Spiro howled at the ceiling like a demented wolf.
Mulch was waiting across the street from the Phonetix lab, revving the van like a Grand Prix driver. He sat behind the wheel on an orange crate, with a short plank taped to his foot. The other end of the plank was taped to the accelerator.
Juliet studied the system nervously. ‘Shouldn’t you untie that foot in case you need to use the brakes?’
‘Brakes?’ laughed Mulch. ‘Why would I use the brakes? I’m not doing my driving test here.’
In the back of the van, Artemis and Holly simultaneously reached for their seat belts.
CHAPTER 11: THE INVISIBLE MAN
FOWL MANOR
THEY reached Ireland without major incident, though Mulch did attempt to escape Holly’s custody fifteen times – including once on the Lear jet, where he was discovered in the bathroom with a parachute and a bottle of dwarf rock polish. Holly did not let him out of her sight after that.
Butler was waiting for them at Fowl Manor’s front door.
‘Welcome back. Glad to see everyone’s alive. Now I need to go.’
Artemis put a hand on his arm.
‘Old friend. You’re in no condition to go anywhere.’
Butler was determined. ‘One last mission, Artemis. I have no choice. Anyway, I’ve been doing Pilates. I feel much more limber.’
‘Blunt?’
‘Yes.’
‘But he’s in prison,’ protested Juliet.
Butler shook his head. ‘Not any more.’
Artemis could see that his bodyguard was not about to be turned from his path.
‘At least take Holly. She can be of some help.’
Butler winked at the elf. ‘I was counting on it.’
The Chicago police had put Arno Blunt in a van, with a couple of officers. Two would be sufficient, they reasoned, as the perp was handcuffed and manacled. They revised this opinion when the van was discovered six miles south of Chicago, with the officers manacled and no sign of the suspect. To quote Sergeant Iggy Lebowski’s report: ‘The guy ripped those handcuffs apart as though they were links in a paperchain. He came at us like a steam train. We never had a chance.’
But Arno Blunt did not escape clean. His pride had taken a severe beating in the Spiro Needle. He knew that word of his humiliation would soon spread through the bodyguard network. As Pork Belly LaRue later put it on the Soldiers for Hire web site: ‘Arno done got hisself outsmarted by some snot-nosed kid.’ Blunt was painfully aware that he would have to suffer chortles every time he walked into a room full of tough guys – unless he avenged the insult paid to him by Artemis Fowl.
The bodyguard knew that he had minutes before Spiro gave up his address to the Chicago PD, so he packed a few spare sets of teeth and took the shuttle to O’ Hare International Airport.
Blunt was delighted to find that the authorities had not yet frozen his Spiro corporate credit card, and used it to purchase a first class British Airways Concorde ticket to London Heathrow. From there he would enter Ireland on the Rosslare ferry. Just another one of five hundred tourists visiting the land of the leprechaun.
It wasn’t a terribly complicated plan, and it would have worked if it hadn’t been for one thing: the passport official at Heathrow just happened to be Sid Commons, the ex-Green Beret who had served with Butler on bodyguard duty in Monte Carlo. The second Blunt opened his mouth alarm bells went off in Commons’ head. The gentleman before him fitted the description Butler had faxed over perfectly. Right down to the strange teeth. Blue oil and water, if you don’t mind. Commons pressed a button under his desk and, in seconds, a squad of security men relieved Blunt of his passport and took him into custody.
The chief security official took out his mobile phone as soon as the detainee was under lock and key. He dialled an international number. It rang twice.
‘The Fowl residence.’
‘Butler? It’s Sid Commons, in Heathrow. A man came through here you might be interested in. Funny teeth, neck tattoos, New Zealand accent. Detective Inspector Justin Barre faxed out the description from Scotland Yard a few days ago; he said you might be able to ID him.’
‘Do you still have him?’ asked the manservant.
‘Yes. He’s in one of our holding cells. They’re running a check right now.’
‘How long will that take?’
‘A couple of hours, max. But if he’s the professional you say he is, a computer check won’t turn up anything. We need a confession to turn him over to Scotland Yard.’
‘I will meet you in the Arrivals hall under the departure board in thirty minutes,’ said Butler, severing the connection.
Sid Commons stared at his mobile phone. How could Butler possibly get there in thirty minutes from Ireland? It wasn’t important. All Sid knew was that Butler had saved his life a dozen times in Monte Carlo all those years ago, and now the debt was about to be repaid.
Thirty-two minutes later, Butler showed up in the Arrivals hall.
Sid Commons studied him as they shook hands.