Notes: Although this story is part of a series it can be read on its own. In the pre-series Caffrey Conversation AU created by Penna Nomen, Peter recruited Neal in 2003 when he was 24. In exchange for a confession and help in recovering stolen items, he was given immunity for past crimes and started working for the FBI as a consultant. For followers of the Caffrey Conversation AU, The Queen's Jewels takes place in November 2004 after The Woman in Blue. Neal is working as a consultant at the White Collar Division of the FBI while attending his first semester at Columbia University for a dual master's in art.

Chapter 1: A Queen is Attacked

Federal Building. November 8, 2004. Monday morning.

During the ten months Neal Caffrey had been working for the FBI, his preconceived ideas of what his job as a consultant would be like had undergone a major rewrite. When Peter Burke had recruited him in St. Louis back in December, Neal had pictured he'd be working undercover, solving crimes in the field, living a life full of danger and excitement. After all he wasn't an agent, he was a valued consultant, and as such they wouldn't be wasting his talents on paperwork. Right—the halcyon days of innocence.

Now a seasoned veteran of almost a year and fully cognizant of the more dismally boring aspects of his job, Neal had amused himself by developing a ranking system for his assignments. At the top of the scale was running a con, or "conducting an undercover op" as the FBI preferred to call it. Same thing. The fine art of manipulation. A game of chess with living chess pieces.

Also high on the list was being paid to make a forgery. Unfortunately those opportunities were rare. More common was consulting on a museum heist—an excellent opportunity to show off his expertise legally. Being called in to authenticate a painting or detect a counterfeit signature, while not at the top of the scale, was also a worthy field of endeavor.

Then there were the chores residing in the cellar. Mortgage fraud cases. Who knew there were so many of them? Was every mortgage transaction in New York a fraud? Only slightly higher on the scale were copyright infringements.

And today Neal gloomily enshrined another assignment in the cellar: cold case inventory.

He and Jones had been at work since early in the morning in the cold case vault, checking off case files against the database. The only saving grace was that he wasn't there alone, or he would have passed out from boredom long ago. Was boredom an officially recognized illness? Could one get workers' compensation for excessive boredom? That was in need of investigation.

"Still waiting on TF20312," Jones called out. "Did you find it yet?"

Resuming his perusal of the shelf, Neal said, "If it's here, it's been stored out of order. I'll check the other shelves." Moving the step ladder, he started at the top of the shelving unit.

"I'll work on the unit next to yours," Jones offered. As he got up from his chair, he grimaced and put a hand to his back.

"What'd you do to your back?"

"The hazards of babysitting. I was taking care of my nephew Ethan last Saturday, and we got a little carried away. After watching Pirates of the Caribbean, he chased me around the house with his pirate's sword. That kid's fast! We were swashbuckling on the stairs and I tripped."

"How old is Ethan?"

"He just turned seven. Last year it was lightsabers. That's all he wanted to play with. Now in addition to Luke Skywalker, he fancies himself another Jack Sparrow. How young were you when you started fencing?"

"Ten. I had my own glory years with a lightsaber before that. Ethan and I are kindred souls. His parents may want to consider fencing lessons for him."

Jones paused scanning though the files. "Isn't he too young?"

"Not at all. There's a big push to begin fencing at an early age. At the Chelsea Club where I fence they start as early as age four. They use plastic or foam swords so it's safe. Fencing's great physical exercise and teaches kids to think strategically. It's been called a physical version of chess."

"Ethan would be in pirates' heaven," Jones chuckled as he resumed his file perusal. "I should speak with his parents. It'd make a great Christmas gift. The Chelsea Club … that's where you keep up your Gary Rydell alias, isn't it? Did the FBI ever reimburse you?"

"That was a story," Neal said with a laugh. "Eureka, I found file 20312. Hiding out in the 40000's. It's back where it belongs now. What's next on your list?"

Jones consulted his spreadsheet. "PZ30505"

"Right . . ." Neal squatted down to scan the files on the bottom shelf. "On the fencing reimbursement, Peter agreed, finally, once I convinced him I wasn't asking for the FBI to subsidize fencing stolen goods. That took a while. You can check off PZ30505."

"There should be two addenda to that one," Jones cautioned. "Probably separate folders, marked A101 and B212. I don't think Ethan's ever seen real fencing. Did you decide to join the club at Columbia?"

