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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 passport 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 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.

The light around both keys switched from red to green. The door on Butler’s safe-deposit box popped open. “Thank you, Bertholt,” said Butler, reaching into the box.

“Of course, sir,” replied Bertholt, almost bowing. “I’ll be right outside. Even with the camera, there is a three-minute inspection rule. So I’ll see you in one hundred and eighty seconds.” Once the bank official had gone, Artemis shot his bodyguard a quizzical look.

“Alfonse?” he said out of the side of his mouth. “I don’t remember deciding on a name for my character.” Butler set the stopwatch on his chronograph. “I was improvising, Artemis. I thought the situation required it. And if I may say so, you make a very convincing obnoxious teenager.” “Thank you, old friend. I try.”

Butler removed an architect’s drawing from his deposit box, unfolding the document until it was almost six feet square. He held it at arm’s length, apparently studying the design inked onto the paper.

Artemis glanced upward at the ceiling-mounted camera. “Raise your arms another two inches and take a step to your left.” Butler did so casually, covering the movements with a cough, and a shake of the parchment.

“Good. Perfect. Stay right there.”

When Butler had rented the box on his last visit, he’d taken numerous photographs of the vault with a button camera. Artemis had used these photos to render a digital reconstruction of the room. According to his calculations, Butler’s present position provided Artemis with a thirtythree-foot box of cover. In that area his movements would be hidden by the drawing. At the moment, only his trainers could be seen by the security guards.

Artemis rested his back against a wall of security boxes, between two steel benches. He braced both arms against the benches, levering himself out of the oversized trainers. Carefully, the boy slid onto the bench.

“Keep your head down,” advised Butler.

Artemis rooted through his backpack for the video cube. Though the box did actually play a computer game, its primary function was an X-ray panel with real-time viewing. The X-ray panels were in common usage among the upper criminal echelons, and it had been a relatively simple matter for Artemis to disguise one as a teenager’s toy.

Artemis activated the X-ray, sliding it across the door of the deposit box beside Butler’s. The bodyguard had rented his box two days after Crane and Sparrow. It stood to reason that the boxes would be close to one another, unless Crane and Sparrow had requested a specific number. In that case it was back to the drawing board. Artemis reckoned that this first attempt to steal The Fairy Thief had a forty percent chance of success. These were not ideal odds, but he had no option but to go ahead. At the very least, he would learn more about the bank’s security.

The game cube’s small screen revealed that the first box was stuffed with currency.

“Negative,” said Artemis. “Cash only.”

Butler raised an eyebrow. “You know what they say: you can never have too much cash.” Artemis had already moved on to the next box. “Not today, old friend. But let’s keep up the rental on our box, in case we ever need to return.” The next box contained legal papers tied together with ribbons. The one after that was piled high with loose diamonds in a tray. Artemis struck gold on the fourth box. Figuratively speaking. Inside the deposit box was a long tube containing a rolled-up canvas.

“I think we have it, Butler. I think this could be it.”

“Time enough to get excited when the painting is hanging on the wall in Fowl Manor. Hurry up, Artemis, my arms are beginning to ache.” Artemis steadied himself. Of course Butler was right. They were still a long way from possessing The Fairy Thief, if indeed this painting was Hervé’s lost masterpiece. It could just as easily be some proud grandfather’s crayon drawing of a helicopter.

Artemis moved the X-ray machine down to the bottom of the box. There were no manufacturer’s markings on the door, but often craftsmen were proud and could not resist placing a signature somewhere. Even if nobody knew it was there but them. Artemis searched for maybe twenty seconds before he found what he was looking for. Inside the door itself, on the rear panel was engraved the word Blokken.

“Blokken,” said the boy triumphantly. “We were right.”

There were only six firms in the world capable of constructing deposit boxes of this quality. Artemis had hacked their computers and found International Bank on the Blokken client list. Blokken was a small family company in Vienna that also made boxes for several banks in Geneva and the Cayman Islands. Butler had paid their workshop a little visit and stolen two master keys. Of course, the keys were metal, and would not escape the detector arch, unless for some reason metal had been allowed through.

Artemis reached two fingers into his mouth, dislodging the brace from his upper teeth. Behind the brace itself was a plastic retainer, and clipped to that were two keys. The master keys.

Artemis rotated his jaw for a few seconds. “That feels better,” he said. “I thought I was going to gag.” The next problem was one of distance. There were eight feet between the deposit box and the master keyhole by the door. Not only was it impossible for one person to open the door unassisted, but whoever stood by the master keyhole would be visible to the security guards.

Artemis pulled his scooter from the backpack. He yanked one pin from its socket, detaching the steering column from the footrest. This was no ordinary scooter. An engineer friend of Butler’s had constructed it from very specific blueprints. The footrest was completely regular, but the steering column turned into a telescope at the touch of a spring-release button. Artemis unscrewed one handgrip, reattaching it at the other end of the column. There was a slit in the end of each grip, into which Artemis screwed a master key. Now all he had to do was insert both keys into their corresponding keyholes and turn them simultaneously.

