Artemis caught the hand. The tears were streaming now. Unchecked.
“Good-bye, Butler.”
The bodyguard’s sightless eyes were calm. “Artemis, call me Domovoi.’
The name told Artemis two things. First, his lifelong ally had been named for a Slavic guardian spirit. Second, graduates of the Madam Ko school were instructed never to reveal their first names to their Principals. It helped to keep things clinical. Butler would never have broken this rule . . . unless it no longer mattered.
“Good-bye, Domovoi,” sobbed the boy. “Good-bye, my friend.”
The hand dropped. Butler was gone.
“No!” shouted Artemis, staggering backward.
This wasn’t right. This was not the way things should end. For some reason, he had always imagined that they would die together. Perhaps facing insurmountable odds in some exotic location. On the lip of Vesuvius perhaps, or the banks of the mighty Ganges. But together, as friends. After all they had been through, Butler could not simply be defeated at the hands of some grandstanding, second-rate muscleman.
Butler had almost died before. The year before last, he had been mauled by a troll from the deep tunnels below Haven City. Holly Short had saved him then, using her fairy magic. But now there were no fairies around to save his bodyguard.
Time was the enemy here. If Artemis had more of it, he could figure out how to contact the LEP and persuade Holly to use her magic once again. But time was running out. Butler had perhaps four minutes before his brain shut down. Not long enough, even for an intellect such as his. Artemis needed to buy some more time. Or steal some.
Think, boy, think. Use what the situation provides. Artemis shut off the wellspring of tears. He was in a restaurant, a fish restaurant. Useless! Worthless! Perhaps in a medical facility he could do something. But here? What was here? An oven, sinks, utensils. Even if he did have the proper tools, he had not yet completed his medical studies. It was too late for conventional surgery at any rate, unless there was a method of heart transplant that took less than four minutes.
The seconds were ticking by. Artemis was growing angry with himself. Time was against them. Time needed to be stopped. The idea sparked in Artemis’s brain in a flash of neurons. Perhaps he couldn’t stop time, but he could halt Butler’s passage through it. The process was risky certainly, but it was the only chance they had.
Artemis popped the dessert trolley’s brake with his foot, and began hauling the contraption toward the kitchen. He had to pause several times to drag moaning assassins from the vehicle’s path. Emergency vehicles were approaching, making their way down Knightsbridge. Obviously the sonic grenade’s detonation would have attracted attention. There were only moments left before he would have to fabricate some plausible story for the authorities. Better not to be here. Fingerprints wouldn’t be a problem, as the restaurant would have had dozens of customers. All he had to do was get out of here before London’s finest arrived.
The kitchen was forged from stainless steel. Hobs, hoods, and work surfaces were littered with fallout from the sonic grenade. Fish flapped in the sink, crustaceans clicked across the tiles, and caviar dripped from the ceiling.
There! At the back, a line of freezers, essentials in any seafood bistro. Artemis put his shoulder against the trolley, steering it to the rear of the kitchen.
The largest of the freezers was of the custom built pullout variety often found in large restaurants. Artemis hauled open the drawer, quickly evicting the salmon, sea bass, and hake that were encrusted in the ice shavings.
Cryogenics. It was their only chance. The science of freezing a body until medicine had evolved sufficiently to revive it. Generally dismissed by the medical community, it nevertheless made millions each year from the estates of rich eccentrics who needed more than one lifetime to spend their money. Cryogenic chambers were generally built to very exact specifications, but there was no time for Artemis’s usual standards now. This freezer would have to do as a temporary solution. It was imperative that Butler’s head be cooled to preserve the brain cells. So long as his brain functions were intact, he could theoretically be revived, even if there were no heartbeat.
Artemis maneuvered the trolley until it overhung the open freezer, then with the help of a silver platter, he levered Butler’s body into the steaming ice. It was tight, but the bodyguard fit with barely a bend of the legs. Artemis heaped loose ice on top of his fallen comrade, and then adjusted the thermostat to four degrees below freezing, to avoid tissue damage. Butler’s blank eyes stared at him through a layer of ice.
