White Collar Fic: Conspiracies (Part II)
Title: Conspiracies - Part II
Author’s Name: sheenianni
Fandom: White Collar
Notes: See Part I - On LJ | On DW
___________________________________
PART II
One week later
“Hey boss…”
Peter looked up from the file and smiled at the person at the door. However, the look on her face told him that he wouldn’t like what she came to tell him. “Diana. What is it?”
“Do you remember that break-in at MoMA in San Francisco two days ago?” asked Diana grimly.
“Yeah, I remember,” said Peter. “What is going on?”
“There was some DNA material on the scene. Given the amount of people that pass through, they didn’t really expect much to come out of it, so the lab was really surprised when they found a match to our database…”
She handled Peter the file to look for himself.
Curiously, Peter opened the file and quickly scanned through the first two pages until he finally found the information on the third one. The San Francisco agents had found several hairs in the room with the stolen piece. It turned out that one of the hairs belonged to…
Peter’s stomach dropped. “This doesn’t have to mean anything,” he said crisply at last. “He works security checks now, right? What if -”
“I spoke to Rollings, the leader of the San Francisco team,” informed him Diana. “They talked to the people at the museum. They didn’t have any contract with him, Peter.”
DNA MATCH - Neal Caffrey, stared at him in bold black letters.
Peter flipped through the file as in hopes of finding something to dispel the quickly developing feeling of dread.
“He could have been just a visitor,” he suggested, but his voice lacked conviction.
“It gets worse,” continued Diana. “Rollings contacted the security company that Caffrey freelances for. Peter, they say they haven’t had any contact with him in a week. It seems like he just disappeared in the middle of one of his jobs.”
A Mondrian had been stolen; gone without a trace. Caffrey’s DNA had been found on the crime scene. Neal suddenly stopped coming to work a week ago, just four days before the robbery. With that additional bit of information, Peter had no choice but to face the fact that it looked extremely suspicious. He wouldn’t be sure until he saw it for himself, but - Peter swallowed - but right now, it seemed that Neal Caffrey had indeed returned back to his life of crime.
“Damn it, Neal.”
He shouldn’t be surprised, thought Peter numbly. After all, hadn’t he been thinking about this scenario just a few days ago? And yet, a part of him was so - dismayed. Disappointed was probably the right word. After all, it had been only a month since he saw Neal during one of El’s events, and he seemed content. He had thought - well, Peter wasn’t sure what he had thought.
How had he missed this?
Damn it!
“I need to speak with Hughes,” said Peter suddenly and stood up. If Caffrey was back to the life, he needed to - well, he couldn’t stay away.
He just hoped that his boss would understand.
* * *
Peter needn’t been worried about Hughes’s approval. In fact, it turned out that the leader of the San Francisco department actually requested his consult on the case. So now there he was, hundreds of miles away from home, talking to Edgar Rollings’ team and going over the evidence with them. So far, they had found nothing that would further prove Neal’s guilt or point to a different culprit; however, Rollings believed that sooner or later, they would find some sort of clue.
Peter wasn’t so sure, however.
The thief - whoever he was - hadn’t left behind a forgery. That deviated from Neal’s typical MO, but Peter knew that there had been occasions when Neal hadn’t replaced his scores with look-alikes. Usually he did that, but not always.
The proof came a few hours later when they were watching the feeds from the museum and the surrounding buildings.
They couldn’t get a good look at the face of the man on the street. However, the way he moved was rather familiar, and his clothes and boldness told Peter everything he needed to know.
‘Gotcha,’ he thought smugly - and despite the lingering feeling of disappointment, he was surprised by an equally strong wave of the familiar excitement and exhilaration. But he couldn’t help it - the chase was back on.
“That’s him,” he said to Rollings and pointed to the screen.
The faceless figure would be no good in court, Peter knew that. They had the DNA and some circumstantial evidence, but it wasn’t sufficient proof yet. He would need more if he wanted to catch Neal again.
‘Damn it, Caffrey,’ he thought silently, but it no longer held that bitter anger from before. Once again, Peter had to admire Neal’s craftiness; his ability, his daring and his sheer cheekiness. He was sure that Neal wouldn’t stop at this one job. No, others would follow, and eventually Peter would catch him again. Neal would be convicted and locked up - and that thought send a cold shiver up Peter’s spine - but there was a part of Peter that was thrilled by the prospect of the renewed challenge.
He would catch Neal, thought Peter a bit ruefully, and then there would be nothing to save Neal from the consequences of his latest bad choice. And yet as he stared at the screen, he couldn’t beat down the familiar rush of excitement and almost childish glee. Peter realized that he was already looking forward to the chase, to trying to outsmart Neal and make the score 2:0. He was giddy at once again having such a worthy opponent, and he almost look forward to Neal’s first card, his first phone call.
He could already see what the card would say: ‘You won’t catch me so easily this time, Peter. XOXO, Neal.’
Almost against himself, Peter smiled. Then he turned on the footage of Neal once again.
* * *
Meanwhile, several hundred miles away, Neal was walking through a street of mostly abandoned houses and storage units. A couple of bags in one hand, a paper-cup of coffee in the other, he finally came to a specific warehouse. At first glance, it didn’t look any different or less desolate than any of the other places. Only someone extremely observant might notice the small hidden camera that was surveying the space in front of the warehouse.
After checking once more that he hadn’t been followed, Neal opened the iron door and slipped inside. He looked all over the large open space before he finally spotted Mozzie. With a pang of worry, Neal noticed that Mozzie was sitting in the same armchair where he had left him two hours ago when he had gone out to get them some food and supplies. He put the bags on the floor, carefully placed his coffee on an old wooden table and went to check on his friend. As he came closer, he noticed that Mozzie’s head had fallen and that he was sound asleep.
Judging by the dark circles under Mozzie’s eyes, some sleep would probably do him a world of good, so Neal didn’t even attempt to wake him up. Instead, he went back to the abandoned bags and pulled out a box of rice and some vegetables. Setting the ingredients up on the table, he took a sip of the coffee that was quickly growing cold. Finally, turning on the propane camping stove, Neal began preparing them some risotto for dinner.
He was just pouring the boiling water over Mozzie’s cup of tea when he heard something stir behind him.
“Hey, Moz,” said Neal quietly. “How are you holding up?”
Mozzie’s eyes snapped open as he violently jerked up in the armchair and cast a quick glance around. “Oh, good,” he answered a split second later. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” A pause. “So. How did your trip go? Did you get what you wanted?”
Neal smiled. “Well, I’ve learned that shopping for gluten-free food is more of a challenge than I expected. But I think I got everything we need.”
“So, that’s… good, then?” asked Mozzie uncertainly.
“Yeah, that’s good. And I got you your favorite tea,” continued Neal optimistically. “You want to try it?”
“Oh.” Mozzie stared at the small cup offered by Neal. “You brought me - tea.”
“Is that okay?”
“… Yeah, tea’s - good.” After a moment of hesitation, Mozzie stood up and carefully took the cup from Neal’s hands before sitting back down into his armchair. He inhaled the scent of the tea and gave Neal a tiny smile. “Jasmine. Thanks, Neal.” He took a small sip.
Turning down the flame on the stove and collecting his own cup of coffee, Neal took an old rickety chair and placed it opposite to his friend. For a moment, they remained in silence.
“So, is it safe here, or are we going to move again?” asked Mozzie at last.
“Well, as far as inconspicuousness goes, you won’t find many places better than this one,” answered Neal with a grimace. “It won’t be for long. Once I finish making our new aliases, I will find us something nicer.”
“I didn’t think you stayed at places like this,” admitted Mozzie.
“I don’t, usually,” replied Neal. More like never. “But after the hotel…”
“You wanted to make sure that nobody would look for us there.”
“Yeah. I thought we would be better off taking no chances for a while.”
Mozzie paused. “‘We come into the world laden with the weight of an infinite necessity.’”
Neal chuckled. “That’s certainly one way of putting it.” He pretended that he hadn’t heard the strained undertone in Mozzie’s forcedly calm voice. He stood up. “All right. Let me check on our dinner…”
Neal’s cheerful smile vanished the moment he turned away from Mozzie, replaced with a look of worry and tiredness. Casting a quick look around, Neal had to concede that Moz had a point. The warehouse was dirty, cold and filled with old, unused stuff. But then it had never been supposed to become Neal’s hiding place. He had bought the warehouse years ago under one of his old identities, with the intent to use it for a con that had later fallen through. He hadn’t even thought about it until two days ago, when someone started asking for “Neal Caffrey”, “Steve Tabernacle” and “Gary Rydell” at the hotel where he and Moz had been staying. Not believing for a second that it could be a coincidence, Neal had immediately told Moz to pack their things while he cleaned the room of any clues and got rid of everything that could be tracked to him or his past.
Despite his cautiousness, they had almost been found - and what was worse, Neal still had no idea how that happened. Therefore, they needed to go deep underground, lay as low as possible. Unfortunately, that also meant they had been cut off from most of Neal’s old resources. The warehouse had been a calculated risk - but Neal was almost sure that nobody, neither the various law agencies nor any of his once-time accomplices, knew anything about the place.
Under any other circumstances, Neal wouldn’t have been so cautious. But it wasn’t just about him anymore. He had a responsibility towards Mozzie.
There would be no taunting the law enforcement; no pizzas or cards or phone calls. The interesting thing was that Neal didn’t feel even the slightest bit tempted. No, this time he wouldn’t be cocky, wouldn’t take any bone-headed risks. Whoever wanted to get to Moz would have to get through Neal first, and he wouldn’t make it any easier on them. It was the least that Neal owed Moz for the two decades of their friendship.
He wished he knew how to cheer Moz up.
Casting his thoughts aside, Neal stirred the risotto and took a small spoonful before he nodded and decided that it was done. He purposefully put on a carefree smile before he turned to Moz. “Hey, bro. Dinner’s ready.”
