White Collar Fic: Conspiracies: Revelations (Prologue)
Title: Conspiracies: Revelations (Prologue)
Author: sheenianni
Artist: aragarna
Word Count: ~ 49,700 in total
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Mozzie, Peter Burke; minor cast Diana Berrigan, Elizabeth Burke, Sally, June Ellington, Reese Hughes, Satchmo, Bancroft, OCs, others; Peter/Elizabeth (off-screen), Mozzie/Sally (off-screen)
Rating: R
Content Notice: Graphic torture and violence! Trauma, mild swearing, casual homophobia (minor occurrence)
Spoilers: Minor from all seasons
Summary: When Mozzie, a brilliant scientist and law-abiding citizen, got caught in the middle of a dangerous conspiracy, he asked Neal for help. For a month, they successfully evaded their hunters… until it all went south. Suddenly Neal’s life is in peril and Mozzie is desperately searching for allies. Who is the mysterious Suit and what is Peter Burke’s role in the events? Will they expose the nefarious plot, and what will happen to the three of them before this all is over? AU.
Author's Note: This story is a direct sequel and contains numerous spoilers to my earlier work, Conspiracies , though it can be read without knowing the original story. If you haven’t read the original, proceed at your own discretion.
Acknowledgements: Honestly, I don’t think I would have been able to finish this, if not for two amazing people: treonb and nywcgirl. They were my first beta-readers, but more than that, they encouraged me to keep writing, brainstormed with me more times than I can remember, gave me new insight and just pretty much kept me going when I was ready to take an axe to my laptop and be done with it. Thank you so much, both of you!!! I also have to thank mam711 from fanfiction.net, who helped with the grammar and helped me fix a few odd places. Finally, there are the people from wcwu, who supported me with encouragement, ideas and WWs. Thank you all :)
The art has been done by the wonderful aragarna. You can give her some love here.
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PROLOGUE
The year was 1976, Detroit, when Isaac Jeffries found a baby on the doorstep of his orphanage. The baby was tucked in a basket, with a teddy bear tagged “Mozart” and no name or indication where he came from. Mr. Jeffries took the little boy to the orphanage, where the nurses checked him over before proclaiming him healthy. After a short discussion with the rest of the staff, boy-with-the-teddy-bear was given the name “Paul” and placed with the rest of the babies.
In the years that came, Paul became one of Mr. Jeffries’s most favorite and most difficult wards. Short, with thick glasses and too smart for his age, the boy stood out, never quite fitting in with the rest of the kids. Years passed and Mr. Jeffries watched as Paul slowly learned how to build invisible walls and skillfully manipulate people, protecting himself with his smarts and a never-ending supply of quotes. After going through several foster families, Paul started running away, disappearing into the streets of Detroit for days, then weeks. Each disappearance left Mr. Jeffries increasingly worried and sad, because he knew that unless something happened, he was going to lose Paul. Then a childless couple in their forties came to his orphanage, informing Mr. Jeffries that they were looking for an older child.
Mrs. Handerson was an expert on nuclear physics, Mr. Handerson a kindergarten teacher, and even though he promptly introduced them to Paul, Mr. Jeffries had been wary to let his hopes up. However, ten months after meeting him, the Handersons officially adopted Paul as their son. At the age of 13, boy-with-the-teddy-bear gained a family.
Twenty two years later, “Paul Handerson” was a brilliant scientist; an expert on biophysics and biochemistry with a decent background in medicinal biology and neurology; an occasional university teacher, solemn and somewhat reclusive, only close to a special handful of people. He was addicted to his tea and mindful of his gluten and lactose-free diet, he had a crush on a receptionist of the hospital they worked with but couldn’t bring himself to ask her out, and he knew that his research - his research - was almost ready for the second stage of human trials. Paul was eagerly awaiting recognition, finally being accepted and appreciated by the world - but it was more than that. The world had granted him a new life and a wonderful, loving family after Paul had given up on them, and he wanted to make them proud and do something good in return. Paul was a man who enjoyed his job, believed in the future and followed the law.
Then, on one completely ordinary October morning, something happened that changed everything.…
* * *
Five Weeks Ago
That morning, Paul had entered his office in an exceedingly good mood, smiling and humming a half forgotten tune. “Hello, Anthony, mon frère!” he exclaimed cheerfully. “Guess what we’ll be doing today?”
Anthony the plush penguin remained silent. Paul didn’t mind.
Although Paul Handerson’s desk had seemingly been organized in the same way for over two years (down to the plush penguin on the left side, the teacup close to the right side and notes, files and papers neatly placed in various drawers), it was a testament to the strange workings of Paul’s brain that nobody but him could ever find anything there without a long and messy search. Paul claimed astonishment and confusion whenever one of his frustrated colleagues called him on his ways, but secretly took pride and glee in their difficulties. His research was important, and nobody was able to go through his stuff without him noticing.
Following his morning routine, Paul turned on him computer and then made his tea while the computer was coming to life.
Opening his mailbox, Paul started sorting through his messages. The initial stage of human trials looked cautiously promising, the neurologist from the cooperating team informed him, and so far none of the volunteers were showing any severe adverse effects to the drugs. Happy at the news, Paul then deleted several spams, including five Viagra offers and a cheerful announcement that he had won $10,000,000 and could he please send his personal details and account number - yeah, right! He typed a quick reply to the letter from his cousin, who told him that his nephew had made it to the basketball team, and was about to close his mailbox when another email arrived from … Laura Norris? Paul frowned. The email address belonged to the university and the name was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t recall from where.
No subject. Wait, wasn’t there a Laura at the financial department? If his budget was about to be cut.… Suddenly nervous, Paul silently braced himself for the bad news before clicking on the email.
