The Arctic Incident (Artemis Fowl 2)

Carrère’s apartment was on rue Bonaparte opposite the church. Apartments in Saint Germain cost more per month than most Parisians made in a year. Butler ordered coffee and a croissant at the Café Bonaparte, settling himself at an outside table. One with a perfect view of Monsieur Carrère’s window.

He didn’t have long to wait. In less than an hour, the chunky Parisian appeared on his balcony, leaning on the ornate railing for several minutes. He very obligingly presented front and side views of himself.

Holly’s voice sounded in Butler’s ear. “That’s our boy. Is he alone?”

“I can’t tell,” muttered the bodyguard into his hand. The flesh-tone mike glued to his throat would pick up any vibrations and translate them for Holly.

“Just a sec.”

Butler heard a keyboard being tapped, and suddenly the iris-cam in his eye sparked. The vision in one eye jumped into a completely different spectrum.

“Heat sensitive,” Holly informed him. “Hot equals red. Cold equals blue. Not a very strong system, but the lens should penetrate an outer wall.”

Butler cast a fresh eye over the apartment. There were three red objects in the room. One was Carrère’s heart, which pulsed crimson in the center of his pink body. The second appeared to be a hot plate, possibly a coffeepot. And the third was a TV.

“Okay. All clear, I’m going in.”

“Affirmative. Watch your step. This is a bit too convenient.”

“Agreed.”

Butler crossed the cobbled street to the four-story apartment building. There was an intercom security system, but this structure was nineteenth century, and a solid shoulder at the right point popped the bolt right out of its housing.

“I’m in.”

There was noise on the stairs above. Someone coming this way. Butler wasn’t unduly concerned, nevertheless he slid a palm inside his jacket, fingers resting on his handgun’s grip. It was unlikely he would need it. Even the most boisterous young bucks generally gave Butler a wide berth. Something to do with his merciless eyes. Being almost seven feet tall didn’t hurt either.

A group of teenagers rounded the corner.

“Excusez moi,” said Butler, gallantly stepping aside.

The girls giggled. The boys glared. One, a unibrowed rugby type, even thought about passing comment. Then Butler winked at him. It was a peculiar wink, somehow simultaneously cheerful and terrifying. No comments were passed.

Butler ascended to the fourth floor without incident. Carrère’s apartment was on the gable end. Two walls of windows. Very expensive.

The bodyguard was considering his breaking-and-entering options when he noticed the door was open. Open doors generally meant one of two things: One, nobody was left alive to close it. Or, two, he was expected. Neither of these options appealed to him particularly.

Butler entered cautiously. The apartment walls were lined with open crates. Battery packs and fire suits poked through the Styrofoam packing. The floor was littered with thick wads of currency.

“Are you a friend?” It was Carrère. He was slumped in an oversized armchair, a weapon of some kind nestled on his lap.

Butler approached cautiously. An important rule of combat is that every opponent be taken seriously.

“Take it easy.”

The Parisian raised the weapon. The grip was made for smaller fingers. A child, or a fairy.

“I asked if you were a friend?”

Butler cocked his own pistol. “No need to shoot.”

“Stand still,” ordered Carrère. “I’m not going to shoot you, just take your photo maybe. The voice told me.”

Holly’s voice sounded in the earpiece. “Get closer. I need to see the eyes.”

Butler holstered his weapon, taking a step forward. “You see, no one has to get hurt here.”

“I’m going to enhance the image,” said Holly. “This may sting a bit.”

The tiny camera in his eye buzzed, and suddenly Butler’s vision was magnified by four. Which would have been just fine had the magnification not been accompanied by a sharp jolt of pain. Butler blinked a stream of tears from his eye. Below in the goblin shuttle, Holly studied Luc’s pupils.

“He’s been mesmerized,” she pronounced. “Several times. You see how the iris has actually become jagged. You mesmerize a human too much, and they can go blind.”

Artemis studied the image.

“Is it safe to mesmerize him again?”

Holly shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. He’s already under a spell. That particular Mud Man is just following orders. His brain doesn’t know a thing about it.”

Artemis grabbed the mike stand. “Butler! Get out of there. Right now.”

In the apartment, Butler stood his ground. Any sudden movement might be his last.

“Butler,” said Holly. “Listen carefully. That gun pointed at you is a wide-bore low-frequency blaster. We call it a bouncer; it was developed for tunnel skirmishes. If he pulls that trigger, a wide-arc laser is going to ricochet off the walls until it hits something.”

“I see,” muttered Butler.

“What did you say?” asked Carrère.

“Nothing. I just don’t like having my photo taken.”

A spark of Luc’s greedy personality surfaced. “I like that watch on your wrist. It looks expensive. Is it a Rolex?”

“You don’t want this,” said Butler, very reluctant to part with the com-screen. “It’s cheap. A piece of trash.”

“Just give me the watch,”

Butler peeled back the strap on the instrument on his wrist.

“If I give you this watch, maybe you can tell me about all these batteries.”

“It is you! Say cheese,” squealed Carrère, forcing his pudgy thumb into the undersized trigger guard, and pulling.

For Butler, time seemed to slow to a crawl. It was almost as though he were inside his personal time stop. His soldier’s brain absorbed all the facts and analyzed his options.

Carrère’s finger was too far gone. In a moment a wide-bore laser burst would be speeding his way, and would continue to bounce around the room until they were both dead. His gun was of no use in a situation like this. All he had was the Safetynet, but a six-foot sphere was not going to be enough. Not for two good-size humans. So in the fraction of

a second left to him, Butler formulated a new strategy. If the sphere stopped concussive waves coming in, perhaps it could stop them coming out. Butler touched the screen, and hurled the device in Carrère’s direction.

Not a nanosecond too soon, a spherical shield blossomed, enveloping the expanding beam. Three hundred and sixty degrees of protection. It was a sight to see, a fireworks display in a bubble. The shield hovered overhead, shafts of light ricocheting against the sphere’s curved planes.

Carrère was hypnotized by the sight, and Butler took advantage of the distraction to disarm him.

“Start the engines,” grunted the bodyguard into his throat mike. “The Sureté are going to be all over this place in minutes. Foaly’s Safetynet didn’t stop the noise.”

“Roger that. What about Monsieur Carrère?”

Butler dumped the dazed Parisian flat on the carpet.

“Luc and I are going to have a little chat.”

For the first time Carrère seemed to be aware of his surroundings.

“Who are you?” he mumbled. “What’s happening?”

Butler ripped open the man’s shirt, placing his palm flat on the P.I.’s heart. Time for a little trick he’d learned from Madame Ko, his Japanese sensei. “Don’t worry, Monsieur Carrère. I’m a doctor. There’s been an accident, but you’re perfectly fine.”

“An accident? I don’t remember any accident.”

“Trauma. It’s quite normal. I’m just going to check your vitals.”

Butler placed a thumb on Luc’s neck, locating the artery.

“I’m going to ask you a few questions, to check for concussion.”

Luc didn’t argue, then again who’d argue with a six-foot-plus Eurasian man with muscles like a Michelangelo statue?

“Is your name Luc Carrère?”

“Yes.”

Butler noted the pulse rate. One from the heartbeat, and a second reference on the carotid artery. Steady in spite of the accident.

“Are you a private eye?”

“I prefer the title investigator.”

No increase in pulse rate. The man was telling the truth.

“Have you ever sold batteries to a mystery buyer?”