* * *
“You really need all of this,” stated Mozzie skeptically.
“Yep,” replied Neal in concentration.
“So that’s… what, four types of ink?”
“That’s it,” nodded Neal as he began to set the equipment on the table.
“What’s so special about this paper?”
“It’s the same kind that they use for your ID,” explained Neal patiently and tried to keep a level tone when Mozzie picked up several of the sheets and started examining them with a scientific curiosity. “I’ll do four sets of identity cards, some drivers’ licenses and then four versions of our passports. That should be enough to cover us for a while.”
“And then we just… fly away.”
“Not quite.”
Mozzie put the papers back. “I don’t understand.”
With an internal groan, Neal realized that Mozzie wouldn’t let him simply work in peace without getting some answers. He put down his pen and looked up at him. “What don’t you understand?”
“This!” Mozzie threw up his arms in frustration.
Giving up, Neal put his face in his hands. A moment later, he looked up and gave Moz a strained smile. “Look, why don’t you let me worry about the fugitive stuff. I have it in hand, okay?”
“I want to help!” snapped Mozzie stubbornly. “Neal, I’ve been hiding around there for three days! I can’t go out, I can’t do anything… Do you even know how that feels?”
Neal stilled.
A second later, Mozzie’s expression turned to horrified as he realized what he had just blurted. “Oh my - I’m sorry, man. Neal, I - I didn’t mean that. That was stupid. I didn’t mean it.”
“I know, Moz,” replied Neal steadily.
“No, I really -”
“It’s okay,” Neal interrupted him firmly. His imprisonment hadn’t been Mozzie’s fault. Besides, right now Moz looked like he was about to run away, and Neal’s heart broke a bit for him.
“You know what, maybe you can help me,” he said thoughtfully. “Do you think you could try to come up with some names for us?”
Mozzie immediately perked up and smiled. “Of course! Who do you take me for? I have the imagination of Picasso and the creativity of Leonardo. You’ve certainly come to the right place!” He paused. “Okay, what about Dante… Haversham? Dante Haversham? Or maybe… Ludwig - Ozzwald. No, wait, wait, I got it - Albert Wonka!”
Oh dear.
Then Mozzie visibly deflated. “Aw, damn. They’re not very good, are they? Too conspicuous, right? So… Jack Smith? James Brown?”
Neal shook his head. “Actually, if people are looking for you, using a name like ‘Jack Smith’ might set off warning bells simply because it will look like an alias. You’re better off with something that’s not so common, but neither unusual enough to be memorable.”
Mozzie paused. “The art of hiding in plain sight. I like it. So that means I need a common first name and a less common surname, or the other way around.”
Neal smiled. “Now you’re catching on.”
Mozzie shrugged. “Sounds logical.”
The warehouse turned quiet once again as Neal got back to working on their identity cards while Mozzie observed the process in silence.
“So then… what’s the next step?” asked Moz a moment later.
“Well, I’ll have to take your picture for the ID, and then - ”
“I - I wasn’t talking about that,” interrupted Mozzie quietly. “I mean, what happens next? You know, afterwards. When you’ve - done your magic, finished the passports… what happens then?”
“When I finish this batch, we’ll move out of this place and hopefully find an apartment or a hotel to stay,” explained Neal. “Then I’ll contact a guy in Phoenix who should be able to find a permanent solution for your problem.”
“You mean he’ll get these guys off my back?” asked Mozzie hopefully. “I’ll be able to go home?”
Neal hated to crush the sheer excitement in his friend’s voice. “Not that kind of solution. I’m sorry Moz.”
“Then what - ”
“He’ll give you a whole new identity,” explained Neal. “A permanent identity, something the government won’t be able to crack. ”
“Wait a second. So the thing you’re doing now - ”
“Buys us time. Three to five weeks, maybe even two months if we’re lucky. But given how determined these people seem to be to find you, it will only slow them down, not guarantee your long-term safety. So we’ll fake your death -”
“My death?” squealed Mozzie.
“Yes, your death. And right afterwards, we’ll move you out of the country and you’ll assume your new identity.” Neal gave him an encouraging smile. “You should start thinking of a place you’d like. Since extradition’s not an issue, you have the whole world to choose from. I wouldn’t recommend Canada, Mexico, some of the European countries and China, but there are still plenty of options left for you. Maybe Australia? Or there are plenty other options - ”
“Australia.”
“Yeah, that’s -”
“You’re telling me to move to - Australia.”
Neal nodded. “Well, that’s one of the options - ”
“Neal, I don’t want to go to Australia!” exclaimed Mozzie in dismay. “Isn’t there - I don’t know. Isn’t there another way?”
“Well, what did you expect, Moz?” replied Neal, his patience beginning to run out. “You asked me to help you disappear, did you think it would be a walk in the park? You have a group of trained professionals after you -”
“Do I?”
Neal stilled. “What do you mean?”
Mozzie looked at him with such a self-doubt and anguish that Neal’s heart froze. “What if I’m - what if none of this is real? I mean, some crazy government people hunting me? Like that’s gonna happen. I’m a good scientist, Neal, but I’m not worth this. Besides, life’s not a spy novel. What if there’s no conspiracy there? What if it’s -” Mozzie paused.
“Yes?” asked Neal softly.
Moz looked away. “What if - you’ve heard of my condition. What if - you know, the delusions and paranoia - I haven’t been taking my pills in years,” he said abruptly. “They made me feel weird, and I thought that - but what if I’m making this up?”
Oh God.
Suddenly, Neal felt old and weary. “Moz -”
“Do I really have people after me?” interrupted him Mozzie. “Why are we running from place to place when we never even meet the people who are supposedly looking for me? And who are they anyway? This doesn’t make any sense!”
“How long has this been on your mind?” asked Neal gently.
Moz looked away. “Pretty much the whole week,” he mumbled dimly.
Neal closed his eyes, silently cursing himself for not foreseeing this.
He should have damn well known.
Releasing a mental sigh, he opened his eyes and looked back at his friend. “First of all, the fact that we haven’t yet run into anyone doesn’t mean that there is nobody after you - it means I’ve been doing a decent job on keeping us safe. If we had actually met the people who are looking for you, then we would have been in really big trouble.”
“But -”
“I’m serious.”
“But why? You always ran in close with the FBI,” opposed Moz with a frown. “I mean, all the times you told me about those hairbreadth escapes - jumping from moving trains, climbing the airshafts, running through fire escapes, parachuting from the French embassy - ”
“The good old days,” said Neal with a brief smile. Then he turned serious. “I was - younger, brasher, more arrogant… I played with fire, taunted my opponents - and I got caught. So however I used to wait until the FBI was closing in just for the thrill of it - that’s over now. From now on, if I have even the slightest suspicion that something’s wrong, we’re moving.” He gave Moz a small smile to take away some of the graveness of his statement. “I’m afraid that’s a no to the parachuting. Sorry if you were looking forward to that.”
There was a long pause.
“But how do you know it’s not all in my head?” asked Mozzie vulnerably.
“Because the night after we talked, I had a friend poke around,” answered Neal with a sigh. “She’s a hacker - one of the best. She specializes in uncovering corruption and the usual ugly business that some of the big corporations get involved in.”
“She fights for the commoners?”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Neal smirked. “We met a couple years back. I didn’t find out who she was until later. The point is, I asked her for a favor, so she checked out a few things for me.”
“And?” asked Mozzie.
“I didn’t really understand at first before I’ve done some research.” Neal ran a tired hand over his face. “Have you ever heard of MKUltra, MKDELTA or Operation ARTICHOKE?”
“Of course I’ve heard of them. Everybody knows those,” answered Mozzie dismissively. “It’s from the 1950s. Those were projects run by the CIA to research interrogation methods and mind control. Supposedly, they stopped in the 1970s. … I’ve got perfect recall,” he said in a defensive tone. “I stopped researching those theories years ago, but I couldn’t just forget what I already knew.”
“Hey, I believe you,” reassured him Neal. “Even if I didn’t, I’m not judging you.”
“Thanks, man,” replied Moz. “But I still don’t understand what - ”
Suddenly, he froze.
“You’re saying that - ” Mozzie paused. “I mean, after seeing the lab, I knew that - I thought it was possible, but… This can’t be true,” he whispered.
“I’m afraid it is.”
“But -”
“I’m sorry Moz,” said Neal gently.
“But - my research…” Mozzie gave Neal a desperate look. “I wanted to help people, Neal.”
“I know.”
“Did they use it? Did they use my research to - ”
“We can’t tell,” replied Neal grimly. “What’s important is that the CIA knows that you’ve come across their lab. That’s the reason why they want to catch you - to find out what you know, discover who you’ve talked to… silence you before you have the chance to divulge what you know to anyone else.”
For a moment, Mozzie stared into nothingness. Neal let him, giving him time and space to process what he had just learned.
“The CIA,” said Moz at last.
“It looks like it.”
“This isn’t just going away, is it.”
“No Moz. I’m sorry.”
Unexpectedly, Mozzie turned to him with a downcast expression in his face. “You didn’t really believe me when I told you what happened. That’s why you decided to check it out.”
“I believed you.”
“Oh please, Neal -”
“I believed you,” repeated Neal insistently. “I contacted Sally because I needed to know what we’re up against.”
“You don’t have to lie to me -”
“I’m not lying. Look, I might disagree with you about the Moon landing and some other things, but I trust you. I’d always listen to what you have to say. You’re family, Moz. Don’t you ever forget that.”
Mozzie searched his face for any sign of deception. Neal firmly held his stare, not giving away the slightest hint of doubts.
“Thank you, Neal,” he stated at last.
“You’re welcome.”
For a moment, there was silence.
Then Neal shook his head and the emotional moment passed. He looked back down at the passports. “Okay, I need to finish these. If you don’t mind -”
“Could you teach me?” asked Mozzie suddenly.
