The Arctic Incident

The fact that he had located Carrère in Foaly’s database was nearly enough to make Cudgeon smile. Of course, Briar would have preferred not to have any human link in the chain. But a chain comprised completely of goblin links is one dumb chain.

Establishing contact with any Mud Man was not something Cudgeon took lightly. Deranged as he was, Briar was well aware what would happen if the humans got wind of a new market underground. They would swarm to the earth’s core like a hive of red-backed flesh-eating ants. Cudgeon was not ready to meet the humans head on. Not yet. Not until he had the might of the LEP behind him.

So instead, Cudgeon sent Luc Carrère a little package. First-class shielded goblin mail . . .

Luc Carrère had shuffled into his apartment one July evening to find a small parcel lying on his desk. The package was nothing more than a FedEx delivery. Or something that looked very much like a FedEx delivery.

Luc slit the tape. Inside the box, cushioned on a nest of hundred-euro bills, was a small, flat device of some kind, like a portable CD player, but made from a strange black metal that seemed to absorb light. Luc would have shouted to his receptionist, and instructed his secretary to hold all calls. If he had had a receptionist. If he had had a secretary. Instead, the P.I. began stuffing cash down his grease-stained shirt as though the notes would disappear.

Suddenly, the device popped open, clamlike, revealing a micro screen and speakers. A shadowy face appeared on the display. Though Luc could see nothing but a pair of red-rimmed eyes, that was enough to set goose bumps popping across his back.

Funny though, because when the face began to speak, Luc’s worries slid away like an old snakeskin. How could he have been worried? This person was obviously a friend. What a lovely voice. Like a choir of angels, all on its own.

“Luc Carrère?”

Luc nearly cried. Poetry.

“Oui. C’est moi.”

“Bonsoir. Do you see the money, Luc? It’s all yours.”

A hundred miles underground, Cudgeon almost smiled. This was easier than expected. He had been worried that the dribble of power left in his brain wouldn’t be sufficient to mesmerize the human. But this particular Mud Man seemed to have the willpower of a hungry hog faced with a trough of turnips.

Luc held two wads of cash in his fists.

“This money. It’s mine? What do I have to do?”

“Nothing. The money is yours. Do whatever you want.”

Now Luc Carrère knew that there was no such thing as free cash, but that voice. That voice was truth in a micro speaker.

“But there’s more. A lot more.”

Luc stopped what he was doing, which was kissing a hundred-euro bill.

“More? How much more?”

The eyes seemed to glow crimson.

“As much as you want, Luc. But to get it, I need you to do me a favor.”

Luc was hooked. “Sure. What kind of favor?”

The voice emanating from the speaker was as clear as spring water.

“It’s simple, not even illegal. I need batteries, Luc. Thousands of batteries. Maybe millions. Do you think you can get them for me?”

Luc thought about it for about two seconds, the notes were tickling his chin. As a matter of fact, he had a contact on the river who regularly shipped boatloads of hardware to the Middle East, including batteries. Luc was confident that some of those shipments could be diverted.

“Batteries. Oui, certainement, I could do that.”

And so it went on for several months. Luc Carrère hit his contact for every battery he could lay his hands on. It was a sweet deal. Luc would crate the cells up in his apartment, and in the morning they would be gone. In their place would sit a fresh pile of bills. Of course the euros were fake, run off on an old Koboi printer, but Luc couldn’t tell the difference; nobody outside the treasury could.

Occasionally the voice on the screen would make a special request. Some fire suits for example. But hey, Luc was a player now. Nothing was more than a phone call away. In six months Luc Carrère went from a one-room apartment to a fancy loft in Saint Germain. So naturally the Sureté and Interpol were building separate cases against him. But Luc wasn’t to know that. All he knew was that for the first time in his corrupt life, he was riding the gravy train.

One morning there was a another parcel on his new marble-topped desk. Bigger this time. Bulkier. But Luc wasn’t worried. It was probably more money.

Luc popped the top to reveal an aluminum case, and a second communicator. The eyes were waiting for him.

“Bonjour, Luc. ?a va?”

“Bien,” replied Luc, mesmerized from the first syllable.

“I have a special assignment for you today. Do this right, and you will never have to worry about money again. Your tool is in the case.”

“What is it?” asked the P.I. nervously. The instrument looked like a weapon, and even though Luc was mesmerized Cudgeon did not have enough magic to completely bury the Parisian’s nature. The P.I. might have been devious, but he was no killer.

“It’s a special camera, Luc, that’s all. If you pull that thing that looks like a trigger, it takes a picture,” said Cudgeon.