The Arctic Incident (13 page)

The centaur began to heave theatrical sobs, peeping out between his fingers. Now, if I were a button camera, where would I hide? Somewhere the sweeper wouldn’t check. Foaly glanced at the bug sweeper, a small complex-looking mass of cables and chips attached to the roof. The only place the sweeper didn’t check was inside the sweeper itself.

Now he knew Opal’s vantage point, for all the good it did him. If the camera was piggybacking inside the sweeper, there would be a small blindspot directly below the unit’s titanium casing. The pixie could still see everything of importance. He was still locked out of the computer, and locked in the Operations Booth.

The centaur cradled his head between his hands, the picture of a beaten fairy. In fact he was scanning the booth. What had come in since the Koboi upgrades? There must be some untainted equipment. But there was nothing except junk. A roll of fiber-optic cable. A few conductor clips and a few tools. Nothing useful. Then something winked at him from beneath a workstation. A green light.

Foaly’s heart jumped ten beats per minute. He knew instantly what it was. Artemis Fowl’s laptop computer. Complete with modem and e-mail capability. He willed himself to maintain calm. Opal Koboi couldn’t possibly have bugged it. The device had only come in hours ago. He hadn’t even got around to dismantling it yet.

The centaur clopped across to his toolbox, and in a fit of frustration dumped the contents onto the plasma tiles. He was not so frustrated that he forgot to snag some cable and snips. The next step in his faked breakdown was to flop onto the worktop sobbing uncontrollably. Naturally, he had to flop over the precise spot where Holly had left the laptop. With a casual kick, Foaly slid the computer into the space where the sweeper’s blindspot should be.

So far, so good. Foaly popped the laptop’s lid, and quickly shut off the speakers. Humans would insist on their machines beeping at the most inopportune moments. He allowed one hand to drag across the keyboard and moments later he was in the e-mail program.

Now for the problem. Wireless Internet access is one thing, but access from the center of the earth is quite another. Cradling his head in the crook of one arm, Foaly jimmied one end of a fiber-optic cable into a
scope
uplink port. The scopes were shrouded trackers concealed on American communications satellites. Now he had an aerial. Let’s hope Mud Boy was switched on.

Opal Koboi had never had so much fun. The underworld was literally her plaything. She stretched on her Koboi Hoverboy like a contented cat, eyes devouring the chaos on the plasma monitors. The LEP had no chance. It was only a matter of time before the B’wa Kell gained access to Police Plaza, then the city was theirs. Next came Atlantis, then the human world.

Opal floated between screens, soaking up every detail. In the city, goblins flowed from every inch of darkness, armed and thirsty for blood. Softnose slugs ripped chunks from historic edifices. Ordinary fairies barricaded themselves in their houses, praying that the marauding gangs would pass them by. Businesses were looted and torched. Not too much torching, she hoped. Opal Koboi had no desire to be queen of a war zone.

A com-screen opened on the main display. It was Cudgeon on their secure line. And he seemed actually happy. The cold happiness of revenge.

“Briar,” squealed Opal. “This is wonderful. I wish you were here to see it.”

“Soon. I must remain with my troops. After all, because I was the one who unearthed Foaly’s treachery, the Council has reinstated me as commander. How is our prisoner?”

Opal glanced at the Foaly screen.“Disappointing, frankly. I expected some plotting. An escape attempt, at least. But all he does is mope about and throw the odd tantrum.”

Cudgeon’s smile widened. “Suicidal, I expect. In fact I’m certain of it.” Then the recently promoted commander was all business again. “What of the LEP? Any unexpected brainwaves?”

“No. Exactly as you predicted. They are cowering in Police Plaza like tortoises in their shells. Shall I shut off local communications?”

Cudgeon shook his head.“No. They forecast their every move on their so-called secure channels. Keep them open. Just in case.”

Opal Koboi hovered closer to the screen. “Tell me again, Briar. Tell me about the future.”

For a moment, annoyance flashed across Cudgeon’s face. But today, of all days, his good humor could not be suppressed for long.

“The council has been told that Foaly has orchestrated the sabotage from his locked Operations Booth. But you shall miraculously override the centaur’s program and return control of Police Plaza’s DNA cannons to the LEP. Those ridiculous goblins shall be overrun. I shall be the hero of the resistance, and you shall be my princess. Every military contract for the next five hundred years shall belong to Koboi Laboratories.”