“What?”
“Could you teach me how to make an ID,” elaborated Mozzie. “They’re already treating me like a criminal. I thought that - maybe it might come in handy.”
For a moment, Neal considered the odd request. Then he gave a sharp nod.
“Okay.”
* * *
The storage unit was alighted by one sole light bulb. As he sat at their only table across to Neal, Mozzie glanced at his wristwatch: four minutes until midnight. Feeling both tired and irritated, Moz cast a longing look both at his bed (equipped with silk pajamas that protected him well enough from his atopic eczema and regular bed sheets that were a lost cause) and at the bottle of wine that Neal had confiscated when he had begun this grueling exercise.
“Where were you born?” asked Neal for the fourth time that night.
“In a small village in California. You wouldn’t have heard of it.”
“Where did you go to college?”
“I… didn’t. My uncle got me a job with his company. Neal, is this really -”
“My name’s not Neal,” interrupted him Neal firmly.
“Right, Eddie.” Mozzie just barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “But seriously? There’s no need for this. You know I have perfect recall, I can keep my facts straight -“”
“Facts aren’t enough. You’re taking on a whole new personality. You have to act like them, think like them, accept their beliefs and mannerism.”
Mozzie groaned. “I get it, okay? I’ll -”
“Back to Jack Specter,” said Neal relentlessly, and Mozzie wanted to scream.
Right, Jack Specter. He was second of the temporary identities that Neal has drafted for him. Thirty-six years old, photographer, a bit of a baseball fan, read newspapers every morning as he drank his cup of coffee. Unlike another two of his new aliases, Jack Specter knew Neal - knew “Jeremy Fields”, a reporter who worked at the same newspaper as “Jack”.
Neal waited for a moment before Mozzie reluctantly gave him a nod in confirmation that he was ready. “I’m good.”
“Okay.” Neal took a few seconds to give Mozzie an encouraging look before putting back the emotionless blank face. And the interrogation went on.
Twenty minutes later, after being caught in a contradiction for the fifth time that session, Mozzie’s bed and wine looked even more appealing.
“Wrong,” stated Neal with obvious annoyance. “How can you not recognize the town in the movie when you supposedly spent a year living there? You can’t - ”
“Okay! I’m sorry!” Mozzie tried to keep a level voice. “Let’s face it, Neal. I’m clearly a hopeless case -”
“No. No, I’m sorry,” replied Neal in a much softer tone. “I keep forgetting that you - I pushed too hard. You’re doing good, Moz.”
“I’m not. I keep screwing up.”
“That?” Neal snorted. “Most people wouldn’t have caught that slip even if they were paying full attention to you. If you were to be a front man in a con, that could be a problem, but - look, all we need is to stay off the radar while we travel. And you’re more than prepared for that.”
“Are you sure?” asked Mozzie.
“Absolutely.”
Mozzie bit the inside of his mouth before he nodded. “Thanks, Neal.”
Neal smiled. “Come on. I think that’s enough. Let’s open that Merlot.”
“Finally!” Mozzie perked up. Within seconds, he had his hands on the corkscrew and poured the wine into their glasses.
“To the perfect aliases,” stated Mozzie.
“To friends,” corrected him Neal gently.
Mozzie swallowed. “Right. To friends.”
They clinked the glasses.
“Is it always like this?” asked Mozzie suddenly.
“What?”
“This…”
The life that Neal had described before prison and even afterwards sounded exciting and glamorous; like he had continued playing their childhood games and never grown up. But the Neal across Moz was sharp, troubled with worry.
There were days when Moz had doubts about his life; so equable, so ordinary, so… common. Working fifty, sometimes more hours a week, doing a job that was usually frustrating, tedious and slow, with no clear reward in the end. Listening to the fascinating tales of Neal’s adventures, Mozzie had often wondered whether he was missing something. Although he was four years older than Neal, sometimes, he felt terribly inexperienced next to his friend. Neal had seen places and talked to more people in a week than Mozzie did in a month. But the last few days had made Moz understand about all the sacrifices that Neal had made with his life-choices.
“Is it worth it?” he asked.
It was a testimony to how well they knew each other that Neal understood the question. “Sometimes. Some days more than the others.” His next smile was both smug and mischievous. “Moments like holding the Starry Night in my own hands or walking off with the money of some pompous oil baron generally make for the highlights.” Since the big row that had occurred between them some ten years ago when Mozzie had first recognized the sketch of Neal’s face in the newspapers, Neal had never tried to downplay his criminal activities to his friend.
“And “consulting security”? How did that work out?”
“Better than I expected, actually,” replied Neal thoughtfully. “I didn’t think it would last, but… it turned out to be quite satisfying. I might have even stuck with it.”
“‘Might have’?” asked Mozzie.
Neal grimaced. “When Nicolas Herbert hired me, he - quote - “didn’t trust me as far as he could throw me, and that was being generous”. I didn’t exactly give them a notice when I left, so… Maybe my work for the company was getting too boring anyway.”
Mozzie stilled. “Wait, you’re telling me that… I got you fired.”
“What? No, of course you didn’t. Don’t be so dramatic,” said Neal dismissively with a smile. “More wine?”
“I’m not being dramatic, I…” Mozzie hesitated.
He wondered whether Neal regretted his choice to help him. His earlier question echoed in his mind - did Neal think that this was worth it?
“You were finally getting the life that you wanted,” he said at last. “I made things - complicated.”
“As if I’ve never done that to you before,” replied Neal lightly. “Do you really want me to recall all those times at high school?”
“It’s not the same!”
“Of course it’s not,” agreed Neal gravely. “You have the freaking CIA after you, Moz! Did you really think that anything would be more important to me than making sure that you’re all right?”
Silence.
“No,” said Mozzie at last. “I knew I could count on you. I was being stupid.”
“You should hold on to that thought.” Neal shook his head. “Don’t do it again.”
Mozzie poured them both more wine.
“So, what else is new with you?” asked Neal after a while, seemingly back at ease. “Any girls?”
“What does it matter if I have to leave her behind?” replied Mozzie bitterly.
There was a pause.
“It matters,” said Neal softly at last. “Even if you leave, your past is still a part of you. You and Ellen taught me that.”
Mozzie shook his head. “It seemed simpler back then. When you told me about your father and that you had to leave - I didn’t want to lose my friend.” He paused. “Neal… tell me the truth. If I go through with this…”
“You’ll have to cut all ties. Your dad, your cousins, Mr. Jeffries.... Your friends. Your job. Your girl. Me. This country.”
You’ll lose everything.
It was like someone hit Mozzie with a sledgehammer. He had known of course, but he hadn’t… known.
Mozzie stumbled up, almost knocking over his chair. “I need some air.”
“I’ll check the outside,” said Neal - but Mozzie was already grabbing his jacket and fumbling with the buttons as he made it out of the door into the dark alley. He couldn’t care less at the moment if it was dangerous or if he might be seen.
Mozzie leaned against the wall of the warehouse, staring at the starless sky. A moment later, Neal joined him in complete silence.
They stood like that for several minutes before Mozzie spoke up. “What if I took precautions. I could be really careful. I could - ”
“They’ll be watching everyone you hold dear. Even after you’re supposedly dead, they won’t stop. They’re smart; they know all the usual weaknesses of their fugitives. If you do this - they won’t be safe. No contact, Moz.” The harshness of Neal’s voice was tempered by the way he squeezed Mozzie’s hand in compassion.
Mozzie’s throat became incredibly thin. “You kept contact with Ellen,” he said accusingly.
“A brief phone call or a card maybe every two months… it’s still a risk to her,” replied Neal. “It’s been two decades and the Marshals are protecting her. … I know I’ll never forgive myself if one day it’s not enough.”
Mozzie shook his head. “Neal, I can’t… I need to be sure that they’re safe. My family… I need to know that…”
“I’ll try to think of something,” said Neal at last. “But I’m making no promises -”
Mozzie grabbed him into a bear hug. “Thanks,” he whispered roughly.
He was dimly aware that Neal was patting his back when he quietly suggested they head back inside. Wiping away the wetness from his eyes, Mozzie followed him into the warehouse.
The slam of the iron door was the sound of his past being smashed into pieces.
* * *
“Wow. You’re a fast learner,” said Neal in surprise when Mozzie made a victorious “yes!” and tossed him the opened padlock.
Mozzie’s smile fell a bit. “Well, I’m not really new to this. I might have lived on the streets for only a few weeks before Mr. Jeffries brought me back, but it’s still not the sort of stuff that you forget easily. And even forgetting that, living at the orphanage could get a bit rough sometimes. I learned to pick locks before I turned ten. … I thought I would be more rusty though.”
“Well, great job. Listen, I have to go. You have my number - any sign of trouble, call me. I’ll be back in two hours, okay?”
“Sure,” agreed Mozzie.
Neal flipped on his hat and smiled. “Great. See you later then.”
They had left the storage unit when Neal had finally been satisfied with their aliases. (And it had been high time - Mozzie’s sinuses truly hated the dust there). The hotel where they were staying at the moment was a much nicer and cleaner place - not to mention that it had TV, a shower and most importantly, wi-fi access. In five days, they were about to reach Phoenix. Then goodbye, Paul Handerson, and goodbye Mozzie, because even his childhood nickname could supposedly give him away. Enter… whatever name the identity doctor will have prepared for him.
He wasn’t prepared for this.
Neal was making plans for their move, thinking of the best way to keep them off-radar. And once again, Mozzie was left alone, feeling useless.
He wasn’t made for sitting around and doing nothing. After reading the newspaper, doing the crossword, watching news and reading the newspaper again, Mozzie had been ready to crawl up the walls. In the end, Neal had suggested that - in light of Mozzie’s relative success with his own faked IDs (which, as Neal had said, was a decent first-attempt - “if you were underage, you a might have been able to use this to buy some alcohol”) - he could continue his “education” as starting criminal mastermind. In the virtual book of “Criminal Skills 101”, that apparently meant lock-picking.
