Why are you harder on Captain Holly Short than you are on other Recon officers? And why were you so against female officers joining Recon?
I was not against female Recon officers, as such, I was just doubtful that they could make the grade. I’m happy to say that Holly proved me wrong, and now there are six other female candidates for Recon in the pipeline. I was hard on Holly because I had read her psych report, and I knew my attitude would make her more determined to pass the initiation. Naturally, I was right.
What was your proudest moment?
My proudest moment was when Captain Short shut down the goblin rebellion. I had put a lot of faith in that elf, and she didn’t let me down.
What makes you laugh out loud?
Nothing. I rarely smile, hardly ever chuckle, and I haven’t laughed out loud in 200 years. It’s bad for discipline—and if anyone says they have heard me laughing out loud, I want their name and rank.
You and Foaly seem to have a love/hate relationship. What do you really think of him? Love/hate?
Well, you’re half right. Most of the time, I want to drop-kick that smug centaur out of my building. But I will admit, grudgingly, that his gadgets do come in useful on occasion. If they didn’t, he would be out of a job in a heartbeat.
What are your top three tips for being a great LEPrecon officer?
One: listen to your commander—he is always right. Two: ignore all hunches, unless suggested by your commander, who is always right. Three: if in doubt, call your commander. The one who is always right.
If you hadn’t been an LEP commander, what would you have liked to be?
I always fancied myself as a landscape gardener, or a mime artist. Are you crazy? The LEP is the only job for me. If it didn’t exist, I’d have to invent it.
What was your favorite subject at school, and why?
I always liked history, especially military tactics. By the age of six I knew exactly what King Frond should have done at the Battle of Ochre Stew. If I had been his tactician, then maybe his dynasty would have lasted another few centuries.
Trouble Kelp or Holly Short? Who is the better Recon officer in your opinion?
Trouble is more reliable, but Holly is more instinctive. If I were stuck in a diabolical trap, I would want Trouble to find the trap and Holly to get me out of it.
Do you think that Mud Men and fairies could ever live in harmony?
I doubt it. Mud Men can’t even live in harmony with themselves. Though I have to admit that our surveillance has revealed a substantial mood swing among the younger generations over the past few years. They are less war like and more understanding. So maybe there is a glimmer of hope after all.
What is your favorite book?
Stig of the Dump.
What is your favorite song?
“The Great Beyond” by REM.
What is your favorite film?
The Silence of the Lambs.
What are your most treasured possessions?
Books.
When did you start writing?
My first attempt at proper writing was way back in sixth grade. I wrote a play for the class about Norse gods. Everyone died in the end except me.
Where do you get your ideas and inspiration from?
Inspiration comes from experience. My imagination is like acauldron bubbling with all the things I’ve seen and places I’ve visited. My brain mixes them all up and regurgitates them in a way that I hope is original.
Can you give your top three tips to becoming a successful author?
1. Practice. Write everydayeven if it’s only for ten minutes. Remember, nothing is wasted. Eventually your style will emerge. Persevere! 2. Don’t submit your manuscript until it is as good as you can make it. Edit! Cut! Chop! Trust your editor. 3. Get a good agent. They will find the publisher that is right for you.
What is your favorite memory?
One of my favorite memories is from my wedding day, when my wife and her three sisters lined up for an impromptu Irish dancing session—a precursor to Riverdance.
Where is your favorite place in the world and why?
Slade, a small fishing village in Ireland. It’s where I spent the holidays of my youth fishing, and now I go back with my own son.
What are your hobbies?
My main hobby is reading: I even read the labels on jars! I also love the theater and have written a few plays. I have recently been introduced to parachuting!
If you hadn’t been a writer, what do you think you would have been?
If I hadn’t become a writer, I think I would have continued as a primary-school teacher. Kids areagreat source of inspiration.
