list?"

He chuckled. "Maybe later."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

When Neal returned to work on Monday morning, he brought presents. He'd picked up an Hermès scarf of sea life for Diana. The scarf reminded him of the luminous ocean filled with bizarre creatures that she described in her first story. They hadn't been able to bring back Azathoth in handcuffs as they'd hoped, but they'd ripped off his mask. Perhaps next time they could dispatch him to the bottom of the abyss.

For Travis and Jones he had autographed photos of David Tennant and Billie Piper from the Doctor Who set.

"Are you sure these are their genuine autographs?" Jones asked, scrutinizing the signatures carefully. "Not that I don't appreciate it, but given your skill . . ."

"Does no one trust me?" Neal said with a moan, milking the wounded feelings routine to the hilt. "I suspected your reaction, so just to prove it to you, here's a photo that I had the stunt coordinator take. It shows me watching as they sign them."

Travis examined it. "You're even wearing a brown pinstripe suit. This is the photo I want you to autograph for me. Your future career as a stunt double . . . I don't suppose you have any of yourself and Sara in costume?"

Neal grinned. "Glad you asked. We had a stagehand photograph us." He passed them the photo.

Jones chuckled when he saw it. "My opinion? You should retire your James Bond and Tiffany nicknames and be known as the Doctor and Rose from now on. What was Billie like? Is she as gorgeous in person as she is on TV?"

"More, she—"

"We're wanted on the bridge," Travis interrupted, jerking his head toward the balcony.

Neal turned to see Peter standing outside his office, giving the three of them the double finger-point in one sweeping gesture.

When they were seated in the conference room, he filled them in on a phone conversation he'd just had with John Hobhouse. "They've traced the source of the leak. I'm sure you recall that John was required to notify the Home Office before taking any action at Scima. A personal assistant to the Home Secretary has confessed to alerting Chapman. Over the weekend agents interrogated everyone who had knowledge of the case, and she admitted to having had an affair with him."

"How much did she know about the case?" Travis asked.

"That's where we have a bit of luck. All she knew was that the police wanted to bring him in for questioning. She was unaware of the DNA evidence. She claimed her intention was to give him the opportunity to come in on his own. She believed he was innocent and didn't want his reputation damaged."

"So Chapman doesn't realize we've uncovered his true identity." Jones considered a moment. "That gives us an edge although at the moment I don't see how we'll be able to take advantage of it."

"He won't take any chances," Neal warned. "Now that he's fled, he may have already undergone surgery and is preparing to assume another identity." The knowledge of how Rolf managed to elude capture was bittersweet. "We're back at square one."

"That's not true," Travis objected. "He may have escaped, but we're in better shape than ever to track any attempts to employ his malware."

"You should feel proud," Peter added. "When you created those paintings for the sci-fi convention, you said you were tossing down the gauntlet. And the tactic worked. We suspected for a long time that Azathoth's brazenness would prove to be his undoing and it was. We may not have caught him, but we've stripped away the mask. He can no longer use Scima as his base of operations."

"In addition, we have the files from the plastic surgeon," Travis added. "Aidan and I spent the weekend working on them."

"Is Hughes comfortable about Aidan's company handling the project?" Jones asked.

Peter nodded. "Hughes and I discussed it on Friday. As you're aware, Hughes was taking some heat for us not following standard procurement procedures. After the attack at Scima Workshop he reviewed the entire situation with the Assistant Director and secured his approval. Azathoth's actions bolstered our case for extraordinary measures. The fact that Aidan's anti-malware program has been so well received by Interpol provides the kind of evidence that Hughes needed that we're on the right track."

"Hughes also secured approval for us to be in charge of analyzing museum security programs in cases where his malware is suspected," Travis added. "He told me he was sending D.C. Art Crimes the directive this morning."

"Kramer won't be happy about that," Jones noted.

"He'll have no choice but to comply," Peter said, shrugging. "The AD has signed off on all matters concerning museum security and Azathoth being treated as covert operations. Aidan's work on the plastic surgeon's files falls under that umbrella."

"How is Hughes referring to Azathoth now?" Jones asked. "As Rolf Mansfeld or Azathoth?"

"We should all continue to call him Azathoth," Peter advised. "As long as an FBI informant remains at large, we don't want to take the risk of Ydrus discovering we've identified him." He turned to Travis. "Have you anything to report on the surgeon's files?"

"The code is written in an esolang," Travis said. "That's not the first time we've encountered it. Parts of Rolf's malware were also written in an esolang."

"Am I the only one who doesn't know what that means?" Neal asked.

