The Arctic Incident

  Holly’s thumbs hovered over the thrusters. “Yes,” she said. “Let’s.”

  The Atlantean shuttle disappeared into the supply tunnel faster than a carrot down Foaly’s gullet. And for those who don’t know, that’s pretty fast.

  The Crowley Hotel, Beverly Hills, Los Angeles

  Mulch made it back to his hotel undetected. Of course, this time he didn’t have to scale the walls. It would have been more of a challenge than Maggie V’s building. The walls here were brick, very porous. His fingers would have leeched the moisture from the stone and lost their suction.

  No, this time Mulch used the main foyer. And why wouldn’t he? As far as the doorman was concerned, he was Lance Digger, reclusive millionaire. Short, maybe. But short and rich.

  “Evening, Art,” said Mulch, saluting the doorman on his way to the elevator.

  Art peered over the marble-topped desk.

  “Ah, Mister Digger, it’s you,” he said slightly puzzled. “I thought I heard you passing below my sight line only moments ago.”

  “Nope,” grinned Mulch. “First time tonight.”

  “Hmm. The night wind, perhaps.”

  “Maybe. You’d think they’d block up the holes in this building. All the rent I’m paying.”

  “You would, indeed,” agreed Art. Always agree with the tenants: company policy.

  Inside the mirrored elevator, Mulch used a telescopic pointer to push P for the penthouse. For the first few months he had jumped to reach the button, but that was undignified behavior for a millionaire. And besides, he was certain that Art could hear the thumping from the security desk.

  The mirrored box rose silently, flickering past the floors toward the penthouse. Mulch resisted the urge to take the Academy Award out of his bag. Someone could board the elevator. He contented himself with a long drink from a bottle of Irish springwater, the closest to fairy pure it was possible to get. As soon as he had stowed the Oscar he would run a cold bath, and give his pores a drink. Otherwise he could wake up in the morning glued to the bed.

  Mulch’s door was key coded. A fourteen-number sequence. Nothing like a bit of paranoia to keep you out of prison. Even though the LEP believed that he was dead, Mulch could never quite shake the feeling that one day Julius Root would figure it all out and come looking for him.

  The apartment decor was quite unusual for a human dwelling. A lot of clay, crumbling rock, and water features. More like the inside of a cave than an exclusive Beverly Hills residence.

  The northern wall appeared to be a single slab of black marble. Appeared to be. Closer inspection revealed a forty-inch flat-screen television, a DVD slot, and a tinted glass pane. Mulch hefted a remote control bigger than his leg, popping the hidden cabinet with another complicated key code. Inside were three rows of Oscars. Mulch placed Maggie V’s on a waiting velvet pad.

  He wiped an imaginary tear from the corner of his eye.

  “I’d like to thank the Academy,” giggled the dwarf.

  “Very touching,” said a voice behind him.

  Mulch slammed the cabinet door shut, cracking the glass pane.

  There was a human youth beside the rockery. In his apartment! The boy’s appearance was strange even by Mud Man standards. He was abnormally pale, raven-haired, slender, and dressed in a school suit that looked as though it had been dragged across two continents. The hairs on Mulch’s chin stiffened. This boy was trouble. Dwarf hair is never wrong.

  “Your alarm was amusing,” continued the boy. “It took me several seconds to bypass it.”

  Mulch knew he was in trouble then. Human police don’t break into people’s apartments.

  “Who are you, hu—boy?”

  “I think the question here is, who are you? Are you reclusive millionaire Lance Digger? Are you the notorious Grouch? Or perhaps, as Foaly suspects, you are escaped convict Mulch Diggums?”

  Mulch ran, the last vestiges of gas providing him with an extra burst of speed. He had no idea who this Mud Boy was, but if Foaly had sent him, then he was a bounty hunter of one kind or another.

  The dwarf raced across the sunken lounge, making for his escape route. It was the reason he’d chosen this building. In the early nineteen-hundreds, a wide-bore chimney had run the length of the multistory building. When a central heating system had been installed in the fifties, the building contractor had simply packed the chute with dirt, topping it off with a seal of concrete. Mulch had smelled the vein of soil the second his real estate agent had opened the front door. It had been a simple matter to uncover the old fireplace and chip away the concrete. Voilà. Instant tunnel.