Dear Mr. Hammond,
Thank you for your cooperation. The previous batch is proving to be very satisfactory. On top of our original agreement, we will need an additional 500 grams of the compound. Just as before, we will provide you with the necessary resources.
L. Norris
Hmm. Definitely not the financial department, then.
Paul blinked. He had worked with Dr. Hammond before on modifying some naturally occurring molecules - in fact, Hammond was the chemist who had synthesized “Carbamate 504”, the key compound of Paul’s research - but why had he received the email? Probably just an address mishap. He was about to delete the message when the screen froze.
“Oh, not again!”
Frustrated, Paul started clicking on the mouse button. Then suddenly, the whole screen went black. After battling with the computer for a couple of minutes, Paul finally pressed the reset button and watched as the computer reloaded, acting completely normal.
Just to be safe, Paul had the antivirus check the whole system. Everything worked perfectly, except for the last email message, which had disappeared from his computer. Since it wasn’t for him anyway, Paul just shrugged his shoulders. He had work to do here, after all.
* * *
It was three days later as he was returning from his lunch break that Paul dropped by to see Dr. Hammond about some analytical data.
“If you’ll wait a moment, he should be back in about ten minutes,” said one of Hammond’s assistants.
“As they say, patience is a virtue,” replied Paul cheerfully and took the offered chair. The assistant gave him a weird look before shaking his head and leaving. The laboratory remained empty except for Paul and a young woman in a lab coat who was busy with a distillation at the other side of the room. Sitting on the chair and waiting, Paul kept casting looks around the lab just to keep himself occupied. Suddenly, his eyes stilled on an innocent looking jar with light yellowish powder.
He stood up and went to check the jar’s label, confident that his eyes had just played a trick on him. But as he picked up the jar, he realized that his first impression had been right - it was Carbamate 504, the central compound of his research, prepared by Dr. Hammond himself. Except Paul had never requested such a big amount before.
As Paul stared at the familiar structure drawn on the label, his brain was busy processing the possibilities. Why didn’t he know about this? The battles for grants and funding were sometimes vicious; was someone trying to steal his research? “I’m sure there is a perfectly good explanation,” he murmured softly … but he was already running over various increasingly bizarre scenarios.
He looked around and realized that the young chemist he had seen before had left to tend to the HPLC machine in the next room. The laboratory was empty except for him.
It was a coincidence or miscommunication. He was being paranoid. There was nothing wrong with- “Screw it,” muttered Paul. One eye nervously watching the door, he went to check the rest of the lab.
Apart from several smaller flasks, there was a huge apparatus in Dr. Hammond’s fume hood. There was a number drawn on it, but without any signature initials unlike the other flasks. Filled with a mixture of suspicion, guilt and glee, Paul quickly glanced around before opening Dr. Hammond’s lab diary.
The number wasn’t there - at least, not in the official notes. However, there were several freely inserted pages, describing the synthesis of Carbamate 504, but in much bigger quantities than he had ever requested.
Working fast, Paul got a brief look at all of the pages. Then he closed the lab book and went back to his chair, barely in time before the girl returned from the neighboring room to continue her distillation. A minute later, Dr. Hammond finally showed up, and Paul talked to him about the analyses that they needed for his research project. However, most of his thoughts were already elsewhere.
With those pages imprinted in his brain, Paul was going to get some answers.
* * *
Dr. Hammond had misunderstood or plainly ignored Paul’s question about Carbamate 504. After recalling his notes in the privacy of his own home and asking some inconspicuous questions, Paul was able to account for all of the man’s large-scale experiments - except for the synthesis of Carbamate 504. Which led him to his only other lead.
Laura Norris was a 27-year-old Ph.D. quantum physics student, whose official project had completely no ties to Dr. Hammond’s laboratory. Which meant that her email to him made no sense. Which meant that something suspicious was going on.
Why was Hammond preparing so much of the essential drug of Paul’s research?
There should be a logical explanation. Since there wasn’t, that meant that one of Paul’s theories had to be true. He was going to find out which one it was.
* * *
In fact, Laura Norris was much more than just a Ph.D. student. She was a member of a secret organization who had been stealing Paul’s research for months. In a rare unguarded moment, Paul sneaked into her office and hacked into her computer. He stumbled upon a list of code names, dosages and descriptions of the effects of Carbamate 504 on the subjects in question. What he read made his blood run cold.
Paul’s aim were treatments that would take months, eventually curing various types of brain damage, combining the usage of Carbamate 504 with tiny and precise electronic impulses. The document, however, suggested using his methodology in a much more brutal way for indoctrination, interrogation - and torture. Despite the lack of names, it was obvious that the test subjects mentioned were real people.
Paul barely had the time to close the document when Laura Norris returned. Somehow, he lied his way out of the following conversation. Shell-shocked, he then returned to his own laboratory, but he was too distracted to focus on anything. He left work three hours before his usual time and headed to his favorite spot by the river to think.
What was he going to do?
The blue waters of the river held no answers.
Eventually, Paul headed home, knowing he still had a decision to make.…
* * *
It was close to eight p.m. when Paul arrived to the street where he lived. For a moment, he thought he saw a flash of light in his apartment, but then he told himself that it was an imagining of his troubled mind. Entering the building, he decided to take the stairs to the third floor instead of calling the elevator. As he reached his apartment, he pulled out his keys, unlocked the door and stepped inside. And froze.
Someone was inside.
There were people with flashlights, he realized, maybe three or four of them, dressed in black suits. They had pulled down the window curtains to hide the light as they were going through his things. Paul’s heart skipped a beat when he realized that they were armed.
