‘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?’
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 lift, 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 lift 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 a lift.’
Bertholt forced a smile. Barely a glint of tooth showed beneath his moustache.
‘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 lift door. They had arrived at the deposit box floor.
‘Here we are,’ said Bertholt, mopping his forehead with a paper tissue. A section of the paper remained trapped in the worry lines of his forehead, and fluttered there like a windsock in the blast from the air conditioner. ‘Safe, you see. Absolutely no need to worry. All is well.’ He laughed nervously. ‘Shall we?’
A bulky security guard was waiting for them outside the lift. Artemis noted the sidearm on his belt, and the earpiece cord winding along his neck.
