The Arctic Incident

“No, I have not,” protested Luc. “What kind of doctor are you?”

  The man’s pulse skyrocketed. He was lying.

  “Answer the questions, Monsieur Carrère,” said Butler sternly. “Just one more. Have you ever had dealings with goblins?”

  Relief flooded through Luc. The police did not ask questions about fairies. “What are you? Crazy? Goblins? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Butler closed his eyes, concentrating on the pounding beneath his thumb and palm. Luc’s pulse had settled. He was telling the truth. He had never had any direct dealings with the goblins. Obviously the B’wa Kell weren’t that stupid.

  Butler stood up, pocketing the bouncer. He could hear the sirens on the street below.

  “Hey, Doctor,” protested Luc. “You can’t just leave me like this.”

  Butler eyed him coldly. “I would take you with me, but the police will want to know why your apartment is full of what I suspect are counterfeit bills.”

  Luc could only watch with his mouth open as the giant figure disappeared into the corridor. He knew he should run, but Luc Carrère hadn’t run more than fifty feet since gym class in the nineteen-seventies, and anyway his legs had suddenly turned to jelly. The thought of a long stretch in prison can do that to a person.

  CHAPTER 7

  CONNECTING THE DOTS

  Haven City, Police Plaza

  Root pointed the finger of authority at Holly.

  “Congratulations, Captain, you managed to lose some LEP technology.”

  Holly was ready for that one. “Not strictly my fault, sir. The human was mesmerized, and you ordered me not to leave the shuttle. I had no control over the situation.”

  “Ten out of ten,” commented Foaly. “Good answer. Anyway the Safetynet has a self-destruct, like everything else I send into the field.”

  “Quiet, civilian,” snapped the Commander.

  But there was no venom in the LEP officer’s rebuke. He was relieved, they all were. The human threat had been contained, and without the loss of a single life.

  They were gathered in a conference room reserved for civilian committees. Generally debriefings of this importance would be held in the Operations Center, but the LEP were not ready to show Artemis Fowl the nerve center of their defenses just yet.

  Root jabbed an intercom button on his desk.

  “Trouble, are you out there?”

  “Yessir.”

  “Okay. Now listen, I want you to stand down the alert. Send the teams into the deep tunnels, see if we can’t root out a few goblin gangs. There are still plenty of loose ends. Who’s organizing the B’wa Kell for one, and for what reason?”

  Artemis knew he shouldn’t say anything. The sooner his end of the bargain was completed, the sooner he could be in the Arctic. But the entire Paris scenario seemed suspicious.

  “Does anyone else think this is too easy? It’s just what you all wanted to happen. Not to mention the fact that there could be more mesmerized humans up there.”

  Root did not appreciate being lectured by a Mud Boy. Especially this particular Mud Boy.

  “Look, Fowl, you’ve done what we asked. The Paris connection has been broken off. There won’t be any more illegal shipments coming down that chute, I assure you. In fact we have doubled security on all chutes, whether they’re operational or not. The important thing is that whoever is trading with the humans hasn’t told them about the People. There will, of course, be a major investigation, but that’s an internal problem. So don’t you worry your juvenile head about it. Concentrate on growing some bristles.”

  Foaly interrupted before Artemis could respond. “About Russia,” he said, hurriedly placing his torso between Artemis and the commander. “I’ve got a lead.”

  “You traced the e-mail?”

  “Exactly,” confirmed Foaly, switching to lecture mode.

  “But that’s been spiked. Untraceable.”

  Foaly chuckled openly. “Spiked? Don’t make me laugh. You Mud Men and your communications systems. You’re still using wires, for heaven’s sake. If it’s been sent, I can trace it.”

  “So, where did you trace it to?”

  “Every computer has a signature, as individual as a fingerprint,” continued Foaly. “Networks too leave micro traces, depending on the age of the wiring. Everything is molecular, and if you pack gigabytes of data into a little cable, some of that cable is going to wear off.”

  Butler was growing impatient.“Listen, Foaly. Time is of the essence. Mister Fowl’s life could hang in the balance. So get to the point before I start breaking things.”