"Yeah, I went ahead . . . found the addenda. You can scratch them off. Were they the last ones? You should come to a match sometime. We're fencing against Harvard in a couple of weeks. Isn't that your alma mater?"

"For law school. I could drag out my old t-shirt. Ethan's never seen the Columbia campus."

"Aren't you two done yet?" Peter had walked in to check on their progress. He no doubt wanted to verify they hadn't succumbed to manila folder fumes.

"Just wrapping up," said Jones. "There were few cases that had been misfiled. We only have a couple left to find."

"Neal, did I hear right? Are you fencing in a competition?"

"Yep, I bet you thought I enrolled in Columbia for the art program," he said. "Now you know it was only because I'm such a jock." Ever since Neal began studying for his master's in art at Columbia, he'd realized his college activities had become a hot topic of conversation at White Collar. It was like everyone was trying to relive their own college experiences through him. At first he'd found it a little disconcerting to have his studies be discussed so openly. Not that he minded the attention, but he was more accustomed to showing off scam techniques than to be lectured on how to write a paper. But he enjoyed the banter plus he was acquiring insights about his teammates he wouldn't have otherwise obtained.

Diana walked into the vault, cutting off Peter's rejoinder. "So this is where you're hiding out. Has this become the new man cave? Peter, Hughes sent me to find you."

"C'mon, Caffrey," urged Jones. "Two files to go. I'll search for one; you find the other. The loser completes the paperwork."

"You're on."

WCWCWCWCWCWCWC

Ten minutes later, Neal was sitting back at his desk tossing a rubber band ball in the air while Jones was still in the cold case vault filling out the forms. It'd been close. Jones probably would have won, if his back weren't bothering him. Neal hoped Jones would bring Ethan to the meet. He liked to portray himself as the smooth and collected professional. What would he be like with a mini-pirate in tow?

It wasn't long before Peter called Neal upstairs along with Jones and Diana. It seemed strange that Agent Tricia Wiese wasn't with them. She was in Washington D.C. for a special assignment and would be gone for at least two months.

Peter got straight to the point. "The reason Hughes wanted to see me was this," and he projected a photo of an armored truck cordoned off in an underpass off FDR Drive. It was surrounded by NPYD cars and ambulances. "At approximately five o'clock this morning the truck was forced off the road by armed robbers. The driver and guard were both killed. The truck was discovered by a passing patrol car a short time later. So far no witnesses have come forward."

"Not normally our type of case. Why were we called in?" Jones asked.

"Because of the item that was taken. Apparently only one package was stolen. According to the manifest it was to be delivered to Regnier's Jewelers on Fifth Avenue. When the police found out what was inside the package, they called on us for assistance."

Neal's mind raced through the possibilities. Regnier's carried some of the most expensive jewelry in Manhattan. Any item that was singled out for a robbery like this had to be something extraordinary. "Does it have something to do with their upcoming exhibition?" he asked.

"Good guess," Peter said. "The package that was stolen contains a pair of diamond earrings which once belonged to Marie Antoinette. They were being lent by the Smithsonian to Regnier's for their holiday exhibition. What do you know about it?"

"The exhibition is called The Queen's Jewels and is scheduled to open next week, running through December. Regnier's is known for mounting elaborate window displays during the holidays, and this year they're featuring the court of Marie Antoinette. Inside the store, the exhibition will include—correction —was scheduled to include the earrings, a ring she once owned, plus reconstructions of her famous necklace and the Tavernier Blue, the precursor to the Hope Diamond. There was a write-up in The New York Times about it on Sunday."

"All NYPD provided Hughes was that it was a pair of Marie Antoinette's earrings from the Smithsonian," Peter said. "We don't have the description yet."

Diana was searching on her laptop as he spoke. Looking up, she said, "Found a description on the Smithsonian website, boss. Two large, pear-shaped diamonds, weighing 14.25 and 20.34 carats. You have to admire the woman—she had strong earlobes."

"NYPD's handling the case but we've been charged with tracking down the earrings." Peter scanned the group. "Thoughts?"

"Given the history behind them, the earrings are priceless," Neal said. "But they're also extremely difficult to fence because they're so well-known. I suppose it's conceivable somebody might cut up the diamonds, but then most of the value would be lost. I can't imagine anyone committing a sacrilege like that. It's more likely the robbery was a special commission with a private buyer already lined up. That would the earrings difficult to trace."

