Work Text:
We are never deceived; we deceive ourselves.
Johann Wolfgang von Goethe 1749-1832
Peter leaned back in his chair in the conference room as he studied Neal. The conman was comfortable with the scrutiny, and placidly continued putting his brush to a canvas upon which he was replicating Renoir’s famous work, “Luncheon of the Boating Party.” The large original painting by the celebrated French Impressionist was positioned nearby, and Neal glanced at it from time to time. At other times, he would peer intently at a particular area before returning to his own easel. The subject matter of the masterpiece was complicated and intricate, combining figures, still life, and landscape all in one work. The busy scene depicted a group of Renoir’s friends relaxing on a balcony at the Mason Fournaise along the Seine in Chatou, France. Painted in the late 1800s, it portrayed a richness of form, a fluidity of brush stroke, a flickering light, and it was magnificent. It was also far from home.
The “Luncheon of the Boating Party,” was normally ensconced in Washington, DC as part of the celebrated Phillips Collection of renowned artwork of the late 19th century. It had traveled to New York to be temporarily displayed at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. The Met’s curator had made sure there had been lots of press hype about the upcoming event, and perhaps that was the impetus behind the current problem. Chatter on the streets had reached the FBI indicating that a vague international cadre of art thieves was planning a heist at some point during the painting’s month-long stay.
The FBI shared their intel with the venerable New York museum, and the institution made immediate arrangements to tighten their security. However, their anxiety continued to ratchet up a few notches each day as the date of the installation neared. When the piece had come to New York a full week ahead of the opening date, the Met requested that it be securely locked within the confines of the FBI.
The higher ups in the FBI were similarly apprehensive. After all, they had been alerted of a possible impending theft, and, if they were impotent in preventing that theft, they would be perceived as inept fools. Then a nameless somebody high up on the food chain hatched a brilliant idea. The FBI had valuable tools at their disposal—one such tool being the most talented forger on the planet. In their infinite wisdom, they mandated that Neal Caffrey should produce a reproduction of the painting. That replica could be the one displayed to the public while the original masterpiece remained under lock and key in the evidence room of the FBI. The valuable painting would remain safe and sound until the end of the month when the curator could come, collect it, and arrange to send it on its way back to DC.
The Metropolitan Museum of Art was approached with the proposal, and was reluctant to go along with the plan. Their reputation was at stake if the fact that they were displaying a fake ever became public knowledge. The board of directors of the museum met several times behind closed doors to debate the issue at length. At times, the discussions became heated. Eventually, pragmatic, savvy heads challenged their reluctant counterparts with hard truths. The Met received valuable pieces of art on loan from very wealthy individuals quite often. These were the same patrons who were also extremely generous with their endowments. If their masterpieces suddenly went missing, “that” was a reputation that the institution could not well-afford. New “on-loan” acquisitions would surely dry up as well as a lot of much-needed revenue.
Finally, a counter proposal was reached that seemed to satisfy everybody. The FBI could have their resident artist produce his painting. The Met’s curator and art expert would view the work after it was completed and would have the final say as to its quality. If it met his exacting standards, then they would consider utilizing the reproduction. For their own peace of mind, all board members agreed to sign a non-disclosure agreement if they went ahead with the ruse.
So, that is how Neal came to be painting a masterpiece in the conference room. Being artistically finicky, he had insisted that he would provide the proper supplies himself. Mozzie knew somebody who knew somebody who could obtain canvas, wooden stretchers, and paints from the late 1800s. An accurate, era-appropriate representation of the frame surrounding the work was not necessary, however. When the painting was being readied for transport from Washington, it was discovered that the old and dry wood had become brittle. Pieces were in danger of splintering. The frame was removed temporarily for restoration, and now the picture was encased in a simple metal border.
The “powers that be” insisted that Neal should never be left alone with the painting while copying it. At the end of his work each afternoon, the original was secured in the evidence locker. Most of the time, it was Peter who babysat during the daytime endeavor. He would relax with his case files spread out on the table in front of him, but, if he was honest, it was mesmerizing and more fun observing Neal doing what Neal did best. The young man worked with amazing speed, and when Peter remarked on that, Neal was only too happy to tell him that Renoir once painted a portrait of composer Richard Wagner, at his home in Palermo, Sicily, in just thirty-five minutes. Peter sometimes wondered at the depth of Neal’s intellect. He was like the original “Renaissance Man,” with so much knowledge and talent crammed into his dark head.