  The centaur’s first impulse was to laugh. Surely, the human was joking. Then he remembered what Butler had done to Trouble Kelp’s Retrieval squad, and decided to proceed directly to the point.

  “Very well, Mud Man. Keep your hair on.”

  Well, almost directly to the point.

  “I put the MPG through my filters. Uranium residue points to northern Russia.”

  “Now, there’s a shock.”

  “I’m not finished,” said Foaly. “Watch and learn.”

  The centaur brought up a satellite photo of the Arctic Circle on the wall screen, with every keystroke the highlighted area shrank.

  “Uranium means Severomorsk. Or somewhere within a hundred miles. The copper wiring is from an old network. Early twentieth century, patched up over the years. The only match is Murmansk. As easy as connecting the dots.”

  Artemis sat forward in his chair.

  “There are two hundred and eighty-four thousand land lines on that network.” Foaly had to stop for a laugh. “Land lines. Barbarians.”

  Butler cracked his knuckles loudly.

  “Ah, so two hundred and eighty-four thousand land lines. I wrote a program to search for hits on our MPG. Two possible matches. One: the Hall of Justice.”

  “Not likely. The other.”

  “The other line is registered to a Mikhael Vassikin on Lenin Prospekt.”

  Artemis felt his stomach churn. “And what do we know about Mikhael Vassikin?”

  Foaly wiggled his fingers like a concert pianist. “I ran a search on my own intelligence files archives. I like to keep tabs on Mud Man so-called intelligence agencies. Quite a few mentions of you by the way, Butler.”

  The manservant tried to look innocent, but his facial muscles couldn’t quite pull it off.

  “Mikhael Vassikin is ex-KGB, now working for the Mafiya. The official term is khuligany. An enforcer. Not high level but not street trash either. Vassikin’s boss is a Murmansker known as Britva. The group’s main source of income comes from the kidnapping of European businessmen. In the past five years they have abducted six Germans and a Swede.”

  “How many were recovered alive?” asked Artemis, his voice a whisper.

  Foaly consulted his statistics. “None,” he said. “And in two cases, the negotiators went missing. Eight million dollars in lost ransom.”

  Butler struggled from a tiny fairy chair.

  “Right, enough talk. I think it’s time Mister Vassikin was introduced to my friend, Mister Fist.”

  Melodramatic, thought Artemis. But I couldn’t have put it better myself.

  “Yes, old friend. Soon enough. But I have no wish to add you to the list of lost negotiators. These men are smart. So we must be smarter. We have advantages that none of our predecessors had. We know who the kidnapper is, we know where he lives, and most importantly, we have fairy magic.” Artemis glanced at Commander Root. “We do have fairy magic, don’t we?”

  “You have this fairy at any rate,” replied the commander. “I won’t force any of my people to go to Russia. But I could use some backup.” He glanced at Holly. “What do you think?”

  “Of course I’m coming,” said Holly. “I’m the best shuttle pilot you have.”

  Koboi Laboratories

  There was a firing range in the Koboi Labs basement. Opal had it constructed to her exact specifications. It incorporated her 3-D projection system, was comple
tely soundproof, and was mounted on gyroscopes. You could drop an elephant from fifty feet in there, and no seismograph under the world would detect as much as a shudder.

  The purpose of the firing range was to give the B’wa Kell somewhere to practice with their softnose lasers, before the operation began in earnest. But it was Briar Cudgeon who had logged more hours on the simulations than anyone else. He seemed to spend every spare minute fighting virtual battles with his nemesis, Commander Julius Root.

  When Opal found him, he was pumping shells from his prized softnose Redboy into a 3-D holo-screen running one of Root’s old training films. It was pathetic really, a fact she didn’t bother mentioning.

  Cudgeon twisted out his earplugs.

  “So. Who died?”

  Opal handed him a video pad. “This just came in on the spy cameras. Carrère proved as inept as usual. Everyone survived, but as you predicted, Root has called off the alert. And now the commander has agreed to personally escort the humans to northern Russia, inside the Arctic Circle.”