As if in slow motion, one of the intruders raised her head and stared him right in the eye. In the surreal moment, Laura Norris raised her gun and aimed it at Paul’s chest. “Professor Handerson-”
“They’ll hear if you shoot me,” he blurted out.
“He’s right. You screwed up - again,” said one of the other people. “Handerson-”
Laura started reaching for a knife.
Paul launched himself at the door. He ran down the stairs and into the streets. With shaking hands, he unlocked the door of his Nissan Cube and started the engine. Driving away, he saw Laura in the rear-view mirror, followed by two other people as they ran into the street and jumped inside a black car.
Speeding forward, Paul pressed his cell phone into the hands-free device and dialed 911.
“911. State your emergency.”
“Yes, help! There’s definitely an emergency! I - what’s that?” Paul cast a quick glance at the telephone. The call had been cut off. Dialing the number again, it repeatedly came as busy. His breathing shortened.
They were after him. They were trying to get him.
If he had learned one thing from watching America’s Most Wanted, it was that car chases never ended well.
He needed a plan.
Mozzie, his brain whispered. Neal. His friend had a hideout nearby. He had given him the location of his safe house in case of emergency. This definitely qualified as such.
(And he was most certainly driving over the limit, so where were the police when you needed them?!)
A car was fast, but also easier to follow than a man on foot - and his beautiful Nissan was sadly very noticeable. Thinking quickly, Mozzie calculated how far it was to the nearest subway station. If he could slip his pursuers just for a moment.…
The outside parking spot at the nearby shopping center was likely to be full of people and therefore, potential witnesses.
He kept driving as his mind began to come up with a plan.…
* * *
Sometimes, it paid off to be friends with the best thief on the planet. Of course, being underestimated by your enemies had value on its own.
Mozzie had made it to Neal’s safe house. He found everything as Neal had described it - a small, cheap apartment with a couple rooms and barely any furnishing. He locked the door, knowing it would provide him with little protection if he had been followed, and then rushed to the bedroom where Neal had supposedly hid his - and Mozzie’s - “escape kit”. His hands were shaking when he found a bag full of money, some clothes in his size, two burner phones and a fake ID with his own face - no guns, though. He wished he had something to defend himself with.
For a moment, Paul kept staring at his photo attached to a foreign name, before he choked on bile and turned on his heels. He barely made it to the bathroom in time to throw up.
It wasn’t real. It was a nightmare. It couldn’t be.… It wasn’t real.
He wiped his mouth and flushed the toilet. “You’re going to get yourself killed,” said Mozzie to himself and rose up on his unsteady feet. He felt cold sweat on his back as he realized that he had left the door unwatched. Yet the fact that nobody had come bursting through the door gave him some hope.
He went to get one of the burner phones in the bedroom (he had ditched the battery to his own cell long before coming to the apartment) and on impulse collected a heavy stone vase from the kitchen. If someone came after him, he wouldn’t be completely defenseless.
It was then that he realized that his trousers were torn and his leg was slightly bleeding. Apparently Laura’s thrown knife hadn’t completely missed after all. Thankfully, Neal had a first aid box in the bathroom for a case like this. After removing the trousers, Mozzie washed the blood away before applying a healthy portion of disinfectant and finally covering the scratch with a bandage. He was going to need a few stitches to fix this, thought Moz.
He put his trousers back on, and then started shivering as reality hit him again.
They were abusing his research. They had come to his apartment. They had pulled a gun on him.
He needed to do something. He needed help. (He couldn’t trust anyone.) He needed.…
Neal.
Mozzie dialed his friend’s number, knowing nothing of the events to come that he had just set in motion.
* * *
Two weeks later, sitting in a car at a gas station in the middle of nowhere, Neal Caffrey stared at the sleeping shape of his best friend. He knew he would have to wake him up, yet hated himself for it. Over the last couple of weeks, Neal had seen Mozzie wake up with nightmares far too many times, and he knew how precious sleep was. Feeling a wave of love and protectiveness, he wanted to hug Moz while angrily thinking of the people who had driven them to this, to running from place to place and constantly looking over their shoulders. Neal himself was a retired con man and an art thief, but Moz was just a scientist who hadn’t done anything wrong. He didn’t deserve this.
The problem was that they didn’t have a choice.
When Mozzie had contacted him that day in the middle of the night, almost hysterical and scared out of his wits, Neal knew he couldn’t refuse his distress call. He dropped everything, crossed the state line and went to meet Mozzie at his safe house, determined to resolve the immediate crisis, whatever it was. When Mozzie told him his story and explained that he needed Neal to help him disappear, it was really a simple decision.
While they were on the run, Neal had used his contacts to find out more about Mozzie’s pursuers. It was Sally “the Vulture” who had told him about the rumors that the CIA sometimes used Mozzie’s university as a research center. Any doubts Neal might have had about Sally’s information disappeared over the next few days when he realized just how skilled their enemies were. They were professionals with resources, and if not for Neal’s criminal skills, they would have been captured several times already.
Shaking his head, Neal abandoned his thoughts and focused on the present. Checking his cap and his pair of glasses in the mirror, he gently shook Mozzie’s shoulder to wake him up. “Hey, Moz….”
His friend blinked before opening his eyes. “Neal? Where are we?”
“I’m going to get us some food and pay for gas,” Neal explained. “There’s still a bit left, so if I’m not back in ten minutes-”
“I’m not leaving you,” interrupted Mozzie.
“- if I’m not back in ten minutes, I want you to drive away to the nearest interstate exit, then find a safe place and wait a few hours until I contact you. Okay?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he started climbing out of the car, and was surprised when Mozzie grabbed his jacket. “What?”
“Neal - be careful.”