Opal’s breath caught in her throat. “And then?”

“And then, together we will rid the earth of these tiresome Mud Men. That, my dear, is the future.”

Artemis’s phone rang. Something even
he
hadn’t anticipated. Artemis stripped off a glove with his teeth, tearing the mobile phone from its Velcro strip.

“Text message,” he said, navigating through the cell phone’s menu. “No one has this number except Butler.” Holly folded her arms. “Obviously, someone does.” Artemis ignored her tone. “It must be Foaly. He’s been monitoring my wireless communications for months. Either he’s using my computer, or he’s found a way to unify our platforms.”

“I see,” said Butler and Root together. Two big lies. Holly was unimpressed by all the jargon. “So what does it say?” Artemis tapped the tiny screen. “See for yourself.” Captain Short took the cell phone, scrolling

through the message. Her face grew longer with each line ...

CMNDR ROOT. TRBLE BELOW. HAVN OVERRN BY GOBLNS. PLICE PLAZA SRROUNDED. CUDGEON

+ OPL KBOI BHND PLOT. NO WPONS R CMMUNICATIONS. DNA CNONS CNTRLLED BY KBOI. I M TRPPED IN OP BTH. CNCL THNKS IM 2 BLM. IF ALIVE PLSE HLP. IF NOT, WRNG NMBR.

Holly swallowed, her throat suddenly dry. “This is not good.” The commander jumped to his feet, grabbing the cell phone. “No,” he declared moments later. “It certainly isn’t.

Cudgeon! All the time it was Cudgeon. Why didn’t I see it? Can we get a message to Foaly?”

Artemis considered it. “No. There’s no network here. I’m surprised we could even receive.”

“Couldn’t you rig it somehow?”

“Certainly. Just give me six months, some specialized equipment and three miles of steel girder.”

Holly snorted. “Some criminal mastermind you turned out to be.”

Butler placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.

“Shh,” he whispered. “Artemis is thinking.”

Artemis stared deep into the glow cube’s liquid plasma heart.

“We have two options,” he began after a moment. Nobody interrupted, not even Holly. After all it had been Artemis Fowl who devised a way to escape the fairy time field.

“We could get some human aid. No doubt some of Butler’s more dubious acquaintances could be persuaded to help, for a fee of course.”

Root shook his head. “No good.”

“They could be mind-wiped afterward.”

“Sometimes wipes don’t take. The last thing we need is mercenaries with residual memories. Option two?”

“We break into Koboi Laboratories, and return weapons control to the LEP.”

The commander guffawed. “Break into Koboi Laboratories? Are you serious? That entire compound is built on bedrock. There are no windows, and they have blast-resistant walls, and DNA stun cannons. Any unauthorized personnel who come within a hundred yards get blasted right between the pointy ears.”

Butler whistled.“Seems like a whole lot of hardware for an engineering company.”

“I know,” sighed Root. “Koboi Labs had special permits. I signed them myself.”

Butler considered it for several moments.

“Can’t be done,” he pronounced eventually. “Not without the blueprints.”

“D’Arvit,” swore the commander. “I never thought I’d say this, but there’s only one fairy for a job like this . . .”

Holly nodded. “Mulch Diggums.”

“Diggums?”

“A dwarf. Career criminal. The only fairy ever to break into Koboi Laboratories and live. Unfortunately, we lost him last year. Tunneling out of your manor, as it happens.”

“I remember him,” said Butler. “Nearly took my head off. A slippery character.”

Root laughed softly. “Eight times I nabbed old Mulch. The last one was for the Koboi Labs job. As I recall, Mulch and his cousin set up as building contractors. A way to get plans for secure facilities. They got the Koboi contract. Mulch left himself a back door. Typical Diggums, he breaks into the most secure facility under the planet, then tries to sell an alchemy vat to one of my squeals.”

Artemis sat up. “Alchemy? You have alchemy vats?”

“Stop drooling, Mud Boy. They’re experimental. The ancient warlocks used to be able to turn lead into gold, according to the Book, but the secret was lost. Even Opal Koboi hasn’t managed it yet.”

“Oh,” said Artemis, disappointed.

“Believe it or not, I almost miss that criminal. He had a way of insulting a person.” Root glanced toward the heavens. “I wonder if he’s up there now, looking down on us.”