  “I know where northern Russia is,” Cudgeon snapped. He paused, stroking his bubbled forehead thoughtfully for several moments. “This could turn out to our advantage. Now we have the perfect opportunity to eliminate the commander. With Julius out of the way, the LEP will be like a headless stink worm. Especially with their surface communications down. Their communications are down, I take it?”

  “Of course,” replied Opal. “The jammer is linked into the chute sensors. All interference with surface transmitters will be blamed on the magma flares.”

  “Perfect,” said Cudgeon, his mouth twitching in what could almost be described as a smile. “I want you to disable all LEP weaponry now. No need to give Julius any advantages.”

  When Koboi Laboratories had upgraded LEP weapons and transport, a tiny dot of solder had been included in each device. The solder was actually a mercury-glycerine solution that would detonate when a signal of the appropriate frequency was broadcast from the Koboi communications dish. LEP blasters would be useless, and the B’wa Kell would be armed to the teeth with softnose lasers.

  “Consider it done,” said Opal. “Are you certain Root won’t be returning? He could upset our entire plan.”

  Cudgeon polished the Redboy on the leg of his uniform. “Don’t fret, my dear. Julius won’t be coming back. Now that I know where he’s going, I’ll arrange for a little welcome party. I’m certain our scaly friends will be only too eager to oblige.”

  The funny thing was that Briar Cudgeon didn’t even like goblins. In fact he detested them. They made his skin crawl with their reptilian ways—their gas-burner breath, their lidless eyes, and their constantly darting forked tongues.

  But they did supply a certain something that Cudgeon needed: dumb muscle.

  For centuries the B’wa Kell triad had skulked around Haven’s borders, vandalizing what they couldn’t steal and fleecing any tourists stupid enough to stray off the beaten path. But they were never really any threat to society. Whenever they got too cheeky, Commander Root would send a team into the tunnels to flush out the culprits.

  One evening a disguised Briar Cudgeon strolled into The Second Skin, a notorious B’wa Kell hangout, plonked an attaché case of gold ingots on the bar, and said: “I want to talk to the triad.”

  Cudgeon was searched and blindfolded by several of the club’s bouncers. When the hood came off his face, Cudgeon was in a damp warehouse, its walls lined with creeping moss. Three elderly goblins were seated across the table from him. He recognized them from their mug shots:Scalene, Sputa, and Phlebum. The Triad old guard.

  The gift of gold, and the promise of more was enough to pique their curiosity. His first utterance was carefully planned.

  “Ah, Generals, I am honored that you greet me in person.”

  The goblins puffed their wrinkled old chests proudly. Generals? The rest of Cudgeon’s patter was equally smooth. They would organize the B’wa Kell, streamline it, and most importantly arm it. Then, when the time was right, they would rise up and overthrow the Council and their lackeys, the LEP. Cudgeon promised that his first act as governor general would be to free all the goblin prisoners in Howler’s Peak. It didn’t hurt that he subtly laced his speech with hints of the hypnotic mesmer.

  It was an offer the goblins could not refuse: gold, weapons, freedom for their brothers, and of course a chance to crush the hated LEP.

  It never occurred to the B’wa Kell that Cudgeon could betray them just as easily as he had the LEP. They were dumb as stink worms and twice as shortsighted.

  Cudgeon met with General Scalene, in a secret chamber beneath the Koboi labs. He was in a foul mood following Luc’s failure to put a scratch on any of his enemies. But there was always plan B. The B’wa Kell were always eager to kill someone. It didn’t really matter who.

  The goblin was excited, thirsty for blood. He panted blue flames like a broken heater. “When do we go to war, Cudgeon? Tell us, when?” The elf kept his distance. He dreamed of the day when these stupid creatures were no longer necessary. “Soon, General Scalene. Very soon. But first I need a favor. It concerns Commander Root.” The goblin’s yellow eyes narrowed. “Root? The hated one. Can we kill him? Can we crack his skull and fry his brains?” Cudgeon smiled magnanimously.“Certainly, General. All of these things. Once Root is dead, the city will fall easily.” The goblin was bobbing now, loping with excitement. “Where is he? Where is Root?” “I don’t know,” Cudgeon admitted. “But I know where he will be in six hours.” “Where? Tell me, elf?” Cudgeon heaved a large case onto the table. It con

  tained four pairs of Koboi DoubleDex. “Chute ninety-three. Take these, send your best hit squad. And tell them to wrap up warm.”