"What about the other pieces for the exhibition?" Jones asked. "Are they already at the store?"

Peter said, "You should look into that. Contact Regnier's and check out their security measures. Diana, I want you and Neal to research the database for possible buyers. Also check for any thieves who match the robbery profile."

Diana nodded as she made a note. "I'm curious to know how the thieves knew about the timing of the shipment. Did they receive a tip off from someone within the Smithsonian?"

"Good question," Neal commented. "Regnier's has been promoting the exhibition for the past month. That's plenty of time for someone to develop a plan to access the Smithsonian's shipping database."

When Neal left the briefing, he called Mozzie. "Could you do a little sniffing around? We have precious little to go on. I have a class this evening, but I could touch base with you afterwards."

"I'll ping the ether," he promised. "I would expect there's a regal reward in keeping with the significance of the earrings."

"That would be a safe assumption. I'll check into it for you."

Researching jewelry owned by Marie Antoinette didn't take long. So few of the pieces had survived the French Revolution. The Hope Diamond, or the French Blue as it was also known, was the most spectacular. Understandable why the Smithsonian wouldn't lend it out. In any case, the ring that Regnier's was going to exhibit was exciting enough. It was owned by an anonymous individual and hardly ever put on display. Neal had seen a photo of it: a blue heart-shaped diamond. Lovely color, almost 6 carats, it was the kind of stone that in another life he would have been very interested in for other reasons.

Taking out a cell phone from the bottom drawer of his desk, Neal placed a few more calls.

Neal's loft. November 8, 2004. Monday evening.

It was close to ten o'clock by the time Neal returned home from class. The seminar on Dutch Baroque Paintings was taught by his advisor, Ivan Sherkov. They were currently studying Rembrandt and the complexities of authentication. Rembrandt was notorious for being particularly challenging. Determining whether a painting was from the School of Rembrandt or from the artist himself was not an exact science. The number of accepted Rembrandts varied between over seven hundred to below three hundred depending on which expert was consulted. It was a topic close to Neal's heart. He was beginning to research topics for his master's thesis, and the chance to use his forgery skills for authentication made the subject especially attractive.

But in the meantime diamonds were more pressing.

As he walked up the stairs to the loft he could hear a spirited conversation going on. Neal grinned. Judging by the sounds of laughter, the game must be going well. When he walked in, June was arguing with Mozzie. They were sitting at the table with a board game spread out between them. A half-full bottle of red wine and two glasses were also on the table.

June looked up when he entered. "You're just in time, dear, to help us settle this. Mozzie is insisting that I cheated by using a red card to get out of Molasses Swamp, but he's sadly mistaken."

Neal took a seat at the table. "Is this true, Mozz?"

Mozzie had a passion for board games bordering on the obsessive, and had discovered a kindred soul in June. Candy Land was their favorite. Monday evenings had been set aside for Candy Land since Neal had a class then. His loft had once been a backroom speakeasy, and that it was now the Candy Land den of iniquity was fitting.

"I believe that our gracious hostess is misinformed about the newly revised rules of 2003," Mozzie said. "I shall bring you a copy for our rematch."

"Better let me authenticate it," Neal whispered in an aside to June.

"I heard that," said Mozzie as he collected the board pieces and sorted the cards into the game box.

"I'll leave you two," June said, standing up. "It's getting to be my bedtime. Mozzie, regarding the wine you owe me, I'd prefer a Washington Fumé Blanc. Neal, be sure to have a glass of that Petit Syrah. My daughter had recommended it to me and it has an excellent bouquet."

June and Mozzie had developed an intricate betting system for Candy Land, with the loser providing the wine for the next week's board game. The country of origin and type of wine was determined by the closeness of the victory, extra points being awarded for extremely subtle and/or devious moves.

"Delightful lady," Mozzie remarked as Neal helped himself to a glass. "I would have loved to have seen her run games with Byron. She must have been unstoppable."

"Sorry I'm late. The seminar went on longer than I expected," Neal said, swirling the glass.

When he'd first moved into the loft last winter, Mozzie had quickly achieved near roommate status. But a combination of classes and FBI ops had brought about a lessening of the visits, something Neal suspected Peter was relieved to see. Mozzie had adapted well to Neal's new hours, often coming over to visit June even when Neal wasn't at home.