“In a manner of speaking,” said Holly guiltily. “Actually, Commander, Mulch Diggums is in Los Angeles.”

CHAPTER 11

Mulch Diggums was, in fact, outside the apartment of an Oscar-winning actress. Of course, she didn’t know he was there. And naturally he was up to no good. Once a thief, always a thief.

Not that Mulch needed the money. He’d done very well out of the Artemis Fowl siege. Well enough to take out a lease on a penthouse apartment in Beverly Hills. He’d stocked the apartment with a Pioneer entertainment system, a full DVD library, and enough beef jerky to last a lifetime. Time for a decade of rest and relaxation.

But life is not like that. It refuses to curl up and sit quietly in a corner. The habits of several centuries would not go away. Halfway through the James Bond Collection, Mulch realized that he missed the bad old days. Soon the penthouse suite’s reclusive occupant was taking midnight strolls. These strolls generally ended up inside other people’s homes.

Initially, Mulch just visited, savoring the thrill of defeating sophisticated Mud Man security systems. Then he began to take trophies. Small things—a crystal goblet, an ashtray, or a cat, if he was peckish. But soon Mulch Diggums began to crave the old notoriety, and his pilferings grew larger. Gold bars, goose-egg diamonds, or pit bull terriers, if he was really famished.

The Oscar thing began quite by accident. He nabbed one as a curiosity on a midweek break to New York. Best Original Screenplay. The following morning he was front page news coast to coast. You’d think he’d ripped off a medical convoy instead of a gilded statuette. Mulch, of course, was delighted. He’d found his new nocturnal pastime.

In the next two weeks, Mulch filched Best Soundtrack and Best Special Effects Academy Awards. The tabloids went crazy. They even gave him a nickname: the Grouch, after another well-known Oscar. When Mulch read that one, his toes wriggled for joy. And dwarf toes wriggling are quite a sight. They are nimble as fingers, double-jointed, and the less said about the smell, the better. Mulch’s mission became clear. He had to assemble an entire set.

Over the next six months, the Grouch struck all across the United States. He even made a trip to Italy to collect a Best Foreign Language Film award. He had a special cabinet made with tinted glass that could be blacked out at the touch of a button. Mulch Diggums felt alive again.

Of course, Oscar winners all over the planet tripled their security, which was just the way Mulch liked it. There was no challenge in breaking into a shack on the beach. High rise and high tech. That’s what the public wanted. So that’s what the Grouch gave them. The papers ate it up. He was a hero. During the daylight hours, when he couldn’t venture outside, Mulch busied himself writing the screenplay of his own exploits.

Tonight was a big night. The last statuette. He was going for a Best Actress Award. And not just any old best actress, tonight’s target was the tempestuous Jamaican beauty Maggie V. This year’s winner for her portrayal of Precious, a tempestuous Jamaican beauty. Maggie V had stated publicly that if the Grouch tried anything in her apartment, he would get a lot more than he bargained for. How could Mulch resist a challenge like that?

The building itself was easy to locate, a ten-story block of glass and steel just off Sunset Boulevard, a midnight stroll south of Mulch’s own home. So the intrepid dwarf packed his tools, preparing to burglarize his way into the history books.

Maggie V was on the top floor. There was no question of going up the stairs, elevator, or shaft. It would have to be an outside job.

In preparation for the climb, Mulch had not had anything to drink in two days. Dwarf pores are not just for sweating; they can take in moisture too. Very handy when you are trapped in a cave-in for days on end. Even if you can’t get your mouth to a drink, every inch of skin can leech water from the surrounding earth. When a dwarf was thirsty, as Mulch was now, his pores opened to the size of pinholes, and began to suck like crazy. This could be extremely useful, if say, you had to climb up the side of a tall building.

Mulch took off his shoes and gloves, donned a stolen LEP helmet, and began to climb.

Holly could feel the commander’s glare crisping the hairs on the back of her neck. She tried to ignore it, concentrating on not dashing the Atlantean ambassador’s shuttle against the walls of the Arctic chute.

“So, all this time, you knew Mulch Diggums was alive?”

Holly nudged the starboard thruster to avoid a missile of half-melted rock.

“Not for sure. Foaly just had this theory.”

