Okay, so . . . this isn't exactly undercover, but that is surely where it is going. And this is way too long for a 3SF, but it was fun. :)
“I don’t like this, Neal,” Peter muttered as they arrived at Mozzie’s Thursday residence. His arms were full of ledgers, as were Neal’s. “Bringing in outsiders is not a good idea. I don’t know anything about this guy.”
Neal sighed impatiently. “Peter, we have account books written in five languages, two of which are Arabic and Farsi, which I don’t speak. I can get you the French, Hebrew, and Swahili - most of it - but the rest is gibberish to me. We have an international antiquities smuggling ring that is moving a shipment tomorrow, and we don’t know where or when! You know it will take the Bureau way too long to translate it all, and Kirk will gladly help. I’ve helped him in the past; he likes me. Just - don’t ask too many questions.”
“Neal,” Peter said angrily as Neal rang the doorbell. “Do you even know what this Kirk does for a living? He could turn around and tip them off!”
“He could,” Neal acknowledged coolly, “but he won’t. He has a surprisingly straight moral compass for someone who works in a lot of gray areas.”
The door latch clicked, and Mozzie appeared in the doorway. “Neal,” he said with a smile. “Suit,” he added, his expression closing off noticeably.
“Hey, Mozz. Were you able to reach Kirk?” Neal asked, stepping in as Mozzie opened the door all the way.
“I was. Right this way,” Mozzie said, gesturing toward the living room. Neal hurried ahead, and Peter tightened his lips and followed.
As they all emerged in the living room (which was, Peter noticed, the polar opposite of Tuesday; this living room was all cozy wood and carvings), a dark-haired, dark-eyed man turned around from the fireplace. Neal set his pile of books down on the large desk, and a bright smile broke across his face.
“Kirk! It’s been forever. How are you?” Neal said warmly, reaching out his arms.
“It has been,” Kirk said, stepping into Neal’s hug and returning it warmly. “It’s good to see you, Neal.” He stood back and appraised Neal, looking him up and down. “Going straight suits you; you look happy.”
“Well, not entirely straight,” Neal demurred, making a face. “Being a CI wouldn’t be nearly so fun if I wasn’t working both sides.”
“Always looking for some adventure,” Kirk chuckled. He looked over Neal’s shoulder to catch Peter’s eye.
“Agent Burke,” he said, extending a hand. “Kirk Rilian. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard many good things about you.”
Peter was willing to bet that if he traced that name, he would find a whole history that was entirely or mostly fabricated. He looked at Neal, who held up his hands. “Not from me, Peter. Kirk has his own channels.”
Peter cautiously reached out and gave Kirk’s hand a brief shake; Kirk’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Not to worry, Agent Burke; I owe Neal a lot, and I’m just here to return a favor to a friend.”
“Do I want to know why, exactly, you owe him?” Peter said dryly.
“His skills have saved my life on more than one occasion,” Kirke said solemnly, and Peter was struck by the change in his demeanor, the gravity and sincerity in the simple pronouncement. “I’m very grateful for that.”
“Oh, and I brought you a gift, my friend,” he said, turning back to Neal with another warm smile, and Neal’s eyes lit up. Kirk reached over to a nearby chair, carefully picking up a narrow wooden box and handing it to Neal. Neal took out a penknife and worked the lid open gently, his eyes going wide at the bottle that lay inside.
“A 1945 Left Bank Bordeaux,” he breathed. “You are welcome to my skills whenever you would like, Kirk, for this.”
“Not on the clock, he isn’t,” Peter said firmly, and Kirk grinned in a way that rather irked Peter.
“You’re very much like my brother in some ways,” he smirked.
Burke raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that a compliment, or not?”
“Depends on the day,” Kirk said, smirking again.
“So Neal, what have you brought me?” Kirke asked, turning to the ledgers on the desk. Peter suppressed his prickling annoyance at Kirk’s assumption that Neal was bringing him the case; Kirk was Neal’s contact, and it wouldn’t do any good for him to get territorial.
