Eoin Colfer - Artemis Fowl. The Opal Deception Страница 3

Argon heaved a massive sigh, resting his hands on both knees. He threw the observers a shamefaced grin. ‘Sorry. I panicked. If we lost Koboi, the clinic would never live it down. I’m just a little paranoid, I suppose. Faces can be altered, but…“

‘DNA never lies,’ said Merv and Scant simultaneously.

Grub reset his video goggles. ‘I think Doctor Argon needs a little vacation.’

‘You’re telling me,’ sniggered Merv, rolling the trolley towards the maintenance lift. ‘Anyway, we better get going, brother. We need to isolate the cause of the power failure.’

Scant followed him down the corridor. ‘Any idea where the problem could be?’

‘I have a hunch. Let’s try the parking lot, or maybe the basement.’

‘Whatever you say. After all, you are the older brother.’

‘And wiser,’ added Merv. ‘Don’t forget that.’

The pixies continued down the corridor, their brisk banter masking the fact that their knees were shaking and their hearts were battering their ribcages. It wasn’t until they had removed the evidence of their acid bombs and were well on their way home in the van that they began to breathe normally again.

Merv unzipped Koboi from her sealed hiding place back in the apartment he shared with Scant. Any worries they’d had about Opal’s IQ taking a dip were immediately banished. Their employer’s eyes were bright and aware.

‘Bring me up to speed,’ she said, climbing shakily from the trolley. Even though her mind was fully functioning, it would take a couple of days in an electro-massager to get her muscles back to normal.

Merv helped her on to a low sofa. ‘Everything is in place. The funds, the surgeon, everything.’

Opal drank greedily, straight from a jug of core water on the coffee table. ‘Good, good. And what of my enemies?’

Scant stood beside his brother. They were almost identical, except for a slight wideness in Merv’s brow. He had always been the smart one.

‘We have kept tabs on them, as you asked.’

Opal stopped drinking. ‘Asked?’

‘Instructed,’ stammered Scant. ‘Instructed, of course. That’s what I meant.’

Koboi’s eyes narrowed. ‘I do hope the Brill brothers haven’t developed any independent notions since I’ve been asleep.’

Scant stooped slightly, almost bowing. ‘No, no, Miss Koboi. We live to serve. Only to serve.’

‘Yes,’ agreed Opal. ‘And you live only as long as you do serve. Now, my enemies. They are well and happy, I trust.’

‘Oh yes. Julius Root goes from strength to strength as LEP Commander. He has been nominated for the Council.’

Opal smiled, a vicious wolverine’s smile. ‘The Council. Such a long way to fall. And Holly Short?’

‘Back on full active duty. Six successful reconnaissance missions since you induced your coma. Her name has been put on the list for promotion to major.’

‘Major, indeed. Well, the least we can do is to make sure that promotion never comes through. I plan to wreck Holly Short’s career, so she dies in disgrace.’

‘The centaur Foaly is as obnoxious as ever,’ continued Scant Brill. ‘I suggest a particularly nasty…’

Opal raised a delicate finger, cutting him off. ‘No. Nothing happens to Foaly just yet. He will be defeated by intellect alone. Twice in my life someone has outsmarted me. Both times it was Foaly. Just killing him requires no ingenuity. I want him beaten, humiliated and alone.’ She clapped her hands in delighted anticipation. ‘And then I will kill him.’

‘We have been monitoring Artemis Fowl’s communications. Apparently the human youth has spent most of the past year trying to find a certain painting. We have traced the painting to Munich.’

‘A painting? Really?’ Cogs turned in Opal’s brain. ‘Well, let’s make sure we get to it before he does. Maybe we can add a little something to his work of art.’

Scant nodded. ‘Yes. That’s not a problem. I’ll go tonight.’

Opal stretched out on the sofa like a cat in the sunlight. ‘Good. This is turning out to be a lovely day. Now, send for the surgeon.’

The Brill brothers glanced at each other.

‘Miss Koboi?’ said Mervall nervously.

‘Yes, what is it?’

‘The surgeon. This kind of operation cannot be reversed, even by magic. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to think — ’

Opal leaped from the sofa. Her cheeks were crimson with rage.

‘Think! You’d like me to think about it! What do you imagine I have been doing for the past year? Thinking! Twenty-four hours a day. I don’t care about magic. Magic did not help me to escape, science did. Science will be my magic. Now, no more advice,

Merv, or your brother will be an only child. Is that clear?’

Merv was stunned. He had never seen Opal in such a rage. The coma had changed her.

‘Yes, Miss Koboi.’

‘Now, summon the surgeon.’

‘At once, Miss Koboi.’

Opal lay back on the sofa. Soon everything would be right in the world. Her enemies would shortly be dead or discredited. Once those loose ends were tied up, she could get on with her new life. Koboi rubbed the tips of her pointed ears. What would she look like, she wondered, as a human?

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 crozier.

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 very like the one in the Tower of London.

Perhaps the most thrilling legend is the tale of the lost Herve masterpiece. Every primary-school child knows that Pascal Herve was the French Impressionist who painted extraordinarily beautiful pictures of the fairy folk. And every art dealer knows that Herve’s paintings are second in value only to those of Van Gogh himself, commanding price tags of over SO million euro.

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

The girl promptly broke Herve’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 Herve 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 masterpiece, he would become the youngest thief in history to have done so.

His bodyguard, the giant Eurasian Butler, was not best 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 hand-held 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 travelling 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 rear-view 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 trainers. How is one supposed to run quickly with soles ten centimetres 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 on to Im Tal, where the International Bank was located.

‘Artemis, if you’re not feeling comfortable, perhaps we should postpone this operation?’

Artemis zipped the 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 Gentlemen, on condition that the Third Year boys were taken on a trip to Munich for the European Schools’ Fair. The principal had been happy to honour the donor’s wishes. And now, while the other boys were viewing various technological marvels at an exhibition in Munich’s Olympia Stadion, Artemis was on his way to the International Bank. As far as Guiney, the school’s principal, was concerned, Butler was driving a poorly student back to his hotel room.

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

Crane & Sparrow was 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 Fairj Thief. Confirmation had arrived a month earlier when a private detective, who was routinely employed to spy on Crane & 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 Fairj 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 safety 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 towards an enquiries desk. Artemis trailed behind, bobbing his head to some music on his portable disc player. In fact the disc 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 safety deposit boxes in the world, including Switzerland. It was rumoured that if the International Bank’s deposit boxes were cracked open and the contents dumped on to 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 was 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 passport in slim fingers, first checking the photograph, then placing it on 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 an 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 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, scrawling 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?’