The commander wrung an imaginary neck. “Foaly! Why am I not surprised?”

Artemis smirked from his seat in the passenger area. “Now, you two, we need to work together as a team.”

“So tell me about Foaly’s theory, Captain,” ordered Root, belting himself into the copilot’s seat.

Holly activated a static wash on the shuttle’s external cameras. Positive and negative charges dislodged the sheets of dust from the lenses.

“Foaly thought Mulch’s death a bit suspicious, given that he was the best tunnel fairy in the business.”

“So why didn’t he come to me?”

“It was just a hunch. With respect, you know what you’re like with hunches, Commander.”

Root nodded grudgingly. It was true, he didn’t have time for hunches. It was hard evidence, or get out of my office until you’ve got some.

“The centaur did a bit of investigating on his own time. The first thing he realized was that the gold recovered was a bit light. I negotiated for the return of half the ransom, and by Foaly’s reckoning the cart was about two dozen bars short.”

The commander lit one of his trademark fungus cigars. He had to admit it sounded promising: gold missing, Mulch Diggums within a hundred miles. Two and two make four.

“As you know, it’s standard procedure to spray any LEP property with solinium-based tracker, including the ransom gold. So, Foaly runs a scan for solinium, and he picks up hot spots all over Los Angeles. Particularly at the Crowley Hotel in Beverly Hills. When he hacks into the building computer, he finds the penthouse resident is listed as one Lance Digger.”

Root’s pointy ears quivered. “Digger?”

“Exactly,” nodded Holly. “A bit more than coincidence. Foaly came to me at that point, and I advised him to get some satellite photos before taking the file to you. Except .. .”

“Except Mister
Digger
is proving very elusive. Am I right?”

“Dead on.”

Root’s coloring went from rose to tomato. “Mulch, that rascal. How did he do it?”

Holly shrugged. “We’re guessing he transferred his iris-cam to some local wildlife, maybe a rabbit. Then collapsed the tunnel.”

“So the life signs we were reading belonged to some rabbit.”

“Exactly. In theory.”

“I’ll kill him,” exclaimed Root pounding the control panel. “Can’t this bucket go any faster?”

Mulch scaled the building without much difficulty. There were external closed-circuit cameras, but the helmet’s ion filter showed exactly where these cameras were pointed. It was a simple matter to crawl along the blind spots.

Within an hour, the dwarf was suckered outside Maggie V’s apartment on the tenth floor. The windows were triple-glazed with a bulletproof coating. Movie stars. Paranoid, every one of them.

Naturally there was an alarm point sitting on top of the pane, and a motion sensor crouching on a wall like a frozen cricket. Only to be expected.

Mulch melted a hole in the glass with a bottle of dwarf rock polish, used to clean up diamonds in the mines. Humans actually cut diamonds to shine them. Imagine. Half the stone down the drain.

Next, the Grouch used his helmet’s ion filter to sweep the room for the motion sensor’s range. The red ion stream revealed that the sensor was focused on the floor. No matter. Mulch intended going along the wall.

Pores still crying out for water, the dwarf crept along the partition, making maximum use of a stainless-steel shelving system that almost completely surrounded the main sitting room.

The next step was to find the actual Oscar. It could be hidden anywhere, including under Maggie V’s pillow, but this room was as good a place to start as any. You never know, he might get lucky.

Mulch activated the helmet’s X-ray filter, scanning the walls for a safe. Nothing. He tried the floor. Humans were getting smarter these days. There, under a fake zebra rug, a metal cuboid. Easy.

The Grouch approached the motion sensor from above, very gently twisting the neck until the gadget was surveying the ceiling. The floor was now safe.

Mulch dropped to the rug, testing the surface with his tactile toes. No pressure pads sewn into the rug’s lining.

He rolled back the fake fur, revealing a hatch in the wooden floor. The joins were barely visible to the naked eye. But Mulch was an expert, and his eyes weren’t naked—they were aided by LEP zoom lenses.

He wormed a nail into the crack, flipping the hatch. The safe itself was a bit of a disappointment, not even lead lined. He could see right into the mechanism with the X-ray filter. A simple combination lock. Only three digits.

Mulch turned the filter off. What was the point in breaking a see-through lock? Instead he put his ear to the door, jiggling the dial. In fifteen seconds the door was open at his feet.