Actually, it had only taken Neal three days to finish his project. All that remained to be done was the signature down in the lower right hand corner. As Neal was copying the name “Renoir,” Peter couldn’t help himself.
“Are you sure that you haven’t included an ‘NC’ somewhere in that forgery?”
Neal favored Peter with a patient smile. “Now Peter, it’s not a forgery. You told me to produce a perfect copy of the painting and that’s what I’ve done.”
Peter ignored him. “Well, maybe there’s not an ‘NC’ in that busy scene, but perhaps one of your other friends’ initials instead. You once told me that you considered all of your past aliases to be your friends.”
“I did tell you that,” Neal agreed good-naturedly.
Peter was thoughtful. “Exactly how many aliases did you have in your heyday, Neal? We had definitely identified seventeen. Were there more that we missed?”
Neal’s smile was an enigma. “If the respected FBI says there were seventeen, then who am I to argue?” Actually, there had been more like thirty-plus names, but he was not about to enlighten Peter of that fact.
“I’ll bet it really pissed you off when we would burn one of them,” Peter chortled smugly.
Neal grinned. “Yeah, Moz and I would always ‘bend an elbow’ at the wake and mourn its passing. It became sort of a tradition.”
Then Neal’s expression turned impish as he added, “Mozzie and I were in Sweden when you and your cohorts ruined good old Sven Gunderson. I actually fashioned a small balsa sailing ship that held a tiny rendering of Sven’s name in calligraphy. We pushed the little boat out into the North Sea after we set his funeral pyre ablaze. As Viking funerals go, it was really quite tasteful.”
Peter laughed out loud this time. “Neal, I must say, being around you is never dull.”
**********
With the painting now finished, it was time for the delicate job of aging. Neal insisted that he had a man who was a genius at the task. When it was returned to the FBI conference room after being “baked” for the appropriate length of time, Peter was suitably impressed. When viewed by the curator of the Met, it passed with flying colors.
“I am beyond amazed, Mr. Caffrey! Your work is truly astounding. I don’t believe even I could tell the difference,” the art expert effusively exclaimed as he stared at Neal’s doppelgänger.
Neal hung his head and smiled shyly, “You are too kind, sir. This is but my most humble attempt to emulate the masters.”
Peter just rolled his eyes.
The last thing that needed to be done was have “Luncheon of the Boating Party” encased in a metal frame. Peter delegated that responsibility to Diana at the end of the day.
“There is a framer on 3rd Avenue who is staying open tonight to await this painting. He is going to rush the job so that we can get it back as soon as possible,” her boss told her. Peter was in a hurry to morph into the role of attentive husband. Tonight was his and El’s anniversary, and he was on his way home to pick up his wife. They had an early reservation at that little Italian bistro that held so many memories for them.
Diana had gotten as far as her car with the painting when Mozzie came rushing up to her. He had little Theo secured in the Baby Bjorn carrier on his chest. The intense, bald man loved caring for his little namesake from time to time, and Diana had finally given in and allowed Mozzie to fill in as Theo’s part-time nanny. So far, it had worked out better than Diana had anticipated. However, now there seemed to be some sort of problem and she was concerned.
“Lady Suit,” Mozzie began in a rushed tone, “I’m glad that I caught you. Theo has been out of sorts for most of the day. This afternoon, he started pulling at his ear, and I am afraid that it might be the beginning of an ear infection. I took the liberty of alerting his pediatrician and the man wants to take a look to head off a full-blown case of otitis media. Of course, I can’t take him for treatment because it has to be a parent…HIPPA regulations and all that, you know.”
Diana suddenly looked flummoxed and torn. Mozzie noted the bulky package in her hands.
“Is there something that I can help with so that you can tend to your son?” Mozzie asked innocently.
“It’s really important that I get this painting to the framer tonight. He’s waiting on it as we speak,” Diana explained.
“Is that Neal’s painting?” Mozzie queried in a nonchalant tone.