  Chute 93

  Julius Root always traveled in style. In this instance he had commandeered the Atlantean ambassador’s shuttle. All leather and gold. Seats softer than a gnome’s behind, and drag buffers that negated all but the most serious jolts.

  Needless to say, the Atlantean ambassador hadn’t been all that thrilled about handing over the starter chip. But it was difficult to refuse the commander when his fingers were drumming a tattoo on the tri-barreled blaster strapped to his hip. So now the humans and their two elfin chaperones were climbing E93 in some considerable comfort.

  Artemis helped himself to a bottle of still water from the chiller cabinet.

  “This tastes unusual,” he commented. “Not unpleasant, but different.”

  “Clean is the word you’re searching for,” said Holly. “You wouldn’t believe how many filters we have to put it through to purge the Mud Man from it.”

  “No bickering, Captain Short,” warned Root. “We’re on the same side, now. I want a smooth mission. Now suit up, all of you. We won’t last five minutes out there without protection.”

  Holly cracked open an overhead locker. “Fowl, front and center.”

  Artemis complied, a bemused smile twitching at his lips.

  Holly pulled several cubic packages from the locker.

  “What are you, about a six?”

  Artemis shrugged. He wasn’t familiar with the People’s system of measurement.

  “What? Artemis Fowl doesn’t know. I thought you were the world’s expert on the People. It was you who stole our Book last year, wasn’t it?”

  Artemis unwrapped the package. It was a suit of some ultralight rubber polymer.

  “Antiradiation,” explained Holly. “Your cells will thank me in fifty years, if you’re still around.”

  Artemis pulled the suit over his clothes; it shrank to fit like a second skin.

  “Clever material.”

  “Memory latex. Molds itself to your shape, within reason. One use only, unfortunately. Wear it and recycle it.”

  Butler clinked over. He was carrying so much fairy weaponry that Foaly had supplied him with a Moonbelt. The belt reduced the effective weight of its attachments to one fifth of the Earth norm.

  “What about me?” asked Butler, nodding at t
he rad suits.

  Holly frowned. “We don’t have anything that deformed. Latex can only go so far.”

  “Forget it. I’ve been in Russia before. It didn’t kill me.”

  “Not yet it didn’t. Give it time.”

  Butler shrugged. “What choice do I have?”

  Holly smiled, and there was a nasty tinge to it.

  “Oh, I didn’t say there wasn’t a choice.”

  She reached into the locker, pulling out a large spray can. And for some reason, that little can scared Butler more than a bunker full of missiles.

  “Now, hold still,” she said, aiming a gramophone-type nozzle at the bodyguard. “This may stink worse than a hermit dwarf, but at least your skin won’t glow in the dark.”

  CHAPTER 8

  TO RUSSIA WITH GLOVES

  Murmansk, Lenin Prospekt

  Mikhael Vassikin was growing impatient. For over two years now, he’d been on baby-sitting duty. At Britva’s request. Not that it had actually been a request. The term request implied that you have a choice in the matter.

  You did not argue with Britva. You did not even protest quietly. The menidzher, or manager, was from the old school, where his word was law.

  Britva’s instructions had been simple: feed him, wash him, and if he doesn’t come out of the coma in another year, kill him, and dump the body in the Kola.

  Two weeks before the deadline, the Irishman had bolted upright in his bed. He awoke screaming a name. That name was Angeline. Kamar got such a shock, he’d dropped the bottle of wine he’d been opening. The bottle smashed, piercing his Ferrucci loafers, cracking the big toenail. Toenails grow back, but Ferrucci loafers were hard to come by in the Arctic Circle. Mikhael had been forced to sit on his partner to stop him killing the hostage.

  So now they were playing the waiting game. Kidnapping was an established business, and there were rules. First you sent the teaser note, or in this case, e-mail. Wait a few days to give the pigeon a chance to put together some funds, then hit him with the ransom demand.