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Caffrey had certainly done well for himself. The late 19th Century architecture had been scrupulously maintained, and Neal’s eye for design was evident in all the personal touches he’d scattered throughout the apartment. Nate opened a set of the French doors, and stepped out onto the spacious balcony. It was high enough that the noise and bustle of Riverside drive was an energizing sort of white noise, instead of a perpetual distraction.
“You certainly have an unorthodox way of asking for help.” Quinn followed him outside. “Do you have some kind of guarantee we’re not going to get shot for breaking in here?”
Nate snorted softly. “You want guarantees, you’re running with the wrong crowd.” He was happier than was probably sane to see the flash of unease in the hitter’s expression. The team had insisted that he contact Quinn as soon as Eliot had raised the red flag. Nate’s preference would have been to stick with cashing in the favor Caffrey and his FBI handler owed him, and not involve the outside muscle.
”I know you’ve outsmarted him before,” Sophie had argued, ”but this is a man who has his own private army of Eliots following his every command without question. Forgive me if I’d feel more comfortable letting you go into this mess with some proper back-up.”
It wasn’t like she was wrong. Nate could own the fact that the last time he’d gone up against Gutman he’d won by exploiting the kind of loophole the man didn’t often leave lying around. And now, with Eliot’s life potentially on the line…
He tensed, hearing the door open and voices beyond. Quinn automatically moved between Nate and the newcomers – standing far enough to one side that he didn’t block Nate’s line of sight. “I’m telling you – Alex wouldn’t steer us wrong. Not about the possibility of a lost Degas. She knows what that would mean to you.”
Mozzie. Nate’s brain helpfully supplied the name of the smaller bald man who entered the apartment first. Sidekick, mentor – his own experiences of the man suggested that Nate wasn’t going get much, if any, interference with his proposal. He walked forward a few steps, putting himself even with Quinn.
Neal spotted them first – his arm immediately went out, stopping Mozzie and urging the smaller man behind him. “How did you get in here?” Nate smiled, watching the moment it took Neal to recognize him. “Ford – what the hell?”
“I need your help.”
*************************
He didn’t want them here, in his home, but Neal motioned Ford and his associate – a man introduced as ‘Mr. Quinn’ – back in off the balcony. “What could somebody like you need with me?” he asked, gesturing them all to seats around his table. Mozzie went immediately to the wine rack and selected a bottle; Neal couldn’t bear to see which one he’d grabbed.
His conscience was screaming at him to call Peter, but Neal took his own seat instead. No harm hearing what he has to say. He did owe Nate Ford – and by extension his associate Eliot Spencer – for getting him out of a situation that would have left him in maximum security prison for the rest of his life. Or dead, he thought, unable to suppress a shudder.
Ford looked as though he was going to comment on Neal’s assessment of him, but then he said, “What do you know about a man named Gutman?”
“Black market art and antiquities,” Neal said, tracing a lazy shape on the table top with one finger. “His clients all have a net worth of eight figures or more, and he’s one of the few dealers in the business known to be aggressively proactive in his acquisitions.”
“You’re known to him,” Ford said. “What is your experience with the man?”
Neal blew out a quiet breath, debating with himself how much he wanted to share up front without talking to Peter. “How about you tell me why you broke into my apartment to interrogate me first?” He forced himself to meet Ford’s gaze, even though it was direct enough to make him extremely uncomfortable.
Ford was silent for a moment, then he nodded. “Fair enough. Eliot is missing. All my available intel says that Gutman is responsible.”
“And you think I can help you get him back?” Neal snorted. “If Gutman has enough of a grudge against Spencer to take him, what makes you think he’s still alive?”
The newcomer - Quinn, Neal reminded himself – leaned forward. “Eliot has more than a few enemies out there. Gutman wouldn’t kill him if he thought he could make a few bucks selling him to somebody else to do the job.”
Neal swallowed. What Quinn was saying made a painful amount of sense. “I never dealt with Gutman directly. He would send people to me for forgeries to replace whatever they were after. If museums weren’t aware that anything had been stolen…”
“There would be less heat chasing the genuine item,” Ford finished. “We need you as an in to get to Gutman. I’ve got one of my people positioned to act as a prospective client. Quinn here will be the retrieval specialist, but he’s not known to Gutman the way you are.” He paused, smirking slightly. “You’re also considerably less threatening. He’ll be more likely to drop his guard with you.”
“You’re forgetting one thing,” Neal countered, sliding his leg out and pulling on his trouser just enough to show his ankle bracelet. “I’m also on a two mile leash. You need my help, but I’m no good to you unless Peter says it’s okay.”