Diana nodded. “We’re on a tight schedule here. It really needs to reach the framing studio tonight.”
“Well, I can certainly help you out with that. Which framer was it again?” Mozzie pushed.
Diana hesitated. Finally, she rationalized that nothing bad could happen. After all, it wasn’t the real painting, just Neal’s rendition of it. So, she quickly exchanged the unwieldy canvas for her squirming son and, at Mozzie’s insistent urging, hurried off to the pediatrician.
Amazingly, the painting was returned later that very night to a quiet and dimly lit FBI office. To be precise, it was actually the wee hours of the morning when just a few probies, paying their dues, were staffing the night shift. Overcoming his anathema of ever setting foot in these environs, Mozzie, nonetheless, took the elevator to the 21st floor. Buttonholing one of the young junior G-Men, Mozzie pushed the large canvas into his hands.
“I was on a mission for Agent Berrigan,” he said very seriously. “She wanted this returned as soon as possible and locked up tight in the evidence room. Can I trust you with this?”
Mozzie couldn’t help but notice how the young junior agent ‘wanna-be’ cringed at the mention of Diana’s name. Obviously, she had a reputation among the lowly serfs in White Collar. Mozzie almost felt some remorse for what he was setting in motion, but not enough to stop.
“Of course!” the eager young man answered quickly. “I’ll take care of that right now and let her know in the morning that this valuable evidence is secure.”
When the unsuspecting fall guy entered the evidence room, he noted that there was a duplicate painting already there. With competent efficiency, he carefully placed the new evidence right along side of the first one, and then confidently returned to his desk knowing with certainty that all was safe for the duration.
**********
All hell broke loose in the morning! Peter was scowling, Diana looked stricken, and Jones was perplexed and scratching his head. When she had first arrived in the office, Diana had been told by an over-zealous underling that “some guy” had delivered a framed picture to the FBI, and it had been dutifully placed into the evidence locker for safekeeping. That is where the trio of federal agents was now standing looking at two identical “Luncheon” scenes! None of the three had any idea which was the original and which was the copy.
“We’ll just have to wait for Caffrey to come in and differentiate between the two,” Peter stated in a positive tone, although he was not feeling the least bit reassured.
When Neal, coffee in hand, did make his appearance later in the morning, he was met by an anxious-looking welcoming committee. He was immediately apprised of the situation and given his assignment—Sort It Out Now!! Both paintings were then placed side by side in the familiar conference room that had served as his atelier for the past three days. Neal made a crack that the two paintings looked like Siamese twins, but that little remark fell flat. You could almost cut the tension in the air with a knife.
Neal labored for several long hours, utilizing a powerful magnifying glass. Next, a Woods lamp and a microscope, borrowed from the Metropolitan Museum, came into play. Finally, he delivered the bad news.
“I’m really sorry, Peter, but they just look the same to me.”
His handler was none too pleased. “Neal, how can you not recognize your own work?”
“Peter,” the con artist began with a sigh, “you told me to make it perfect, and that’s exactly what I did. Don’t lay this fiasco at my doorstep.”
“Okay, okay,” the FBI relented. “I know that I need to own this debacle. I’ll bite the bullet and call Bancroft to deliver the verdict, and then I’ll probably be coming back to my office to pack up my things.”
**********
Right after lunch, Peter appeared on the little balcony outside of his office and summoned Neal with the two-fingered point. When the conman stepped inside of Peter’s door and took in his friend’s traumatized expression, he asked timidly, “Are you now on the breadline, Peter? Should I be helping you dust off your resume?”
Peter took a breath and plunged ahead with a clarification. “Bancroft wasn’t very happy with our little peccadillo, but, in his infinite wisdom, he has offered us a lifeline. An expert in French Impressionists will be arriving later this afternoon to weigh in with an evaluation. He’s coming up from Washington on an afternoon train.”
Now it was Neal’s turn to become pale and look stricken. “No, Peter! Just no! Tell me it isn’t who I think it is!”
Peter looked resigned. “Yeah, it is. Kramer is on his way. Apparently, he was the original authenticator of the piece when the Phillips Gallery first acquired it.”
Neal was quick to respond. “Peter, I believe that lunch is suddenly playing havoc with my digestive tract. I think I may need to go home and go to bed for the rest of the day.”
