The Arctic Incident

“It’s me,” said a voice, made tinny by old wiring.

“Mister Brit . . .”

“Shut up, idiot! Never use my name!”

Mikhael swallowed. The Menidzher didn’t like to be connected to his various businesses. That meant no paperwork and no mention of his name where it could be recorded. It was his custom to make his calls while driving around the city, so his location could not be triangulated.

“I’m sorry, boss.”

“You should be,” continued the Mafiya kingpin. “Now listen and don’t talk. You have nothing to contribute.”

Vassikin covered the handset.

“Everything’s fine,” he whispered, giving Kamar the thumbs up. “We’re doing a great job.”

“The Fowls are a clever outfit,” continued Britva.“And I have no doubt they are concentrating on tracing the last e-mail.”

“But I spiked the last—”

“What did I tell you?”

“You said not to talk, Mister Brit—Sir.”

“That’s right. So send the ransom message and then move Fowl to the drop point.”

Mikhael paled. “The drop point?”

“Yes, the drop point. No one will be looking for you there, I guarantee it.”

“But—”

“No more talking! Get yourself a spine, man. It’s only for a couple of days. So you might lose a year off your life, it won’t kill you.”

Vassikin’s brain churned, searching for an excuse. Nothing came.

“Okay, boss. Whatever you say.”

“That’s right. Now listen to me. This is your big chance. Do this right, and you move up a couple of steps in the organization.”

Vassikin grinned. A life of champagne and expensive cars beckoned.

“If this man really is young Fowl’s father, the boy will pay up. When you get the money, dump them both in the Kola. I don’t want any survivors to start a vendetta. Call me if there’s any trouble.”

“Okay, boss.”

“Oh, and one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Don’t call me.”

The line went dead. Vassikin was left staring at the handset as though it were a handful of plague virus.

“Well?” asked Kamar.

“We are to send the second message.”

A broad grin split Kamar’s face.

“Excellent. At last this thing is nearly over.”

“Then we are to move the package to the drop zone.”

The broad grin disappeared like a fox down a hole.

“What? Now?”

“Yes. Now.”

Kamar paced the tiny living room. “That is crazy. Completely insane. Fowl cannot be here for a couple of days at the earliest. There’s no need for us to spend two days breathing in that poison. What is the reasoning?”

Mikhael extended the phone. “You tell him. I’m sure the Menidzher will appreciate being told he is a madman.”

Kamar sank to the threadbare sofa, dropping his head into his hands.

“Will this thing never end?”

His partner fired up their ancient sixteen-megabyte hard drive.

“I don’t know for certain,” he said, sending the prepared message. “But I do know what will happen if we don’t do what Britva says.”

Kamar sighed. “I think I’ll go shout at the prisoner for a while.”

“Will that help?”

“It won’t,” admitted Kamar. “But it will make me feel better.”





E93, Arctic Shuttleport


The Arctic Station had never been high on the fairy tourist list. Sure, icebergs and polar bears were pretty, but nothing was worth saturating your lungs with irradiated air.

Holly docked the shuttle in the only serviceable bay.

The terminal itself resembled nothing more than a deserted warehouse. Static conveyor belts snaked along the floor, and low-level heating pipes rattled with insect life.

Holly handed out human overcoats and gloves from an ancient locker.

“Wrap up, Mud Boys. It’s cold outside.”

Artemis did not need to be told. The terminal’s solar batteries had long since shut down, and the ice’s grip had cracked the walls like a nut in a vice.

Holly tossed Butler his coat from a distance.

“You know something, Butler, you stink.”

The manservant growled. “You and your radiation gel. I think my skin’s changed color.”

“Don’t worry about it. Fifty years and it’ll wash right off.”

Butler buttoned a Cossack greatcoat to his neck.

“I don’t know why you’re getting all wrapped up. You’ve got the fancy suits.”

“The coats are camouflage,” explained Holly, smearing rad gel on her face and neck. “If we shield, the vibration makes the suits useless. Might as well dip your bones in a reactor core. So for tonight only, we’re all humans.”

Artemis frowned. If the fairies couldn’t shield, it would make rescuing his father all the more difficult. His evolving plan would have to be adjusted.

“Less of the chat,” growled Root, pulling a bearskin hat over his pointed ears. “We move out in five. I want everybody armed and dangerous. Even you, Fowl, if your little wrists can support a weapon.”