“I’ll be back,” the boy said. “Sleep well.”
The sirens were close now. Artemis heard the screech of tires.
“Hold on, Domovoi,” whispered Artemis, closing the freezer drawer.
Artemis left through the back door, mingling with the crowds of locals and sightseers. The police would have someone photographing the crowd, so he did not linger, or even glance back toward the restaurant. Instead, he made his way to Harrods, and found himself a table at the gallery café.
Once he had assured the waitress that he was not looking for his mommy, and produced sufficient cash to pay for his pot of Earl Grey tea, Artemis pulled out his cell phone, selecting a number from the speed-dial menu.
A man answered on the second ring. “Hello. Make it quick, whoever you are. I’m very busy at the moment.”
The man was Detective Inspector Justin Barre of New Scotland Yard. Barre’s gravelly tones were caused by a hunting knife across the gullet during a bar fight in the nineties. If Butler hadn’t been on hand to stop the bleeding, Justin Barre would never have risen beyond sergeant. It was time to call in the debt.
“Detective Barre. This is Artemis Fowl.”
“Artemis, how are you? And how’s my old partner, Butler?”
Artemis kneaded his forehead. “Not well at all, I’m afraid. He needs a favor.”
“Anything for the big man. What can I do?”
“Did you hear something about a disturbance in Knightsbridge?”
There was a pause. Artemis heard paper rip as a fax was torn off the roll.
“Yes, it just came in. A couple of windows were shattered in some restaurant. Nothing major. Some tourists got a bit shell-shocked. Preliminary reports say it was some kind of localized earthquake, if you can believe that. We’ve got two cars there right now. Don’t tell me Butler was behind it?”
Artemis took a breath. “I need you to keep your men away from the freezers.”
“That’s a strange request, Artemis. What’s in the freezers that I shouldn’t see?”
“Nothing illegal,” promised Artemis. “Believe me when I say, this is life or death for Butler.”
Barre didn’t hesitate. “This is not exactly in my jurisdiction, but consider it done. Do you need to get whatever I’m not supposed to see out of the freezers?”
The detective had read his mind. “As soon as possible. Two minutes are all I need.”
Barre chewed it over. “Okay. Let’s synchronize schedules. The forensics team is going to be in there for a couple of hours. Nothing I can do about that. But by six-thirty, I can guarantee there won’t be anyone on duty. You have five minutes.”
“That will be more than sufficient.”
“Good. And tell the big man that we’re even.”
Artemis kept his voice even. “Yes, Detective Barre. I’ll tell him.” If I get the opportunity, he thought.
The Ice Age Cryogenics Institute was not actually on London’s Harley Street. Technically, it was tucked away in Dickens Lane, a side alley on the famous medical boulevard’s southern end. But this did not stop the facility’s MD, one Dr. Constance Lane, from putting Harley Street on all Ice Age stationery. You couldn’t buy credibility like that. When the upper classes saw those magic words on a business card, they fell over themselves to have their frail frames frozen.
Artemis Fowl was not so easily impressed. But then, he had little choice. Ice Age was one of three cryogenic centers in the city
, and the only one with free units. Though Artemis did consider the neon sign a bit much. PODS TO RENT. Honestly.
The building itself was enough to make Artemis squirm. The façade was clad in brushed aluminum, obviously designed to resemble a spaceship, and the doors were of the whoosh Star Trek variety. Where was culture? Where was art? How did a monstrosity like this get planning permission in historic London?
A nurse complete with white uniform and three-cornered hat was supervising the reception. Artemis doubted she was an actual nurse—it must have been the cigarette between her false nails.
“Excuse me, miss?”
The nurse barely glanced up from her gossip magazine.
“Yes? Are you looking for someone?”
Artemis clenched his fists behind his back.
“Yes, I would like to see Dr. Lane. She is the surgeon, is she not?”
The nurse ground out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.
“This is not another school project is it? Dr. Lane says, no more projects.”
“No. Not another school project.”
“You’re not a lawyer, are you?” asked the nurse suspiciously. “One of those geniuses who gets a degree while they’re still in diapers?”