And so Neal had left him to play around with his own set of lockpicks and some locks that he found who-knows-where while he left for the streets to arrange things for the next step of their journey.
Which left Mozzie at the hotel to his own devices.
Moz was aware that Neal wouldn’t have liked what he was thinking about. What he was about to do was risky, but… he needed to know. And deep down, his friend would probably understand.
* * *
After he had left Mozzie at the hotel to play with his lockpicks, Neal had headed for the streets. He picked a few pockets and then when the cold started to seep through his cloak, he stopped at a local restaurant for an espresso. That was the one advantage of not being an official fugitive - as long as there weren’t cameras, he could pick any restaurant he liked, without worrying about being recognized and the cavalry being called. While the CIA was undoubtedly looking for him to get to Moz, they didn’t have any pretext to put his photo and his Wanted posters all over the United States.
When the waitress arrived with his coffee, Neal thanked her with a charming smile. He took a sip of the hot liquid, his hands immediately becoming warmer just from touching the cup. Within a few minutes, he felt much better and focused. Now, without Mozzie’s presence distracting him, it was time to plan and think.
Their resources were almost depleted.
Neal had had some cash and a couple of ATM cards stored at the “yellow safehouse” where he had met with Mozzie. However, living on the run was expensive, and they would need additional funds to buy Mozzie’s new identity, not to mention give him a decent start in whatever country he eventually chose. Which meant either accessing one of their usual accounts (not an option, since it could be traced), pulling a heist (too risky and way too flashy) or accessing one of Neal’s stashes. Neal had avoided the last option for as long as possible, not sure which of his places the FBI might possibly know about and could therefore be in their files and watched, but now it seemed that necessity was forcing his hand.
Very well then - they would make a stop at Nashville. It was almost on their way anyway.
Standing up, Neal paid for his coffee, leaving a decent tip. Then he walked out of the restaurant and easily became part of the crowd, one anonymous person lost in the sea of bodies.
Or at least, that is what should have happened.
A less-skilled person might not have noticed. However, there was a reason why Neal was regarded as one of the best thieves on the planet. His senses were screaming at him that someone was following him.
As soon as he found opportunity, he turned a corner, took off his hat and quickly crossed the street, where he pretended to stare at something in a storefront. In fact, he was staring at the reflection in the shop window, trying to spot the person who had been following him.
There!
A man in a long coat, with dark eyes and sharp face stopped at the crossroad with a hint of indecision. One glance at the alley, and then his attention turned to Neal in front of the shop window.
Not good.
Neal was pretty sure that the man had been in the restaurant. That, together with how easily he saw through his ruse spoke of a professional. Neal wasn’t sure whether he was CIA or someone else from the law enforcement alphabet soup, but it didn’t matter. He was bad news - and he was heading his way.
“Neal Caffrey -” called the men and reached into his coat.
Neal didn’t wait for anything else and bolted back into the main street.
And ran.
* * *
Using Neal’s laptop, Mozzie had connected to the hotel’s wi-fi network. At first, he just checked some of his favorite websites, careful in case that Neal might have forgotten something at the hotel room and return to retrieve it. Finally, he decided that he had waited long enough and made his move.
He opened the yahoo website, typed in “moz3260” and then the password.
His private email account opened before him. He ignored the spams and moved to the important things.
There was a short message from Mr. Jeffries, dated ten days back, asking how he was doing and thanking Moz for his latest donation. Another email from Mr. Jeffries, telling him that Mozzie’s father had contacted him about Mozzie’s whereabouts. And finally…
The first message was nine days old.
Hello Paul,
Where are you? Are you all right? Your colleagues called me that you didn’t come to work in two days and that they can’t get a hold of you. I tried to call you, but the line was dead. What is going on?
Your mom always told me how I worry too much… I know you can take care of yourself, and this is probably just a misunderstanding. I’m sure this is just old man’s anxiety, but you know how I have a bad feeling when I don’t know what’s going on. Please call me that you’re okay.
Love,
Dad
The second message was from seven days ago.
Paul -
What is going on? Please tell me you’re all right. I’m worried sick here.
Some people came to my house tonight. They said they were police and showed me a picture of you and Danny Brooks. They said you were in trouble and that they needed to find you, but they wouldn’t tell me anything else.
Something about them didn’t feel right, so I got rid of them as fast as I could… Did I make a mistake? What if something bad happened to you? Am I wasting precious time?
Whatever it is, we can handle it together. If it’s something with the police, I know a good lawyer who can help. Or if you can’t, then at least let me know you’re okay. Please, Paul, just call me.
Love,
Dad
Mozzie’s eyes began to water. He skimmed through the rest of the emails.
Paul -
Where are you? They called me from your work again…
Paul, someone’s been following me…
Paul, if you’re reading this, PLEASE reply to me…
The police came back again. I think they bugged the house…
I know you’re probably not reading this, but I can’t stop in case you are. I don’t know what’s going on anymore. I just hope you’re safe…
And all of the emails concluded with the familiar words: Love, Dad.
Mozzie stared at the blurred screen in a mixture of anguish and rage, barely able to make out the final lines of the last message. Finally, he wiped away the tears, stood up and took a ragged breath. But his rage didn’t diminish.
The rational corner of his mind told him that here he had the proof that this thing was real. The rest of him -
How dare they! How DARE they target his family!
Forgetting all caution, Mozzie took out the burner phone and dialed the familiar number that he could recall even in his sleep.
Twice, the phone rang empty. With the third ring, someone finally picked up.
“Who is this?” asked the familiar voice, shaded with incredible tiredness.
Mozzie swallowed. “Hey Dad…”
“PAUL?! My boy, is that really you?”
“Dad, I…”
“Thank God! I was so scared! What happened? Where are you?”
The tears now flew freely. “Dad, something happened… I have to leave. I’ll … it’ll be fine, I swear. I…”
“Paul? Son, you’re scaring me. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Mozzie closed his eyes as the cell phone trembled in his hand. The memories flew through his mind…
Being an awkward, distrustful thirteen-years old kid when he first walked into the Handerson's house. Then… setting up his own room… settling in… spending time together… all their holidays, the feeling when he’d been adopted… finally learning to call them mom and dad… and how proud his parents were at his commencement ceremony.
Mozzie opened his eyes - and stilled. He took a quick step closer to the window. For a moment, he thought that he had spotted … Was his mind playing tricks on him?
“Paul?”
“I have to go,” said Mozzie, his throat suddenly impossibly dry. “Thanks for everything. I love you.”
“PAUL -”
- but he had already hung up.
Putting the cell phone aside, Mozzie leaned closer to the window and looked down the street. He didn’t see anything suspicious, but his senses were already on high alert.
As he was about to call Neal, his cell phone rang on his own.
“Neal -”
“We have a problem,” an out of breath answer came from the other way.
“Oh, you’re a psychic,” exclaimed Mozzie humorlessly before he paused. “Are you running?”
“What? Never mind. The FBI has put out a warrant for me -”
“Oh. That’s not good.”
“Really, Moz? I wouldn’t have guessed! Listen -”
“There might be another problem,” interrupted him Mozzie flatly.
The panting on the other side slowed down. “What is it?”
Staring out of the window, Mozzie swallowed.
“The CIA is here. I think they just found us.”
“Shit!”
Well, that was encouraging.
“Are you okay? Where are you?” asked Neal a moment later.
“In the hotel room. I spotted some of the people who came to my apartment outside the hotel.”
“Did they see you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay. Go and lock the main door.”
“What? Neal, I don’t think that’s gonna be -”
“Just do it, Moz!”
Mozzie swallowed. “Okay.”
He locked the door. “What next?”
“Put something heavy behind them… the armchair should be good enough.”
“That’s not -”
“Do you trust me, Moz?”
Mozzie took a shaky breath. “You know I do.”
“Then trust me with this, okay? It’s gonna be fine, I promise.”
“Okay.”
Breathing heavily, Mozzie finally managed to push the old solid armchair behind the door. “You know, some explanation would be good here. I don’t think the CIA are going to tire out by just waiting behind the closed door. Neal, how the hell will I get out?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be taking a different way. Now, open the window and push away the things from around the inner frame. When you’re done, go to our beds and pull off the bed-sheets.”
Mozzie did a double-take. “Excuse me? Neal, I’m not climbing out of the window!”
“No you’re not.”
“Then what -”
Neal smiled. “But the CIA will think that you are.”
* * *
The cupboard in the bathroom looked completely innocent.
His tongue sticking out and cold sweat running down his back, Mozzie hurriedly used the butter knife to unscrew the last small bolt - and prayed that Neal had been correct in his assumption. If the cupboard didn’t go all the way through the wall as Neal had said, then he might still be left to tying up a makeshift rope from the bedsheets that were now stuck in one of the wardrobes and attempting an escape through the window. Mozzie’s vivid imagination immediately created a perfect image of him splattered all over the hard concrete outside - no thanks.
He peeled away the paste board and revealed a dark hole behind it.
“Oh.”
After quickly climbing through, Mozzie randomly rearranged the toothbrushes and dentifrice from the other side. Then he closed the cupboard door and put back the pasteboard as well as he could. He was almost done when he heard a noise coming from the apartment. He froze.
Thud.
Thud!
THUD!!!
Something broke.
For a few seconds, Mozzie just stood there and listened to the sounds of someone breaking inside. Then his brain finally caught up.
‘Run, you fools!’
Neal would have liked the classics, thought Moz.
He looked down the darkened hall. He had no idea where it led, except that it was away from the CIA agents who had just made it into his apartment.
Mozzie ran.