Neal smiled. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”
Despite his words, he knew that Mozzie was right - he couldn’t allow himself to be recognized. On top of everything else, the CIA had somehow framed him for a theft of a hundred-year-old painting - a Mondrian, to be exact - and thus managed to set the FBI on their tracks. Neal briefly wondered whether Peter was on the case. He hoped not. Although he rather liked his “friendly adversary”, Peter had already caught him once, and while that had been partially due to Neal’s own cockiness, the fact was his arrest had cost Neal several years in prison. Being arrested now could lead to Mozzie’s capture, and Neal was simply not willing to take that risk.
For the first time in a while, Neal allowed himself to feel some irritation on his own behalf. After prison, he had tried to go straight, trading the rush of a con for being able to walk through the streets without tensing at every uniform or cop car in the vicinity. And he still missed the thrill, but the truth was that before the CIA interfered, he had been - content - with his new life as the best security consultant in the country.
If this thing ever ended, would he have to rebuild everything from scratch?
Picking two bottles of soda and some snacks, Neal paid for the gas and then went to pump a full tank. They had a lot more distance to cover tonight, after all.
* * *
‘Neal, I don’t want to run and hide. I want to expose them.’
Sometimes, Neal wanted to strangle Mozzie for his bullheaded idealism. Yet as he packed his own duffle bag, which carried just clothes, money and no true personal effects, he thought he understood where Moz was coming from. Neal might have been used to this sort of life, but it would be foolish to expect the same from Mozzie. His friend had deep ties to his family, his job and friends. Combine that with the fact that the CIA was using the procedure he himself had developed, and it was clear why Moz wouldn’t just let things be.
That didn’t mean that he didn’t wish Mozzie had been content to stick to the original plan.
Then again, if they were really going to do this, then they better do it right, and the first thing they needed was more information. It was just as well that Neal knew a hacker who could help them….
Despite his misgivings, Neal smiled. They were heading back to New York.
* * *
It was late in the afternoon when Special Agent Peter Burke decided to take a break and went downstairs to make a cup of coffee.
As he poured the hot brown liquid into his coffee mug, Peter allowed himself to relax for a moment. He had spent the last two hours working on an embezzlement case, reading through financial records and trying to tie the money transfers to a specific person. However, after going over the numbers for the third time without finding a pattern, he finally admitted to himself that he was feeling distracted - and he knew exactly what the reason was.
He was waiting for a warrant that - if granted - could lead him straight to Neal Caffrey and end the chase that had been renewed roughly three weeks ago.
Taking a sip of his coffee, Peter grimaced at the bad taste. Then he had to smile despite himself.
Neal should have known better than to try to send a message to his landlady. Thanks to his mistake, Peter was now just an inch from tracking him down, and that knowledge alone was enough to get his heart racing. Truth to be told, the competitive side of Peter was delighted at going after Caffrey again. Neal was incredibly smart but nonviolent, which made catching him an intriguing challenge rather than just a usual part of the job. The fact that Neal treated the chase as a game between them only added to the enjoyment of it all.
Or at least he used to.
In a corner of his mind, Peter had to admit to being just a bit disappointed that he had yet to receive some sort of obscure message or a calling card from Neal. Maybe it was because of his new associate, the so-called “Mozzie Haversham”. It was hard to believe that he had never heard of the guy before until an outside source pointed him out to them. Peter was the ultimate Caffrey expert; he should have known if Neal had some sort of secret partner. Maybe he had met him through someone in prison? Either way, there had to be a reason why Neal was acting different from before, and Peter was more than willing to blame it on the mysterious “Haversham”.
If the warrant came through, he might be able to ask Neal about that within the next few days, before the con man went straight back behind bars. That thought dampened some of Peter’s glee. Catching Neal might have felt like the sweetest victory, but seeing him sentenced had brought an unexpected sadness, no matter how much Caffrey had deserved to pay for his crimes.
As he did now.
They had all possible evidence short of actually catching Neal with the painting. Caffrey had seemingly disappeared from the face of the Earth just days before the Mondrian was stolen. His DNA had been found at the crime scene. They had footage of a man that matched Neal’s description sneaking out of the museum, even though his face wasn’t visible to the camera. Finally, their CI had overheard Caffrey talking about the heist with his accomplice just days before it happened. With Neal’s priors, Peter could very well imagine how all that would go in court.
He could worry about Caffrey later. Right now, he had an embezzlement case to work on, decided Peter. Then he went back to his office.
* * *
It was the beginning of December, an ordinary afternoon of an ordinary day, and in their temporary apartment in New York, Neal Caffrey was cooking a dinner for himself and Mozzie. He was in a rather good mood - he had just created a back-up plan for himself and Moz in case his and Sally’s research blew up in their face. Mozzie and Sally… Neal smiled. He had never expected his friend to fall in love with the hacker, but he had to say that something about the two of them made sense. He just hoped that Moz was safe out there. He knew that Moz had spent some time living on the streets as a teen, and after four weeks of being in hiding, the former scientist had become surprisingly resourceful, but Mozzie’s lack of experience was still limiting him severely, especially when their opponents were CIA agents trained to track and kill spies. All in all, Neal knew he would never forgive himself if his friend got hurt because of his mistake.
Neal was almost done with the dinner when he heard the sound of the door opening. “Hey, Moz. How did it go tonight?”
He turned around, the cooking spoon halfway to his mouth. Then he froze.
“I guess this makes me 2-0.”
“Peter-”
“Hello again, Neal. You’re under arrest.”
* * *
Part I - On LJ | On DW
A/N: The detailed story from Mozzie’s initial call to Neal up to this point is covered in my original story, Conspiracies.