“Account books,” Neal said, moving to his side and opening one of them. “We’re tracking an antiquities smuggling ring that’s being run through an international bank, and they’re supposed to be moving goods tomorrow. I can’t make heads or tails of the Farsi, or the Arabic. From what I can tell from the other languages, there are product lists, and there should be locations, too, but -”
“It’s all jumbled,” Kirk said, frowning. "They switch languages every word or two. They probably are counting on the fact, correctly, that almost no one will be able to read all of it, which is actually quite clever. The languages are even different families.”
“Exactly,” Neal sighed. “And we only have until tomorrow to figure out where and how they are moving all this, and plan a takedown.”
“Well, let’s get to work,” Kirk said, arching his eyebrows in a challenge, and Neal smiled. He looked over his shoulder at Mozzie.
“Mozz, can we get some legal pads and fountain pens?” he asked.
Mozzie’s eyes gleamed. “It would be my pleasure,” he said, his lips curling in anticipation.
Peter groaned internally. It was going to be a long night.
****
Several hours and some sumptuous Thai food later, Neal and Kirk had managed to figure out enough of the system in ledger to not only figure out the shipment for the next day, but also several past shipments and their contents. Peter had regularly been sending information back to Jones and Diana at the Bureau, and they were in the process of tracking down many of the missing artifacts.
Neal and Kirk had opened the Bordeaux, cheerfully sharing with Mozzie, as the sun got lower in the sky, and Neal took a sip from his glass as he tapped his pen against the desk.
“So we know the shipment is going out from Red Hook, packed in with a bunch of other art that was legitimately bought, and that the antiquities all have fake papers,” he said. “What are they, though? That’s the last piece. What are we looking for if we crack open these shipping containers?”
He bent over the book that he and Kirk had been decoding, picking apart the muddle of languages and writing down the words that he could translate.
“Horn, lion’s . . . something,” he murmured. “Flower . . . something. Sword, something, engraved, Aslan - hmm, that looks like a name - teeth - winter -”
“What?” Kirk said sharply, and Peter’s head snapped up from the armchair where he had been casually observing them. That was an entirely new tone, and something about it made the hair on Peter’s neck prickle. Kirk was suddenly all tension next to Neal, and Neal was looking at him in surprise.
“Let me see that,” Kirk commanded, and Neal nodded, pushing it over toward him along with the pad where he had written the words. Kirk bent his head and started writing furiously.
When Kirk raised his head and looked at Neal again, his face was chalk-white.
“It can’t be,” he breathed.
Neal leaned toward him, his face troubled and concerned. “What can’t be? Kirk, what is it they’re moving?”
Kirk stood up, running his hands through his hair and pacing in front of the fireplace in agitation. Neal read what he had written on the legal pad, then handed it to Peter.
Horn, ivory, lion’s head bell, flower mouthpiece. Sword, red pommel, engraved with ‘When Aslan bares his teeth, winter meets its death.’
“Kirk,” Peter said, standing up, “we can help. We’re here to take this crew down and arrest them. But you have to tell us what we’re dealing with.”
Kirk swallowed, visibly forcing himself back under control as he stopped moving. Neal walked over to him, tentatively laying a hand on his shoulder.
“Kirk, Peter’s right. Let us help,” he said softly.
Kirk nodded. “I don’t know if you’ll believe it, but - I can tell you at least two other things that we’ll find in that shipment list, maybe more,” he said. “They could be real, but even if they’re fake - we need to know where they came from, and who made them. And if they’re real - I have no idea what that means,” he whispered, his eyes staring at something far away.
He shook himself, focusing back on Neal and Peter. “And we’re going to need someone other than me. I have a contact at MI6. Mrs. Caspian.”
