The Opal Deception Read online

  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.”

  Bertholt stayed civil in the face of Artemis’s sarcasm. “Maybe you’d like to work here when you grow up, eh, Alfonse?”

  For the first time Artemis smiled sincerely, and for some reason the sight sent shivers down Bertholt’s spine. “Do you know something, Bertholt? I think some of my best work will be in banks.”

  The awkward silence that followed was cut short by a voice from a tiny speaker below the camera.

  “Yes, Bertholt, we see you. How many?”

  “Two,” replied Bertholt. “One key holder and one minor. Coming down to open a box.”

  The lift door slid back to reveal a steel cuboid with no buttons or panels, just a camera elevated in one corner. They stepped inside and the elevator was remotely activated. Artemis noticed Bertholt wringing his hands as soon as they began to descend.

  “Hey, Bertholt, what’s the problem? It’s only an elevator.”

  Bertholt forced a smile. Barely a glint of tooth showed beneath his mustache. “You don’t miss much, do you, Alfonse? I don’t like small spaces. And there are no controls in here, for security reasons. The lift is operated from the desk. If it were to break down, we would be relying on the guards to rescue us. This thing is virtually airtight. What if the guard had a heart attack, or went on a coffee break? We could all . . .” The bank official’s nervous rant was cut off by the hiss of the elevator door. They had arrived at the deposit-box floor.

  “Here we are,” said Bertholt, mopping his forehead with a Kleenex. A section of the paper remained trapped in the worry lines of his forehead, and fluttered there like a windsock in the air-conditioner blast. “Safe, you see. Absolutely no need to worry. All is well.” He laughed nervously. “Shall we?”

  A bulky security guard waited for them outside the lift. Artemis noted the side arm on his belt, and the earpiece cord winding along his neck.

  “Willkommen, Bertholt, you made it in one piece. Again.”

  Bertholt plucked the strand of tissue from his forehead. “Yes, Kurt, I made it, and don’t think the scorn in your voice goes unnoticed.”

  Kurt sighed mightily, allowing the escaping air to flap his lips. “Please pardon my phobic countryman,” he said to Butler. “Everything terrifies him, from spiders to elevators. It’s a wonder he ever gets out of bed. Now, if you could stand on the yellow square and raise both arms to shoulder level.”

  There was a yellow square taped onto the steel floor. Butler stepped onto it, raising his arms. Kurt performed a body search that would have shamed a customs official, before ushering him through a metal detector arch.

  “He’s clean,” he said aloud. The words would be picked up by the microphone on his lapel and relayed to the security booth. “You next, boy,” said Kurt. “Same drill.”

  Artemis complied, slouching onto the square. He raised his arms barely six inches from his sides.

  Butler glared at him. “Alfonse! Can’t you do what the man says? In the army I would have you cleaning the latrines for this kind of behavior.”

  Artemis glared back. “Yes, Colonel, but we’re not in the army here, are we?”

  Kurt slipped Artemis’s pack from his back and rifled through the contents.

  “What’s this?” he asked, pulling out a toughened plastic frame.

  Artemis took the frame, unfolding it with three deft movements. “It’s a scooter, dude. You may have heard of them. Transportation that doesn’t pollute the air we breathe.”

  Kurt snatched back the scooter, spinning the wheels and checking the joints.

  Artemis smirked. “Of course, it’s also a laser cutter, so I can break into your boxes.”

  “You’re a real smart aleck, boy,” snarled Kurt, stuffing the scooter back in the bag. “And what’s this?”

  Artemis turned on the video game. “It’s a game box. They were invented so teenagers wouldn’t have to talk to grown-ups.”

  Kurt glanced at Butler. “He’s a gem, sir. I wish I had one just like him.” He rattled a ring of keys on Artemis’s belt. “And what are these?”

  Artemis scratched his head. “Uh . . . keys?”

  Kurt ground his teeth audibly. “I know they’re keys, boy. What do they open?”

  Artemis shrugged. “Stuff. My locker. My scooter lock. A couple of diaries. Stuff.”

  The security guard examined the keys. They were everyday keys, and wouldn’t open a complicated lock. But the bank had a no-key rule. Only safe-deposit box keys were allowed through the metal detector.

  “Sorry. The keys stay here.” Kurt unclipped the ring and placed the keys in a flat tray. “You can pick them up on your way out.”

  “Can I go now?”

  “Yes,” said Kurt. “Please do, but pass the bag through to your father first.”

  Artemis handed the bag around the metal detector arch to Butler. He passed through himself, setting off the buzzer.

  Kurt followed him impatiently. “Do you have anything else metallic on you? A belt buckle? Some coins?”

  “Money?” scoffed Artemis. “I wish.”

  “What’s setting off the detector, then?” said Kurt, puzzled.

  “I think I know,” said Artemis. He hooked a finger inside his top lip, pulling it up. Two metal bands ran across his teeth.

  “Braces. That would do it,” said Kurt. “The detector is extremely sensitive.”

  Artemis removed his finger from his mouth. “Should I take these out too? Rip them from my teeth?”

  Kurt took the suggestion at face value. “No. I think we’re safe enough. Just
go on through. But behave yourself in there. It’s a vault, not a playground.” Kurt paused, pointing to a camera above their heads. “Remember, I’ll be watching.”

  “Watch all you like,” said Artemis brazenly.

  “Oh, I will, boy. You so much as spit on one of those doors, and I’ll eject you from the premises. Forcibly.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake, Kurt,” said Bertholt. “Don’t be so theatrical. Those are not network television cameras, you know.”

  Bertholt ushered them through to the vault door. “I apologize for Kurt. He failed the special-forces exam and ended up here. Sometimes I think he would love someone to rob the place, just so he could see some action.”

  The door was a circular slab of steel, at least sixteen feet in diameter. In spite of its size, the door swung easily at Bertholt’s touch.

  “Perfectly balanced,” explained the bank official. “A child could open it, until five thirty when it shuts for the night. Naturally the vault is time locked. Nobody can open the door until eight thirty A.M. Not even the bank president.”

  Inside the vault were rows and rows of steel deposit boxes of all shapes and sizes. Each box had a single rectangular keyhole on its face, surrounded by a fiber-optic light. At the moment all the lights glowed red.

  Bertholt took a key from his pocket; it was attached to his belt by a woven steel cable. “Of course the key’s shape is not the only important thing,” he said, inserting the key into a master keyhole. “The locks are also operated by microchip.”

  Butler took a similar key from his wallet. “Are we ready?”

  “Whenever you are, sir.”

  Butler ran his fingers over several boxes until he reached number seven hundred. He inserted his key in the keyhole. “Ready.”

  “Very well, sir. On my mark. Three, two, one. Turn.”

  Both men turned their keys simultaneously. The master key safeguard prevented a thief opening a box with a single key. If the two keys were not turned within one second of each other, the box would not open.