Artemis slotted one key into Crane and Sparrow’s box.

“Ready?” he asked Butler.

“Yes,” replied his bodyguard. “Don’t go one step farther than you have to.”

“Three, two, one. Go.”

Artemis pressed the spring-release button on the steering column. He shuffled across the bench, pulling the telescoping pole behind him. As the boy moved, Butler swiveled his trunk so that Artemis remained shielded by the blueprint. He moved the plan just far enough to cover the master keyhole, without exposing Artemis’s legless shoes. However, the target box, complete with telescoping pole, was visible for the time it took Artemis to insert the second key.

The master keyhole was three feet beyond the end of the steel bench. Artemis leaned as far as he could without losing his balance, slotting the key into its hole. It fit snugly. Artemis shuffled back quickly. Now Butler could once again mask Crane and Sparrow’s box. The entire plan hinged on the assumption that the guards would be concentrating on Butler, and not notice a slim pole extending toward the master keyhole. It would help that the pole was precisely the same color as the safe-deposit boxes.

Artemis returned to the original box, twisting the handgrip. A pulley and cable system inside the pole twisted the other handgrip simultaneously. Both locks flashed green. Crane and Sparrow’s box popped open. Artemis felt a moment of satisfaction. His contraption had worked. Then again, there was no reason it shouldn’t: all the laws of physics had been obeyed. Amazing how the tightest of electronic security could be defeated by a pole, a pulley, and a brace.

“Artemis,” groaned Butler. “Keeping my arms up is becoming uncomfortable. So, if you wouldn’t mind.” Artemis cut short his mental celebration. They were not out of the vault yet. He turned the grips back to their original position, then yanked the bar toward him. Both keys popped from their holes. With the touch of a button, the pole snapped back to its original length. Artemis did not reassemble the scooter just yet. The pole might be needed to search other boxes.

Artemis studied the locker with the X-ray panel before opening the door any wider. He was searching for any wires or circuits that might trigger secondary alarms. There was one. A circuit breaker attached to a portable Klaxon. It would be extremely embarrassing for any thief if the authorities were alerted by the raucous wailing of a foghorn. Artemis smiled. It seemed as though Crane and Sparrow had a sense of humor. Maybe he would employ them as his lawyers.

Artemis unhooked the headphones from around his neck, popping off the earpieces. Once the wire inside was exposed, he twisted a length around each side of the breaker. Now he could safely pull apart the breaker without opening the circuit. Artemis pulled. The Klaxon remained silent.

At last, the box lay open before him. Inside, a single tube stood propped against the rear wall. The tube was fashioned from Perspex, and contained a rolled-up canvas. Artemis removed the tube and held it up to the light. For several seconds, he studied the painting through the transparent plastic. He could not risk opening the tube until they were safely back in the hotel. A hasty job now could cause accidental damage to the painting. He had waited years to obtain The Fairy Thief; he could wait a few more hours.

“The brushwork is unmistakable,” he said, closing the box. “Strong strokes. Thick blocks of light. It’s either Hervé, or a brilliant copy. I do believe we’ve done it, Butler, but I can’t be sure without X-ray and paint analysis.” “Good,” said the bodyguard, glancing at his watch. “That can be done at the hotel. Pack up and let’s get out of here.” Artemis shoved the cylinder into his backpack, along with the reassembled scooter. He clipped the keys to his retainer, slotting the brace over his teeth.

The vault door slid back just as the Irish youth lowered himself into his trainers. Bertholt’s head appeared in the gap.

“Everything all right in here?” asked the bank official.

Butler folded the drawing, slotting it into his pocket.

“Fine, Bertholt. Excellent, in fact. You may escort us to the main level.”

Bertholt bowed slightly. “Of course. Follow me.”

Artemis was back in the role of argumentative teenager. “Thanks so much, Berty. This has been a real blast. I just love spending my holidays in banks, looking at papers.” All credit to Bertholt. His smile never wavered.

Kurt was waiting for them by the X-ray arch, arms folded across a chest the size of a rhino’s. He waited until Butler had gone past, then tapped Artemis’s shoulder.

“You think you’re really smart, don’t you, boy?” he said, grinning.

Artemis grinned back. “Compared to you? Definitely.”

Kurt bent over, hands on knees, until his eyes were level with Artemis’s. “I was watching you from the security booth. You didn’t do a thing. Your kind never does.” “How do you know?” asked Artemis. “I could have been breaking into those safe-deposit boxes.” “I know all right. I know because I could see your feet the whole time. You barely moved an inch.” Artemis grabbed his ring of keys from the tray and ran after Butler to make the lift. “You win this time. But I’ll be back.” Kurt cupped a hand around his mouth. “Bring it on,” he shouted. “I’ll be waiting.”