Mozzie did not approve of the plan.
He said this at length, in multiple registers, over the course of an hour-long argument that began when the Tenant told him about the diner meeting and ended only when the Tenant pointed out that the decision was already made.
They were in June’s apartment, the evening light fading through the bay windows, the street below growing quiet as the city shifted from day to night.
Mozzie had arrived with a folder of passport photocopies and had stayed to argue, pacing the length of the Persian rug, too restless to sit still through his own argument.
“You’re going to walk into a diner, sit across from a federal agent, and tell him you’ve been running a counter-investigation under his nose,” Mozzie said.
“And you expect him to thank you for it.
Maybe even shake your hand.”
“I expect him to hear the truth and decide what to do with it.”
“The truth.” Mozzie stopped pacing, turning to face him.
“You, who have built a career on not telling the truth to federal agents.
The man who once told a Secret Service agent that a forged Treasury bond was ‘a gift from a grateful nation’ with a completely straight face.”
“This is different.”
“It’s not different.
It’s the same room with a different light.
The Suit is still a Suit.
His instincts are still trained to put people like us in cages.”
The Tenant was at June’s desk, a map of the Upper West Side spread across the surface.
The diner was marked with a red circle.
Amsterdam and 85th, square inside the 2-mile radius, with a rear exit that led to an alley and a side street that had no direct line of sight from any window.
He had chosen it for those reasons.
He had also chosen it because the coffee was drinkable and the waitress didn’t ask questions.
“Peter’s going to know something,” the Tenant said.
“The bond ring, the coded message through Diana, the spring account that appeared in his files at exactly the right moment — he’s been following a trail I laid, and he’s smart enough to know the trail was laid.
He might not know by who or why, but he knows the shape of it.
If I don’t give him a version of the truth, he’ll invent his own, and his invention will be worse.
He’ll assume I’m playing him, and he’ll act accordingly.”
“His invention will be suspicion.
That’s manageable.
Suspicion is something you can work with.
It keeps him guessing, keeps him off-balance.
The truth is permanent.
“Mozzie—”
“I’m not saying you should lie to him.
I’m saying you shouldn’t give him everything.
There’s a difference between managing a Suit’s expectations and handing him the keys to your network.
Once he knows the shape of the play, he owns it.
He can shut it down whenever he wants.”
The Tenant set down the pen.
The argument had merit.
Mozzie’s caution had kept them alive for years, through the bond forgery that had landed Neal in prison, through the narrow escapes and the burned identities and the nights spent sleeping in cars.
Dismissing it because of the new architecture was exactly the arrogance that got people caught.
“I’m not going to tell him about you.
I’m not going to tell him about Kate.
I’m going to tell him about the investigation — the parallel thread I’ve been running on the bond case.
Enough to make him a partner.
Not enough to make him a target.”
“And you trust him to stay on his side of the line?”
The Tenant considered the question.
Peter Burke was a federal agent with a spotless record and a deep suspicion of the man sitting across from him.
Peter had spent seventeen years reading liars, building cases, putting people away.
He had a gift for spotting the seam in a story before the story was finished.
But Peter had also chosen, once, against every institutional instinct, to trust Neal Caffrey.
He had vouched for the CI program.
He had argued for the anklet instead of the cell.
That trust had been earned by Neal’s usefulness, by the quality of the information he provided, by the cases that had been closed because of his tips.
The Tenant was about to ask for it to be earned by Neal’s honesty: a currency that Neal Caffrey had never spent.
“I trust him to follow the truth where it leads.
And the truth leads to the same place I’m going.”
“Which is where?”
“Toward whoever is pulling Fowler’s strings.”
Mozzie was quiet.
The argument had reached its natural end.
Mozzie had made his case, the Tenant had overruled him, and the decision stood on the table between them like a card that had been played.
Mozzie’s face was unreadable in the low light, but the Tenant could read the calculation behind his eyes: this is a risk I wouldn’t take, but it isn’t my risk to take.
I hope you remember that.
A bag, a passport, a route through Canada that doesn’t touch any of the channels we’ve been using.
If the Suit turns on you, I can have you out of the country within twelve hours.”
“I remember.”
“The passport is good.
The name is clean.
I built it for you three years ago, before the prison deal, before the anklet.
I’ve been keeping it warm.”
The Tenant looked up from the map.
The confession was unexpected.
Mozzie had been holding a fallback for years, waiting for the day Neal needed to disappear.
It was a loyalty with no way to pay it back.
“Keep it warm a little longer,” the Tenant said.
“I’m not ready to use it yet.”
Mozzie’s expression was unreadable.
“When you are, it will be ready.”
He paused at the door, his hand on the knob.
“One more thing.
The code phrase you used with Kate — ‘the window works.’ That’s not something the old Neal would have said.
The old Neal would have promised to be there, even if he couldn’t.
You told her to trust the exit, not the man.
That’s different.”
“It is.”
“It’s better.” Mozzie opened the door.
“I’m not sure what’s happening to you, Neal.
But I think I like it.”
He left without another word, the door closing softly behind him.
The Tenant returned to the map, the diner marked in red, the radius drawn in pencil.
The table was set.
The story was prepared.
Tomorrow, he would find out whether Peter Burke was willing to sit at the table, or whether he would flip it over.