  Mulch unbuttoned his back flap on the run. The strange youth made no attempt to follow him. Why would he? There was nowhere to go.

  The dwarf spared a second for a parting shot.

  “You’ll never take me alive, human. Tell Foaly not to send a Mud Man to do a fairy’s job.”

  Oh dear, thought Artemis, rubbing his brow. Hollywood had a lot to answer for.

  Mulch tore a basket of dried flowers from the fireplace and dived right in. He unhinged his jaw and was quickly submerged in the century-old clay. It was not really to his taste. The minerals and nutrients had long since dried up. Instead the soil was infused with a hundred years of burnt refuse and tobacco ash. But it was clay nevertheless, and this was what dwarfs were born to do. Mulch felt his anxiety melt away. There wasn’t a creature alive that could catch him now. This was his domain.

  The dwarf descended rapidly, chewing his way down floor by floor. More than one wall collapsed on his way past. Mulch had a feeling that he wouldn’t be getting his deposit back, even if he had been around to collect it.

  In a little over a minute, Mulch had reached the basement parking garage. He rehinged, gave his rear end a shake to dislodge any bubbles of gas, then tumbled through the grate. His specially adapted four-wheel drive was waiting for him. Fueled up, blacked out, and ready to go.

  “Suckers,” gloated the dwarf, fishing the keys from a chain around his neck.

  Then Captain Holly Short materialized not two feet away.

  “Suckers?” she said, powering up her buzz baton.

  Mulch considered his options. The basement floor was asphalt. Asphalt was death to dwarfs, sealed up their insides like glue. There appeared to be a man mountain blocking the basement ramp. Mulch had seen that one before in Fowl Manor. That meant the human upstairs must be the infamous Artemis Fowl. Captain Short was dead ahead, looking none too merciful. Only one way to go. Back into the flue. Up a couple of stories, and hide out in another apartment.

  Holly grinned. “Go on, Mulch. I dare you.”

  And Mulch did. He turned, launching himself back into the chimney, expecting a sharp shock in the rear end. He was not disappointed. How could Holly miss a target like that?

  Chute E116, Below Los Angeles

  The Los Angeles shuttleport was ten miles south of the city, hidden beneath the holographic projection of a sand dune. Root was waiting for them in the shuttle. He had recovered just enough to crack a grin.

  “Well, well,” he grunted, hauling himself off the gurney, a fresh medi-pac strapped across his ribs. “If it isn’t my favorite reprobate, back from the dead.”

  Mulch helped himself to a jar of squid paté from the Atlantean Ambassador’s personal cooler.

  “Why is it, Julius, that you never pay me a social visit? After all, I did save your career back in Ireland. If it hadn’t been for me, you never would have known about Fowl’s copy of the Book.”

  When Root was fuming, as he was now, you could have toasted marshmallows on his cheeks.

  “We had a deal, convict. You broke it. And now I’m bringing you in.”

  Mulch scooped dollops of paté from the jar with his stubby fingers.

  “Could use a little beetle juice,” he commented.

  “Enjoy it while you can, Diggums. Because your next meal is going to be pushed through a slot in a door.”

  The dwarf settled back in a padded chair. “Comfor
table.”

  “I thought so,” agreed Artemis. “Some form of liquid suspension. Expensive, I imagine.”

  “Sure beats prison shuttles,” agreed Mulch. “I remember this one time they caught me selling a van Gogh to a Texan. I was transported in a shuttle the size of a mouse hole. They had a troll in the next cubicle. Stank something awful.”

  Holly grinned. “That’s what the troll said.”

  Root knew he was being goaded, but he blew his top anyway.

  “Listen to me, convict. I have not traveled all this way to listen to your war stories. So shut your trap before I shut it for you.”

  Mulch was unimpressed by the outburst.

  “Just out of interest, Julius, why have you traveled all this way? The great Commander Root, commandeering an ambassador’s shuttle, just to apprehend little old me? I don’t think so. So, what’s going on? And what’s with the Mud Men?” He nodded at Butler. “Especially that one.”