"The crafty rabbit has three burrows," Mozzie pronounced as he put the game on a shelf. "Feng Xuan was an astute sage. To survive, everyone needs three escape routes. You, mon frère, are being wise to prepare your three rabbit holes. The FBI is one, Columbia provides another, and of course, you could easily return to your life as a master con artist at any time. This FBI life you have now with Peter, I know you like it now, and it's providing you valuable insights into how the enemy works, but you would be well-advised to not become too attached. Situations change. You may need to also someday."

Mozzie's advice was usually sound, if in need of translation. Mozzie was wrong this time, but no point in trying to convince him the FBI wasn't the enemy. Situations may change but Mozzie's feelings about the FBI were cast in concrete.

"Actually you could say I have four rabbit holes since I'm going for a dual master's in both Art History and Visual Arts," Neal pointed out.

"Very good, grasshopper. Now you're catching on."

"How about you? What are your three?"

"Oh, I have nine," he said airily, "plus four in reserve."

"You always were an overachiever." Neal took out a file from his briefcase. "This is all my research on the stolen earrings. Any chatter on the street about the theft?"

"Nothing yet." Mozzie quickly scanned the contents and closed the folder with a grimace. "An inferior job, poorly planned and lacking in finesse. This is exactly the type of crime that gives our profession a bad name."

"I agree. There was no need to kill the driver or the guard." In Mozzie's and what used to be his world, thieves could be divided into the gentlemen variety like Gordon Taylor and the vicious criminals like—

Interrupting his thoughts, Mozzie said, "The coldblooded brutality of it reminds me of a former associate of yours."

"Yeah, me too," Neal said, resting his chin on his hands. "Matthew Keller."

Mozzie nodded. "Do you know where he is now?"

"I checked around this afternoon. He was rumored to have been in Vienna last week. There are no recent reports for him in the States, but with Keller . . ."

"Keller is bad news. I wish you'd never gotten involved with him."

"You and me both." Neal stood and walked over to the patio doors. As he looked out at the city lights, he thought back about his time with Keller. He'd first hitched up with him in Amsterdam. There'd been some daredevil jobs and heart-stopping adventures, but it didn't take long for Keller to reveal his vicious core, so unlike the affable exterior he'd first presented to Neal. Keller worked primarily in Europe. Neal hoped he'd never have to deal with him again.

Turning back to Mozzie, he asked, "Any other people come to mind?"

Mozzie shook his head. "I wouldn't be surprised if it were someone from out of town. It has all the earmarks of a special commission. The earrings are too well-known to fence. Most likely a wealthy buyer, perhaps European. Someone with a Marie Antoinette fetish perhaps."

"If it is, they may hit Regnier's for the ring or intercept the ring if it hasn't arrived yet."

"I doubt it. The owner of the ring is known to only a few. It would be difficult to discover how or when the ring will be shipped. And as for hitting Regnier's . . ." Mozzie paused, looking wistful. "That store has a security system so complex that I sometimes wonder if a clone of me didn't design it. That's undoubtedly why the Smithsonian allowed the earrings to be exhibited there."

Neal sat down at the sofa. Fingering a chess piece on the side table next to him, he said, "I've arranged to meet André Renard tomorrow."

"André's in town? When did that happen?"

"He arrived in New York a couple of months ago. I've fenced with him a few times at my club."

"I'm surprised he left Geneva. He'd been there for years. That's where the two of you met, isn't it?"

"That's right. I did a job for Keller. André was in the crew. Keller introduced me as Gary Rydell. I discovered André was an expert fencer. Compared to him, I was only a novice. I'm still not sure why he chose me as a fencing partner, but it was like having a grandmaster as my personal coach."

"And he never learned your real name?"

"He's always known me as Gary Rydell," Neal said. "I wish I could tell him I'm also fencing with the Columbia College Club, but that would burn the alias. André's been in the business so long, his contacts are invaluable, especially now."

"I only know him by reputation. Someday you should introduce us. In the meantime, I'll continue to sniff around till I need to leave for Paris."

"Gordon Taylor?"

He nodded. "Gordon and Paris are beckoning once more." This was Mozzie's second time to have a job with Gordon Taylor this fall. Undoubtedly Gordon held several enticements for Mozzie. The major lure was to work with the preeminent gentleman thief of their time. But quite possibly another factor was that his work would be outside FBI jurisdiction. It meant less awkwardness for both him and Neal. And now that Mozzie had become friends with Elizabeth, Neal suspected he was even more inclined to stay off Peter's radar.

