The Arctic Incident

“Every computer has a signature, as individual as a fingerprint,” continued Foaly. “Networks too leave micro traces, depending on the age of the wiring. Everything is molecular, and if you pack gigabytes of data into a little cable, some of that cable is going to wear off.”


Butler was growing impatient.“Listen, Foaly. Time is of the essence. Mister Fowl’s life could hang in the balance. So get to the point before I start breaking things.”

The centaur’s first impulse was to laugh. Surely, the human was joking. Then he remembered what Butler had done to Trouble Kelp’s Retrieval squad, and decided to proceed directly to the point.

“Very well, Mud Man. Keep your hair on.”

Well, almost directly to the point.

“I put the MPG through my filters. Uranium residue points to northern Russia.”

“Now, there’s a shock.”

“I’m not finished,” said Foaly. “Watch and learn.”

The centaur brought up a satellite photo of the Arctic Circle on the wall screen, with every keystroke the highlighted area shrank.

“Uranium means Severomorsk. Or somewhere within a hundred miles. The copper wiring is from an old network. Early twentieth century, patched up over the years. The only match is Murmansk. As easy as connecting the dots.”

Artemis sat forward in his chair.

“There are two hundred and eighty-four thousand land lines on that network.” Foaly had to stop for a laugh. “Land lines. Barbarians.”

Butler cracked his knuckles loudly.

“Ah, so two hundred and eighty-four thousand land lines. I wrote a program to search for hits on our MPG. Two possible matches. One: the Hall of Justice.”

“Not likely. The other.”

“The other line is registered to a Mikhael Vassikin on Lenin Prospekt.”

Artemis felt his stomach churn. “And what do we know about Mikhael Vassikin?”

Foaly wiggled his fingers like a concert pianist. “I ran a search on my own intelligence files archives. I like to keep tabs on Mud Man so-called intelligence agencies. Quite a few mentions of you by the way, Butler.”

The manservant tried to look innocent, but his facial muscles couldn’t quite pull it off.

“Mikhael Vassikin is ex-KGB, now working for the Mafiya. The official term is khuligany. An enforcer. Not high level but not street trash either. Vassikin’s boss is a Murmansker known as Britva. The group’s main source of income comes from the kidnapping of European businessmen. In the past five years they have abducted six Germans and a Swede.”

“How many were recovered alive?” asked Artemis, his voice a whisper.

Foaly consulted his statistics. “None,” he said. “And in two cases, the negotiators went missing. Eight million dollars in lost ransom.”

Butler struggled from a tiny fairy chair.

“Right, enough talk. I think it’s time Mister Vassikin was introduced to my friend, Mister Fist.”

Melodramatic, thought Artemis. But I couldn’t have put it better myself.

“Yes, old friend. Soon enough. But I have no wish to add you to the list of lost negotiators. These men are smart. So we must be smarter. We have advantages that none of our predecessors had. We know who the kidnapper is, we know where he lives, and most importantly, we have fairy magic.” Artemis glanced at Commander Root. “We do have fairy magic, don’t we?”

“You have this fairy at any rate,” replied the commander. “I won’t force any of my people to go to Russia. But I could use some backup.” He glanced at Holly. “What do you think?”

“Of course I’m coming,” said Holly. “I’m the best shuttle pilot you have.”





Koboi Laboratories


There was a firing range in the Koboi Labs basement. Opal had it constructed to her exact specifications. It incorporated her 3-D projection system, was completely soundproof, and was mounted on gyroscopes. You could drop an elephant from fifty feet in there, and no seismograph under the world would detect as much as a shudder.

The purpose of the firing range was to give the B’wa Kell somewhere to practice with their softnose lasers, before the operation began in earnest. But it was Briar Cudgeon who had logged more hours on the simulations than anyone else. He seemed to spend every spare minute fighting virtual battles with his nemesis, Commander Julius Root.

When Opal found him, he was pumping shells from his prized softnose Redboy into a 3-D holo-screen running one of Root’s old training films. It was pathetic really, a fact she didn’t bother mentioning.

Cudgeon twisted out his earplugs.

“So. Who died?”

Opal handed him a video pad. “This just came in on the spy cameras. Carrère proved as inept as usual. Everyone survived, but as you predicted, Root has called off the alert. And now the commander has agreed to personally escort the humans to northern Russia, inside the Arctic Circle.”