Author: sheenianni
Artist: aragarna
Word Count: ~ 49,700 in total
Characters/Pairings: Neal Caffrey, Mozzie, Peter Burke; minor cast Diana Berrigan, Elizabeth Burke, Sally, June Ellington, Reese Hughes, Satchmo, Bancroft, OCs, others; Peter/Elizabeth (off-screen), Mozzie/Sally (off-screen)
Rating: R
Content Notice: Graphic torture and violence! Trauma, mild swearing, casual homophobia (minor occurrence)
Spoilers: Minor from all seasons
Summary: When Mozzie, a brilliant scientist and law-abiding citizen, got caught in the middle of a dangerous conspiracy, he asked Neal for help. For a month, they successfully evaded their hunters… until it all went south. Suddenly Neal’s life is in peril and Mozzie is desperately searching for allies. Who is the mysterious Suit and what is Peter Burke’s role in the events? Will they expose the nefarious plot, and what will happen to the three of them before this all is over? AU.
Author's Note: This story is a direct sequel and contains numerous spoilers to my earlier work, Conspiracies , though it can be read without knowing the original story. If you haven’t read the original, proceed at your own discretion.
Acknowledgements: Honestly, I don’t think I would have been able to finish this, if not for two amazing people: treonb and nywcgirl. They were my first beta-readers, but more than that, they encouraged me to keep writing, brainstormed with me more times than I can remember, gave me new insight and just pretty much kept me going when I was ready to take an axe to my laptop and be done with it. Thank you so much, both of you!!! I also have to thank mam711 from fanfiction.net, who helped with the grammar and helped me fix a few odd places. Finally, there are the people from wcwu, who supported me with encouragement, ideas and WWs. Thank you all :)
The art has been done by the wonderful aragarna. You can give her some love here.
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PROLOGUE
The year was 1976, Detroit, when Isaac Jeffries found a baby on the doorstep of his orphanage. The baby was tucked in a basket, with a teddy bear tagged “Mozart” and no name or indication where he came from. Mr. Jeffries took the little boy to the orphanage, where the nurses checked him over before proclaiming him healthy. After a short discussion with the rest of the staff, boy-with-the-teddy-bear was given the name “Paul” and placed with the rest of the babies.
In the years that came, Paul became one of Mr. Jeffries’s most favorite and most difficult wards. Short, with thick glasses and too smart for his age, the boy stood out, never quite fitting in with the rest of the kids. Years passed and Mr. Jeffries watched as Paul slowly learned how to build invisible walls and skillfully manipulate people, protecting himself with his smarts and a never-ending supply of quotes. After going through several foster families, Paul started running away, disappearing into the streets of Detroit for days, then weeks. Each disappearance left Mr. Jeffries increasingly worried and sad, because he knew that unless something happened, he was going to lose Paul. Then a childless couple in their forties came to his orphanage, informing Mr. Jeffries that they were looking for an older child.
Mrs. Handerson was an expert on nuclear physics, Mr. Handerson a kindergarten teacher, and even though he promptly introduced them to Paul, Mr. Jeffries had been wary to let his hopes up. However, ten months after meeting him, the Handersons officially adopted Paul as their son. At the age of 13, boy-with-the-teddy-bear gained a family.
Twenty two years later, “Paul Handerson” was a brilliant scientist; an expert on biophysics and biochemistry with a decent background in medicinal biology and neurology; an occasional university teacher, solemn and somewhat reclusive, only close to a special handful of people. He was addicted to his tea and mindful of his gluten and lactose-free diet, he had a crush on a receptionist of the hospital they worked with but couldn’t bring himself to ask her out, and he knew that his research - his research - was almost ready for the second stage of human trials. Paul was eagerly awaiting recognition, finally being accepted and appreciated by the world - but it was more than that. The world had granted him a new life and a wonderful, loving family after Paul had given up on them, and he wanted to make them proud and do something good in return. Paul was a man who enjoyed his job, believed in the future and followed the law.
Then, on one completely ordinary October morning, something happened that changed everything.…
* * *
Five Weeks Ago
That morning, Paul had entered his office in an exceedingly good mood, smiling and humming a half forgotten tune. “Hello, Anthony, mon frère!” he exclaimed cheerfully. “Guess what we’ll be doing today?”
Anthony the plush penguin remained silent. Paul didn’t mind.
Although Paul Handerson’s desk had seemingly been organized in the same way for over two years (down to the plush penguin on the left side, the teacup close to the right side and notes, files and papers neatly placed in various drawers), it was a testament to the strange workings of Paul’s brain that nobody but him could ever find anything there without a long and messy search. Paul claimed astonishment and confusion whenever one of his frustrated colleagues called him on his ways, but secretly took pride and glee in their difficulties. His research was important, and nobody was able to go through his stuff without him noticing.
Following his morning routine, Paul turned on him computer and then made his tea while the computer was coming to life.
Opening his mailbox, Paul started sorting through his messages. The initial stage of human trials looked cautiously promising, the neurologist from the cooperating team informed him, and so far none of the volunteers were showing any severe adverse effects to the drugs. Happy at the news, Paul then deleted several spams, including five Viagra offers and a cheerful announcement that he had won $10,000,000 and could he please send his personal details and account number - yeah, right! He typed a quick reply to the letter from his cousin, who told him that his nephew had made it to the basketball team, and was about to close his mailbox when another email arrived from … Laura Norris? Paul frowned. The email address belonged to the university and the name was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t recall from where.
No subject. Wait, wasn’t there a Laura at the financial department? If his budget was about to be cut.… Suddenly nervous, Paul silently braced himself for the bad news before clicking on the email.