Saint Bartleby’s School for Young Gentlemen
Annual Report
Student: Artemis Fowl II
Year: First
Fees: Paid
Tutor: Dr.Po
Language Arts
As far as I can tell, Artemis has made absolutely no progress since the beginning of the year. This is because his abilities are beyond the scope of my experience. He memorizes and understands Shakespeare after a single reading. He finds mistakes in every exercise I administer, and has taken to chuckling gently when I attempt to explain some of the more complex texts. Next year I intend to grant his request and give him a library pass during my class.
Mathematics
Artemis is an infuriating boy. One day he answers all my questions correctly, and the next every answer is wrong. He calls this an example of the chaos theory, and says that he is only trying to prepare me for the real world. He says the notion of infinity is ridiculous. Frankly,I am not trained to deal with a boy like Artemis. Most of my pupils have trouble counting without the aid of their fingers.I am sorry to say, there is nothing I can teach Artemis about mathematics, but someone should teach him some manners.
Social Studies
Artemis distrusts all history texts, because he says history is written by the victors. He prefers living history, where survivors of certain events can actually be interviewed. Obviously this makes studying the Middle Ages some what difficult. Artemis has asked for permission to build a time machine next year during our double periods so that the entire class may view medieval Ireland for ourselves.I have granted his wish, and would not be at all surprised if he succeeded in his goal.
Science
Artemis does not see himself as a student, rather as a foil for the theories of science. He insists that the periodic table is a few elements short and that the theory of relativity is all very well on paper but would not hold up in the real world because space will disintegrate before time. I made the mistake of arguing once, and young Artemis reduced me to near tears in seconds. Artemis has asked for permission to conduct failure analysis tests on the school next term. I must grant his request, as I fear there is nothing he can learn from me.
Social and Personal Development
Artemis is quite perceptive and extremely intellectual. He can answer the questions on any psychological profile perfectly, but this is only because he knows the perfect answers. I fear that Artemis feels that the other boys are too childish. He refuses to socialize, preferring to work on his various projects during free periods. The more he works alone, the more isolated he becomes, and if he does not change his habits soon, he may isolate himself completely from anyone wishing to be his friend, and, ultimately, from his family too. Must try harder.
CHAPTER 1: LADY FEI FEI’S TIARA
Below the Fleursheim Plaza, Manhattan, New York City
DWARFS dig tunnels. That’s what they are born to do. Their bodies have adapted over millions of years to make them efficient tunnelers. A dwarf male’s jaw can be unhinged so that he can unhook it at will in order to excavate a tunnel with his mouth. The waste is jettisoned at the rear end to make way for the next mouthful.
The dwarf that concerns us is the notorious fairy felon Mulch Diggums. Mulch found burglary much more suited to his personality than mining. The hours were shorter, the risks were less severe, and t
he precious metals and stones that he took from the Mud Men were already processed, forged, and polished.
Tonight’s target was the tiara of Lady Fei Fei, a legendary Chinese diplomat. The tiara was a masterpiece of intricate jade-and-diamond arrangements in a white-gold setting. It was priceless, though Mulch would sell it for much less.
The tiara was currently on tour as the centerpiece of an Asian art exhibition. On the evening our story begins, it was overnighting in the Fleursheim Plaza on its way to the Metropolitan Museum. For one night only, Fei Fei’s tiara was vulnerable and Mulch did not intend to miss his chance.
Incredibly, the original geological planning survey for the Fleursheim Plaza was freely available on the Internet, allowing Mulch to plot his route from the comfort of the East Village, where he was holed up. The dwarf discovered, to his delight, that a narrow vein of compacted clay and loose shale ran right up to the basement wall. The basement where the Fei Fei tiara was being stored. At that moment, Mulch was closing his jaws around five pounds of earth per second as he burrowed ever closer to the Fleursheim basement. His hair and beard resembled an electrified halo as each sensitive fiber tested the surface for vibrations.
It wasn’t bad clay, Mulch mused as he swallowed, taking shallow breaths through his nostrils. Breathing and swallowing simultaneously is a skill lost by most creatures once they leave infancy, but for dwarfs it is essential for survival.