* * *
Part III - On LJ | On DW
Author’s Name: sheenianni
Fandom: White Collar
Notes: See Part I - On LJ | On DW
___________________________________
PART II
One week later
“Hey boss…”
Peter looked up from the file and smiled at the person at the door. However, the look on her face told him that he wouldn’t like what she came to tell him. “Diana. What is it?”
“Do you remember that break-in at MoMA in San Francisco two days ago?” asked Diana grimly.
“Yeah, I remember,” said Peter. “What is going on?”
“There was some DNA material on the scene. Given the amount of people that pass through, they didn’t really expect much to come out of it, so the lab was really surprised when they found a match to our database…”
She handled Peter the file to look for himself.
Curiously, Peter opened the file and quickly scanned through the first two pages until he finally found the information on the third one. The San Francisco agents had found several hairs in the room with the stolen piece. It turned out that one of the hairs belonged to…
Peter’s stomach dropped. “This doesn’t have to mean anything,” he said crisply at last. “He works security checks now, right? What if -”
“I spoke to Rollings, the leader of the San Francisco team,” informed him Diana. “They talked to the people at the museum. They didn’t have any contract with him, Peter.”
DNA MATCH - Neal Caffrey, stared at him in bold black letters.
Peter flipped through the file as in hopes of finding something to dispel the quickly developing feeling of dread.
“He could have been just a visitor,” he suggested, but his voice lacked conviction.
“It gets worse,” continued Diana. “Rollings contacted the security company that Caffrey freelances for. Peter, they say they haven’t had any contact with him in a week. It seems like he just disappeared in the middle of one of his jobs.”
A Mondrian had been stolen; gone without a trace. Caffrey’s DNA had been found on the crime scene. Neal suddenly stopped coming to work a week ago, just four days before the robbery. With that additional bit of information, Peter had no choice but to face the fact that it looked extremely suspicious. He wouldn’t be sure until he saw it for himself, but - Peter swallowed - but right now, it seemed that Neal Caffrey had indeed returned back to his life of crime.
“Damn it, Neal.”
He shouldn’t be surprised, thought Peter numbly. After all, hadn’t he been thinking about this scenario just a few days ago? And yet, a part of him was so - dismayed. Disappointed was probably the right word. After all, it had been only a month since he saw Neal during one of El’s events, and he seemed content. He had thought - well, Peter wasn’t sure what he had thought.
How had he missed this?
Damn it!
“I need to speak with Hughes,” said Peter suddenly and stood up. If Caffrey was back to the life, he needed to - well, he couldn’t stay away.
He just hoped that his boss would understand.
* * *
Peter needn’t been worried about Hughes’s approval. In fact, it turned out that the leader of the San Francisco department actually requested his consult on the case. So now there he was, hundreds of miles away from home, talking to Edgar Rollings’ team and going over the evidence with them. So far, they had found nothing that would further prove Neal’s guilt or point to a different culprit; however, Rollings believed that sooner or later, they would find some sort of clue.
Peter wasn’t so sure, however.
The thief - whoever he was - hadn’t left behind a forgery. That deviated from Neal’s typical MO, but Peter knew that there had been occasions when Neal hadn’t replaced his scores with look-alikes. Usually he did that, but not always.
The proof came a few hours later when they were watching the feeds from the museum and the surrounding buildings.
They couldn’t get a good look at the face of the man on the street. However, the way he moved was rather familiar, and his clothes and boldness told Peter everything he needed to know.
‘Gotcha,’ he thought smugly - and despite the lingering feeling of disappointment, he was surprised by an equally strong wave of the familiar excitement and exhilaration. But he couldn’t help it - the chase was back on.
“That’s him,” he said to Rollings and pointed to the screen.
The faceless figure would be no good in court, Peter knew that. They had the DNA and some circumstantial evidence, but it wasn’t sufficient proof yet. He would need more if he wanted to catch Neal again.
‘Damn it, Caffrey,’ he thought silently, but it no longer held that bitter anger from before. Once again, Peter had to admire Neal’s craftiness; his ability, his daring and his sheer cheekiness. He was sure that Neal wouldn’t stop at this one job. No, others would follow, and eventually Peter would catch him again. Neal would be convicted and locked up - and that thought send a cold shiver up Peter’s spine - but there was a part of Peter that was thrilled by the prospect of the renewed challenge.
He would catch Neal, thought Peter a bit ruefully, and then there would be nothing to save Neal from the consequences of his latest bad choice. And yet as he stared at the screen, he couldn’t beat down the familiar rush of excitement and almost childish glee. Peter realized that he was already looking forward to the chase, to trying to outsmart Neal and make the score 2:0. He was giddy at once again having such a worthy opponent, and he almost look forward to Neal’s first card, his first phone call.
He could already see what the card would say: ‘You won’t catch me so easily this time, Peter. XOXO, Neal.’
Almost against himself, Peter smiled. Then he turned on the footage of Neal once again.
* * *
Meanwhile, several hundred miles away, Neal was walking through a street of mostly abandoned houses and storage units. A couple of bags in one hand, a paper-cup of coffee in the other, he finally came to a specific warehouse. At first glance, it didn’t look any different or less desolate than any of the other places. Only someone extremely observant might notice the small hidden camera that was surveying the space in front of the warehouse.
After checking once more that he hadn’t been followed, Neal opened the iron door and slipped inside. He looked all over the large open space before he finally spotted Mozzie. With a pang of worry, Neal noticed that Mozzie was sitting in the same armchair where he had left him two hours ago when he had gone out to get them some food and supplies. He put the bags on the floor, carefully placed his coffee on an old wooden table and went to check on his friend. As he came closer, he noticed that Mozzie’s head had fallen and that he was sound asleep.
Judging by the dark circles under Mozzie’s eyes, some sleep would probably do him a world of good, so Neal didn’t even attempt to wake him up. Instead, he went back to the abandoned bags and pulled out a box of rice and some vegetables. Setting the ingredients up on the table, he took a sip of the coffee that was quickly growing cold. Finally, turning on the propane camping stove, Neal began preparing them some risotto for dinner.
He was just pouring the boiling water over Mozzie’s cup of tea when he heard something stir behind him.
“Hey, Moz,” said Neal quietly. “How are you holding up?”
Mozzie’s eyes snapped open as he violently jerked up in the armchair and cast a quick glance around. “Oh, good,” he answered a split second later. “I’m fine. Don’t worry about me.” A pause. “So. How did your trip go? Did you get what you wanted?”
Neal smiled. “Well, I’ve learned that shopping for gluten-free food is more of a challenge than I expected. But I think I got everything we need.”
“So, that’s… good, then?” asked Mozzie uncertainly.
“Yeah, that’s good. And I got you your favorite tea,” continued Neal optimistically. “You want to try it?”
“Oh.” Mozzie stared at the small cup offered by Neal. “You brought me - tea.”
“Is that okay?”
“… Yeah, tea’s - good.” After a moment of hesitation, Mozzie stood up and carefully took the cup from Neal’s hands before sitting back down into his armchair. He inhaled the scent of the tea and gave Neal a tiny smile. “Jasmine. Thanks, Neal.” He took a small sip.
Turning down the flame on the stove and collecting his own cup of coffee, Neal took an old rickety chair and placed it opposite to his friend. For a moment, they remained in silence.
“So, is it safe here, or are we going to move again?” asked Mozzie at last.
“Well, as far as inconspicuousness goes, you won’t find many places better than this one,” answered Neal with a grimace. “It won’t be for long. Once I finish making our new aliases, I will find us something nicer.”
“I didn’t think you stayed at places like this,” admitted Mozzie.
“I don’t, usually,” replied Neal. More like never. “But after the hotel…”
“You wanted to make sure that nobody would look for us there.”
“Yeah. I thought we would be better off taking no chances for a while.”
Mozzie paused. “‘We come into the world laden with the weight of an infinite necessity.’”
Neal chuckled. “That’s certainly one way of putting it.” He pretended that he hadn’t heard the strained undertone in Mozzie’s forcedly calm voice. He stood up. “All right. Let me check on our dinner…”
Neal’s cheerful smile vanished the moment he turned away from Mozzie, replaced with a look of worry and tiredness. Casting a quick look around, Neal had to concede that Moz had a point. The warehouse was dirty, cold and filled with old, unused stuff. But then it had never been supposed to become Neal’s hiding place. He had bought the warehouse years ago under one of his old identities, with the intent to use it for a con that had later fallen through. He hadn’t even thought about it until two days ago, when someone started asking for “Neal Caffrey”, “Steve Tabernacle” and “Gary Rydell” at the hotel where he and Moz had been staying. Not believing for a second that it could be a coincidence, Neal had immediately told Moz to pack their things while he cleaned the room of any clues and got rid of everything that could be tracked to him or his past.
Despite his cautiousness, they had almost been found - and what was worse, Neal still had no idea how that happened. Therefore, they needed to go deep underground, lay as low as possible. Unfortunately, that also meant they had been cut off from most of Neal’s old resources. The warehouse had been a calculated risk - but Neal was almost sure that nobody, neither the various law agencies nor any of his once-time accomplices, knew anything about the place.
Under any other circumstances, Neal wouldn’t have been so cautious. But it wasn’t just about him anymore. He had a responsibility towards Mozzie.
There would be no taunting the law enforcement; no pizzas or cards or phone calls. The interesting thing was that Neal didn’t feel even the slightest bit tempted. No, this time he wouldn’t be cocky, wouldn’t take any bone-headed risks. Whoever wanted to get to Moz would have to get through Neal first, and he wouldn’t make it any easier on them. It was the least that Neal owed Moz for the two decades of their friendship.
He wished he knew how to cheer Moz up.
Casting his thoughts aside, Neal stirred the risotto and took a small spoonful before he nodded and decided that it was done. He purposefully put on a carefree smile before he turned to Moz. “Hey, bro. Dinner’s ready.”