Peter tiredly rewarded him with a sardonic smirk. “Just cowboy up, Neal, and take some Pepto Bismol. If I have to face my old mentor after all the chaos that he caused in our lives, then you are going to be right by my side, Buddy. Misery loves company!”
After Neal thought it over, maybe meeting Kramer face to face would be entertaining. The manipulative, old fart would probably be infuriated to see the con artist once again entrenched in his comfortable little niche in the FBI office, even after Kramer had maliciously tried to steal him away. To add insult to injury, the duplicitous bastard had also set a bounty hunter on him for good measure. Yet Neal had lived to fight another day despite the best efforts of Kramer and his posse. Hah!
Yeah, it might be worth it to see if people still gnashed their teeth.
**********
As ominously predicted, Philip Kramer pushed through the doors of the White Collar office late that afternoon. Of course, Neal, whose desk was closest to the entrance, was the first person that he encountered.
“Caffrey!” the aging agent snarled with a frown.
“Agent Kramer,” Neal returned the acknowledgement as he rose from his seat to face the man. This time, the banalities of pseudo-etiquette handshakes were jettisoned. Neal tried to be as irritating as possible by pasting on his widest and falsest smile.
“Why doesn’t it surprise me,” Kramer continued snidely, “that you are behind this latest little con? Petey refuses to see you for who you really are. But I’m on to your little charade, and have been since the start.”
“Now Agent Kramer, I think that you have the wrong impression. I was merely doing my part to help the FBI in any way that I could.” Keep this up, jackass, Neal mused to himself, ‘cause I can do this all day and not break a sweat!
Fortunately, Peter had been watching for his old mentor’s arrival and intervened before things got truly ugly. “Phil,” he intoned seriously. “Sorry that you had to come all this way. Why don’t we go up to the conference room so that we don’t waste anymore of your valuable time than is necessary?”
With that being said, the two men turned and made their way towards the steps leading up to the room that now was home to some ignominious contents. Neal trailed along behind hoping that his presence would be more of an aggravation, and that he would be afforded additional opportunities to be obnoxious.
Upon seeing the duplicate representations in the room, Kramer squinted his eyes as he stared at them from a distance. Then he grunted and squinted some more as his nose practically touched the surfaces of each one. Finally, he stood back and began covering his ass.
“If the original wood frame was still intact and had accompanied the painting, this would have been absolutely no challenge at all. We could have just tested the age of a small piece and been done with it. However, I’m going to venture a guess that you, Mr. Caffrey, obtained historically accurate materials before you began your little endeavor.”
“And you would be correct, Sir, right down to the binders and glues of the painting’s stretchers and supports. Of course, the authenticity of the canvas and pigments goes without saying. If one is tasked with a job to do, then one must be cognizant of the requirements and precise in their execution. I am quite the stickler for legitimacy.” The companionable smile never left Neal’s face. Peter just stifled a groan.
“So am I, Mr. Caffrey, so am I,” Kramer intoned threateningly. “Make no mistake; I will get to the truth. Now, if the two of you will give me some solitude, perhaps I can begin.” If looks could kill, Neal would have been dead ten times over.
**********
Kramer squinted and stared for the rest of the day. He returned the next morning and stared and squinted some more. Peter and Neal left him to it and went to lunch at a nearby café.
“Why do you think that he’s not using a monochromatic light or infrared reflectography?” Neal remarked to Peter. “Those tools would give him some information as to whether there were underlying drawings, or if one of the paintings was ever touched up or restored. We know that those things would not be found in my work, but nobody is sure about the original Renoir.”
“I can sum it up for you in one word, Neal—Ego,” Peter answered in a wry tone. “Actually, make that a Colossal Ego. Add to that an ax to grind, and there you have Phil Kramer in a nutshell. He wants to show us up as inept clowns by simply employing his superior artistic eye. He sees himself riding into town on his white charger and saving the day.”
Neal thought this over for a second. “Actually, I see him more as ‘Snidely Whiplash,’ twirling his mustache and sneering after he’s tied ‘Little Nell’ to the railroad tracks.”
