The Arctic Incident

Holly shrugged. “As long as it takes. Obviously, the sooner the better, for everybody’s sake.” She glanced at Artemis. “Especially his father’s.”


In spite of everything, Butler felt good. This was life at its most basic. The hunt. Not exactly the Stone Age, but the principle was the same: the survival of the fittest. And there was no doubt in Butler’s mind that he was the fittest.

Butler followed Holly’s directions to a service ladder, scaling it quickly to the doorway above. He waited beside the metal door, until the light above changed from red to green, and the camouflaged entrance slid noiselessly back. The bodyguard emerged cautiously. While it was likely that bridge was deserted, he could hardly explain himself away as a homeless person, dressed as he was in a dark designer suit.

Butler felt a breeze play across the shaven dome of his crown. The morning air felt good, even after a few hours underground. He could only imagine how fairies must feel. Forced out of their native environment by humans. From what Butler had seen, if the People ever decided to reclaim what was theirs, the battle wouldn’t last long. But luckily for mankind, fairies were a peace-loving people, and not prepared to go to war over real estate.

The coast was clear. Butler stepped casually onto the riverside walkway, proceeding south toward the Saint Germain district.

A riverboat swept past on his right, ferrying a hundred tourists around the city. Butler automatically covered his face with a massive hand. Just in case some of those tourists had cameras pointed in this direction.

The bodyguard mounted a set of stone steps to the road above. Behind him the jagged spire of Notre Dame rose into the sky, and to his left the Eiffel Tower’s famous profile punctured the clouds. Butler strode confidently across the main road, nodding at several French ladies who stopped to stare.

He was familiar with this area of Paris, having spent a month recuperating here after a particularly dangerous assignment for the French Secret Service.

Butler strolled along rue Jacob. Even at this hour, cars and lorries jammed the narrow street. Drivers leaned on their horns, hanging from car windows, Gallic tempers running wild. Mopeds dodged between bumpers, and a large number of extraordinarily pretty girls strolled past. Butler smiled. Paris. He had forgotten.

Carrère’s apartment was on rue Bonaparte opposite the church. Apartments in Saint Germain cost more per month than most Parisians made in a year. Butler ordered coffee and a croissant at the Café Bonaparte, settling himself at an outside table. One with a perfect view of Monsieur Carrère’s window.

He didn’t have long to wait. In less than an hour, the chunky Parisian appeared on his balcony, leaning on the ornate railing for several minutes. He very obligingly presented front and side views of himself.

Holly’s voice sounded in Butler’s ear. “That’s our boy. Is he alone?”

“I can’t tell,” muttered the bodyguard into his hand. The flesh-tone mike glued to his throat would pick up any vibrations and translate them for Holly.

“Just a sec.”

Butler heard a keyboard being tapped, and suddenly the iris-cam in his eye sparked. The vision in one eye jumped into a completely different spectrum.

“Heat sensitive,” Holly informed him. “Hot equals red. Cold equals blue. Not a very strong system, but the lens should penetrate an outer wall.”

Butler cast a fresh eye over the apartment. There were three red objects in the room. One was Carrère’s heart, which pulsed crimson in the center of his pink body. The second appeared to be a hot plate, possibly a coffeepot. And the third was a TV.

“Okay. All clear, I’m going in.”

“Affirmative. Watch your step. This is a bit too convenient.”

“Agreed.”

Butler crossed the cobbled street to the four-story apartment building. There was an intercom security system, but this structure was nineteenth century, and a solid shoulder at the right point popped the bolt right out of its housing.

“I’m in.”

There was noise on the stairs above. Someone coming this way. Butler wasn’t unduly concerned, nevertheless he slid a palm inside his jacket, fingers resting on his handgun’s grip. It was unlikely he would need it. Even the most boisterous young bucks generally gave Butler a wide berth. Something to do with his merciless eyes. Being almost seven feet tall didn’t hurt either.

A group of teenagers rounded the corner.

“Excusez moi,” said Butler, gallantly stepping aside.

The girls giggled. The boys glared. One, a unibrowed rugby type, even thought about passing comment. Then Butler winked at him. It was a peculiar wink, somehow simultaneously cheerful and terrifying. No comments were passed.

Butler ascended to the fourth floor without incident. Carrère’s apartment was on the gable end. Two walls of windows. Very expensive.