Disclaimer: White Collar belongs to USA and Jeff Eastin. Inspiration and elements of the story came from Jedi Sapphire. That said, all the character from the Major Thefts Unit belong to me. I hope you enjoy them.
...

...

...

Saturday morning, the FBI Major Thefts Unit

"Maybe we should have arranged transportation from LaGuardia," Val bit her lip. "What if he got lost?"

Frank rolled his eyes and explained, for the forty-seventh time, "He grew up in the city. He's probably just running a bit late –New York traffic is always unpredictable."

"What do you think he'll be like?" One of the probies asked, excitedly.

"The security expert?" Frank clarified. He then said dryly, "He's from Chicago, not another planet, Tim."

There was laughter, and Tim was flushed, so Frank had pity on him. "He's supposed to be a clever thinker and an excellent agent. And you all know how much Agent Bancroft hates complimenting others."

That provoked smiles from the group who were all intimately familiar with Agent Bancroft's grim personality and high standards.

"There!" Jo said, pointing. A suited man had exited the elevator and was looking around, as if lost.

"You think that's him? He looks a little too happy to be an FBI agent," Frank said wryly, bringing about more smiles from his team. "Jo, you should probably go and show him in."

On his word, the blond agent went to the door. Frank took the opportunity to examine the visiting agent. He did look far too pleased about being inside an FBI Office, but what really struck the agent was the man's age. He was young, extremely so for one as renowned as he, and Frank had to wonder how he could have possibly done as much as he had in such a short career.

They reentered, and Frank could hear Jo saying, "We hope you didn't have too much trouble finding the office."

"Not at all. I wasn't expecting to be well received-"

"We've been anticipating your arrival since we were told you were coming," Frank interrupted, stepping forward, and sticking out his hand. "You must be Agent Bateman."

"Oh." There was a moment's pause, but then Agent Bateman was shaking his hand, saying warmly, "Well, then, I suppose I must be."

Something struck Frank as odd about that speech, but he shrugged it off. "I'm Frank Silvers, Special Agent in Charge of the major thefts unit."

"A pleasure." Agent Bateman said, bowing his head in greeting.

"There'll be time for individual introductions later, but, team, this is Agent Lucas Bateman that we have all heard so much about."

"Please, call me Lucas," he said, flashing a line of white teeth.

They've been looking forward to your lessons since Bancroft confirmed you were coming," Frank confided in the visitor.

"Oh." Bateman repeated. There was another pause. "I don't suppose you could tell me which lessons exactly you wanted me to cover. They forgot to tell me when they sent me over."

Frank frowned. Agent Bancroft had been full of praise when he had spoken of Bateman's skill as a tactician and strategist. Agent Bancroft would not have recommended an idiot.

"From what I understand you were coming to teach our group about home security," he said cautiously. "That's what Agent Bancroft said, at any rate."

"Right," Bateman beamed. "And Agent Bancroft is never wrong."

"You're sure?" Frank said doubtfully. "You seem… inexperienced… for a security expert."

"Impossible. I have the experience of ten security experts. Probably more. How many home break ins does one need to work to be considered an expert?"

"It's not so much as there's an exact number as a general ability and skill," Frank answered, bewildered by the vein of conversation.

"I can guarantee that I have that in abundance. Let's start?"

"We thought you might want some time to settle in after your flight, become familiar with the office. The schedule has your first class in the afternoon."

"Oh." Bateman said, once more. "I don't suppose you might have an extra copy of my itinerary. I… lost it."

"You lost it?"

"Yes. I lost it. FBI Agents lose things. I know FBI agents who have lost things far more important than itineraries. Like cars."

"Cars," Frank repeated faintly. "I see."

"His suspect used it as the get-away vehicle. Rather embarrassing for him, to be sure, but it was returned. Eventually." He sounded a little too amused for this to have not been a personal story, and Frank wondered how the agent could relate it so nonchalantly.

There was silence, until finally, Frank blurted, "Would you like one of us to show you to your office so you can relax until training starts?"

"The first session starts at one?" Bateman inquired. At Frank's nod, he continued, a little enthusiastically, "Then there's no time to waste. I have many lessons to plan. I'll see you at one."

With that last odd speech, he took his leave.

Frank glanced to see Jo and Roger staring after Bateman, wide-eyed. They turned to him, inquisitively. Frank shrugged, offering, "Maybe it is a Chicago thing?"

Four days earlier, NY White Collar Office

"Anyway, I'm thinking we should try approaching it from—" Neal was saying as he and Peter exited the elevator, when, suddenly:

"Surprise!"

Peter looked up in astonishment to find himself surrounded by Elizabeth, Diana, Jones, and the rest of the white collar team. Elizabeth stepped forward holding a birthday cake complete with lit candles. "Happy Birthday, hon."