Dear Mr. Hammond,
Thank you for your cooperation. The previous batch is proving to be very satisfactory. On top of our original agreement, we will need an additional 500 grams of the compound. Just as before, we will provide you with the necessary resources.
L. Norris
Hmm. Definitely not the financial department, then.
Paul blinked. He had worked with Dr. Hammond before on modifying some naturally occurring molecules - in fact, Hammond was the chemist who had synthesized “Carbamate 504”, the key compound of Paul’s research - but why had he received the email? Probably just an address mishap. He was about to delete the message when the screen froze.
“Oh, not again!”
Frustrated, Paul started clicking on the mouse button. Then suddenly, the whole screen went black. After battling with the computer for a couple of minutes, Paul finally pressed the reset button and watched as the computer reloaded, acting completely normal.
Just to be safe, Paul had the antivirus check the whole system. Everything worked perfectly, except for the last email message, which had disappeared from his computer. Since it wasn’t for him anyway, Paul just shrugged his shoulders. He had work to do here, after all.
* * *
It was three days later as he was returning from his lunch break that Paul dropped by to see Dr. Hammond about some analytical data.
“If you’ll wait a moment, he should be back in about ten minutes,” said one of Hammond’s assistants.
“As they say, patience is a virtue,” replied Paul cheerfully and took the offered chair. The assistant gave him a weird look before shaking his head and leaving. The laboratory remained empty except for Paul and a young woman in a lab coat who was busy with a distillation at the other side of the room. Sitting on the chair and waiting, Paul kept casting looks around the lab just to keep himself occupied. Suddenly, his eyes stilled on an innocent looking jar with light yellowish powder.
He stood up and went to check the jar’s label, confident that his eyes had just played a trick on him. But as he picked up the jar, he realized that his first impression had been right - it was Carbamate 504, the central compound of his research, prepared by Dr. Hammond himself. Except Paul had never requested such a big amount before.
As Paul stared at the familiar structure drawn on the label, his brain was busy processing the possibilities. Why didn’t he know about this? The battles for grants and funding were sometimes vicious; was someone trying to steal his research? “I’m sure there is a perfectly good explanation,” he murmured softly … but he was already running over various increasingly bizarre scenarios.
He looked around and realized that the young chemist he had seen before had left to tend to the HPLC machine in the next room. The laboratory was empty except for him.
It was a coincidence or miscommunication. He was being paranoid. There was nothing wrong with- “Screw it,” muttered Paul. One eye nervously watching the door, he went to check the rest of the lab.
Apart from several smaller flasks, there was a huge apparatus in Dr. Hammond’s fume hood. There was a number drawn on it, but without any signature initials unlike the other flasks. Filled with a mixture of suspicion, guilt and glee, Paul quickly glanced around before opening Dr. Hammond’s lab diary.
The number wasn’t there - at least, not in the official notes. However, there were several freely inserted pages, describing the synthesis of Carbamate 504, but in much bigger quantities than he had ever requested.
Working fast, Paul got a brief look at all of the pages. Then he closed the lab book and went back to his chair, barely in time before the girl returned from the neighboring room to continue her distillation. A minute later, Dr. Hammond finally showed up, and Paul talked to him about the analyses that they needed for his research project. However, most of his thoughts were already elsewhere.
With those pages imprinted in his brain, Paul was going to get some answers.
* * *
Dr. Hammond had misunderstood or plainly ignored Paul’s question about Carbamate 504. After recalling his notes in the privacy of his own home and asking some inconspicuous questions, Paul was able to account for all of the man’s large-scale experiments - except for the synthesis of Carbamate 504. Which led him to his only other lead.
Laura Norris was a 27-year-old Ph.D. quantum physics student, whose official project had completely no ties to Dr. Hammond’s laboratory. Which meant that her email to him made no sense. Which meant that something suspicious was going on.
Why was Hammond preparing so much of the essential drug of Paul’s research?
There should be a logical explanation. Since there wasn’t, that meant that one of Paul’s theories had to be true. He was going to find out which one it was.
* * *
In fact, Laura Norris was much more than just a Ph.D. student. She was a member of a secret organization who had been stealing Paul’s research for months. In a rare unguarded moment, Paul sneaked into her office and hacked into her computer. He stumbled upon a list of code names, dosages and descriptions of the effects of Carbamate 504 on the subjects in question. What he read made his blood run cold.
Paul’s aim were treatments that would take months, eventually curing various types of brain damage, combining the usage of Carbamate 504 with tiny and precise electronic impulses. The document, however, suggested using his methodology in a much more brutal way for indoctrination, interrogation - and torture. Despite the lack of names, it was obvious that the test subjects mentioned were real people.
Paul barely had the time to close the document when Laura Norris returned. Somehow, he lied his way out of the following conversation. Shell-shocked, he then returned to his own laboratory, but he was too distracted to focus on anything. He left work three hours before his usual time and headed to his favorite spot by the river to think.
What was he going to do?
The blue waters of the river held no answers.
Eventually, Paul headed home, knowing he still had a decision to make.…
* * *
It was close to eight p.m. when Paul arrived to the street where he lived. For a moment, he thought he saw a flash of light in his apartment, but then he told himself that it was an imagining of his troubled mind. Entering the building, he decided to take the stairs to the third floor instead of calling the elevator. As he reached his apartment, he pulled out his keys, unlocked the door and stepped inside. And froze.
Someone was inside.
There were people with flashlights, he realized, maybe three or four of them, dressed in black suits. They had pulled down the window curtains to hide the light as they were going through his things. Paul’s heart skipped a beat when he realized that they were armed.
