The Queen's Jewels

Chapter 1: A Queen Is Attacked

Federal Building. Monday, November 8, 2004.

Over the ten months that Neal Caffrey had been working for the FBI, his preconceived ideas of what his job as a consultant would be like underwent a major rewrite. When Peter Burke recruited him in St. Louis, Neal 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 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—a legal opportunity to demonstrate his expertise. 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 fraudulent? 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 vault, checking off case files against the database. The only saving grace was that he wasn't 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?

"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 rose from the chair, he grimaced and placed a hand on his side.

"Did you strain a muscle?"

Jones nodded. "I took 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."

Neal winced in sympathy. "How old is Ethan?"

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

"Ten. Ethan and I are kindred souls. His parents may want to consider fencing lessons for him."

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

"Not at all. There's a big push to begin fencing at an early age. At the Chelsea Club, they start as early as age four. They use plastic or foam swords so it's safe. In addition to being great exercise, fencing 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'll speak with his parents. It'd make a great Christmas gift. The Chelsea Club ... that's where you maintain your Gary Rydell alias, isn't it? Did the FBI ever reimburse you?"

Neal crouched to examine the folders on the bottom shelf. "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 TF20312."