"No, you can include me in too," Peter said. "Someone care to explain?"

"Esolang is short for esoteric programming language," Jones said. "They're sometimes used by hackers because they're nonconventional and can be devilishly difficult to crack."

Travis nodded. "Devilish is a good word to use, particularly in this case. A few of the key commands— both in the surgeon's files and in the malware—are in a variant of Malbolge, an esolang named after Malebolge, which is the eighth circle of Hell in Dante's Inferno. That heightens the probability that the same programmer worked on both the malware and on the surgeon's files."

"And if you're looking for arguments to bolster the case against Rolf," Jones added. "Among the courses he taught at Bremen University was one on esolangs."

Peter jotted a note. "When we worked on the forged Galileo manuscript, we had to make use of Apian wheels to solve the mystery. The number seven was a key element. I remember Mozzie warning us shortly before we were kidnapped that Azathoth might be referring to Dante's seventh circle. It's tempting to think there's some other connection to Dante, or it could simply be more mind games. I'll let Tricia know."

"We believe the files of four patients were encrypted," Travis said. "They were identified only by number codes. Decrypting the files themselves, however, will take weeks, perhaps months."

"Is there any indication of dates on the files?" Peter asked.

"Nothing that isn't encrypted."

"We assume Rolf was one of the patients," Neal said. "The second might have been the car crash victim who was identified as Rolf. While Rolf was being operated on to assume Chapman's identity, someone else became Rolf. As for the others, Marta and Jacek are good bets." Had Rolf planned all along to burn his identity after staging the attack at Scima? It would have been a smart decision. How much of a factor was the Braque painting? Perhaps that was the real reason for him taking flight.

Neal wished he were able to discuss what role the Braque painting played in Rolf's strategy. But that route was closed to him now.

A Castle in Hungary. Monday, June 6

The sun was sinking behind the mountains, casting a tangerine glow to the sky. Klaus rose from the piano and switched on a table lamp.

Anya flung open the doors into the salon. She'd finished her workout and had changed into a black crepe dress for dinner. The plunging neckline beckoned him in. She stood for a moment at the doorway as if to let him admire her. He loved to watch her walk. He called himself the Leopard. She had the grace of a cheetah. So much more appropriate than being called Python, but he'd never been able to dissuade her from her choice.

She walked over to the sideboard and poured two cognacs. "Come sit beside me. Have you heard from Rolf?"

He took a seat beside her. "He's recovering well. The surgery presented no complications."

"I hope this doctor is as skilled as Bergeron."

"According to Rolf, he's better, and he also presents fewer risks. Interpol has been making inquiries of Bergeron. It would have been too dangerous to use him again."

She nodded agreement. "Rolf was wise to have cultivated that secretary. If she hadn't alerted him that the police were heading his way, he could have been arrested."

"I doubt it. It was more likely they simply had additional questions about the attack. Rolf is confident they don't have anything incriminating against him. There's nothing in Chapman's background to suggest an expertise in computer programming. No one could possibly know that Rolf assumed Chapman's identity. His transformation was too thorough. Frankly, I'm surprised that Rolf didn't stay to have his fun with the police."

"He was being prudent. That's a trait you should adopt as well."

He shrugged off her comment. "I suspect the main reason was he'd grown bored with the Chapman identity. He's maintained the alias for five years. I don't blame him."

"Will you grow bored with me, chéri?"

He pulled her close, twisting her long hair in his fingers. "Never."

Some minutes later, she pulled back. "I applaud your inclusion of the contingency measures for Paris. Neal escaped capture this time, but it won't help him. We have him recorded. We have the ultimate blackmail tool to use whenever we wish."

Klaus took a sip of cognac. "With someone like him, we always need to have multiple weapons in our arsenal."

She rested her head on his shoulder. "I confess I thought your plan was flawed. Planting our agents to rescue him at the last moment was a high-stakes gamble—"

"—which would have resulted in his gratitude. The rescue would have been a valuable step in securing Neal's loyalty. He'd have been in our debt, and we could have worked that to our benefit. In addition, we'd have the recording of him being assisted by Ydrus to provide a more forcible means of persuasion if necessary."

She nodded. "Having multiple coercion resources would have strengthened our position, but we still have the video to use." She relaxed against him. Was this the right moment to let her know? Her reaction wouldn't be easy to control.

She pulled away and turned to face him. "I sense your unease. Did something else go wrong?"

He nodded. "The video won't help us."

"Why not?" Her low voice deepened still further, a sign of her displeasure. "Did Neal spot the camera behind the clock?"