As if in slow motion, one of the intruders raised her head and stared him right in the eye. In the surreal moment, Laura Norris raised her gun and aimed it at Paul’s chest. “Professor Handerson-”
“They’ll hear if you shoot me,” he blurted out.
“He’s right. You screwed up - again,” said one of the other people. “Handerson-”
Laura started reaching for a knife.
Paul launched himself at the door. He ran down the stairs and into the streets. With shaking hands, he unlocked the door of his Nissan Cube and started the engine. Driving away, he saw Laura in the rear-view mirror, followed by two other people as they ran into the street and jumped inside a black car.
Speeding forward, Paul pressed his cell phone into the hands-free device and dialed 911.
“911. State your emergency.”
“Yes, help! There’s definitely an emergency! I - what’s that?” Paul cast a quick glance at the telephone. The call had been cut off. Dialing the number again, it repeatedly came as busy. His breathing shortened.
They were after him. They were trying to get him.
If he had learned one thing from watching America’s Most Wanted, it was that car chases never ended well.
He needed a plan.
Mozzie, his brain whispered. Neal. His friend had a hideout nearby. He had given him the location of his safe house in case of emergency. This definitely qualified as such.
(And he was most certainly driving over the limit, so where were the police when you needed them?!)
A car was fast, but also easier to follow than a man on foot - and his beautiful Nissan was sadly very noticeable. Thinking quickly, Mozzie calculated how far it was to the nearest subway station. If he could slip his pursuers just for a moment.…
The outside parking spot at the nearby shopping center was likely to be full of people and therefore, potential witnesses.
He kept driving as his mind began to come up with a plan.…
* * *
Sometimes, it paid off to be friends with the best thief on the planet. Of course, being underestimated by your enemies had value on its own.
Mozzie had made it to Neal’s safe house. He found everything as Neal had described it - a small, cheap apartment with a couple rooms and barely any furnishing. He locked the door, knowing it would provide him with little protection if he had been followed, and then rushed to the bedroom where Neal had supposedly hid his - and Mozzie’s - “escape kit”. His hands were shaking when he found a bag full of money, some clothes in his size, two burner phones and a fake ID with his own face - no guns, though. He wished he had something to defend himself with.
For a moment, Paul kept staring at his photo attached to a foreign name, before he choked on bile and turned on his heels. He barely made it to the bathroom in time to throw up.
It wasn’t real. It was a nightmare. It couldn’t be.… It wasn’t real.
He wiped his mouth and flushed the toilet. “You’re going to get yourself killed,” said Mozzie to himself and rose up on his unsteady feet. He felt cold sweat on his back as he realized that he had left the door unwatched. Yet the fact that nobody had come bursting through the door gave him some hope.
He went to get one of the burner phones in the bedroom (he had ditched the battery to his own cell long before coming to the apartment) and on impulse collected a heavy stone vase from the kitchen. If someone came after him, he wouldn’t be completely defenseless.
It was then that he realized that his trousers were torn and his leg was slightly bleeding. Apparently Laura’s thrown knife hadn’t completely missed after all. Thankfully, Neal had a first aid box in the bathroom for a case like this. After removing the trousers, Mozzie washed the blood away before applying a healthy portion of disinfectant and finally covering the scratch with a bandage. He was going to need a few stitches to fix this, thought Moz.
He put his trousers back on, and then started shivering as reality hit him again.
They were abusing his research. They had come to his apartment. They had pulled a gun on him.
He needed to do something. He needed help. (He couldn’t trust anyone.) He needed.…
Neal.
Mozzie dialed his friend’s number, knowing nothing of the events to come that he had just set in motion.
* * *
Two weeks later, sitting in a car at a gas station in the middle of nowhere, Neal Caffrey stared at the sleeping shape of his best friend. He knew he would have to wake him up, yet hated himself for it. Over the last couple of weeks, Neal had seen Mozzie wake up with nightmares far too many times, and he knew how precious sleep was. Feeling a wave of love and protectiveness, he wanted to hug Moz while angrily thinking of the people who had driven them to this, to running from place to place and constantly looking over their shoulders. Neal himself was a retired con man and an art thief, but Moz was just a scientist who hadn’t done anything wrong. He didn’t deserve this.
The problem was that they didn’t have a choice.
When Mozzie had contacted him that day in the middle of the night, almost hysterical and scared out of his wits, Neal knew he couldn’t refuse his distress call. He dropped everything, crossed the state line and went to meet Mozzie at his safe house, determined to resolve the immediate crisis, whatever it was. When Mozzie told him his story and explained that he needed Neal to help him disappear, it was really a simple decision.
While they were on the run, Neal had used his contacts to find out more about Mozzie’s pursuers. It was Sally “the Vulture” who had told him about the rumors that the CIA sometimes used Mozzie’s university as a research center. Any doubts Neal might have had about Sally’s information disappeared over the next few days when he realized just how skilled their enemies were. They were professionals with resources, and if not for Neal’s criminal skills, they would have been captured several times already.
Shaking his head, Neal abandoned his thoughts and focused on the present. Checking his cap and his pair of glasses in the mirror, he gently shook Mozzie’s shoulder to wake him up. “Hey, Moz….”
His friend blinked before opening his eyes. “Neal? Where are we?”
“I’m going to get us some food and pay for gas,” Neal explained. “There’s still a bit left, so if I’m not back in ten minutes-”
“I’m not leaving you,” interrupted Mozzie.
“- if I’m not back in ten minutes, I want you to drive away to the nearest interstate exit, then find a safe place and wait a few hours until I contact you. Okay?” He didn’t wait for an answer as he started climbing out of the car, and was surprised when Mozzie grabbed his jacket. “What?”
“Neal - be careful.”
Neal smiled. “Don’t worry, I know what I’m doing.”