Peter frowned. Dealing with MI6 was almost always messy and a jurisdiction nightmare, even when cooperation was wanted and necessary. “And she knows why these objects are so important?”
no subject
“I don’t like this, Neal,” Peter muttered as they arrived at Mozzie’s Thursday residence. His arms were full of ledgers, as were Neal’s. “Bringing in outsiders is not a good idea. I don’t know anything about this guy.”
Neal sighed impatiently. “Peter, we have account books written in five languages, two of which are Arabic and Farsi, which I don’t speak. I can get you the French, Hebrew, and Swahili - most of it - but the rest is gibberish to me. We have an international antiquities smuggling ring that is moving a shipment tomorrow, and we don’t know where or when! You know it will take the Bureau way too long to translate it all, and Kirk will gladly help. I’ve helped him in the past; he likes me. Just - don’t ask too many questions.”
“Neal,” Peter said angrily as Neal rang the doorbell. “Do you even know what this Kirk does for a living? He could turn around and tip them off!”
“He could,” Neal acknowledged coolly, “but he won’t. He has a surprisingly straight moral compass for someone who works in a lot of gray areas.”
The door latch clicked, and Mozzie appeared in the doorway. “Neal,” he said with a smile. “Suit,” he added, his expression closing off noticeably.
“Hey, Mozz. Were you able to reach Kirk?” Neal asked, stepping in as Mozzie opened the door all the way.
“I was. Right this way,” Mozzie said, gesturing toward the living room. Neal hurried ahead, and Peter tightened his lips and followed.
As they all emerged in the living room (which was, Peter noticed, the polar opposite of Tuesday; this living room was all cozy wood and carvings), a dark-haired, dark-eyed man turned around from the fireplace. Neal set his pile of books down on the large desk, and a bright smile broke across his face.
“Kirk! It’s been forever. How are you?” Neal said warmly, reaching out his arms.
“It has been,” Kirk said, stepping into Neal’s hug and returning it warmly. “It’s good to see you, Neal.” He stood back and appraised Neal, looking him up and down. “Going straight suits you; you look happy.”
“Well, not entirely straight,” Neal demurred, making a face. “Being a CI wouldn’t be nearly so fun if I wasn’t working both sides.”
“Always looking for some adventure,” Kirk chuckled. He looked over Neal’s shoulder to catch Peter’s eye.
“Agent Burke,” he said, extending a hand. “Kirk Rilian. It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’ve heard many good things about you.”
Peter was willing to bet that if he traced that name, he would find a whole history that was entirely or mostly fabricated. He looked at Neal, who held up his hands. “Not from me, Peter. Kirk has his own channels.”
Peter cautiously reached out and gave Kirk’s hand a brief shake; Kirk’s eyes crinkled in amusement. “Not to worry, Agent Burke; I owe Neal a lot, and I’m just here to return a favor to a friend.”
“Do I want to know why, exactly, you owe him?” Peter said dryly.
“His skills have saved my life on more than one occasion,” Kirke said solemnly, and Peter was struck by the change in his demeanor, the gravity and sincerity in the simple pronouncement. “I’m very grateful for that.”
“Oh, and I brought you a gift, my friend,” he said, turning back to Neal with another warm smile, and Neal’s eyes lit up. Kirk reached over to a nearby chair, carefully picking up a narrow wooden box and handing it to Neal. Neal took out a penknife and worked the lid open gently, his eyes going wide at the bottle that lay inside.
“A 1945 Left Bank Bordeaux,” he breathed. “You are welcome to my skills whenever you would like, Kirk, for this.”
“Not on the clock, he isn’t,” Peter said firmly, and Kirk grinned in a way that rather irked Peter.
“You’re very much like my brother in some ways,” he smirked.
Burke raised an eyebrow at him. “Is that a compliment, or not?”
“Depends on the day,” Kirk said, smirking again.
“So Neal, what have you brought me?” Kirke asked, turning to the ledgers on the desk. Peter suppressed his prickling annoyance at Kirk’s assumption that Neal was bringing him the case; Kirk was Neal’s contact, and it wouldn’t do any good for him to get territorial.