"Thanks, hon," he smiled, giving her a light peck on the lips. "This is unexpected."

"It was Neal's idea," Diana said, looking supremely amused.

He spun to face his CI, who was grinning in that annoying smug fashion of his. "I know your birthday's technically tomorrow, but I figured we could start a day early. Now," he announced, clapping his hands together, "cut that thing so we can start with the presents! I happen to know that you are going to love mine."

He did. A lifetime guarantee of Yankees tickets for services rendered, and Peter almost did not want to stop and wonder how Neal had managed to pull that off.

Then, El thrust an envelope into his hands, and all thoughts of possible illegal activity by his CI vanished. He emptied it to find her planner, turned to that week, and the next seven days completely blank. Raising his eyes to his wife in confusion, she explained: "I've cleared my schedule for the next week. We're going to have some us time."

Peter almost got caught up in the excitement, until he remembered, "Hon, that's very sweet, but I have to—"

"Nothing. I cleared it with Reece."

"That's right," the wizened agent confirmed. "Call it a forced vacation, Peter."

"Sir! I appreciate the thought, but I can't accept this. Diana and Jones are off to that conference in two days, and there's so much work to do here, and—"

"It really shouldn't be this difficult," Hughes said wryly to no one in particular, "to convince a man to spend time with a woman as lovely as Elizabeth."

"It's Peter, Reece," Elizabeth smiled, slipping her hand into his fondly. "He's a workaholic. I don't think he's capable of spending a week without anything to do."

Peter flushed. "It's just so dull!" He whined, turning redder as he realized how childish he sounded.

"Be that as it may, Peter, I will fire you if I see you in these offices before next Tuesday."

"And if I'm bored?"

"You can always," a voice spoke up, and all three of them looked to find that Agent Bancroft had joined the party, "go help out the Major Thefts Unit. I'm sure they would appreciate your experience." Both Peter and Reece looked appalled. White Collar and Major Thefts had always had a bit of a rivalry, the former considering the latter to be the domain of brawn-over-brain types, and the latter considering the former to be made up of stuck-up paper pushers.

"There you go, Peter," Neal joined in. "No White Collar for you."

Peter pouted playfully, but did not push the point. When he and Elizabeth, at last, were leaving, he heard Jones' mutter: "How long do you think Peter will last?", Neal's responding laugh, "I give him four days before he's heading over to Major Thefts begging for work.", and Diane's contribution, "I think the more interesting question is how long will Hughes last when it's just him and Neal working cases together?"

Then the elevator doors closed, and he forced those horrifying thoughts out of his head. Elizabeth didn't deserve to have his attention divided. That did not, however, keep the expression of amusement off his face as he considered that after two days alone with Neal, Reece would be unlikely to ever spring something like this on Peter again, and that was punishment enough.

Some time later, a Midtown coffee shop

Lucy looked up as the bell at the door signaled the arrival of a new customer. One of those suit-wearing businessmen who was perpetually on the phone, she supposed.

"I'm telling you," he was saying into the mouthpiece, "they're a strange bunch. I got into the office, and suddenly everyone's calling me Agent Bateman."

Her head jerked up once more. Agent? She gave him another glance. Did that mean FBI? Or CIA?

The person on the other line must have finished talking, because the suited man was speaking again. "Believe you me, I am well aware of the laws against impersonation. But, what if Hughes had planned it this way? We both know I don't have the best track record working with other departments."

He was grimacing at whatever turn the conversation had taken. "No. I wasn't thinking of Rice." A pause. "Or Ruiz." A longer pause, and his tone had become very dry. "I don't think I'm capable of forgetting that trigger-happy son-of-a-bitch, but thanks for the reminder."

His friend must have lightened the tone because he let out a short laugh. "So, they want me to give lessons on home security, and I'm thinking they should be," there was a mischievous twinkle in his eye, and Lucy suddenly felt wary, "hands-on."

The man made eye contact with her, ordering, "An Italian Roast Espresso, please." And then he was rolling his eyes at the phone, "No, not you. Anyway, how would you feel about misdirecting a bunch of Federal Age—" he cut off, probably interrupted by his fellow conversant.

When he finally responded, the twinkle had transformed into a full expression, complete with an impish smile, "Oh, yes. Completely government sanctioned."

He laughed again, as he and Lucy traded coffee cup and money. The last thing she heard as he was leaving was, "Trust me. Easy is the last thing I intend to make this. I've been bored out of my mind these past days."

Saturday late morning, Burke Townhouse

"Hon! I'm home!" Peter announced as he came through the front door. Satchmo padded forward, and Peter took a moment to scratch behind the dog's ears.

"You're awfully chipper this morning, hon," Elizabeth said as she left the kitchen, wiping her hands on a towel. "Your errands must have gone well."