"No. It was hidden too well. But our lion cub was wearing a hood. All we have is footage of a thief in black clothes. It's not possible to connect him to the execution of the theft."

Her eyes flashed angrily. "You're telling me that despite all our efforts we have nothing to blackmail him with?"

"Of course not. Now you understand why we made provision for the additional trap. Neal retrieved the painting. That in itself gives us sufficient leverage to move forward, but The Astronomer provides yet another weapon. The Louvre worked out exactly as Rolf predicted. We even have footage of Neal standing with Peter and his wife in the Vermeer gallery."

Anya appeared to be satisfied. "Now that I've seen the painting, I understand why you and Rolf value the work so highly."

"Rolf wants it for his private collection. He's asked it to be installed in his suite."

"It will be there waiting for his return," she assured him. "What odds do you give for the authorities discovering the switch before we're ready to move?"

"At an off-site facility? I'm confident the risk is minimal. The forgery I replaced it with is quite adequate to stand up to casual inspection. The Vermeer Exhibition is scheduled for December. That leaves us ample time to put the painting into play." He slipped an arm around her. "I heard from Marta. She's in position in Los Angeles. She had no difficulty in arranging for Neal's friend Richard to be sent there for training."

"Has Rolf reached a decision about him?"

He nodded, stroking her hair. "A little extra insurance is warranted. Rolf will arrive in Los Angeles the first of July to supervise operations."

"I heard from my sister. She was able to secure the studio next to Neal's. She's already met Richard. Now that Neal's back, I expect her to waste no time in establishing a connection."

He took a sip of cognac. "That's excellent news. Rolf's prediction was accurate. Neal broke up with his girlfriend, and that will make Bianka's task all the easier. He won't be able to resist a woman of her skill. Neal may have grown wiser, but he's still a romantic. I'm no longer interested in trying to change him. We can use that weakness to our advantage."

"As long as Bianka doesn't fall for him first. I know my sister. She's young. She doesn't have our discipline. And your lion cub may prove irresistible."

"If Bianka loves him back, so much the better. They'll both be easier to control."

She leaned her head next to his. "I have a buyer who's interested in the Hilliard miniature. Should I offer it to him?"

"I've decided not to sell it," Klaus replied. "Young Man Among Roses belongs to me now. Soon Neal will as well."

Notes: Klaus and Rolf are confident that they're in control, but are they really? Neal has the entire White Collar team and Henry on his side. I like his odds much better. The differing viewpoints are the subject of my blog post: "A Question of Ownership." It's fitting that Henry realized what kind of game Rolf was playing at Scima Workshop. That a disguised Azathoth might try to become friends with Neal and Peter was originally Penna's brilliant idea. Thank you, Penna, for that and all the idea-bouncing, editing, hand-holding, and encouragement you've provided over these 9 chapters!

Currently in Neal's timeline it's early June. Rolf and Klaus are plotting, but the action won't start till July. Neal and Peter have both been put the wringer in this story. Father's Day is coming up. And if that weren't enough of an excuse to take a break from their machinations, yesterday in our timeline (March 21) was Neal Caffrey's birthday. In honor of the occasion, Penna wrote a post for our blog: "How I met Neal Caffrey," where she chronicles how she became interested in White Collar. I'm so glad she did!

My birthday gift to Neal is to send him off on a summer vacation with Peter. Neal doesn't like to be bored on his vacations so there will be a Supernatural twist. The story's called Fireflies at Midnight and begins in a couple of weeks.

Once it's concluded, it's time for Peter to plant some subliminal messages for Azathoth in the next Arkham Files story, The Crypt. That leads directly to the sequel of Echoes of a Violin, Nocturne in Black and Gold. Some foreign travel will be involved—no teases on where or who does the traveling. Comic-Con in San Diego will also be featured. The story is in the editing phase now and promises to be a much longer story. I'll begin posting it in July.

Thanks for reading and special thanks to all who've left comments! I'll be back on April 5 with the first chapter of Fireflies at Midnight. I hope you'll join me!

Blog: Penna Nomen & Silbrith Conversation
Chapter Visuals and Music: The Echoes of a Violin board on the Caffrey Conversation Pinterest website
New pins this week include the autographed photo of David Tennant and Billie Piper, Diana's scarf, Bianka, and the music mentioned in the chapter.

Upcoming Stories:
Fireflies at Midnight: starts April 5 (Crossed Lines series)
The Crypt: starts in May (Arkham Files series)
Nocturne in Black and Gold: starts in July