* * *
“You really need all of this,” stated Mozzie skeptically.
“Yep,” replied Neal in concentration.
“So that’s… what, four types of ink?”
“That’s it,” nodded Neal as he began to set the equipment on the table.
“What’s so special about this paper?”
“It’s the same kind that they use for your ID,” explained Neal patiently and tried to keep a level tone when Mozzie picked up several of the sheets and started examining them with a scientific curiosity. “I’ll do four sets of identity cards, some drivers’ licenses and then four versions of our passports. That should be enough to cover us for a while.”
“And then we just… fly away.”
“Not quite.”
Mozzie put the papers back. “I don’t understand.”
With an internal groan, Neal realized that Mozzie wouldn’t let him simply work in peace without getting some answers. He put down his pen and looked up at him. “What don’t you understand?”
“This!” Mozzie threw up his arms in frustration.
Giving up, Neal put his face in his hands. A moment later, he looked up and gave Moz a strained smile. “Look, why don’t you let me worry about the fugitive stuff. I have it in hand, okay?”
“I want to help!” snapped Mozzie stubbornly. “Neal, I’ve been hiding around there for three days! I can’t go out, I can’t do anything… Do you even know how that feels?”
Neal stilled.
A second later, Mozzie’s expression turned to horrified as he realized what he had just blurted. “Oh my - I’m sorry, man. Neal, I - I didn’t mean that. That was stupid. I didn’t mean it.”
“I know, Moz,” replied Neal steadily.
“No, I really -”
“It’s okay,” Neal interrupted him firmly. His imprisonment hadn’t been Mozzie’s fault. Besides, right now Moz looked like he was about to run away, and Neal’s heart broke a bit for him.
“You know what, maybe you can help me,” he said thoughtfully. “Do you think you could try to come up with some names for us?”
Mozzie immediately perked up and smiled. “Of course! Who do you take me for? I have the imagination of Picasso and the creativity of Leonardo. You’ve certainly come to the right place!” He paused. “Okay, what about Dante… Haversham? Dante Haversham? Or maybe… Ludwig - Ozzwald. No, wait, wait, I got it - Albert Wonka!”
Oh dear.
Then Mozzie visibly deflated. “Aw, damn. They’re not very good, are they? Too conspicuous, right? So… Jack Smith? James Brown?”
Neal shook his head. “Actually, if people are looking for you, using a name like ‘Jack Smith’ might set off warning bells simply because it will look like an alias. You’re better off with something that’s not so common, but neither unusual enough to be memorable.”
Mozzie paused. “The art of hiding in plain sight. I like it. So that means I need a common first name and a less common surname, or the other way around.”
Neal smiled. “Now you’re catching on.”
Mozzie shrugged. “Sounds logical.”
The warehouse turned quiet once again as Neal got back to working on their identity cards while Mozzie observed the process in silence.
“So then… what’s the next step?” asked Moz a moment later.
“Well, I’ll have to take your picture for the ID, and then - ”
“I - I wasn’t talking about that,” interrupted Mozzie quietly. “I mean, what happens next? You know, afterwards. When you’ve - done your magic, finished the passports… what happens then?”
“When I finish this batch, we’ll move out of this place and hopefully find an apartment or a hotel to stay,” explained Neal. “Then I’ll contact a guy in Phoenix who should be able to find a permanent solution for your problem.”
“You mean he’ll get these guys off my back?” asked Mozzie hopefully. “I’ll be able to go home?”
Neal hated to crush the sheer excitement in his friend’s voice. “Not that kind of solution. I’m sorry Moz.”
“Then what - ”
“He’ll give you a whole new identity,” explained Neal. “A permanent identity, something the government won’t be able to crack. ”
“Wait a second. So the thing you’re doing now - ”
“Buys us time. Three to five weeks, maybe even two months if we’re lucky. But given how determined these people seem to be to find you, it will only slow them down, not guarantee your long-term safety. So we’ll fake your death -”
“My death?” squealed Mozzie.
“Yes, your death. And right afterwards, we’ll move you out of the country and you’ll assume your new identity.” Neal gave him an encouraging smile. “You should start thinking of a place you’d like. Since extradition’s not an issue, you have the whole world to choose from. I wouldn’t recommend Canada, Mexico, some of the European countries and China, but there are still plenty of options left for you. Maybe Australia? Or there are plenty other options - ”
“Australia.”
“Yeah, that’s -”
“You’re telling me to move to - Australia.”
Neal nodded. “Well, that’s one of the options - ”
“Neal, I don’t want to go to Australia!” exclaimed Mozzie in dismay. “Isn’t there - I don’t know. Isn’t there another way?”
“Well, what did you expect, Moz?” replied Neal, his patience beginning to run out. “You asked me to help you disappear, did you think it would be a walk in the park? You have a group of trained professionals after you -”
“Do I?”
Neal stilled. “What do you mean?”
Mozzie looked at him with such a self-doubt and anguish that Neal’s heart froze. “What if I’m - what if none of this is real? I mean, some crazy government people hunting me? Like that’s gonna happen. I’m a good scientist, Neal, but I’m not worth this. Besides, life’s not a spy novel. What if there’s no conspiracy there? What if it’s -” Mozzie paused.
“Yes?” asked Neal softly.
Moz looked away. “What if - you’ve heard of my condition. What if - you know, the delusions and paranoia - I haven’t been taking my pills in years,” he said abruptly. “They made me feel weird, and I thought that - but what if I’m making this up?”
Oh God.
Suddenly, Neal felt old and weary. “Moz -”
“Do I really have people after me?” interrupted him Mozzie. “Why are we running from place to place when we never even meet the people who are supposedly looking for me? And who are they anyway? This doesn’t make any sense!”
“How long has this been on your mind?” asked Neal gently.
Moz looked away. “Pretty much the whole week,” he mumbled dimly.
Neal closed his eyes, silently cursing himself for not foreseeing this.
He should have damn well known.
Releasing a mental sigh, he opened his eyes and looked back at his friend. “First of all, the fact that we haven’t yet run into anyone doesn’t mean that there is nobody after you - it means I’ve been doing a decent job on keeping us safe. If we had actually met the people who are looking for you, then we would have been in really big trouble.”
“But -”
“I’m serious.”
“But why? You always ran in close with the FBI,” opposed Moz with a frown. “I mean, all the times you told me about those hairbreadth escapes - jumping from moving trains, climbing the airshafts, running through fire escapes, parachuting from the French embassy - ”
“The good old days,” said Neal with a brief smile. Then he turned serious. “I was - younger, brasher, more arrogant… I played with fire, taunted my opponents - and I got caught. So however I used to wait until the FBI was closing in just for the thrill of it - that’s over now. From now on, if I have even the slightest suspicion that something’s wrong, we’re moving.” He gave Moz a small smile to take away some of the graveness of his statement. “I’m afraid that’s a no to the parachuting. Sorry if you were looking forward to that.”
There was a long pause.
“But how do you know it’s not all in my head?” asked Mozzie vulnerably.
“Because the night after we talked, I had a friend poke around,” answered Neal with a sigh. “She’s a hacker - one of the best. She specializes in uncovering corruption and the usual ugly business that some of the big corporations get involved in.”
“She fights for the commoners?”
“That’s one way of putting it,” Neal smirked. “We met a couple years back. I didn’t find out who she was until later. The point is, I asked her for a favor, so she checked out a few things for me.”
“And?” asked Mozzie.
“I didn’t really understand at first before I’ve done some research.” Neal ran a tired hand over his face. “Have you ever heard of MKUltra, MKDELTA or Operation ARTICHOKE?”
“Of course I’ve heard of them. Everybody knows those,” answered Mozzie dismissively. “It’s from the 1950s. Those were projects run by the CIA to research interrogation methods and mind control. Supposedly, they stopped in the 1970s. … I’ve got perfect recall,” he said in a defensive tone. “I stopped researching those theories years ago, but I couldn’t just forget what I already knew.”
“Hey, I believe you,” reassured him Neal. “Even if I didn’t, I’m not judging you.”
“Thanks, man,” replied Moz. “But I still don’t understand what - ”
Suddenly, he froze.
“You’re saying that - ” Mozzie paused. “I mean, after seeing the lab, I knew that - I thought it was possible, but… This can’t be true,” he whispered.
“I’m afraid it is.”
“But -”
“I’m sorry Moz,” said Neal gently.
“But - my research…” Mozzie gave Neal a desperate look. “I wanted to help people, Neal.”
“I know.”
“Did they use it? Did they use my research to - ”
“We can’t tell,” replied Neal grimly. “What’s important is that the CIA knows that you’ve come across their lab. That’s the reason why they want to catch you - to find out what you know, discover who you’ve talked to… silence you before you have the chance to divulge what you know to anyone else.”
For a moment, Mozzie stared into nothingness. Neal let him, giving him time and space to process what he had just learned.
“The CIA,” said Moz at last.
“It looks like it.”
“This isn’t just going away, is it.”
“No Moz. I’m sorry.”
Unexpectedly, Mozzie turned to him with a downcast expression in his face. “You didn’t really believe me when I told you what happened. That’s why you decided to check it out.”
“I believed you.”
“Oh please, Neal -”
“I believed you,” repeated Neal insistently. “I contacted Sally because I needed to know what we’re up against.”
“You don’t have to lie to me -”
“I’m not lying. Look, I might disagree with you about the Moon landing and some other things, but I trust you. I’d always listen to what you have to say. You’re family, Moz. Don’t you ever forget that.”
Mozzie searched his face for any sign of deception. Neal firmly held his stare, not giving away the slightest hint of doubts.
“Thank you, Neal,” he stated at last.
“You’re welcome.”
For a moment, there was silence.
Then Neal shook his head and the emotional moment passed. He looked back down at the passports. “Okay, I need to finish these. If you don’t mind -”
“Could you teach me?” asked Mozzie suddenly.
