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.
