The Eternity Code

Time was the enemy here. If Artemis had more of it, he could figure out how to contact the LEP and persuade Holly to use her magic once again. But time was running out. Butler had perhaps four minutes before his brain shut down. Not long enough, even for an intellect such as his. Artemis needed to buy some more time. Or steal some.

 

Think, boy, think. Use what the situation provides. Artemis shut off the wellspring of tears. He was in a restaurant, a fish restaurant. Useless! Worthless! Perhaps in a medical facility he could do something. But here? What was here? An oven, sinks, utensils. Even if he did have the proper tools, he had not yet completed his medical studies. It was too late for conventional surgery at any rate, unless there was a method of heart transplant that took less than four minutes.

 

The seconds were ticking by. Artemis was growing angry with himself. Time was against them. Time needed to be stopped. The idea sparked in Artemis’s brain in a flash of neurons. Perhaps he couldn’t stop time, but he could halt Butler’s passage through it. The process was risky certainly, but it was the only chance they had.

 

Artemis popped the dessert trolley’s brake with his foot, and began hauling the contraption toward the kitchen. He had to pause several times to drag moaning assassins from the vehicle’s path. Emergency vehicles were approaching, making their way down Knightsbridge. Obviously the sonic grenade’s detonation would have attracted attention. There were only moments left before he would have to fabricate some plausible story for the authorities. Better not to be here. Fingerprints wouldn’t be a problem, as the restaurant would have had dozens of customers. All he had to do was get out of here before London’s finest arrived.

 

The kitchen was forged from stainless steel. Hobs, hoods, and work surfaces were littered with fallout from the sonic grenade. Fish flapped in the sink, crustaceans clicked across the tiles, and caviar dripped from the ceiling.

 

There! At the back, a line of freezers, essentials in any seafood bistro. Artemis put his shoulder against the trolley, steering it to the rear of the kitchen.

 

The largest of the freezers was of the custom built pullout variety often found in large restaurants. Artemis hauled open the drawer, quickly evicting the salmon, sea bass, and hake that were encrusted in the ice shavings.

 

Cryogenics. It was their only chance. The science of freezing a body until medicine had evolved sufficiently to revive it. Generally dismissed by the medical community, it nevertheless made millions each year from the estates of rich eccentrics who needed more than one lifetime to spend their money. Cryogenic chambers were generally built to very exact specifications, but there was no time for Artemis’s usual standards now. This freezer would have to do as a temporary solution. It was imperative that Butler’s head be cooled to preserve the brain cells. So long as his brain functions were intact, he could theoretically be revived, even if there were no heartbeat.

 

Artemis maneuvered the trolley until it overhung the open freezer, then with the help of a silver platter, he levered Butler’s body into the steaming ice. It was tight, but the bodyguard fit with barely a bend of the legs. Artemis heaped loose ice on top of his fallen comrade, and then adjusted the thermostat to four degrees below freezing, to avoid tissue damage. Butler’s blank eyes stared at him through a layer of ice.

 

“I’ll be back,” the boy said. “Sleep well.”

 

The sirens were close now. Artemis heard the screech of tires.

 

“Hold on, Domovoi,” whispered Artemis, closing the freezer drawer.

 

Artemis left through the back door, mingling with the crowds of locals and sightseers. The police would have someone photographing the crowd, so he did not linger, or even glance back toward the restaurant. Instead, he made his way to Harrods, and found himself a table at the gallery café.

 

Once he had assured the waitress that he was not looking for his mommy, and produced sufficient cash to pay for his pot of Earl Grey tea, Artemis pulled out his cell phone, selecting a number from the speed-dial menu.

 

A man answered on the second ring. “Hello. Make it quick, whoever you are. I’m very busy at the moment.”

 

The man was Detective Inspector Justin Barre of New Scotland Yard. Barre’s gravelly tones were caused by a hunting knife across the gullet during a bar fight in the nineties. If Butler hadn’t been on hand to stop the bleeding, Justin Barre would never have risen beyond sergeant. It was time to call in the debt.

 

“Detective Barre. This is Artemis Fowl.”

 

“Artemis, how are you? And how’s my old partner, Butler?”

 

Artemis kneaded his forehead. “Not well at all, I’m afraid. He needs a favor.”

 

“Anything for the big man. What can I do?”

 

“Did you hear something about a disturbance in Knightsbridge?”

 

There was a pause. Artemis heard paper rip as a fax was torn off the roll.

 

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