"A man can't simply be happy to see his beautiful wife?" Peter asked, pulling her into his arms, and staring into her lovely blue eyes.

"Hmm. Your errands must have gone extremely well," Elizabeth murmured, blinking demurely up at him, and biting her lip in that way she knew drove him crazy.

"If you continue like this, I might just have to cancel my plans for the rest of the day," he said hoarsely, leaning down to give her a kiss.

She grinned, and leaning back and, crossing her arms. "Plans?"

"Yes," he flirted, tightening his embrace. "A bunch of my old college friends are in town. They wanted to grab lunch and spend the afternoon together."

"You haven't seen your college friends in years!"

"And I highly doubt a couple more years will make much of a difference," he said throatily.

She slipped out of his hug, and surveyed him sternly. "Peter Burke. You will go out this afternoon and have a fun day of college-aged debauchery and craziness, and you will not come back before dinner. Do you understand me?"

Peter watched her, entertained, and bit back a smile as he responded in the affirmative. "I love it when you're assertive."

She smiled, and then began giggling.

"What?" He asked.

"Nothing. I'm just wondering how Reece and Neal are getting along. I can't imagine Neal is as obedient as you are."

Peter chuckled. "Oh, I'm sure Reece has Neal doing something suitable." He paused, and adopted a slightly menacing tone, "Yes, I expect Neal is thoroughly enjoying his situation."

Saturday afternoon, FBI Major Thefts Unit

"Many consider home break-ins to be inelegant and mundane," Bateman began, standing at the front of the conference room, hands clasped behind his back. "Many consider home jobs to be under the domain of fools, amateurs, and blue collar criminals."

"Isn't that just something the snobs over in white collar say, sir?" Tim interrupted.

"If this is a sentiment shared by white collar" a flicker of disapproval vanished almost before it appeared "snobs, it does not stop them from being required by their mentors to learn the skills necessary to work one."

He scowled slightly, as if recalling some displeasing memory associated with those words. Frank cleared his throat, and Bateman, resuming his mien of light cheerfulness, continued:

"The goal of these next few days is to give you a sense of how to approach home stake outs, although many of these skills can be applied more generally. I haven't had time to prepare some of the more practical aspects of these sessions, so we will begin with this." He nodded at the person controlling the flat screen, and a penthouse floor plan appeared on the screen.

"Meghan," he said, shooting a charming smile at the secretary, "was kind enough to put together a slideshow of some of the more expensive residences in the city. As she can attest, this is the first time I am seeing these layouts."

The brunette nodded eagerly.

"So," he said, surveying his audience, a glint in his eye, "who here would like to see if they can identify more entrance points and escape routes than I can?"

"Don't we need to know the security system each apartment has in place, first?" Jo asked, skepticism rampant in her tone.

"Agent—"

"Johanna Pierce, sir."

"Agent Pierce," Bateman acknowledged. "Lesson number one. Perfect security is a myth. A good thief can circumvent any security system the building has in place, so never overlook a potential entrance or exit."

"You keep saying entrance and exit. Aren't the number of possible entrances and exits the same?"

"Name?" Bateman asked.

"Roger North," Roger replied, a little condescendingly. He had good reason for his arrogance. Roger had been with the FBI almost as long as Frank had, and probably a good fifteen years longer than Bateman.

Bateman must have picked up on the undertone, because he took his time to assess the older agent. Finally, "Lesson number two. There will almost always be a few access points that are only approachable from one side or the other. Find them, because you can be sure your thief will know and use them."

Roger still looked doubtful. Noticing that, Bateman announced with a slight smirk, "And it looks like we have our volunteer. Agent North, if you would be so kind."

While Roger evaluated the penthouse plans, Frank sidled over to Bateman. "You're sure you want Roger? It might be better if you used one of the greener agents?"

"That won't be necessary," Bateman winked. He broke into an unnervingly innocuous smile. "I don't like home break ins. That doesn't mean I'm incompetent at working one."

Hours later, and Frank couldn't help but be impressed. Bateman's system might be unorthodox, and there was no questioning that the agent was strange, but his ability to identify weaknesses, flaws in security that Frank would never have even considered, was extraordinary.

Even if it often met with protested incredulity.

"You can't count the roof!"

"Why not?" Bateman asked.

"Because it would be impossible to get down. You'd be stuck, fifty stories from the ground!"

"What if he base jumped?"

His suggestion met with silence. Until, "That's the most absurd thing I have ever heard."

"Are you saying it's not possible?"

Another disbelieving pause. "Ok, theoretically, maybe. But no thief would ever do it," somebody muttered resentfully.

"Lesson number six: never think you know how far a thief is willing to go. They got into this game because they like testing boundaries. Do you really think something as common as the impossible would deter them?"