**********
The two partners returned to the Bureau in silent dread. By late afternoon, both men were summoned to the conference room. Kramer was like a little Bantam rooster, chest all puffed out and self-satisfied.
“Gentleman, this is the actual Renoir original,” he stated emphatically while pointing to the painting on the left. “I have no doubt of its veracity.”
Peter glanced at Neal and noted a fleeting look of smugness on the conman’s face that gave the FBI agent pause. However, before he could ruminate on its meaning, Kramer continued with his pronouncement.
“To keep you two cock-ups from causing anymore mayhem, I have permanently adhered a small microchip to the frame of the original.”
Neal and Peter both leaned in to take note of a tiny little metal ring unobtrusively attached to the bottom of the steel frame.
“Isn’t that just adorable,” Neal chirped. “The painting has its own little tracking anklet.”
Kramer just ignored him. “I have wasted enough of my valuable time here, and I need to get back to Washington. Make no mistake, Neal, I have my ear to the ground, and I will be keeping tabs on you.” Kramer tried to sound threatening.
Neal just smiled. “It’s very sweet of you to worry about my welfare, Agent Kramer. You are so very kind! I’ll have to view you as my benevolent Dutch uncle from now on.”
The older man just harrumphed and mumbled under his breath as he gathered his coat and made his way out.
“I think ‘Elvis has left the building,’” Neal said sotto voice.
Peter just contemplated his CI speculatively and said nothing.
**********
Kramer’s designated untagged “Neal” painting was installed with much fanfare at the Met on the day of the opening. It stayed for the entire month without one attempt to steal it. Art patrons, however, turned out in impressive numbers. They crowded the museum to get a look, and found themselves entranced by its intricacy and innate creative appeal. Renoir was an artist for the masses of his day, and his popularity continued into the current century. No one suspected that what captivated them may have been created just days before. Everyone at the museum, as well as the FBI, breathed a sigh of relief when it was all over. They were only too pleased when the original, with its tag intact, was crated and on its way back to the Phillips Gallery in the nation’s capitol. The duplicate painting that had been displayed at the Met was dutifully returned to the FBI office.
Peter’s gut instinct that something wasn’t right continued, although Neal gave him no evidence to substantiate his feeling of unease. The agent had just returned from seeing the parcel off at the airport when he passed Neal by the elevator on his way home. Strapped on his back was a long art-carrier tube. Peter looked at his CI suspiciously, although he already had a pretty good idea what was inside.
“Whatcha got in there, Neal?” Peter asked with raised eyebrows.
Neal stared back innocently. “Oh, I just dismantled the metal frame from the poor orphan painting that’s been left behind, and am taking it somewhere to give it a good home.”
Peter tried to look menacing, but Neal kept on talking.
“What’s the matter, Peter? Don’t you think that I am entitled to it? When the FBI requested a painting, I generously provided all the materials and did all the work, not that I’m asking the Bureau for a dime. But, truthfully, I’ve grown kind of fond of this old thing.” Neal had a tiny challenging smile in place as he matched Peter’s stare.
Peter continued to glare at Neal. “What if the FBI is just not comfortable with a perfect replica of a famous masterpiece floating around out there? Suppose we demand that it be destroyed?”
Neal’s smile never dimmed. “Peter, I was under the impression that the FBI wanted to preserve great artwork, so I’m sure that they wouldn’t want to cause the destruction of any paintings that might be ‘floating around out there.’”
Neal knew that Peter knew, and they both knew that, thanks to Kramer’s erroneous pronouncement, there was nothing that Peter could do about it. It had been one long con, from the whispered rumors on the street of an impending theft, to Neal’s confidence in Kramer’s hubris. The con artist was relying on the conceited art authenticator not utilizing more definitive investigative tools. His odds were 50/50 that Kramer would make the wrong choice when deciding which painting was the original masterpiece. That’s what that fleeting, smug little smile signified. Neal knew that ultimately, he had won and Kramer had lost.
The elevator dinged as the doors opened and Neal stepped inside. Peter just stood in place staring at the closing doors until Diana approached him and asked what was going on.
Finally, Peter turned and said wryly, “Thanks to an assist from a pompous old fool, a very brazen Neal Caffrey has just walked out of the White Collar office with an original Renoir!”