The Arctic Incident

Julius Root always traveled in style. In this instance he had commandeered the Atlantean ambassador’s shuttle. All leather and gold. Seats softer than a gnome’s behind, and drag buffers that negated all but the most serious jolts.

Needless to say, the Atlantean ambassador hadn’t been all that thrilled about handing over the starter chip. But it was difficult to refuse the commander when his fingers were drumming a tattoo on the tri-barreled blaster strapped to his hip. So now the humans and their two elfin chaperones were climbing E93 in some considerable comfort.

Artemis helped himself to a bottle of still water from the chiller cabinet.

“This tastes unusual,” he commented. “Not unpleasant, but different.”

“Clean is the word you’re searching for,” said Holly. “You wouldn’t believe how many filters we have to put it through to purge the Mud Man from it.”

“No bickering, Captain Short,” warned Root. “We’re on the same side, now. I want a smooth mission. Now suit up, all of you. We won’t last five minutes out there without protection.”

Holly cracked open an overhead locker. “Fowl, front and center.”

Artemis complied, a bemused smile twitching at his lips.

Holly pulled several cubic packages from the locker.

“What are you, about a six?”

Artemis shrugged. He wasn’t familiar with the People’s system of measurement.

“What? Artemis Fowl doesn’t know. I thought you were the world’s expert on the People. It was you who stole our Book last year, wasn’t it?”

Artemis unwrapped the package. It was a suit of some ultralight rubber polymer.

“Antiradiation,” explained Holly. “Your cells will thank me in fifty years, if you’re still around.”

Artemis pulled the suit over his clothes; it shrank to fit like a second skin.

“Clever material.”

“Memory latex. Molds itself to your shape, within reason. One use only, unfortunately. Wear it and recycle it.”

Butler clinked over. He was carrying so much fairy weaponry that Foaly had supplied him with a Moonbelt. The belt reduced the effective weight of its attachments to one fifth of the Earth norm.

“What about me?” asked Butler, nodding at the rad suits.

Holly frowned. “We don’t have anything that deformed. Latex can only go so far.”

“Forget it. I’ve been in Russia before. It didn’t kill me.”

“Not yet it didn’t. Give it time.”

Butler shrugged. “What choice do I have?”

Holly smiled, and there was a nasty tinge to it.

“Oh, I didn’t say there wasn’t a choice.”

She reached into the locker, pulling out a large spray can. And for some reason, that little can scared Butler more than a bunker full of missiles.

“Now, hold still,” she said, aiming a gramophone-type nozzle at the bodyguard. “This may stink worse than a hermit dwarf, but at least your skin won’t glow in the dark.”





CHAPTER 8





TO RUSSIA WITH GLOVES


Murmansk, Lenin Prospekt


Mikhael Vassikin was growing impatient. For over two years now, he’d been on baby-sitting duty. At Britva’s request. Not that it had actually been a request. The term request implied that you have a choice in the matter.

You did not argue with Britva. You did not even protest quietly. The menidzher, or manager, was from the old school, where his word was law.

Britva’s instructions had been simple: feed him, wash him, and if he doesn’t come out of the coma in another year, kill him, and dump the body in the Kola.

Two weeks before the deadline, the Irishman had bolted upright in his bed. He awoke screaming a name. That name was Angeline. Kamar got such a shock, he’d dropped the bottle of wine he’d been opening. The bottle smashed, piercing his Ferrucci loafers, cracking the big toenail. Toenails grow back, but Ferrucci loafers were hard to come by in the Arctic Circle. Mikhael had been forced to sit on his partner to stop him killing the hostage.

So now they were playing the waiting game. Kidnapping was an established business, and there were rules. First you sent the teaser note, or in this case, e-mail. Wait a few days to give the pigeon a chance to put together some funds, then hit him with the ransom demand.

They were locked in Mikhael’s apartment on Lenin Prospekt, waiting for the call from Britva. They didn’t even dare to go out for air. Not that there was much to see. Murmansk was one of those Russian cities that had been made by pouring concrete directly into a mold. The only time Lenin Prospekt looked good was when it was buried in snow.

Kamar emerged from the bedroom. His sharp features were stretched in disbelief.

“He wants caviar, can you believe it? I give him a nice bowl of stroganina and he wants caviar, the ungrateful Irlandskii.”

Mikhael rolled his eyes. “I liked him better asleep.”

Kamar nodded, spitting into the fireplace. “The sheets are too rough, he says. He’s lucky I don’t wrap him in a sack, and roll him into the bay.”

Then the phone rang, interrupting Vassikin’s empty threats.

“This is it, my friend,” he said, clapping Kamar on the shoulder. “We are on our way.”

Vassikin picked up the phone.

“Yes?”