"Fine. But nobody would be so stupid as to—"

Bateman interrupted, though his tone was incredibly patient. "Ocean's 13. How did Toulour escape after stealing from Linus and Bobby?"

"That's a movie! You can't reference that."

"Lesson number seven. Imagination is your most powerful tool. If you can think of it, so can they." Bateman sighed at the expressions of distrust. "2004 in Denmark, two cons snuck into the Amelienberg Palace. They were found out, but got away. It is theorized, although none know for certain, that they escaped by base jumping from the palace gate house."

Several of the team's mouths rounded in embarrassment.

"Ok!" Frank cut in, "It's been a good day; you've all had a lot to think about, and I am certain Agent Bateman will give you more to ponder tomorrow. But it's late, it's a Saturday night, and I am sure you all have places you would rather be, so get out of here."

His team filed out slowly, many stopping to have words with Bateman. When the room finally emptied out, Frank asked the visiting agent politely, "Do you need help getting to your hotel?"

"No, I'll manage."

"Excellent. Have a good evening, then," Frank moved toward his office.

"Are you not leaving, too?" Bateman inquired, and Frank reluctantly turned back to answer.

"No, I have a couple cases that came in this morning that I wanted to page through."

"Want some help?" Frank raised an eyebrow, and Bateman shrugged, "I'd just be bored sitting in my room."

Which was as fair an argument as he had ever heard, so he invited Bateman into the office. Frank was given no reason to regret his decision. Bateman was intelligent. Extremely so, and his insights were proving invaluable. So, when Frank opened the last case file, he was feeling optimistic. "Interesting," he commented paging through. "Somebody's Monet's gone missing. They want to recover it, but if not, they'll file for insurance."

Bateman perked up. "Mind if I take a look?" Bateman's eyes roamed over the opened file, until he broke into a grimace. "It's a forgery."

Frank was taken aback. "What?"

"The Monet. It's a forgery. And it's not even a good one." He sounded disgusted. "My guess is that the family is in some kind of debt and needs money."

"It's a forgery?" He repeated.

"Of course," Bateman said impatiently. "Look at the thickness of the paint strokes. And the blends of blue and green, here. Monet would have never been so sloppy. And the signature in the corner! The M is completely wrong. Not to mention—"

Bateman broke off, suddenly, noticing Frank's staring. His face schooled back into a warm expression so quickly that Frank thought he must have imagined the brief panic that had crossed the younger agent's face. "As you can tell, I have a fondness for Monet. He's one of my favorites."

"I see," Frank said, not able to entirely hide the hint of suspicion.

The dark-haired visitor stood to leave, and this was the most uncomfortable Frank had thought he had ever seen the man who seemed to be able to adapt to most things he had thrown at him. "I should get going. I'll see you tomorrow, Agent Silvers."

"Good night, Agent Bateman," Frank said, after a moment. A strange wariness had settled over him, and as Bateman exited the offices, Frank's senses were prickling.

Saturday night, Silvers Residence

"So you don't like him?" His wife clarified, as she dabbed her mouth lightly with a napkin.

"I don't not like him," Frank objected immediately. "He's remarkably able. He reads security faster than I have seen anybody else, except, perhaps, some criminals I have interrogated. That would make him a valuable agent in any major thefts unit. But he can also identify forgeries, and that is strange."

Maria smiled indulgently. "I'm sure some agents have diverse abilities. Is he skilled?"

"Skilled might be an understatement. He put his fork down beside his plate. "He identified a forged Monet after a one minute examination. And it wasn't as if he had a copy of the original to compare it, too. He took one look and was able to come up with three, probably more, inconsistencies. And he did this without tools, just by looking at a picture of the damned thing."

"Maybe he is very familiar with Monet?" She suggested, but Frank shook his head.

"Trained authenticators could not do what I saw him do. But that's not the problem. Agent Bancroft described Bateman as a security expert. Security. I'm not saying that he's not good at building security, but his passion and expertise are in forging."

"He could have changed is preferences?"

"No. Not like this. Changed preference does not turn someone into such an expert."

"So, then, what's the reason—"

"I don't know," Frank admitted. "I don't know, but I'm going to find out."

"What are you going to do?" Maria asked nervously.

"Agent Bancroft was planning to stop by tomorrow," Frank said slowly. "He and Bateman know each other. Perhaps he'll be able to explain what's going on."

The decision made, he began eating again.

To Be Continued...

Author's Note

White Collar is one of my favorite TV shows, and I am especially fond of the episodes in which Neal and Peter are forced to work with other members of the FBI. So fond, in fact, that I decided to create my own. But, seriously, these characters are a delight to play with, and I hope you think my representations of them are accurate.

Please review. I appreciate all comments, criticisms, and concerns intended to improve my writing.

Stay tuned for the next chapter!

Cheers,

The Third Marauder