The Arctic Incident

“The what?”


“C Cube,” repeated Artemis. “The name I have given my little box. A tad obvious, I admit. But appropriate. The cube that sees everything.”

Spiro snatched the videocassette.

“Check it,” he ordered, tossing the tape to Arno Blunt.

The bleached-blond bodyguard activated the bar’s TV, sliding the video into its slot. Coronation Street flickered across the screen. The same show. Nowhere near the same quality.

“Convinced?” asked Artemis.

The American tinkered with one of his many bracelets. “Almost. One last test. I have a feeling that the government is monitoring me. Could you check it out?”

Artemis thought for a moment, then held the omnisensor close to his mouth. “Cube. Do you read any surveillance beams concentrated on this building?”

The machine whirred for a moment.

“The strongest ion beam is eighty kilometers due west. Emanating from U.S. satellite, code number ST1132W. Registered to the Central Intelligence Agency. Estimated time of arrival, eight minutes. There are also several LEP probes connected to . . .”

Artemis hit the mute button before the cube could continue. Obviously the computer’s fairy components could pick up Lower Elements technology too. He would have to remedy that. In the wrong hands that information would be devastating to fairy security.

“What’s the matter, kid? The box was still talking. Who are the LEP?”

Artemis shrugged. “No pay, no play, as you Americans say. One example is enough. The CIA, no less.”

“The CIA,” breathed Spiro. “They suspect me of selling military secrets. They’ve pulled one of their birds out of orbit, just to track me.”

“Or perhaps me,” noted Artemis.

“Perhaps you,” agreed Spiro. “You’re looking more dangerous by the second.”

Arno Blunt chuckled derisively. Butler ignored it. One of them had to be professional.

Spiro cracked his knuckles, a habit Artemis detested.

“We’ve got eight minutes, so let’s get down to the nitty-gritty, kid. How much for the box?”

Artemis was not paying attention, distracted by the LEP information that the Cube had almost revealed. In a careless moment, he had nearly exposed his subterranean friends to exactly the kind of man who would exploit them.

“I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“I said how much for the box?”

“First, it’s a cube,” corrected Artemis. “And second, it’s not for sale.”

Jon Spiro took a deep shuddering breath. “Not for sale? You brought me across the Atlantic to show me something you’re not going to sell me? What’s going on here?”

Butler wrapped his fingers around the handle of a pistol in his waistband. Arno Blunt’s hand disappeared behind his back. The tension cranked up another notch.

Artemis steepled his fingers. “Mr. Spiro. Jon. I am not a complete idiot. I realize the value of my Cube. There is not enough money in the world to pay for this particular item.

Whatever you could give me, the Cube would be worth a thousand percent more in a week.”

“So what’s the deal, Fowl?” asked Spiro through gritted teeth. “What are you offering?”

“I’m offering you twelve months. For the right price, I’m prepared to keep my Cube off the market for a year.”

Jon Spiro toyed with his ID bracelet. A birthday present to himself. “You’ll suppress the technology for a year?”

“Correct. That should give you ample time to sell your stocks before they crash, and use the profits to buy into Fowl Industries.”

“There is no Fowl Industries.”

Artemis smirked. “There will be.”

Butler squeezed his employer’s shoulder. It was not a good idea to bait a man like Jon Spiro.

But Spiro hadn’t even noticed the gibe. He was too busy calculating, twisting his bracelet like a string of worry beads.

“Your price?” he asked eventually.

“Gold. One metric ton,” replied the heir to the Fowl estate.

“That’s a lot of gold.”

Artemis shrugged. “I like gold. It holds its value. And anyway, it’s a pittance compared to what this deal will save you.”

Spiro thought about it. At his shoulder, Arno Blunt continued staring at Butler. The Fowl bodyguard blinked freely. In the event of confrontation, dry eyeballs would only lessen his advantage. Staring matches were for amateurs.

“Let’s say I don’t like your terms,” said Jon Spiro. “Let’s say I decide to take your little gadget with me right now.”

Arno Blunt’s chest puffed out another inch.

“Even if you could take the Cube”—Artemis smiled— “it would be of little use to you. The technology is beyond anything your engineers have ever seen.”

Spiro smiled a thin, mirthless smile. “Oh, I’m sure they could figure it out. Even if it took a couple of years, it won’t matter to you. Not where you’re going.”

“If I go anywhere, then the C Cube’s secrets go with me. It’s every function is coded to my voice patterns. It’s quite a clever code.”