The Opal Deception (Artemis Fowl 4)

“That’s the first thing I thought of. Come on, Artemis, you’re supposed to be a genius. Use your brain.”

Artemis scratched his chin. He was finding it difficult to concentrate. He heard tires crunching on the drive, and then his mother’s voice laughing as she climbed from the car.

“Arty?” she called. “Come down. We need to see you.”

“Come down, Arty boy,” shouted his father. “Welcome us home.”

Artemis found that he was smiling. “Holly, can you call me back later? I’m busy right now.”

Holly tried to scowl. “Okay. Five hours, and you’d better have some suggestions for me.”

“Don’t worry, I will. And also my consultant’s bill.”

“Some things never change,” said Holly, and closed the link.

Artemis quickly locked the communicator in his room safe, then ran to the stairs.

His mother was at the bottom of the steps, and her arms were open wide.

EPILOGUE

An Article from The Irish Times, by Eugene Driscoll, Culture Correspondent

Last week the art world was left reeling following the discovery of a lost painting by Pascal Hervé, the French Impres-sionist master. The rumored recovery of The Fairy Thief (oil on canvas) was confirmed when the painting was sent to the Louvre Museum in Paris. Someone, presumably an art lover, actually used the regular mail service to post the priceless masterpiece to the curator. The authenticity of the work has been confirmed by six independent experts.

A spokesman for the Louvre has stated that the picture will be exhibited within the next month. So, for the first time in almost a century, everyday art lovers will be able to enjoy Hervé’s masterpiece.

But perhaps the most tantalizing part of this whole affair is the typed note that came with The Fairy Thief. The note read simply “More to follow.”

Is someone out there reclaiming lost or stolen masters for the people? If so, collectors beware. No secret vault is safe. This correspondent waits with bated breath. More to follow. Art lovers all over the world certainly hope so!

Casa Milà was an early twentieth-century dwelling designed by the Spanish art nouveau architect Antoni Gaudí. The façade consisted of curved walls and balconies topped by twisted ironworks. The walkway outside the building was thronged with tourists lining up for an afternoon tour of the spectacular house.

“Will we recognize our visitor among all these people? Are you sure that he is not already here? Watching us?”

Artemis smiled, his eyes glittering. “Believe me, he is not here. If he were, there would be a lot of screaming.”

Butler scowled. Once, just once, he would like to get all the facts before they boarded the jet. But that wasn’t the way Artemis worked. To the young Irish genius, the reveal was the most important part of his schemes.

“At least tell me if our contact will be armed.”

“I doubt it,” said Artemis. “And even if he is, he won’t be with us for more than a second.”

“A second? Just beaming down through outer space, is he?”

“Not space, old friend,” said Artemis, checking his wristwatch. “Time.” The boy sighed. “Anyway, the moment has passed. It seems as though I have brought us here for nothing. Our visitor has not materialized. The chances were slim. Obviously there was nobody at the other end of the rift.”

Butler didn’t know what rift Artemis was referring to; he was simply relieved to be leaving this insecure location. The sooner they could get back to Barcelona Airport the better.

The bodyguard pulled a mobile phone from his pocket and hit a number on the speed dial. The person on the other end picked up on the first ring.

“Maria,” said Butler. “Collection, pronto.”

“Sí,” replied Maria tersely. Maria worked for an exclusive Spanish limousine company. She was extremely pretty and could break a breeze block with her forehead.

“Was that Maria?” said Artemis, mimicking casual conversation perfectly.

Butler was not fooled. Artemis Fowl rarely asked casual questions.

“Yes, that was Maria. You could tell because I used her name when I spoke to her. You don’t usually ask so many questions about the limo driver. That’s four in the past fifteen minutes. Will Maria be picking us up? Where do you think Maria is right now? How old do you think Maria is?”

Artemis rubbed his temples. “It’s this blasted puberty, Butler. Every time I see a pretty girl, I waste valuable mind space thinking about her. The girl at that restaurant, for instance. I’ve glanced in her direction a dozen times in the past few minutes.”

Butler gave the pretty girl in question an automatic bodyguard’s once-over.

She was twelve or thirteen, did not appear to be armed, and had a mane of extremely tight blond curls. The girl was studiously working her way through a selection of tapas while a male guardian, perhaps her father, read the paper. There was another man at the table who was struggling to stow a set of crutches under his chair. Butler judged that the girl was not a direct threat to their safety, though indirectly she could cause trouble if Artemis were unable to concentrate on his plan.

Butler patted his young charge on the shoulder. “It’s normal to be distracted by girls. Natural. If you hadn’t been so busy saving the world these past few years, it would have happened sooner.”

“Nevertheless, I have to control it, Butler. I have things to do.”

“Control puberty?” snorted the bodyguard. “If you manage that, you’ll be the first.”

“I generally am,” said Artemis.

And it was true. No other teenager had kidnapped a fairy, rescued their father from the Russian Mafiya, and helped put down a goblin revolution by the tender age of fourteen.

A horn honked twice. From across the intersection, a young lady gestured through an open limousine window.

“It’s Maria,” said Artemis, then caught himself. “I mean, let us go. Maybe we’ll have better luck at the next site.”

Butler took the lead, stopping traffic with a wave of one massive palm. “Maybe we should take Maria with us. A full-time driver would make my job a lot easier.”

It took Artemis a moment to realize that he was being ribbed. “Very funny, Butler. You were joking, weren’t you?”

“Yes, I was.”

“I thought so, but I don’t have a lot of experience with humor. Apart from Mulch Diggums.”

Mulch was a kleptomaniac dwarf who had stolen from, and for, Artemis on previous occasions. Diggums liked to think of himself as a funny fairy, and his main sources of humor were his own bodily functions.

“If you can call that humor,” said Butler, smiling in spite of himself at his own memories of the pungent dwarf.

Suddenly Artemis froze—in the middle of a heaving intersection.

Butler glowered at the three lanes of city traffic, a hundred impatient drivers leaning on their horns.

“I feel something,” breathed Artemis. “Electricity.”

“Could you please feel it on the other side of the road?” asked Butler.

Artemis stretched out his arms and felt a tingle on his palms.

“He’s coming, after all, but several yards off target. Somewhere there is a constant that is not constant.”

A shape formed in the air. From nothing came a cluster of sparks and the smell of sulfur. Inside the cluster, a gray-green thing appeared, with golden eyes, chunky scales, and great horned ears. It stepped out of nowhere and onto the road. It stood erect, five feet high, humanoid, but there was no mistaking this creature for human. It sniffed the air through slitted nostrils, opened a snake’s mouth, and spoke.

“Felicitations to Lady Heatherington Smythe,” it said in a voice of crushed glass and grating steel. The creature grasped Artemis’s outstretched palm with a four-fingered hand.

“Curious,” said the Irish boy.

Butler wasn’t interested in curious. He was interested in getting Artemis away from this creature as quickly as possible.

/>

“Let’s go,” he said brusquely, laying a hand on Artemis’s shoulder.

But Artemis was already gone. The creature had disappeared as quickly as it had come, taking the teenager with him. The incident would make the news later that day, but strangely enough, in spite of the hundreds of tourists armed with cameras, there would be no pictures.

The creature was insubstantial, as though it did not have a proper hold on this world. Its grip on Artemis’s hand was soft with a hard core, like bone wrapped in foam rubber. Artemis did not try to pull away; he was fascinated.

“Lady Heatherington Smythe?” repeated the creature, and Artemis could hear that it was scared. “Dost this be her estate?”