  The manservant grinned. “Remember me, little man? Seems to me I owe you something.”

  Mulch swallowed. He had crossed swords with Butler before. It hadn’t ended well for the human. Mulch had vented a bowelful of dwarf gas directly at the manservant.

  Very embarrassing for a bodyguard of his status, not to mention painful.

  For the first time Root smiled, even though it stretched his ribs. “Okay, Mulch. You’re right. Something is going on. Something important.”

  “I thought so. And as usual, you need me to do your dirty work.”

  Mulch rubbed his rump. “Well, assaulting me isn’t going to help. You didn’t have to buzz me so hard, Captain. That’s going to leave a mark.”

  Holly cupped a hand around one pointed ear. “Hey, Mulch, if you listen really hard you can just about make out the sound of nobody giving a hoot. From what I saw, you were living pretty well on LEP gold.”

  “That apartment cost me a fortune, you know. The deposit alone was four years of your salary. Did you see the view? Used to belong to some movie director.”

  Holly raised an eyebrow. “Glad to see the money was put to good use. Heaven forbid you should squander it.”

  Mulch shrugged. “Hey, I’m a thief. What did you expect, I’d start a shelter?”

  Artemis cleared his throat. “This reunion is all very touching. But while you’re exchanging witticisms, my father is freezing in the Arctic.”

  The dwarf zipped up his suit. “His father? You want me to rescue Artemis Fowl’s father? In the Arctic?” There was real fear in his voice. Dwarfs hated ice almost as much as fire.

  Root shook his head. “I wish it were that simple, and in a few minutes so will you.”

  Mulch’s beard hairs curled in apprehension. And as his grandmother always said, Trust the hair, Mulch, trust the hair.

  CHAPTER 12

  THE BOYS ARE BACK

  Operations Booth

  Foaly was thinking. Always thinking. His mind popped off ideas like corn in a microwave. But he couldn’t do anything with them. He couldn’t even call up Julius and pester him with his harebrained schemes. Fowl’s laptop seemed to be the centaur’s only weapon. It was like trying to fight a troll with a toothpick.

  Not that the human computer was without some merit, in an ancient-history kind of a way. The e-mail had already proved useful. Provided there was anybody alive to answer it. There was also a small camera mounted on the lid, for video conferencing. Something the Mud Men had only come up with recently. Until then, humans had communicated purely through text or sound waves. Foaly tutted.

  Barbarians. But this camera was pretty high quality, with several filter options. If the centaur didn’t know better, he’d swear someone had been leaking fairy technology.

  Foaly swiveled the laptop with his hoof, pointing the camera toward the screens. Come on Cudgeon, he thought. Smile for the birdie.

  He didn’t have long to wait. Within minutes a com screen flickered into life, and Cudgeon appeared, waving a white flag.

  “Nice touch,” commented Foaly sarcastically.

  “I thought so,” smiled the elf, waving the pennant theatrically. “I’m going to need this later.”

  Cudgeon pressed a button on the remote control.

  “Why don’t I show you what’s going on outside?”

  The windows cleared to reveal several squads of technicians feverishly trying to break the booth’s defenses. Most were aiming computer sensors at the booth’s various interfaces, but some were doing it the old-fashioned way, whacking the sensors with big hammers. None were having any luck.

  Foaly swallowed. He was a rat in a trap.

  “Why don’t you fill me in on your plan, Briar? Isn’t that what the power-crazed villain usually does?”

  Cudgeon settled back into his swivel chair.

  “Certainly, Foaly. Because this isn’t one of your precious human movies. There will be no hero rushing in at the last moment. Short and Root are already dead. As are their human partners. No reprieve, no rescue. Just certain death.”

  Foaly knew he should be feeling sadness, but hatred was all he could find.

  “Just when things are at their most desperate, I shall instruct Opal to return weapons control to the LEP. The B’wa Kell will be rendered unconscious, and you will be blamed for the entire affair, providing you survive, which I doubt.”

  “When the B’wa Kell recover, they will name you.”

  Cudgeon wagged a finger. “Only a handful know I am involved, and I shall take care of them personally. They have already been summoned to Koboi Labs. I shall join them shortly. The DNA cannons are being calibrated to reject goblin strands. When the time comes, I shall activate them, and the entire squadron will be out for the count.”