The Oscar’s gold plating winked at him. Mulch made a big mistake at that moment. He relaxed. In the Grouch’s mind he was already back in his own apartment, swigging from a two-gallon bottle of ice-cold water. And relaxed thieves are destined for prison.

Mulch neglected to check the statuette for traps, plucking it straight from the safe. If he had checked, he would have realized that there was a wire attached magnetically to the base. When the Oscar was moved, a circuit was broken, allowing all hell to break loose.

Holly set the autopilot to hover at ten thousand feet below the surface. She slapped herself on the chest to release the harness, then joined the others in the rear of the shuttle.

“Two problems. Firstly, if we go any lower, we’ll be picked up on the scanners, presuming they’re still operating.”

“Why am I not looking forward to number two?” asked Butler.

“Secondly, this particular chute was retired when we pulled out of the Arctic.”

“Which means?”

“Which means the supply tunnels were collapsed. We have no way into the chute system without supply tunnels.”

“No problem,” declared Root. “We blast the wall.”

Holly sighed.“With what, Commander? This is a diplomatic craft. We don’t have any cannons.”

Butler plucked two concussor eggs from a pouch on his Moonbelt.

“Will these do? Foaly thought they might come in handy.”

Artemis groaned. If he didn’t know better, he’d swear the manservant was enjoying this.

“Uh-oh,” breathed Mulch.

In a matter of moments, things had gone from rosy to extremely dangerous. Once the security circuit was broken, a side door slid open, admitting two very large German shepherds. The ultimate canine watchdogs. They were followed by their handler, a huge man covered in protective clothing. It appeared as though he was dressed in doormats. Obviously, the dogs were unstable.

“Nice doggies,” said Mulch, slowly unbuttoning his back flap.

Holly nudged the flight controls, inching the shuttle closer to the chute wall.

“That’s as near as we get,” she said into her helmet mike. “Any closer and the thermals could flip us against the rock face.”

“Thermals?” growled Root. “You never said anything about thermals before I climbed out here.”

The commander was spread-eagled on the port wing, a concussor egg jammed down each boot.

“Sorry, Commander, someone has to fly this bird.”

Root muttered under his breath, dragging himself closer to the wingtip. While the turbulence was nowhere as severe as it would have been on a moving aircraft, the buffeting thermals were quite enough to shake the commander like dice in a cup. All that kept him going was the thought of his fingers tightening around Mulch Diggums’s throat.

“Just a few feet,” he gasped into the mike. At least they had communications, the shuttle had its own local intercom. “A few more feet and I can make it.”

“No go, Commander. That’s your lot.”

Root risked a peek into the abyss. The chute stretched on forever, winding down to the orange magma glow at the earth’s core. This was madness. Crazy. There must be another way. At this point the commander would even be willing to risk an aboveground flight.

Then Julius Root had a vision. It could have been the sulphur fumes, stress, or even lack of food. But the commander could have sworn Mulch Diggums’s features appeared before him, etched into the rock face. The face was sucking on a cigar and smirking.

His determination returned in a surge. Bested by a criminal. Not likely.

Root clambered to his feet, drying sweaty palms on his jumpsuit. The thermals plucked at his limbs like mischievous ghosts.

“Ready to put some distance between us and this soon-to-be hole?” he shouted into the mike.

“Bet on it, Commander,” responded Holly. “Soon as we have you back in the hold, we’re out of here.”

“Okay. Stand by.”

Root fired the piton dart from his belt. The titanium head sank easily into the rock. The commander knew that tiny charges inside the dart would blow out two flanges, securing it inside the face. Five yards. Not a great distance to swing on a piton cord. But it wasn’t the swing really. It was the bone-crushing drop, and the lack of handholds on the chute wall.

Come on, Julius, sniggered Root’s Mulch rock mirage. Let’s see what you look like splattered against a wall.

“You shut your mouth, convict,” roared the commander. And he jumped, swinging into the void.

The rock face rushed out to meet him, knocking the breath from his lungs. Root ground his back teeth against the pain. He hoped nothing was broken, because after the Russian trip, he didn’t even have enough magic left to make a daisy bloom, never mind heal a fractured rib.

The shuttle’s forward lights picked out the laser burns where the LEP tunnel dwarfs had sealed the supply chute. That weld line would be the weak spot. Root slotted the concussor eggs along two indents.