*********************************
One thing about working with Nathan Ford – it was never boring. Quinn watched quietly as Ford laid out his plan to have Hardison spoof the signal from Neal’s anklet so that the FBI would be none the wiser. “We’re set up to have Agent Burke and his wife leave town on an all-expenses paid weekend get-away, so there will be no chance of him coming by to ‘check’ on you.”
Quinn knew Caffrey by reputation. It was the kind of story that caught the imagination; the kid had been one of the best in the business before getting hauled off to prison and convinced to turn his considerable talents to the service of the man who had brought him down.
Learning that he had a more intimate history with Eliot had been something of a surprise. Quinn had spent most of the years Eliot had been Damien Moreau’s right hand in the Middle East, but even he’d heard the story of the “petty thief” who’d taken up with Moreau’s kid sister Katerina. It was just another example of how strangely Nate Ford came at the world that he thought someone who had been Eliot’s victim once upon a time would be interested in helping them save him.
Caffrey shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m done lying to Peter. If you can convince him, I’m willing to help you any way I can.”
Silence fell across the table, and for a moment Quinn had no idea what Nate was going to do. Involving the FBI in something questionable like this, when all of them were wanted for one thing or another in different jurisdictions across the globe wasn’t tactically smart.
“Call him,” Nate said. Neal immediately got to his feet, pulling out his phone and moving into the sitting area. Nate watched him go, then pushed back from the table, stood, and went back out on the balcony.
Quinn looked across the table at Mozzie, who picked up his glass again and drained it. “I don’t understand it either,” he said, standing and going towards the kitchen for a refill. After wondering for about the hundredth time what he’d gotten himself into, Quinn went to join Nate on the balcony.
“Do you have a plan B?” he asked, joining the mastermind at the railing.
The corners of Nate’s mouth twitched upwards in a genuinely surprised smile. “Plan B went out the window before we landed at JFK. We’re somewhere around Plan G – which I didn’t want to pull the trigger on, but isn’t a tragedy.”
“You think you can convince the FBI agent to play ball?”
Nate did look at him then, and Quinn was abruptly reminded of something Eliot had told him. “It’s like he’s some kind of psychic – seeing every secret you’ve got, no matter how deep you think you’ve buried them.” “The kind of money I’m paying you for your help usually satisfies most people’s curiosity,” he said.
Quinn shrugged, not taking the comment personally at all. “Most people couldn’t give you the kind of guarantee I have. You’re paying me to get Eliot back. Whether it’s by one of your plans, or something more…direct…that’s what you’re going to get.”
Neal appeared at the French doors then, interrupting anything Nate might have said in reply. “Peter’s on his way over.”
**************************
It took just under twenty minutes for Peter to appear at his door step. “You shouldn’t have let them in,” were the first words out of his mouth as he crossed the threshold.
“Point of fact he didn’t,” Nate said, drawing Peter’s attention immediately. “And Neal was the one that insisted you be called in.” Neal was abruptly grateful for the support – the suspicious look Peter had thrown him when he’d opened the door had stung deep.
“So what’s this all about then?” Peter asked, taking in Quinn and Mozzie as he looked around the apartment. Before Neal could say anything, Nate maneuvered the conversation – and Peter – out onto the balcony; shutting the doors behind them.
“Okay then,” Neal snorted, throwing up his hands. “Mozzie, pour me some of that.” He glanced at Quinn. “You want anything?”
The bigger man shrugged. “You don’t strike me as a beer drinker.”
Neal managed to keep from rolling his eyes, but it was a near thing. “It’s a hitter thing, right?” he asked, going to his refrigerator and taking out one of the bottles he kept on hand for when Peter was around and in the mood to drink.
“Not a lot of room for wine drinkers in the military,” Quinn said, accepting the beer with a quick nod of thanks. He glanced briefly at the label, then twisted the top off and took a drink. “That’s where most of us started.”
The revelation made sense. “How’d they draw you into this?” he asked, getting his own glass from Mozzie and taking a sip.
“Ever since Eliot got out of the game, I’m the best there is,” Quinn said simply. Neal flinched, only belatedly realizing that he was unconsciously rubbing the faint scar that diagonally bisected his right palm. He knew the game, knew first-hand the kind of work Eliot Spencer had done, and knew what it meant for Quinn to claim he was the best.
He glanced out where Peter and Nate were still talking. No matter what kind of debt he might owe Ford for helping save his life, his debts with Spencer had been squared with that rescue, and on some level he knew he was genuinely afraid of working in close quarters with anyone like that ever again.
“He’s a friend.”
Neal blinked, startled to realize how far he’d checked out of the conversation. Quinn was still watching him though. “As far as somebody like me can have one,” he went on, “Eliot Spencer is a friend. And I’ll do whatever it takes to bring him home safe.”