The Arctic Incident (Artemis Fowl 2)

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.