The Opal Deception (Artemis Fowl 4)

CHAPTER 2

THE FAIRY THIEF

Munich, Germany; Present Day

Thieves have their own folklore: stories of ingenious heists and death-defying robberies. One such legend tells of the Egyptian cat burglar Faisil Mahmood, who scaled the dome of St. Peter’s basilica in order to drop in on a visiting bishop and steal his crosier.

Another story concerns confidence woman Red Mary Keneally, who dressed as a duchess and talked her way into the King of England’s coronation. The palace denied the event ever took place, but every now and then a crown turns up at auction that looks a lot like the one in the Tower of London.

Perhaps the most thrilling legend is the tale of the lost Hervé masterpiece. Every primary schoolchild knows that Pascal Hervé was the French Impressionist who painted extraordinarily beautiful pictures of the fairy folk. And every art dealer knows that Hervé’s paintings are second in value only to those of van Gogh himself, commanding price tags of more than fifty million euros.

There are fifteen paintings in the Hervé Fairy Folk series. Ten reside in French museums and five are in private collections. But there are rumors of a sixteenth. Whispers circulate in the upper criminal echelons that another Hervé exists: The Fairy Thief, depicting a fairy in the act of stealing a human child. Legend has it that Hervé gave the picture as a gift to a beautiful Turkish girl he met on the Champs-Elysée.

The girl promptly broke Hervé’s heart, and sold the picture to a British tourist for twenty francs. Within weeks, the picture had been stolen from the Englishman’s home. And since that time, it has been lifted from private collections all over the world. Since Hervé painted his masterpiece, it is believed that The Fairy Thief has been stolen fifteen times. But what makes these thefts different from the billion others that have been committed during this time is that the first thief decided to keep the picture for himself. And so did all the others.

The Fairy Thief has become something of a trophy for top thieves worldwide. Only a dozen know of its existence, and only a handful know of its whereabouts. The painting is to criminals what the Turner Prize is to artists. Whoever manages to successfully steal the lost painting is acknowledged as the master thief of his generation. Not many are aware of this challenge, but those who do know matter.

Naturally Artemis Fowl knew of The Fairy Thief, and recently he had learned of the painting’s whereabouts. It was an irresistible test of his abilities. If he succeeded in stealing the lost master, he would become the youngest thief in history to have done so.

His bodyguard, the giant Eurasian Butler, was not very pleased with his young charge’s latest project.

“I don’t like this, Artemis,” said Butler in his bass gravelly tones. “My instincts tell me it’s a trap.”

Artemis Fowl inserted batteries in his handheld computer game.

“Of course it’s a trap,” said the fourteen-year-old Irish boy. “The Fairy Thief has been ensnaring thieves for years. That’s what makes it interesting.”

They were traveling around Munich’s Marienplatz in a rented Hummer H2. The military vehicle was not Artemis’s style, but it would be consistent with the style of the people they were pretending to be. Artemis sat in the rear, feeling ridiculous, dressed not in his usual dark two-piece suit, but in normal teenager clothing.

“This outfit is preposterous,” he said, zipping his tracksuit top. “What is the point of a hood that is not waterproof? And all these logos? I feel like a walking advertisement. And these jeans do not fit properly. They are sagging down to my knees.”

Butler smiled, glancing in the rearview mirror. “I think you look fine. Juliet would say that you were bad.”

Juliet, Butler’s younger sister, was currently on a tour of the States with a Mexican wrestling troupe, trying to break into the big time. Her ring name was the Jade Princess.

“I certainly feel bad,” admitted Artemis. “As for these high-top sneakers—how is one supposed to run quickly with soles three inches thick? I feel as though I am on stilts. Honestly, Butler, the second we return to the hotel, I am disposing of this outfit. I miss my suits.”

Butler pulled onto Im Tal, where the International Bank was located. “Artemis, if you’re not feeling comfortable, perhaps we should postpone this operation?”

Artemis zipped his computer game into a backpack, which already contained a number of typical teenage items. “Absolutely not. This window of opportunity has taken a month to organize.”

Three weeks previously, Artemis had made an anonymous donation to the St. Bartleby’s School for Young Men, on condition that the third-year boys be taken on a trip to Munich for the European Schools’ Fair. The principal had been happy to honor the donor’s wishes. And now, while the other boys were viewing various technological marvels at an exhibition in Munich’s Olympia Stadium, Artemis was on his way to the International Bank.

As far as Principal Guiney was concerned, Butler was driving a student who was feeling poorly back to his hotel room.

“Crane and Sparrow probably move the painting several times a year. I certainly would. Who knows where it will be in six months?”

