“Yes, it just came in. A couple of windows were shattered in some restaurant. Nothing major. Some tourists got a bit shell-shocked. Preliminary reports say it was some kind of localized earthquake, if you can believe that. We’ve got two cars there right now. Don’t tell me Butler was behind it?”
Artemis took a breath. “I need you to keep your men away from the freezers.”
“That’s a strange request, Artemis. What’s in the freezers that I shouldn’t see?”
“Nothing illegal,” promised Artemis. “Believe me when I say, this is life or death for Butler.”
Barre didn’t hesitate. “This is not exactly in my jurisdiction, but consider it done. Do you need to get whatever I’m not supposed to see out of the freezers?”
The detective had read his mind. “As soon as possible. Two minutes are all I need.”
Barre chewed it over. “Okay. Let’s synchronize schedules. The forensics team is going to be in there for a couple of hours. Nothing I can do about that. But by six-thirty, I can guarantee there won’t be anyone on duty. You have five minutes.”
“That will be more than sufficient.”
“Good. And tell the big man that we’re even.”
Artemis kept his voice even. “Yes, Detective Barre. I’ll tell him.” If I get the opportunity, he thought.
The Ice Age Cryogenics Institute was not actually on London’s Harley Street. Technically, it was tucked away in Dickens Lane, a side alley on the famous medical boulevard’s southern end. But this did not stop the facility’s MD, one Dr. Constance Lane, from putting Harley Street on all Ice Age stationery. You couldn’t buy credibility like that. When the upper classes saw those magic words on a business card, they fell over themselves to have their frail frames frozen.
Artemis Fowl was not so easily impressed. But then, he had little choice. Ice Age was one of three cryogenic centers in the city, and the only one with free units. Though Artemis did consider the neon sign a bit much. PODS TO RENT. Honestly.
The building itself was enough to make Artemis squirm. The fa?ade was clad in brushed aluminum, obviously designed to resemble a spaceship, and the doors were of the whoosh Star Trek variety. Where was culture? Where was art? How did a monstrosity like this get planning permission in historic London?
A nurse complete with white uniform and three-cornered hat was supervising the reception. Artemis doubted she was an actual nurse—it must have been the cigarette between her false nails.
“Excuse me, miss?”
The nurse barely glanced up from her gossip magazine.
“Yes? Are you looking for someone?”
Artemis clenched his fists behind his back.
“Yes, I would like to see Dr. Lane. She is the surgeon, is she not?”
The nurse ground out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.
“This is not another school project is it? Dr. Lane says, no more projects.”
“No. Not another school project.”
“You’re not a lawyer, are you?” asked the nurse suspiciously. “One of those geniuses who gets a degree while they’re still in diapers?”
Artemis sighed. “A genius, yes. A lawyer, hardly. I am, mademoiselle, a customer.”
And suddenly the nurse was all charm.
“Oh, a customer, why didn’t you say so? I’ll show you right in. Would sir care for tea, coffee, or perhaps something stronger?”
“I am thirteen years old, mademoiselle.”
“A juice?”
“Tea would be fine. Earl Grey if you have it. No sugar obviously. It might make me hyperactive.”
The nurse was quite prepared to accept sarcasm from an actual paying customer, and directed Artemis to a lounge where the style was again, space age. Plenty of shining velour and eternity mirrors. He had half finished a cup of something that most definitely was not Earl Grey when Dr. Lane’s door swung open.
“Do come in,” said a tall woman uncertainly.
“Shall I walk?” asked Artemis. “Or will you beam me up?”
The office walls were lined with frames. Along one side were the doctor’s degrees and certificates. Artemis suspected that many of these certificates could be obtained over the weekend. Along the wall were several photographic portraits. Above these read the legend LOVE LIES SLEEPING. Artemis almost left then, but he was desperate.
Dr. Lane sat behind her desk. She was a very glamorous woman with flowing red hair and the tapered fingers of an artist. Even her smock was Dior. Constance Lane’s smile was perfect. Too perfect. Artemis looked closer and realized that her entire face was the handiwork of a plastic surgeon. Obviously this woman’s life was all about cheating time. He had come to the right place.
“Now, young man, Tracy says you wish to become a customer?” The doctor tried to smile, but the stretching made her face shine like a balloon.
“Not personally, no,” replied Artemis. “But I do wish to rent one of your units. Short term.”
Constance Lane pulled a company pamphlet from the drawer, ringing some figures in red. “Our rates are quite steep.”