Mulch’s beard hair detected vibration close by; the steady thrumming that usually indicated air-conditioning units or a generator. That didn’t necessarily mean he was nearing his target. But Mulch Diggums had the best internal compass in the business, plus he’d programmed the precise coordinates into the stolen Lower Elements Police helmet in his knapsack. Mulch paused long enough to check the 3D grid in the helmet’s visor. The Fleursheim basement was forty-eight degrees northeast, ten yards above his present position. A matter of seconds for a tunnel dwarf of his caliber. Mulch resumed his munching, scything through the clay like a fairy torpedo. He was careful to expel only clay at the lower end, and not air. The air might be needed if he encountered any obstacles. Seconds later he encountered the very barrier he had been saving up for. His skull collided with six inches of basement cement. Dwarf skulls may be tough, but they cannot crack half a foot of concrete.
“D’Arvit!” swore Mulch, blinking concrete flakes from his eyes with long dwarf lashes. He reached up, rapping a knuckle against the flat surface.
“Five or six inches, I reckon,” he said to no one, or so he thought. “Should be no problem.”
Mulch backed up, compacting the earth behind him. He was about to employ a maneuver known in dwarf culture as the cyclone. This move was generally used for emergency escapes or for impressing dwarf females. He jammed the unbreakable LEP helmet over his wild hair, drawing his knees to his chin.
“I wish you could see this, ladies,” he muttered, allowing the gas in his insides to build. He had swallowed a lot of air in the past few minutes, and now individual bubbles were merging to form an increasingly difficult-to-contain tube of pressure.
“A few more seconds,” grunted Mulch, the pressure bringing a glow to his cheeks.
Mulch crossed his arms over his chest, drew in his beard hair, and released the pent-up wind.
The result was spectacular and would have earned Mulch the girlfriend of his choice, if anyone had been around to see it. If you imagine the tunnel to be the neck of a champagne bottle, then Mulch was the cork. He shot up that passageway at over a hundred miles per hour, spinning like a top. Ordinarily when bone meets concrete, the concrete wins, but Mulch’s head was protected by a stolen fairy Lower Elements Police helmet. These helmets are made from a virtually indestructible polymer.
Mulch punched through the basement floor in a flurry of concrete dust and spinning limbs. The dust was whipped into a dozen mini-whirlwinds by his jet stream. His momentum took him a full six feet into the air before he flopped to the floor, and lay there panting. The cyclone took a lot out of a person. Who said crime was easy?
After a quick breather, Mulch sat up and re-hinged his jaw. He would have liked a longer rest but there could be cameras pointed at him right now. There was probably a scrambler on the helmet, but technology had never been his strong point. He needed to nab the tiara, and escape underground.
He stood, shaking a few lumps of clay from his bum flap, and took a quick look around. There were no telltale red lights winking on CCTV cameras. There were no safety-deposit boxes for valuable artifacts. There wasn’t even a particularly secure door. It seemed an odd place for a priceless tiara to be stored even for one night. Humans were inclined to protect their treasures, especially from other humans.
Something winked at him from the darkness. Something that gathered in and reflected the minuscule amount of light available in the base-ment. There was a plinth among the statues, storage crates, and mini-skyscrapers of stacked chairs. And atop the plinth was a tiara, and the spectacular blue diamond at its center glittered even in almost total darkness.
Mulch burped in surprise. The Mud Men had left Fei Fei’s tiara out in the open? Not likely. This must be a setup.
He approached the plinth cautiously, wary of any traps on the ground. But there was nothing, no motion sensors, no laser eyes. Nothing. Mulch’s instinct screamed at him to flee, but his curiosity pulled him toward the tiara like a swordfish on a line.
“Moron,” he said to himself, or so he thought. “Get out while you can. Nothing good can come of this.” But the tiara was magnificent. Mesmerizing.
