The Opal Deception

  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 threeminute 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 thirty-three-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 may 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.”

  CHAPTER 3

  NEARLY DEPARTED

  Police Plaza, Haven City; The Lower Elements

  Captain Holly Short was up for a promotion. It was the career turnaround of the century. Less than a year had passed since she had been the subject of two internal affairs inquiries, but now, after six successful missions, Holly was the Lower Elements Police Reconnaissance squad’s golden fairy. The Council would soon meet to decide whether or not she would be the first female major in LEPrecon’s history. And to tell the truth, the prospect did not appeal to her one bit. Majors rarely got to strap on a set of wings and fly between land and stars. Instead, they spent their time sending junior officers topside on missions. Holly had made up her mind to turn down the promotion if it were offered to her. She could live with a smaller paycheck if it meant she could still see the surface on a regular basis.

  Holly decided it would be wise to tell Commander Julius Root what she planned to do. After all, it was Root who had stood by her through the inquiries, and it was Root who had recommended her for promotion in the first place. The commander would not take the news well. He never took any kind of news well: even good news was received with a gruff thank-you and a slammed door.

  Holly stood outside Root’s office on that morning, working up the courage to knock. And even though, at three feet exactly, she was just below the average fairy height, Holly was glad of the half inch granted by her spiky auburn hair. Before she could knock, the door was yanked open, and Root’s rosy-cheeked face appeared in the doorway.

  “Captain Short!” he roared, his gray buzz cut quivering. “Get in here!” Then he noticed Holly standing beside the door. “Oh, there you are. Come in. We have a puzzle that needs solving. It involves one of our goblin friends.”

  Holly followed Root into the office. Foaly, the LEP’s technical adviser, was already there, close enough to the wall plasma screen to singe his nose hairs.

  “Howler’s Peak video,” explained Root. “General Scalene escaped.”

  “Escaped?” echoed Holly. “Do we know how?”

  Foaly snapped his fingers. “D’Arvit! That’s what we should be thinking about, instead of standing around here playing I Spy.”

  “We don’t have time for the usual sarcastic small talk, Foaly,” snapped Root, his complexion deepening to burgundy. “This is a PR disaster. Scalene is public enemy number two, second only to Opal Koboi herself. If the journos get wind of this, we’ll be the laughingstock of Haven. Not to mention the fact that Scalene could round up a few of his goblin buddies and reactivate the triad.”

  Holly crossed to the screen, elbowing Foaly’s hindquarters out of the way. Her little talk with Commander Root could wait. There was police work to be done. “What are we looking at?”

  Foaly highlighted a section of the screen with a laser pointer. “Howler’s Peak, goblin correctional facility. Camera eighty-six.”

  “Which shows?”

  “The visiting room. Scalene went in, but he never came out.”

  Holly scanned the camera list. “No camera in the room itself?”

  Root coughed, or it may have been an actual growl. “No. According to the third Atlantis convention on fairy rights, detainees are entitled to privacy in the visiting room.”

  “So we don’t know what went on in there?”

  “Not as such, no.”

  “What genius designed this system, anyway?”

  In spite of the seriousness of the situation, Root chuckled. He never could resist needling the smug centaur.

  “Our horsey friend here designed the Howler’s Peak automated security system all on his own.”

  Foaly pouted, and when a centaur pouts, his bottom lip almost reaches his chin. “It’s not the system. The system is foolproof. Every prisoner has the standard subcutaneous seeker-sleeper in his head. Even if a goblin manages to miraculously escape, we can remotely knock them out, then pick him up.”

  Holly raised her palms. “So what’s the problem?”

  “The problem is that the seeker-sleeper is not broadcasting. Or, if it is, we’re not picking up the signal.”

  “That is a problem.”

  Root lit a noxious fungal cigar. The smoke was instantly whipped away by an air recycler on his desk. “Major Kelp is out with a mobile unit, trying to get a fix on a signal.”

  Trouble Kelp had recently been promoted to Root’s second in command. He was not the kind of officer who liked sitting behind a desk, unlike his little brother, Corporal Grub Kelp, who would like nothing better than to be stuck behind a nice safe desk for the remainder of his career. If Holly was forced into promotion, she hoped she could be half the major that Trouble was.

  Holly returned her attention to the pl
asma screen. “So, who was visiting General Scalene?”

  “One of his thousand nephews. A goblin by the name of Boohn. Apparently that means of noble brow in Goblin cant.”

  “I remember him,” said Holly. “Boohn. Customs and excise think he’s one of the goblins behind the B’wa Kell smuggling operation. There’s nothing noble about him.”

  Foaly opened a folder on the plasma screen with his laser pointer. “Here’s the visitor list. Boohn checks in at seven fifty, Lower Elements mean time. At least I can show you that on video.”

  A grainy screen showed a bulky goblin in the prison’s access corridor, nervously licking his eyeballs while the security laser scanned him. Once it was confirmed that Boohn wasn’t trying to smuggle anything in, the visitors’ door popped open.

  Foaly scrolled down the list. “And look here. He checks out at eight fifteen.”

  Boohn left swiftly, obviously uncomfortable in the facility. The parking lot camera showed him reverting to all fours for a dash to his car.

  Holly scanned the list carefully. “So you’re saying that Boohn checked out at eight fifteen?”

  “I just said that didn’t I, Holly?” replied Foaly testily. “I’ll say it again slowly. Eight fifteen.”

  Holly snatched the laser pointer. “Well, if that’s true, how did he manage to check out again at eight twenty?”

  It was true. Eight lines down on the list, Boohn’s name popped up again.

  “I saw that already. It’s a glitch,” muttered Foaly. “That’s all. He couldn’t leave twice. It’s not possible. We get that sometimes, a bug, nothing more.”

  “Unless it wasn’t him the second time.”

  The centaur folded his arms defensively. “Don’t you think I thought of that? Every one who enters or leaves Howler’s Peak is scanned a dozen times. We take at least eighty facial points of reference with each scan. If the computer says Boohn, then that’s who it was. There’s no way a goblin beat my system. They barely have enough brainpower to walk and talk at the same time.”

  Holly used the pointer to review the entry video of Boohn. She enlarged his head, using a photo-manipulation program to sharpen the image.