Despite his words, he knew that Mozzie was right - he couldn’t allow himself to be recognized. On top of everything else, the CIA had somehow framed him for a theft of a hundred-year-old painting - a Mondrian, to be exact - and thus managed to set the FBI on their tracks. Neal briefly wondered whether Peter was on the case. He hoped not. Although he rather liked his “friendly adversary”, Peter had already caught him once, and while that had been partially due to Neal’s own cockiness, the fact was his arrest had cost Neal several years in prison. Being arrested now could lead to Mozzie’s capture, and Neal was simply not willing to take that risk.
For the first time in a while, Neal allowed himself to feel some irritation on his own behalf. After prison, he had tried to go straight, trading the rush of a con for being able to walk through the streets without tensing at every uniform or cop car in the vicinity. And he still missed the thrill, but the truth was that before the CIA interfered, he had been - content - with his new life as the best security consultant in the country.
If this thing ever ended, would he have to rebuild everything from scratch?
Picking two bottles of soda and some snacks, Neal paid for the gas and then went to pump a full tank. They had a lot more distance to cover tonight, after all.
* * *
‘Neal, I don’t want to run and hide. I want to expose them.’
Sometimes, Neal wanted to strangle Mozzie for his bullheaded idealism. Yet as he packed his own duffle bag, which carried just clothes, money and no true personal effects, he thought he understood where Moz was coming from. Neal might have been used to this sort of life, but it would be foolish to expect the same from Mozzie. His friend had deep ties to his family, his job and friends. Combine that with the fact that the CIA was using the procedure he himself had developed, and it was clear why Moz wouldn’t just let things be.
That didn’t mean that he didn’t wish Mozzie had been content to stick to the original plan.
Then again, if they were really going to do this, then they better do it right, and the first thing they needed was more information. It was just as well that Neal knew a hacker who could help them….
Despite his misgivings, Neal smiled. They were heading back to New York.
* * *
It was late in the afternoon when Special Agent Peter Burke decided to take a break and went downstairs to make a cup of coffee.
As he poured the hot brown liquid into his coffee mug, Peter allowed himself to relax for a moment. He had spent the last two hours working on an embezzlement case, reading through financial records and trying to tie the money transfers to a specific person. However, after going over the numbers for the third time without finding a pattern, he finally admitted to himself that he was feeling distracted - and he knew exactly what the reason was.
He was waiting for a warrant that - if granted - could lead him straight to Neal Caffrey and end the chase that had been renewed roughly three weeks ago.
Taking a sip of his coffee, Peter grimaced at the bad taste. Then he had to smile despite himself.
Neal should have known better than to try to send a message to his landlady. Thanks to his mistake, Peter was now just an inch from tracking him down, and that knowledge alone was enough to get his heart racing. Truth to be told, the competitive side of Peter was delighted at going after Caffrey again. Neal was incredibly smart but nonviolent, which made catching him an intriguing challenge rather than just a usual part of the job. The fact that Neal treated the chase as a game between them only added to the enjoyment of it all.
Or at least he used to.
In a corner of his mind, Peter had to admit to being just a bit disappointed that he had yet to receive some sort of obscure message or a calling card from Neal. Maybe it was because of his new associate, the so-called “Mozzie Haversham”. It was hard to believe that he had never heard of the guy before until an outside source pointed him out to them. Peter was the ultimate Caffrey expert; he should have known if Neal had some sort of secret partner. Maybe he had met him through someone in prison? Either way, there had to be a reason why Neal was acting different from before, and Peter was more than willing to blame it on the mysterious “Haversham”.
If the warrant came through, he might be able to ask Neal about that within the next few days, before the con man went straight back behind bars. That thought dampened some of Peter’s glee. Catching Neal might have felt like the sweetest victory, but seeing him sentenced had brought an unexpected sadness, no matter how much Caffrey had deserved to pay for his crimes.
As he did now.
They had all possible evidence short of actually catching Neal with the painting. Caffrey had seemingly disappeared from the face of the Earth just days before the Mondrian was stolen. His DNA had been found at the crime scene. They had footage of a man that matched Neal’s description sneaking out of the museum, even though his face wasn’t visible to the camera. Finally, their CI had overheard Caffrey talking about the heist with his accomplice just days before it happened. With Neal’s priors, Peter could very well imagine how all that would go in court.
He could worry about Caffrey later. Right now, he had an embezzlement case to work on, decided Peter. Then he went back to his office.
* * *
It was the beginning of December, an ordinary afternoon of an ordinary day, and in their temporary apartment in New York, Neal Caffrey was cooking a dinner for himself and Mozzie. He was in a rather good mood - he had just created a back-up plan for himself and Moz in case his and Sally’s research blew up in their face. Mozzie and Sally… Neal smiled. He had never expected his friend to fall in love with the hacker, but he had to say that something about the two of them made sense. He just hoped that Moz was safe out there. He knew that Moz had spent some time living on the streets as a teen, and after four weeks of being in hiding, the former scientist had become surprisingly resourceful, but Mozzie’s lack of experience was still limiting him severely, especially when their opponents were CIA agents trained to track and kill spies. All in all, Neal knew he would never forgive himself if his friend got hurt because of his mistake.
Neal was almost done with the dinner when he heard the sound of the door opening. “Hey, Moz. How did it go tonight?”
He turned around, the cooking spoon halfway to his mouth. Then he froze.
“I guess this makes me 2-0.”
“Peter-”
“Hello again, Neal. You’re under arrest.”
* * *
Part I - On LJ | On DW
A/N: The detailed story from Mozzie’s initial call to Neal up to this point is covered in my original story, Conspiracies.