“Account books,” Neal said, moving to his side and opening one of them. “We’re tracking an antiquities smuggling ring that’s being run through an international bank, and they’re supposed to be moving goods tomorrow. I can’t make heads or tails of the Farsi, or the Arabic. From what I can tell from the other languages, there are product lists, and there should be locations, too, but -”
“It’s all jumbled,” Kirk said, frowning. "They switch languages every word or two. They probably are counting on the fact, correctly, that almost no one will be able to read all of it, which is actually quite clever. The languages are even different families.”
“Exactly,” Neal sighed. “And we only have until tomorrow to figure out where and how they are moving all this, and plan a takedown.”
“Well, let’s get to work,” Kirk said, arching his eyebrows in a challenge, and Neal smiled. He looked over his shoulder at Mozzie.
“Mozz, can we get some legal pads and fountain pens?” he asked.
Mozzie’s eyes gleamed. “It would be my pleasure,” he said, his lips curling in anticipation.
Peter groaned internally. It was going to be a long night.
****
Several hours and some sumptuous Thai food later, Neal and Kirk had managed to figure out enough of the system in ledger to not only figure out the shipment for the next day, but also several past shipments and their contents. Peter had regularly been sending information back to Jones and Diana at the Bureau, and they were in the process of tracking down many of the missing artifacts.
Neal and Kirk had opened the Bordeaux, cheerfully sharing with Mozzie, as the sun got lower in the sky, and Neal took a sip from his glass as he tapped his pen against the desk.
“So we know the shipment is going out from Red Hook, packed in with a bunch of other art that was legitimately bought, and that the antiquities all have fake papers,” he said. “What are they, though? That’s the last piece. What are we looking for if we crack open these shipping containers?”
He bent over the book that he and Kirk had been decoding, picking apart the muddle of languages and writing down the words that he could translate.
“Horn, lion’s . . . something,” he murmured. “Flower . . . something. Sword, something, engraved, Aslan - hmm, that looks like a name - teeth - winter -”
“What?” Kirk said sharply, and Peter’s head snapped up from the armchair where he had been casually observing them. That was an entirely new tone, and something about it made the hair on Peter’s neck prickle. Kirk was suddenly all tension next to Neal, and Neal was looking at him in surprise.
“Let me see that,” Kirk commanded, and Neal nodded, pushing it over toward him along with the pad where he had written the words. Kirk bent his head and started writing furiously.
When Kirk raised his head and looked at Neal again, his face was chalk-white.
“It can’t be,” he breathed.
Neal leaned toward him, his face troubled and concerned. “What can’t be? Kirk, what is it they’re moving?”
Kirk stood up, running his hands through his hair and pacing in front of the fireplace in agitation. Neal read what he had written on the legal pad, then handed it to Peter.
Horn, ivory, lion’s head bell, flower mouthpiece. Sword, red pommel, engraved with ‘When Aslan bares his teeth, winter meets its death.’
“Kirk,” Peter said, standing up, “we can help. We’re here to take this crew down and arrest them. But you have to tell us what we’re dealing with.”
Kirk swallowed, visibly forcing himself back under control as he stopped moving. Neal walked over to him, tentatively laying a hand on his shoulder.
“Kirk, Peter’s right. Let us help,” he said softly.
Kirk nodded. “I don’t know if you’ll believe it, but - I can tell you at least two other things that we’ll find in that shipment list, maybe more,” he said. “They could be real, but even if they’re fake - we need to know where they came from, and who made them. And if they’re real - I have no idea what that means,” he whispered, his eyes staring at something far away.
He shook himself, focusing back on Neal and Peter. “And we’re going to need someone other than me. I have a contact at MI6. Mrs. Caspian.”
Peter frowned. Dealing with MI6 was almost always messy and a jurisdiction nightmare, even when cooperation was wanted and necessary. “And she knows why these objects are so important?”
Kirk’s smile was grim. “Oh, she knows.”