Mulch burped. Who, me? Thats ridiculous.
The sprite was equally suspicious. Hes up to something. Look, his hair is all shiny. I bet this is one of those secret dwarf arts.
Mulch tried to look sceptical. What? Air sucking and shiny hair? Im not surprised we kept it a secret.
Vishby squinted at him. The marshals eyes were red-rimmed, and his speech was slurred from oxygen deprivation. Youre up to something. Put out your hands.
Getting shackled again now was not part of the plan. Mulch feigned weakness. I cant breathe, he said, leaning against the wall. I hope I dont die in your custody.
This statement caused enough distraction for Mulch to heave one more mighty breath. The stern plate creased inwardly, a silver stress-line cracking through the paint. All over the compartment red pressure lights flared on.
The pilots voice blared through the speaker. Get in here! he shouted, all traces of composure gone. Shes gonna fold.
Vishby grabbed Mulch by the lapels. What did you do, dwarf?
Mulch sank to his knees, flicking open the bum-flap at the rear of his prison overalls. He gathered his legs together under him, ready to move.
Listen, Vishby, he said. Youre a moron, but not a bad guy, so do like the pilot says and get in there.
Vishbys gills flapped weakly, searching for air. Youll be killed, Diggums.
Mulch winked at him. Ive been dead before.
Mulch could hold on to the gas no longer. His digestive tract was stretched like a magicians animal balloon. He folded his arms across his chest, aimed the coated tip of his head at the weakened plate and let the gas loose.
The resultant emission shook the sub-shuttle to its very rivets, sending Mulch rocketing across the hold. He slammed into the stern plate, smack in the centre of the fault line, punching straight through. His speed popped him out into the ocean, perhaps half a second before the sudden change in pressure flooded the subs chamber. Half a second later, the rear chamber was crushed like a ball of used tinfoil. Vishby and his partner had escaped to the pilots cockpit just in time.
Mulch sped towards the surface, a stream of released gas bubbles clipping him along at a rate of several knots. His dwarf lungs fed on the trapped air in his digestive tract, and the luminous helmet of spittle sent out a corona of greenish light to illuminate his way.
Of course they came after him. Vishby and the water sprite were both amphibious Atlantis dwellers. As soon as they jettisoned the wreckage of the rear compartment, the marshals cleared the airlock, finning after their fugitive. But they never had a prayer. Mulch was gas-powered; they merely had wings and fins. Whatever pursuit equipment theyd had was at the bottom of the ocean, along with the rear compartment, and the cockpits back-up engines could barely outrun a crab.
The Atlantis marshals could only watch as their captive jetted towards the surface, mocking them with every bubble from his behind.
Butlers mobile phone had been reduced to so many plastic chips and bits of weiring by the jump from the hotel window. This meant that Artemis could not call him if he needed immediate assistance. The bodyguard double-parked the Hummer outside the first Phonetix store he saw, and purchased a tri-band car-phone kit. Butler activated the phone on the way to the airport and punched in Artemiss number. No good; the phone was switched off. Butler hung up and tried Fowl Manor. Nobody home, and no messages.
Butler breathed deeply, stayed calm and floored the accelerator. The drive to the airport took less than ten minutes. The giant bodyguard did not waste time returning the Hummer to the rental-agency car park, preferring to abandon it in the set-down area. It would be towed, and he would be fined, but he didnt have time to worry about it now.
The next plane to Ireland was fully booked, so Butler paid a Polish businessman two thousand euro for his first-class ticket, and in forty-five minutes he was on the Aer Lingus shuttle to Dublin Airport. He kept trying Artemiss number until they started the engines, and switched his phone on again as soon as the wheels touched down.
It was dark by the time he left the Arrivals terminal. Less than half a day had passed since they had broken into the safety deposit box in Munichs International Bank. It was incredible that so much could happen in such a short time. Still, when you worked for Artemis Fowl II, the incredible was almost a daily occurrence. Butler had been with Artemis since the day of his birth, just over fourteen years ago, and in that time he had been dragged into more fantastic situations than the average presidential bodyguard.