Anpeline laughed again, and suddenly Artemis wished he were home.
‘Yes, Grandad. 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, a rush of static 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 the fact 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. Delaying tactics. ‘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.’
‘Goodbye, 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 his mother he felt guilty. Angeline Fowl had a way of awakening his conscience. This was a relatively new development. A year ago he might have felt a tiny pinprick of guilt at lying to his mother, but now even this 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 came 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 Herve’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. Aged 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: ‘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 in 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 & Sparrow.
The first task was to deflect any enquiries 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 had 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 Stadion, 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,’ said the voice, unmistakably Angeline Fowl’s, which the caller ID would confirm, ‘I’m worried about Arty. He has a dose ofjood poisoning. His outlook is marvellous, 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 ojjood poisoning under jour care.
We will talk more on jour return.’
That 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 & 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, screwing 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 silicone seal into the space round the painting. It was essential that the needle be moved as little as possible so that 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 per cent slice of gas that 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.
Artemis put on a set of surgical gloves, teasing the painting from the cylinder. It plopped on to the table in a tight roll, but sprang loose almost immediately; it hadn’t been in the tube long enough to retain the shape.