  “And then, Opal Koboi becomes your empress, I suppose?”

  “Of course,” said Cudgeon aloud. But then he manipulated the remote’s keyboard, making certain they were on a secure channel.

  “Empress?” he breathed. “Really, Foaly. Do you think I’d go to all this trouble to share power? Oh no, as soon as this charade is over Miss Koboi will have a tragic accident. Perhaps several tragic accidents.”

  Foaly bristled. “At the risk of sounding clichéd, Briar, you’ll never get away with this.”

  Cudgeon’s finger hovered over the terminate button.

  “Well, if I don’t,” he said pleasantly, “you won’t be alive to gloat this time.”

  And he was gone, leaving the centaur to sweat it out in the booth. Or so Cudgeon thought.

  Foaly reached below the desk to the laptop.

  “And cut,” he murmured, pausing the camera. “Take five, people, that’s a wrap.”

  Chute E116

  Holly clamped the shuttle on the wall of a disused chute.

  “We’ve got about thirty minutes. Internal sensors says there’s a flare coming up here in half an hour, and no shuttle is built to withstand that kind of heat.”

  They gathered in the pressurized lounge to put together a plan. All eyes naturally turned to Artemis. “As I said, we need to break into Koboi Labs and regain control of the LEP weaponry.”

  Mulch was out of his chair and heading for the door.

  “No way, Julius. That place has been upgraded since I was there. I heard they’ve got DNA-coded cannons.”

  Root grabbed the dwarf by the scruff of his neck.

  “One: don’t call me Julius. And two: you’re acting as if you have a choice, convict.”

  Mulch glared at him. “I do have a choice, Julius. I can just serve out my sentence in a nice little cell. Putting me in the line of fire is a violation of my civil rights.”

  Root’s facial tones alternated from pastel pink to turnip purple.

  “Civil rights!” he spluttered. “You’re talking to me about civil rights! Isn’t that just typical.”

  Then, strangely, he calmed down. In fact, he seemed almost happy. Those who were close to the commander knew that when he was happy, somebody else was about to be extremely sad.

  “What?” a
sked Mulch suspiciously.

  Root lit one of his noxious fungus cigar.

  “Oh, nothing. Just that you’re right, that’s all.”

  The dwarf squinted. “I’m right? You’re saying, in front of witnesses, that I’m right.”

  “Certainly you are. Putting you in the line of fire would violate every right in the book. So instead of cutting you the fantastic deal that I was about to offer, I’m going to add a couple of centuries to your sentence and throw you in maximum security.” Root paused, blowing a cloud of smoke at Mulch’s face. “In Howler’s Peak.”

  Mulch paled beneath the mud caking his cheeks. “Howler’s Peak? But that’s a—”

  “A goblin prison,” said the commander. “I know. But for an obvious escape risk such as yourself, I don’t think I’d have any trouble convincing the board to make an exception.”

  Mulch dropped into the padded gyro chair. This wasn’t good. The last time he’d been in a cell with goblins, it hadn’t been any fun. And that had been in Police Plaza. He wouldn’t last a week in the general population.

  “So what was this deal?”

  Artemis smiled, fascinated. Commander Root was smarter than he looked. Then again, it would be almost impossible not to be.

  “Oh, now you’re interested?

  “I might be. No promises.”

  “Okay, here it is. One-time offer. Don’t even bother bargaining. You get us into Koboi Labs, and I give you a two-day head start when this is over.”

  Mulch swallowed. That was a good offer. They must be in a whole lot of trouble.

  Police Plaza, Haven City

  Things were heating up at Police Plaza. The monsters were at the door. Literally. Captain Kelp was running between stations, trying to reassure his men.

  “Don’t worry, people, they can’t get through those doors with softnoses. Nothing less than some kind of missile ...”

  At that moment a tremendous force buckled the main doors, like a child blowing up a paper bag. They held. Barely.

  Cudgeon came rushing out of the tactical room, his commander’s acorns glinting on his breast. With his reinstatement by the Council, he had made history by becoming the only Commander in the LEP to have been appointed twice.