“What?”
“Could you teach me how to make an ID,” elaborated Mozzie. “They’re already treating me like a criminal. I thought that - maybe it might come in handy.”
For a moment, Neal considered the odd request. Then he gave a sharp nod.
“Okay.”
* * *
The storage unit was alighted by one sole light bulb. As he sat at their only table across to Neal, Mozzie glanced at his wristwatch: four minutes until midnight. Feeling both tired and irritated, Moz cast a longing look both at his bed (equipped with silk pajamas that protected him well enough from his atopic eczema and regular bed sheets that were a lost cause) and at the bottle of wine that Neal had confiscated when he had begun this grueling exercise.
“Where were you born?” asked Neal for the fourth time that night.
“In a small village in California. You wouldn’t have heard of it.”
“Where did you go to college?”
“I… didn’t. My uncle got me a job with his company. Neal, is this really -”
“My name’s not Neal,” interrupted him Neal firmly.
“Right, Eddie.” Mozzie just barely stopped himself from rolling his eyes. “But seriously? There’s no need for this. You know I have perfect recall, I can keep my facts straight -“”
“Facts aren’t enough. You’re taking on a whole new personality. You have to act like them, think like them, accept their beliefs and mannerism.”
Mozzie groaned. “I get it, okay? I’ll -”
“Back to Jack Specter,” said Neal relentlessly, and Mozzie wanted to scream.
Right, Jack Specter. He was second of the temporary identities that Neal has drafted for him. Thirty-six years old, photographer, a bit of a baseball fan, read newspapers every morning as he drank his cup of coffee. Unlike another two of his new aliases, Jack Specter knew Neal - knew “Jeremy Fields”, a reporter who worked at the same newspaper as “Jack”.
Neal waited for a moment before Mozzie reluctantly gave him a nod in confirmation that he was ready. “I’m good.”
“Okay.” Neal took a few seconds to give Mozzie an encouraging look before putting back the emotionless blank face. And the interrogation went on.
Twenty minutes later, after being caught in a contradiction for the fifth time that session, Mozzie’s bed and wine looked even more appealing.
“Wrong,” stated Neal with obvious annoyance. “How can you not recognize the town in the movie when you supposedly spent a year living there? You can’t - ”
“Okay! I’m sorry!” Mozzie tried to keep a level voice. “Let’s face it, Neal. I’m clearly a hopeless case -”
“No. No, I’m sorry,” replied Neal in a much softer tone. “I keep forgetting that you - I pushed too hard. You’re doing good, Moz.”
“I’m not. I keep screwing up.”
“That?” Neal snorted. “Most people wouldn’t have caught that slip even if they were paying full attention to you. If you were to be a front man in a con, that could be a problem, but - look, all we need is to stay off the radar while we travel. And you’re more than prepared for that.”
“Are you sure?” asked Mozzie.
“Absolutely.”
Mozzie bit the inside of his mouth before he nodded. “Thanks, Neal.”
Neal smiled. “Come on. I think that’s enough. Let’s open that Merlot.”
“Finally!” Mozzie perked up. Within seconds, he had his hands on the corkscrew and poured the wine into their glasses.
“To the perfect aliases,” stated Mozzie.
“To friends,” corrected him Neal gently.
Mozzie swallowed. “Right. To friends.”
They clinked the glasses.
“Is it always like this?” asked Mozzie suddenly.
“What?”
“This…”
The life that Neal had described before prison and even afterwards sounded exciting and glamorous; like he had continued playing their childhood games and never grown up. But the Neal across Moz was sharp, troubled with worry.
There were days when Moz had doubts about his life; so equable, so ordinary, so… common. Working fifty, sometimes more hours a week, doing a job that was usually frustrating, tedious and slow, with no clear reward in the end. Listening to the fascinating tales of Neal’s adventures, Mozzie had often wondered whether he was missing something. Although he was four years older than Neal, sometimes, he felt terribly inexperienced next to his friend. Neal had seen places and talked to more people in a week than Mozzie did in a month. But the last few days had made Moz understand about all the sacrifices that Neal had made with his life-choices.
“Is it worth it?” he asked.
It was a testimony to how well they knew each other that Neal understood the question. “Sometimes. Some days more than the others.” His next smile was both smug and mischievous. “Moments like holding the Starry Night in my own hands or walking off with the money of some pompous oil baron generally make for the highlights.” Since the big row that had occurred between them some ten years ago when Mozzie had first recognized the sketch of Neal’s face in the newspapers, Neal had never tried to downplay his criminal activities to his friend.
“And “consulting security”? How did that work out?”
“Better than I expected, actually,” replied Neal thoughtfully. “I didn’t think it would last, but… it turned out to be quite satisfying. I might have even stuck with it.”
“‘Might have’?” asked Mozzie.
Neal grimaced. “When Nicolas Herbert hired me, he - quote - “didn’t trust me as far as he could throw me, and that was being generous”. I didn’t exactly give them a notice when I left, so… Maybe my work for the company was getting too boring anyway.”
Mozzie stilled. “Wait, you’re telling me that… I got you fired.”
“What? No, of course you didn’t. Don’t be so dramatic,” said Neal dismissively with a smile. “More wine?”
“I’m not being dramatic, I…” Mozzie hesitated.
He wondered whether Neal regretted his choice to help him. His earlier question echoed in his mind - did Neal think that this was worth it?
“You were finally getting the life that you wanted,” he said at last. “I made things - complicated.”
“As if I’ve never done that to you before,” replied Neal lightly. “Do you really want me to recall all those times at high school?”
“It’s not the same!”
“Of course it’s not,” agreed Neal gravely. “You have the freaking CIA after you, Moz! Did you really think that anything would be more important to me than making sure that you’re all right?”
Silence.
“No,” said Mozzie at last. “I knew I could count on you. I was being stupid.”
“You should hold on to that thought.” Neal shook his head. “Don’t do it again.”
Mozzie poured them both more wine.
“So, what else is new with you?” asked Neal after a while, seemingly back at ease. “Any girls?”
“What does it matter if I have to leave her behind?” replied Mozzie bitterly.
There was a pause.
“It matters,” said Neal softly at last. “Even if you leave, your past is still a part of you. You and Ellen taught me that.”
Mozzie shook his head. “It seemed simpler back then. When you told me about your father and that you had to leave - I didn’t want to lose my friend.” He paused. “Neal… tell me the truth. If I go through with this…”
“You’ll have to cut all ties. Your dad, your cousins, Mr. Jeffries.... Your friends. Your job. Your girl. Me. This country.”
You’ll lose everything.
It was like someone hit Mozzie with a sledgehammer. He had known of course, but he hadn’t… known.
Mozzie stumbled up, almost knocking over his chair. “I need some air.”
“I’ll check the outside,” said Neal - but Mozzie was already grabbing his jacket and fumbling with the buttons as he made it out of the door into the dark alley. He couldn’t care less at the moment if it was dangerous or if he might be seen.
Mozzie leaned against the wall of the warehouse, staring at the starless sky. A moment later, Neal joined him in complete silence.
They stood like that for several minutes before Mozzie spoke up. “What if I took precautions. I could be really careful. I could - ”
“They’ll be watching everyone you hold dear. Even after you’re supposedly dead, they won’t stop. They’re smart; they know all the usual weaknesses of their fugitives. If you do this - they won’t be safe. No contact, Moz.” The harshness of Neal’s voice was tempered by the way he squeezed Mozzie’s hand in compassion.
Mozzie’s throat became incredibly thin. “You kept contact with Ellen,” he said accusingly.
“A brief phone call or a card maybe every two months… it’s still a risk to her,” replied Neal. “It’s been two decades and the Marshals are protecting her. … I know I’ll never forgive myself if one day it’s not enough.”
Mozzie shook his head. “Neal, I can’t… I need to be sure that they’re safe. My family… I need to know that…”
“I’ll try to think of something,” said Neal at last. “But I’m making no promises -”
Mozzie grabbed him into a bear hug. “Thanks,” he whispered roughly.
He was dimly aware that Neal was patting his back when he quietly suggested they head back inside. Wiping away the wetness from his eyes, Mozzie followed him into the warehouse.
The slam of the iron door was the sound of his past being smashed into pieces.
* * *
“Wow. You’re a fast learner,” said Neal in surprise when Mozzie made a victorious “yes!” and tossed him the opened padlock.
Mozzie’s smile fell a bit. “Well, I’m not really new to this. I might have lived on the streets for only a few weeks before Mr. Jeffries brought me back, but it’s still not the sort of stuff that you forget easily. And even forgetting that, living at the orphanage could get a bit rough sometimes. I learned to pick locks before I turned ten. … I thought I would be more rusty though.”
“Well, great job. Listen, I have to go. You have my number - any sign of trouble, call me. I’ll be back in two hours, okay?”
“Sure,” agreed Mozzie.
Neal flipped on his hat and smiled. “Great. See you later then.”
They had left the storage unit when Neal had finally been satisfied with their aliases. (And it had been high time - Mozzie’s sinuses truly hated the dust there). The hotel where they were staying at the moment was a much nicer and cleaner place - not to mention that it had TV, a shower and most importantly, wi-fi access. In five days, they were about to reach Phoenix. Then goodbye, Paul Handerson, and goodbye Mozzie, because even his childhood nickname could supposedly give him away. Enter… whatever name the identity doctor will have prepared for him.
He wasn’t prepared for this.
Neal was making plans for their move, thinking of the best way to keep them off-radar. And once again, Mozzie was left alone, feeling useless.
He wasn’t made for sitting around and doing nothing. After reading the newspaper, doing the crossword, watching news and reading the newspaper again, Mozzie had been ready to crawl up the walls. In the end, Neal had suggested that - in light of Mozzie’s relative success with his own faked IDs (which, as Neal had said, was a decent first-attempt - “if you were underage, you a might have been able to use this to buy some alcohol”) - he could continue his “education” as starting criminal mastermind. In the virtual book of “Criminal Skills 101”, that apparently meant lock-picking.
