The Arctic Incident (9 page)

“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 the 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

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.

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 made by pouring concrete directly into a mold. 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
Irlandskii
.”

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.”

Then the phone rang, interrupting Vassikin’s empty threats.

“This is it, my friend,” he 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 where it could be recorded. It was his custom to make his calls while driving around the city, so 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—”

“No more 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.

“Okay, 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.”

Vassikin grinned. A life of champagne and expensive cars beckoned.

“If this man really is young Fowl’s father, the boy will pay up. When you get the money, dump them both in the Kola. I don’t want any survivors to start a vendetta. Call me if there’s any trouble.”

“Okay, boss.”

“Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t call me.”

The line went dead. Vassikin was left staring at the handset as though it were a handful of plague virus.

“Well?” asked Kamar.

“We are to send the second message.”

A broad grin split Kamar’s face.

“Excellent. At last this thing is nearly over.”

“Then we are to move the package to the drop zone.”

The broad grin disappeared like a fox down a hole.

“What? Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

Kamar paced the tiny living room. “That is crazy. Completely insane. Fowl cannot be here for a couple of days at the earliest. There’s no need for us to spend two days breathing in that poison. What is the reasoning?”

Mikhael extended the phone. “You tell him. I’m sure the
Menidzher
will appreciate being told he is a madman.”

Kamar sank to the threadbare sofa, dropping his head into his hands.

“Will this thing never end?”

His partner fired up their ancient sixteen-megabyte hard drive.

“I don’t know for certain,” he said, sending the prepared message. “But I do know what will happen if we don’t do what Britva says.”

Kamar sighed. “I think I’ll go shout at the prisoner for a while.”

“Will that help?”

“It won’t,” admitted Kamar. “But it will make me feel better.”

The Arctic Station had never been high on the fairy tourist list. Sure, icebergs and polar bears were pretty, but nothing was worth saturating your lungs with irradiated air.

Holly docked the shuttle in the only serviceable bay.

The terminal itself resembled nothing more than a deserted warehouse. Static conveyor belts snaked along the floor, and low-level heating pipes rattled with insect life.

Holly handed out human overcoats and gloves from an ancient locker.

“Wrap up, Mud Boys. It’s cold outside.”

Artemis did not need to be told. The terminal’s solar batteries had long since shut down, and the ice’s grip had cracked the walls like a nut in a vice.

Holly tossed Butler his coat from a distance.

“You know something, Butler, you stink.”

The manservant growled. “You and your radiation gel. I think my skin’s changed color.”

“Don’t worry about it. Fifty years and it’ll wash right off.”

Butler buttoned a Cossack greatcoat to his neck.

“I don’t know why you’re getting all wrapped up. You’ve got the fancy suits.”

“The coats are camouflage,” explained Holly, smearing rad gel on her face and neck. “If we shield, the vibration makes the suits useless. Might as well dip your bones in a reactor core. So for tonight only, we’re all humans.”

Artemis frowned. If the fairies couldn’t shield, it would make rescuing his father all the more difficult. His evolving plan would have to be adjusted.

“Less of the chat,” growled Root, pulling a bearskin hat over his pointed ears. “We move out in five. I want everybody armed and dangerous. Even you, Fowl, if your little wrists can support a weapon.”

Artemis selected a fairy handgun from the shuttle’s arsenal. He jacked the battery into its slot, flicking the setting up to three.

“Don’t worry about me, Commander. I’ve been practicing. We have quite a stash of LEP weaponry at the manor.”

Root’s complexion cranked up one more notch.

“Well, there’s a big difference between stunning a cardboard cutout and a real person.”

Artemis smiled his vampire smile. “If everything proceeds according to plan, there will be no need for weapons. The first stage is simplicity itself; we set up a surveillance post near Vassikin’s apartment. When the opportunity arises, Butler will snatch our Russian friend and the five of us can have a little chat. I’m sure that he will tell us everything we need to know under the influence of your
mesmer
. Then, it will be a simple matter to stun any guards and rescue my father.”

Root pulled a heavy scarf over his mouth. “And what if things don’t go according to plan?”

Artemis’s eyes were cold and determined.

“Then, Commander, we will have to improvise.”

Holly felt a shiver rattle around her stomach. And it was nothing to do with the climate.

The terminal was buried fifty feet below an ice pack. They took the courtesy elevator to the surface, and the party emerged into the Arctic night looking for all the world like an adult and three children. Albeit three children with inhuman weaponry clanking under every loose fold of cloth.

Holly checked the GPS locator on her wrist.

“We’re in the
Rosta
district, Commander. Twenty klicks north of Murmansk.”

“What’s Foaly got on the weather? I don’t want to be caught in the middle of a blizzard twenty miles from our destination.”