Mulch ignored his misgivings about the situation, admiring the jeweled item in front of him.
“Not half bad,” he said, or maybe it was. The dwarf leaned closer.
The stones had an unnatural sheen to them. Oily. Not clean like real gems. And the gold was too shiny. Nothing a human eye would notice. But gold is life to a dwarf. It is in their blood and dreams. Mulch lifted the tiara. It was too light. A tiara of this size should weigh at least two pounds.
There were two possible conclusions to be drawn from all this. Either this was a decoy and the real tiara was safely hidden elsewhere, or this was a test, and he had been lured here to take that test. But lured here by whom? And for what purpose?
These questions were answered almost immediately. A giant Egyptian sarcophagus popped open in the deepest of the shadows, revealing two figures who were most definitely not mummies.
“Congratulations, Mulch Diggums,” said the first, a pale boy with dark hair. Mulch noticed that he wore night-vision goggles. The other was a giant bodyguard who Mulch had humiliated recently enough for it to still smart. The man’s name was Butler, and he did not look in the best of moods.
“You have passed my test,” continued the boy, in confident tones. He straightened his suit jacket and stepped from the sarcophagus, extending a hand.
“A pleasure to meet you. Mister Diggums, I am your new business partner. Allow me to introduce myself. My name is …”
Mulch shook the hand. He knew who this boy was. They had battled before, just not face-to-face. He was the only human to ever have stolen fairy gold, and managed to keep it. Whatever he had to say, Mulch was certain that it would be interesting.
“I know who you are, Mud Boy,” said the dwarf. “Your name is Artemis Fowl.”
CHAPTER 2: HIGH PRIORITY
Police Plaza, Haven City;The Lower Elements
WHEN Mulch Diggums said the name Artemis Fowl, the Mud Boy’s file was automatically shunted to the “hot” pile in Police Plaza. Every fairy Lower Elements Police helmet was fitted with a satellite tracker and could be located anywhere in the world. They also had voice-activated microphones, so whatever Mulch said was heard by a surveillance intern. The case was immediately removed from the intern’s desktop when Artemis’s name was mentioned. Artemis Fowl was fairy enemy number one, and anything related to the Irish boy was sent immediately to the LEP’s technical adviser, the centaur, Foaly.
Foaly listened
to the live transmission from Mulch’s helmet, and cantered into LEP Commander Root’s office.
“We have something here, Julius. It could be important.”
Commander Julius Root looked up from the fungus cigar he was clipping. The elf did not look happy, but then he rarely did. His complexion was not as rosy as usual, but the centaur had a feeling that was about to change.
“A few words of advice, pony boy,” snapped Root, tearing the tip from the cigar. “One, don’t call me Julius. And two, there is a protocol in place for speaking to me. I’m the commander here, not one of your polo buddies.”
He leaned back in his chair, lighting the cigar. Foaly was unimpressed by all the posturing.
“Whatever. This is important. Artemis Fowl’s name has come in on a sound file.”
Root sat up abruptly, protocol forgotten. Less than a year previously Artemis Fowl had kidnapped one of his captains, and extorted half a ton of gold from the LEP ransom fund. But more important than the gold itself was the knowledge inside the Irish boy’s head. He knew of the People’s existence, and might decide to exploit them again.
“Talk quickly, Foaly. No jargon, just Gnommish.”
Foaly sighed. Half the fun of delivering vital news was explaining how his technology had made gathering the news possible.
“Okay. I think Fowl has somehow got hold of an LEP helmet. You know that a certain amount of LEP hardware goes missing every year.”
“Which is why we can remote-destruct it.”
“In most cases, yes.”
The commander’s cheeks flushed angrily. “Most cases, Foaly? You never said anything about ‘most cases’ during the budget meeting.”
Foaly raised his palms. “Hey, you try to remote-destruct this helmet if you like. See what happens.”
The commander glared at him suspiciously. “And why shouldn’t I just press the button right now?”