And so Neal had left him to play around with his own set of lockpicks and some locks that he found who-knows-where while he left for the streets to arrange things for the next step of their journey.
Which left Mozzie at the hotel to his own devices.
Moz was aware that Neal wouldn’t have liked what he was thinking about. What he was about to do was risky, but… he needed to know. And deep down, his friend would probably understand.
* * *
After he had left Mozzie at the hotel to play with his lockpicks, Neal had headed for the streets. He picked a few pockets and then when the cold started to seep through his cloak, he stopped at a local restaurant for an espresso. That was the one advantage of not being an official fugitive - as long as there weren’t cameras, he could pick any restaurant he liked, without worrying about being recognized and the cavalry being called. While the CIA was undoubtedly looking for him to get to Moz, they didn’t have any pretext to put his photo and his Wanted posters all over the United States.
When the waitress arrived with his coffee, Neal thanked her with a charming smile. He took a sip of the hot liquid, his hands immediately becoming warmer just from touching the cup. Within a few minutes, he felt much better and focused. Now, without Mozzie’s presence distracting him, it was time to plan and think.
Their resources were almost depleted.
Neal had had some cash and a couple of ATM cards stored at the “yellow safehouse” where he had met with Mozzie. However, living on the run was expensive, and they would need additional funds to buy Mozzie’s new identity, not to mention give him a decent start in whatever country he eventually chose. Which meant either accessing one of their usual accounts (not an option, since it could be traced), pulling a heist (too risky and way too flashy) or accessing one of Neal’s stashes. Neal had avoided the last option for as long as possible, not sure which of his places the FBI might possibly know about and could therefore be in their files and watched, but now it seemed that necessity was forcing his hand.
Very well then - they would make a stop at Nashville. It was almost on their way anyway.
Standing up, Neal paid for his coffee, leaving a decent tip. Then he walked out of the restaurant and easily became part of the crowd, one anonymous person lost in the sea of bodies.
Or at least, that is what should have happened.
A less-skilled person might not have noticed. However, there was a reason why Neal was regarded as one of the best thieves on the planet. His senses were screaming at him that someone was following him.
As soon as he found opportunity, he turned a corner, took off his hat and quickly crossed the street, where he pretended to stare at something in a storefront. In fact, he was staring at the reflection in the shop window, trying to spot the person who had been following him.
There!
A man in a long coat, with dark eyes and sharp face stopped at the crossroad with a hint of indecision. One glance at the alley, and then his attention turned to Neal in front of the shop window.
Not good.
Neal was pretty sure that the man had been in the restaurant. That, together with how easily he saw through his ruse spoke of a professional. Neal wasn’t sure whether he was CIA or someone else from the law enforcement alphabet soup, but it didn’t matter. He was bad news - and he was heading his way.
“Neal Caffrey -” called the men and reached into his coat.
Neal didn’t wait for anything else and bolted back into the main street.
And ran.
* * *
Using Neal’s laptop, Mozzie had connected to the hotel’s wi-fi network. At first, he just checked some of his favorite websites, careful in case that Neal might have forgotten something at the hotel room and return to retrieve it. Finally, he decided that he had waited long enough and made his move.
He opened the yahoo website, typed in “moz3260” and then the password.
His private email account opened before him. He ignored the spams and moved to the important things.
There was a short message from Mr. Jeffries, dated ten days back, asking how he was doing and thanking Moz for his latest donation. Another email from Mr. Jeffries, telling him that Mozzie’s father had contacted him about Mozzie’s whereabouts. And finally…
The first message was nine days old.
Hello Paul,
Where are you? Are you all right? Your colleagues called me that you didn’t come to work in two days and that they can’t get a hold of you. I tried to call you, but the line was dead. What is going on?
Your mom always told me how I worry too much… I know you can take care of yourself, and this is probably just a misunderstanding. I’m sure this is just old man’s anxiety, but you know how I have a bad feeling when I don’t know what’s going on. Please call me that you’re okay.
Love,
Dad
The second message was from seven days ago.
Paul -
What is going on? Please tell me you’re all right. I’m worried sick here.
Some people came to my house tonight. They said they were police and showed me a picture of you and Danny Brooks. They said you were in trouble and that they needed to find you, but they wouldn’t tell me anything else.
Something about them didn’t feel right, so I got rid of them as fast as I could… Did I make a mistake? What if something bad happened to you? Am I wasting precious time?
Whatever it is, we can handle it together. If it’s something with the police, I know a good lawyer who can help. Or if you can’t, then at least let me know you’re okay. Please, Paul, just call me.
Love,
Dad
Mozzie’s eyes began to water. He skimmed through the rest of the emails.
Paul -
Where are you? They called me from your work again…
Paul, someone’s been following me…
Paul, if you’re reading this, PLEASE reply to me…
The police came back again. I think they bugged the house…
I know you’re probably not reading this, but I can’t stop in case you are. I don’t know what’s going on anymore. I just hope you’re safe…
And all of the emails concluded with the familiar words: Love, Dad.
Mozzie stared at the blurred screen in a mixture of anguish and rage, barely able to make out the final lines of the last message. Finally, he wiped away the tears, stood up and took a ragged breath. But his rage didn’t diminish.
The rational corner of his mind told him that here he had the proof that this thing was real. The rest of him -
How dare they! How DARE they target his family!
Forgetting all caution, Mozzie took out the burner phone and dialed the familiar number that he could recall even in his sleep.
Twice, the phone rang empty. With the third ring, someone finally picked up.
“Who is this?” asked the familiar voice, shaded with incredible tiredness.
Mozzie swallowed. “Hey Dad…”
“PAUL?! My boy, is that really you?”
“Dad, I…”
“Thank God! I was so scared! What happened? Where are you?”
The tears now flew freely. “Dad, something happened… I have to leave. I’ll … it’ll be fine, I swear. I…”
“Paul? Son, you’re scaring me. Tell me what’s wrong.”
Mozzie closed his eyes as the cell phone trembled in his hand. The memories flew through his mind…
Being an awkward, distrustful thirteen-years old kid when he first walked into the Handerson's house. Then… setting up his own room… settling in… spending time together… all their holidays, the feeling when he’d been adopted… finally learning to call them mom and dad… and how proud his parents were at his commencement ceremony.
Mozzie opened his eyes - and stilled. He took a quick step closer to the window. For a moment, he thought that he had spotted … Was his mind playing tricks on him?
“Paul?”
“I have to go,” said Mozzie, his throat suddenly impossibly dry. “Thanks for everything. I love you.”
“PAUL -”
- but he had already hung up.
Putting the cell phone aside, Mozzie leaned closer to the window and looked down the street. He didn’t see anything suspicious, but his senses were already on high alert.
As he was about to call Neal, his cell phone rang on his own.
“Neal -”
“We have a problem,” an out of breath answer came from the other way.
“Oh, you’re a psychic,” exclaimed Mozzie humorlessly before he paused. “Are you running?”
“What? Never mind. The FBI has put out a warrant for me -”
“Oh. That’s not good.”
“Really, Moz? I wouldn’t have guessed! Listen -”
“There might be another problem,” interrupted him Mozzie flatly.
The panting on the other side slowed down. “What is it?”
Staring out of the window, Mozzie swallowed.
“The CIA is here. I think they just found us.”
“Shit!”
Well, that was encouraging.
“Are you okay? Where are you?” asked Neal a moment later.
“In the hotel room. I spotted some of the people who came to my apartment outside the hotel.”
“Did they see you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Okay. Go and lock the main door.”
“What? Neal, I don’t think that’s gonna be -”
“Just do it, Moz!”
Mozzie swallowed. “Okay.”
He locked the door. “What next?”
“Put something heavy behind them… the armchair should be good enough.”
“That’s not -”
“Do you trust me, Moz?”
Mozzie took a shaky breath. “You know I do.”
“Then trust me with this, okay? It’s gonna be fine, I promise.”
“Okay.”
Breathing heavily, Mozzie finally managed to push the old solid armchair behind the door. “You know, some explanation would be good here. I don’t think the CIA are going to tire out by just waiting behind the closed door. Neal, how the hell will I get out?”
“Don’t worry, you’ll be taking a different way. Now, open the window and push away the things from around the inner frame. When you’re done, go to our beds and pull off the bed-sheets.”
Mozzie did a double-take. “Excuse me? Neal, I’m not climbing out of the window!”
“No you’re not.”
“Then what -”
Neal smiled. “But the CIA will think that you are.”
* * *
The cupboard in the bathroom looked completely innocent.
His tongue sticking out and cold sweat running down his back, Mozzie hurriedly used the butter knife to unscrew the last small bolt - and prayed that Neal had been correct in his assumption. If the cupboard didn’t go all the way through the wall as Neal had said, then he might still be left to tying up a makeshift rope from the bedsheets that were now stuck in one of the wardrobes and attempting an escape through the window. Mozzie’s vivid imagination immediately created a perfect image of him splattered all over the hard concrete outside - no thanks.
He peeled away the paste board and revealed a dark hole behind it.
“Oh.”
After quickly climbing through, Mozzie randomly rearranged the toothbrushes and dentifrice from the other side. Then he closed the cupboard door and put back the pasteboard as well as he could. He was almost done when he heard a noise coming from the apartment. He froze.
Thud.
Thud!
THUD!!!
Something broke.
For a few seconds, Mozzie just stood there and listened to the sounds of someone breaking inside. Then his brain finally caught up.
‘Run, you fools!’
Neal would have liked the classics, thought Moz.
He looked down the darkened hall. He had no idea where it led, except that it was away from the CIA agents who had just made it into his apartment.
Mozzie ran.
* * *
Part III - On LJ | On DW