“No luck. I can’t get a line. Magma flares must still be up.”

“D’Arvit,” swore Root. “Well, I suppose we’ll have to take our chances on foot. Butler you’re the expert here, you take point. Captain Short, bring up the rear. Feel free to boot any human backside if it lags behind.”

Holly winked at Artemis. “No need to tell me twice, sir.”

“I’ll bet there isn’t,” grunted Root, with only the barest hint of a smile playing about his lips.

The motley band trudged southeast by moonlight until they reached the railway line. Walking along the sleepers was the only way they could be safe from drifts and suck holes. Progress was slow. A northerly wind snaked through every pore in their clothing, and the cold attacked any exposed skin like a million electric darts.

There was little conversation. The Arctic had that effect on people, even if three of them were wearing coil-heated suits.

Holly broke the silence. Something had been nagging at her for some time.

“Tell me something, Fowl,” she said from behind the boy. “Your father. Is he like you?”

Artemis’s step faltered for an instant. “That’s a strange question. Why do you ask?”

“Well, you’re no friend to the People. What if the man we’re trying to rescue is the man who will destroy us?”

There was silence for a long time, except for the chattering of teeth. Holly saw Artemis’s chin drop onto his chest.

“You have no cause to be alarmed, Captain. My father, though some of his ventures were undoubtedly illegal, was . . . is . . . a noble man. The idea of harming another creature would be repugnant to him.”

Holly tugged her boot from eight inches of snow. “So, what happened to you?”

Artemis’s breath bloomed in icy clouds over his shoulder. “I . . . I made a mistake.”

Holly squinted at the back of the human’s head. Was this actual sincerity from Artemis Fowl? It was hard to believe. Even more surprising was the fact that she didn’t know how to react—to extend the hand of forgiveness, or the boot of retribution. Eventually she decided to reserve judgment. For the moment.

They passed into a ravine, worn smooth by the whistling wind. Butler didn’t like it. His soldier’s sense was beating a tattoo on the inside of his skull. He raised a clenched fist.

Root double his pace to catch up.

“Trouble?”

Butler squinted into the snow field, searching for footprints. “Maybe. Nice spot for a surprise attack.”

“Maybe. If anyone knew we were coming.”

“Is that possible? Could someone know?”

Root snorted, breath forming clouds in the air before him.

“Impossible. The chute is totally isolated, and LEP security is the tightest on the planet.”

And that was when the goblin hit squad soared over the ridge.

Butler grabbed Artemis by the collar, unceremoniously flinging him into a drift. His other hand was already drawing his weapon.

“Keep your head down, Artemis. Time for me to earn my salary.”

Artemis would have responded testily, had his head not been under three feet of snow.

There were four goblins flying in loose formation, dark against the starlit sky. They quickly rose to a thousand feet, making no attempt to conceal their presence. They neither attacked nor fled, simply hovered overhead.

“Goblins,” grunted Root, pulling a Farshoot neutrino rifle into his shoulder. “Too stupid to live. All they had to do was pick us off.”

Butler picked a spot, spreading his legs for steadiness.

“Do we wait until we see the whites of their eyes, Commander?”

“Goblin eyes don’t have whites,” responded Root. “But even so, holster your weapon. Captain Short and I will stun them. No need for anyone to die.”

Butler slid the Sig Sauer into its pouch beneath his arm. It was next to useless at that range, anyway. It would be interesting to see how Holly and Root handled themselves in a firefight. After all, Artemis’s life was pretty much in their hands. Not to mention his own.

Butler glanced sideways. Holly and the Commander were pumping the triggers of various weapons. Without any result. Their weapons were as dead as mice in a snake pit.

“I don’t understand it,” muttered Root. “I checked these myself.”

Artemis, naturally, was first to figure it out. He shook the snow from his hair.

“Sabotage,” he proclaimed tossing aside the useless fairy handgun. “There is no other alternative. This is why the B’wa Kell need softnose weapons, because they have somehow disrupted fairy lasers.”

But the commander was not listening, and neither was Butler. This was no time for clever deductions, this was a time for action. They were sitting ducks out here. Dark against the pale Arctic glow. This theory was confirmed when several softnose laser bursts bored hissing holes in the snow at their feet.

Holly activated her helmet Optix, zooming in on the enemy.

“It looks like one of them has a softnose laser, sir. Something with a long barrel.”

“We need cover. Fast!”

Butler nodded. “Look. An overhang. Under the ridge.”

The manservant grabbed his charge by the collar, hoisting him aloft as easily as a child would lift a kitten. They struggled through the snow to the shelter of the overhang. Maybe a million years ago the ice had melted sufficiently for a layer of ice to slump slightly, then freeze up again. The resulting wrinkle had somehow lasted through the ages and now could possibly save their lives.