Crane and Sparrow were a firm of British lawyers who used their business as a front for an extremely successful burglary and fencing enterprise. Artemis had long suspected them of possessing The Fairy Thief. Confirmation had arrived a month earlier, when a private detective who was routinely employed to spy on Crane and Sparrow reported that he had spotted them moving a painting tube to the International Bank. Possibly The Fairy Thief.

“I may not have this chance again until I am an adult,” continued the Irish youth. “And there is no question of waiting that long. Franz Herman stole The Fairy Thief when he was eighteen years old; I need to beat that record.”

Butler sighed. “Criminal folklore tells us that Herman stole the painting in 1927. He merely snatched a briefcase. There is rather more to contend with today. We must break open a safe-deposit box in one of the world’s most secure banks, in broad daylight.”

Artemis Fowl smiled. “Yes. Many would say that it was impossible.”

“They would,” agreed Butler, slotting the Hummer into a parking space. “Many sane people. Especially for someone on a school tour.”

* * *

They entered the bank through the lobby’s revolving doors in full view of the CCTV. Butler led the way, striding purposefully across the gold-veined marble floor toward an inquiries desk. Artemis trailed behind, bobbing his head to some music on his portable disk player. In fact the disk player was empty. Artemis wore mirrored sunglasses that concealed his eyes but allowed him to scan the bank’s interior unobserved.

The International Bank was famous in certain circles for having the most secure safe-deposit boxes in the world, including Switzerland. It was rumored that if the International Bank’s deposit boxes were cracked open and the contents dumped onto the floor, perhaps one tenth of the world’s wealth would be heaped on the marble. Jewels, bearer bonds, cash, deeds, art. At least half of it stolen from its rightful owners. But Artemis was not interested in any of these objects. Perhaps next time.

Butler stopped at the enquiries desk, casting a broad shadow across the slim-line monitor perched there. The thin man who had been working on the monitor lifted his head to complain, then thought better of it. Butler’s sheer bulk often had that effect on people.

“How can I help you, Herr . . . ?”

“Lee, Colonel Xavier Lee. I wish to open my deposit box,” replied Butler, in fluent German.

“Yes, Colonel. Of course. My name is Bertholt, and I will be assisting you today.” Bertholt opened Colonel Xavier Lee’s file on his computer with one hand, the other twirling a pencil like a mini-baton. “We just need to complete the usual security check. If I may have your passport?”

“Of course,” said Butler, sliding a People’s Republic of China passport across the desk. “I expect nothing less than the most stringent security procedures.”

Bertholt took the pa

ssport in his slim fingers, first checking the photograph, then placing it onto a scanner.

“Alfonse,” snapped Butler at Artemis. “Stop fidgeting and stand up straight, son. You slouch so much that sometimes I think you don’t have a spine.”

Bertholt smiled with the insincerity a toddler could have seen through. “Alfonse, nice to meet you.”

“Dude,” said Artemis, with equal hypocrisy.

Butler shook his head. “My son does not communicate well with the rest of the world. I look forward to the day he can join the army. Then we shall see if there is a man beneath all these moods.”

Bertholt nodded sympathetically. “I have a girl. Sixteen years old. She spends more of my money on phone calls in a week than the entire family spends on food.”

“Teenagers, they’re all the same.”

The computer beeped.

“Ah yes, your passport has been cleared. Now all I need is a signature.” Bertholt slid a handwriting tablet across the desk. A digi-pen was attached to the tablet by a length of wire. Butler took it and scrawled his signature across the line. The signature would match. Of course it would. The original writing was Butler’s own, Colonel Xavier Lee being one of a dozen aliases the bodyguard had created over the years. The passport was also authentic, even if the details typed upon it weren’t. Butler had purchased it years previously from a Chinese diplomat’s secretary in Rio de Janeiro.

Once again the computer beeped.

“Good,” said Bertholt. “You are indeed who you say you are. I shall bring you to the deposit-box room. Will Alfonse be accompanying us?”

Butler stood. “Absolutely. If I leave him here, he will probably get himself arrested.”

Bertholt attempted a joke. “Well, if I may say so, Colonel, he’s in the right place.”

“Hilarious, dude,” muttered Artemis. “You should, like, have your own show.”

But Bertholt’s comment was accurate. Armed security men were dotted throughout the building. At the first sign of any impropriety, they would move to strategic points, covering all exits.

Bertholt led the way to a brushed-steel elevator, holding his ID card up to a camera over the door.

The bank official winked at Artemis. “We have a special security system here, young man. It’s all very exciting.”

“I know. I think I’m going to faint,” said Artemis.

“No more attitude, son,” scolded Butler. “Bertholt is simply trying to make conversation.”