The Opal Deception (Artemis Fowl 4)

Munich during working hours was like any other major city in the world: utterly congested. In spite of the U-bahn, an efficient and comfortable rail system, the general population preferred the privacy and comfort of their own cars, with the result that Artemis and Butler were stuck on the airport road in a rush-hour traffic jam that stretched all the way from the International Bank to the Kronski Hotel.

Master Artemis did not like delays. But today he was too focused on his latest acquisition, The Fairy Thief, still sealed in its Perspex tube. Artemis itched to open it, but the previous owners, Sparrow and Crane, could have somehow booby-trapped the container. Just because there were no visible traps didn’t mean that there couldn’t be an invisible one. An obvious trick would be to vacuum pack the canvas, then inject a corrosive gas that would

react with oxygen, and burn the painting.

It took almost two hours to reach the hotel, a journey that should have taken twenty minutes. Artemis changed into a dark cotton suit, then called up Fowl Manor’s number on his mobile phone’s speed dial. But before he connected, he linked the phone by firewire to his Powerbook, so he could record the conversation. Angeline Fowl answered on the third ring.

“Arty,” said his mother, sounding slightly out of breath, as though she had been in the middle of something. Angeline Fowl did not believe in taking life easy, and was probably halfway through a Tae Bo workout.

“How are you, Mother?”

Angeline sighed down the phone line. “I’m fine, Arty, but you sound like you’re doing a job interview, as usual. Always so formal. Couldn’t you call me Mom or even Angeline? Would that be so terrible?”

“I don’t know, Mother. Mom sounds so infantile. I am fourteen now, remember?”

Angeline laughed. “How could I forget? Not many teenage boys ask for a ticket to a genetics’ symposium for their birthday.”

Artemis had one eye on the Perspex tube. “And how is Father?”

“He is wonderful,” gushed Angeline. “I am surprised how well he is. That prosthetic leg of his is marvelous, and so is his outlook. He never complains. I honestly think that he’s got a better attitude toward life now than he did before he lost his leg. He’s under the care of a remarkable therapist, who says the mental is far more important than the physical. In fact, we leave for the private spa in Westmeath this evening. They use this marvelous seaweed treatment, which should do wonders for your father’s muscles.”

Artemis Fowl senior had lost a leg before his kidnap by the Russian Mafiya. Luckily, Artemis had been able to rescue him with Butler’s help. It had been an eventful year. Since Artemis senior’s return, he had been making good on his promise to turn over a new leaf and go straight. Artemis junior was expected to follow suit, but was having trouble abandoning his criminal ventures. Although, sometimes when he looked at his father and mother together, the idea of being a normal son to loving parents didn’t seem like such a far-fetched one.

“Is he doing his physiotherapy exercises twice a day?”

Angeline laughed again, and suddenly Artemis wished he were home.

“Yes, Granddad. I am making sure of that. Your father says he’ll run the marathon in twelve months.”

“Good, I’m glad to hear it. Sometimes I think you two would spend your time wandering around the grounds holding hands if I didn’t check up on you.”

His mother sighed, and static rushed through the speaker. “I’m worried about you, Arty. Someone your age shouldn’t be quite so . . . responsible. Don’t worry about us; worry about school and friends. Think about what you really want to do. Use that big brain of yours to make yourself and other people happy. Forget the family business. Living is the family business now.”

Artemis didn’t know how to reply. Half of him wanted to point out that there really would be no family business if it weren’t for him secretly safeguarding it. The other half of him wanted to get on a plane home and wander the grounds with his family.

His mother sighed again. Artemis hated that just talking to him could make her worry.

“When will you be home, Arty?”

“The trip ends in three more days.”

“I mean, when will you be home for good. I know Saint Bartleby’s is a family tradition, but we want you home with us. Principal Guiney will understand. There are plenty of good day schools locally.”

“I see,” said Artemis. Could he do it? he wondered. Just be part of a normal family. Abandon his criminal enterprises. Was it in him to live an honest life?

“The holidays are in a couple of weeks. We can talk then,” he said. Using a delay tactic, he continued, “To be honest, I can’t concentrate now. I’m not feeling very well. I thought I might have food poisoning, but it turns out to be just a twenty-four-hour bug. The local doctor says I will be fine tomorrow.”

“Poor Arty,” crooned Angeline. “Maybe I should put you on a plane home.”

“No, Mother. I’m feeling better already. Honestly.”

“Whatever you like. I know bugs are uncomfortable, but it’s better than a dose of food poisoning. You could have been laid low for weeks. Drink plenty of water, and try to sleep.”

“I will, Mother.”

“You’ll be home soon?”

“Yes. Tell father I called.”

“I will, if I can find him. He’s in the gym, I think, on the treadmill.”

“Good-bye, then.”

“Bye, Arty, we’ll talk more about this on your return,” said Angeline, her voice low and slightly sad, sounding very far away.

