[AF02] - The Artic Incident

by Colfer, Eoin

  Artemis knew he shouldn’t say anything. The sooner his side 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 neat? 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?’ said Artemis, his attention switching immediately to the centaur.

  ‘Exactly,’ confirmed Foaly, launching into lecture mode.

  ‘But it’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. They 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 MPEG 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 fifty 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 joining the dots.’ ,

  Artemis sat forward in his chair.

  ‘There are two hundred and eighty-four thousand landlines on that network.’ Foaly had to stop for a laugh. ‘Landlines. Barbarians.’

  Butler cracked his knuckles loudly.

  ‘Ah, so two hundred and eighty-four thousand landlines. I wrote a program to search for hits on our MPEG. 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 People’s 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 is 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 back-up.’ 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 3D projection system, was completely soundproof and was mounted on gyroscopes. You could drop an elephant from twenty metres in there and no seismograph under the world would detect so much as a shudder.

  The purpose of the firing range was to give the B’wa Kell somewhere to practise with their Softnose lasers before the operation began in earnest. But it was Briar Cudgeon who had logged more hours on the simulators 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 3D holoscreen 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. Carrere 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 glee. ‘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, while 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 b
reath, 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 hang-out, plonked an attache 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 tape came off his face, he was in a damp warehouse, walls lined with creeping moss. Three elderly goblins were seated across the table from him. He recognized them from their mugshots. Scalene, Sputa and Phlebum.The triad old guard.

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

  ‘Ah, Generals, I am honoured you greet me in person.’

  The goblins puffed out their wrinkled old chests proudly. Generals?

  The rest of Cudgeon’s patter was equally smooth. He could ‘help’ 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 as dumb as stink worms and twice as short-sighted.

  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 was 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 would no longer be necessary.

  ‘Soon, General Scalene. Very soon. But first I need a favour. 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, jiggling 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 on to the table. It contained four pairs of Koboi DoubleDex. ‘Chute 93. Take these, send your best hit squad. And tell them to wrap up warm.’

  CHUTE E93

  Julius Root always travelled 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-barrelled 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 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 People 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 centre.’

  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 ultra-light rubber polymer.

  ‘Anti-radiation,’ 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. Moulds 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 the rad suits.

  Holly frowned. ‘We don’t have anything that big. Latex can only go so far.’

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

  ‘Not yet it hasn’t. Give it time.’

  Butler shrugged. ‘What choice do I have?’

  Holly smiled, and there was a nasty twist to it. ‘Oh, I didn’t say there wasn’t a choice.’

  She reached into the locker, pulling out a large pump ‘n’ 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

  LENIN PROSPEKT, MIRMANSK

  MIKHAEL Vassikin was growing impatient. For over two years now he’d been on babysitting duty. At Britva’s request. Not that it had actually been a request. The term request implied that you had 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 Ferruci loafers and cracking a big toenail.Toenails grow back, but Ferruci 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 the e-mail. Wait a few days to give the pigeon a chance to put some funds together, then hit him with the ransom demand.

  They were locked in Mikhael’s apartment on Lenin Prospekt, waiting for the call from Britva. They didn’t even dare to go out for air. Not that there was much to see. Murmansk was one of those Russian cities that had been poured directly from a concrete mould. The only time Lenin Prospekt looked good was when it was buried in snow.

  Kamar emerged from the bedroom. His sharp features were stretched in disbelief. ‘He wants caviar, can you believe it? I give him a nice bowl of stroganina and he wants caviar, the ungrateful Irlanskii.’

  Mikhael rolled his eyes. ‘I liked him better
asleep.’

  Kamar nodded, spitting into the fireplace. ‘The sheets are too rough, he says. He’s lucky I don’t wrap him in a sack and roll him into the bay —’

  The phone rang, interrupting his empty threats.

  ‘This is it, my friend,’Vassikin said, clapping Kamar on the shoulder. ‘We are on our way.’

  Vassikin picked up the phone. ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s me,’ said a voice, made tinny by old wiring.

  ‘Mister Brit -’

  ‘Shut up, idiot! Never use my name!’

  Mikhael swallowed. The Menidzher didn’t like to be connected to his various businesses. That meant no paperwork and no mention of his name if it could be recorded. It was his custom to make calls while driving around the city so that his location could not be triangulated.

  ‘I’m sorry, boss.’

  ‘You should be,’ continued the Mafiya kingpin. ‘Now listen, and don’t talk. You have nothing to contribute.’

  Vassikin covered the handset. ‘Everything’s fine,’ he whispered, giving Kamar the thumbs up. ‘We’re doing a great job.’

  ‘The Fowls are a clever outfit,’ continued Britva. ‘And I have no doubt they are concentrating on tracing the last e-mail.’

  ‘But I spiked the last -’

  ‘What did I tell you?’

  ‘You said not to talk, Mister Brit . . . sir.’

  ‘That’s right. So send the ransom message and then move Fowl to the drop point.’

  Mikhael paled. ‘The drop point?’

  ‘Yes, the drop point. No one will be looking for you there, I guarantee it.’

  ‘But -’

  ‘Again with the talking! Get yourself a spine, man. It’s only for a couple of days. So, you might lose a year off your life. It won’t kill you.’

  Vassikin’s brain churned, searching for an excuse. Nothing came.

  ‘OK, boss. Whatever you say.’

  ‘That’s right. Now listen to me. This is your big chance. Do this right and you move up a couple of steps in the organization.’