"When are you leaving?" Neal asked.

"Couple of weeks. Gordon is making the final details now. At Thanksgiving, very possibly I will be on the French Riviera while you're shivering in New York. Aren't you tempted?"

Chelsea Fencing Club. November 9, 2004. Tuesday morning.

"You've been practicing, mon ami." André removed his face mask and hung his épée on the rack. "Your attaque composée has improved dramatically. You should take it easy. I'm not as young as I used to be."

"You're being too kind. I can tell when you're holding back." That sounded like Neal was being modest but he was only being truthful. André might have more gray in his hair, but his technique was still unparalleled. What he may have lost in speed—and Neal doubted he'd lost anything—he more than made up for in the complexity and skill of his attacks. "When you came to New York, it was the best thing that could happen to my game."

Neal took a seat in the small lounge next to the fencing area. The lounge was equipped with a few tables and chairs and beverage machines. It had been requested by the members as an area where they could take a break without putting away their equipment. At that hour Neal and André had the lounge to themselves.

"I'm glad to hear something good resulted from it," André replied wryly. "But aside from the distinct pleasure of reconnecting with you, my time here has not been very fruitful. Before I came, I'd been warned that I would find New York a difficult milieu, and, alas, I've found that to be correct. The NYPD is a challenging opponent, as you no doubt know, and then there is a branch of the FBI they call White Collar—a rather intriguing name by the way—I'm told their agents are extremely competent. Too competent. One needs to be very careful in this city. I'm considering returning to Europe."

It was gratifying to hear about White Collar's reputation. Not very helpful for the line of inquiry he was pursuing. But with the proper twist … "I know what you mean. Opportunities for smuggling are drying up because of all the scrutiny. Have you heard of anyone needing one?"

"No, but should anything arise, I'll be happy to contact you."

Neal got up and retrieved a couple of Perriers for them. "Did you hear that someone stole Marie Antoinette's earrings yesterday?"

"Mon dieu, non. This is news to me. The pair that's in the Smithsonian collection?"

"That's right. They were to be part of an exhibit on Marie Antoinette's jewelry called The Queen's Jewels at Regnier's. They were taken from an armored truck here in Manhattan. Two people killed."

"That's unfortunate. It's a disservice to us all when someone steps over the line." André shook his head in disapproval. He was one of the old school. It would be difficult to find anyone more polite and courteous. André had never been very successful as a thief. Mozzie had speculated he was too soft-hearted, and he was probably right. Neal had a lot of sympathy for André.

"I wish I could be the fence for that job," Neal remarked. "I wouldn't have to work again for a long time."

"I'm afraid you won't have your wish," André said, taking a sip of Perrier. "I imagine that was a special commission, and I'm willing to wager by whom."

"Sounds like a client worth knowing. If this doesn't work out, perhaps I could supply him with another item. Would you mind telling me who you suspect?"

André leaned forward and put his elbows on the table. "A few weeks ago I heard that a Russian was in town and was interested in acquiring jewelry owned by the French aristocracy. He was willing to pay handsomely."

"Do you have any idea who it was? It's possible he could benefit from my expertise in getting them out of the country."

"Perhaps. It may be worth your while to discuss it with him. His name is Yuri Bolotnov. He works for Rosgor and comes to New York regularly." André's expression grew somber. "I feel I must warn you to be cautious in how you approach him. I've heard rumors about Bolotnov. Some say he is very high up in the Russian Mafia, perhaps even one of their bosses. They could be wrong—I know for a fact Bolotnov prides himself on a squeaky clean reputation. But all may not be as it seems, mon ami."

Notes: Thanks for reading! If you'd like to see photos of the jewels, cast members and other visuals, visit The Queen's Jewels board on our Pinterest site where both Penna Nomen and I pin illustrations for our stories.

In Chapter 2: En Garde, Neal and Peter are on the trail of the stolen earrings and Neal's life at Columbia is also explored. Columbia and Mozzie will play major roles in this tale where Neal will appreciate having all three of his rabbit holes.

Thanks to Penna, creator of this AU, for acting as beta reader and awesome co-conspirator for this story. If you want to catch up, the series begins with Caffrey Conversation. My first tale, Complications, describes how Neal was admitted to Columbia. We date all our stories so you can keep track of the order in which events occur.

Disclaimers: White Collar and its characters are not mine. Any depictions of real institutions and locations are not necessarily true or accurate.