Artemis ended the call and immediately replayed it on his computer. Every time he spoke to mother he felt guilty. Angeline Fowl had a way of awakening his conscience. This was a relatively new development. A year ago he may have felt a tiny pinprick of guilt at lying to his mother, but now even the minor trick he was about to play would haunt his thoughts for weeks.

Artemis watched the sound-wave meter on his computer screen. He was changing, no doubt about it.

This kind of self-doubt had been increasing over the past several months—ever since he had discovered mysterious mirrored contact lenses in his own eyes one morning. Butler and Juliet had been wearing the same lenses. They had tried to find out where the lenses had come from, but all that Butler’s contact in that field would say was that Artemis himself had paid for them. Curiouser and curiouser.

The lenses remained a mystery. And so did Artemis’s feelings. On the table before him was Hervé’s The Fairy Thief, an acquisition that established him as the foremost thief of the age. A status he had longed for since the age of six. But now that his ambition was literally in his grasp, all he could think about was his family.

Is now the time to retire? he thought. Age fourteen and three months, the best thief in the world. After all, where can I go from here? He replayed a section of the phone conversation again: Don’t worry about us, worry about school and friends. Think about what you really want to do. Use that big brain of yours to make yourself and other people happy.

Maybe his mother was right: he should use his talents to make others happy. But there was a darkness in him. A hard surface on his heart that would not be satisfied with the quiet life. Maybe there were ways to make people happy that only he could achieve. Ways on the far side of the law. Over the thin blue line.

Artemis rubbed his eyes. He could not come to a conclusion. Perhaps living at home full time would make the decision for him. Best to continue with the job at hand. Buy some time, and then authenticate the painting. Even though he felt some guilt about stealing the masterpiece, it was not nearly enough to make him give it back. Especially to Messrs. Crane and Sparrow.

The first task was to deflect any inquiries from the school as to his activities. He would need at least two days to authenticate the painting, as some of the tests would need to be contracted out.

Artemis opened an audio manipulation program on his Powerbook and set about cutting and pasting his mother’s words from the recorded phone call. When he had selected the words he wanted, and put them in the right order, he smoothed the levels to make the speech sound natural.

When Principal Guiney turned on his mobile phone after the visit to Munich’s Olympia Stadium, there would be a new message waiting for him. It would be from Angeline Fowl, and she would not be in a good mood.

Artemis routed the call through Fowl Manor, then sent the edited sound file by infrared to his own mobile phone.

“Principal Guiney.” The voice was unmistakably Angeline Fowl’s, and the caller ID would confirm it. “I’m worried about Arty. He has a dose of food poisoning. His outlook is marvelous and he never complains, but we want him home with us. You understand. I put Arty on a plane home. I am surprised he got a dose of food poisoning under your care. We will talk more on your return.”

Th

at took care of school for a few days. The dark half of Artemis felt an electric thrill at the subterfuge, but his growing conscience felt a tug of guilt at using his mother’s voice to weave his web of lies.

He banished the guilt. It was a harmless lie. Butler would escort him home, and his education would not suffer through a few days’ absence. As for stealing The Fairy Thief, theft from thieves was not real crime. It was almost justifiable. Yes, said a voice in his head, unbidden. If you give the painting back to the world.

No, replied his granite-hearted half. This painting is mine until someone can steal it away. That’s the whole point.

Artemis banished his indecision and turned off his mobile phone. He needed to focus completely on the painting, and a vibrating phone at the wrong moment could cause his hand to jitter. His natural inclination was to pop the stopper on the Perspex tube’s lid. But that could be more than foolish: it could be fatal. There were any number of little gifts that Crane and Sparrow could have left for him.

Artemis took a chromatograph from the rigid suitcase that contained his lab equipment. The instrument would take a sample of the gas inside the tube and process it. He chose a needle nozzle from a selection of several and screwed it on to the rubber tube protruding from the chromatograph’s flat end. He held the needle carefully in his left hand. Artemis was ambidextrous, but his left hand was slightly steadier. With care, he poked the needle through the tube’s silicon seal, into the space around the painting. It was essential that the needle be moved as little as possible, so the container’s gas could not leak out and mingle with the air. The chromatograph siphoned a small sample of gas, sucking it into a heated injection port. Any organic impurities were driven off by heating, and a carrier gas transported the sample through a separation column and into a Flame Ionization Detector. There, individual components were identified. Seconds later a graph flashed up on the instrument’s digital readout. The percentages of oxygen, hydrogen, methane, and carbon dioxide matched a sample taken earlier from downtown Munich. There was a five percent slice of gas which remained unidentified. But that was normal. This was probably caused by complex pollution gases or equipment sensitivity. Mystery gas aside, Artemis knew that it was perfectly safe to open the tube. He did so, carefully slitting the seal with a craft knife.