It had been almost two hours since Butler had been shot. Generally the grace period between heart failure and brain damage is about four minutes, but that period can be extended if the patient’s body temperature is lowered sufficiently. Drowning victims, for example, can be resuscitated for up to an hour after their apparent death. Artemis could only pray that his makeshift cryogenic chamber could hold Butler in stasis until he could be transferred to one of Ice Age’s pods.
Ice Age Cryogenics had a mobile unit for transporting clients from the private clinics where they expired. The van was equipped with its own generator and full surgery. Even if cryogenics was considered crackpot medicine by many physicians, the vehicle itself would meet the strictest standards of equipment and hygiene.
“These units cost almost a million pounds apiece,” Dr. Constance Lane informed Artemis, as they sat in the stark-white surgery. A cylindrical cryo pod was strapped to a gurney between them.
“The vans are custom made in Munich, specially armored, too. This thing could drive over a land mine and come out smiling.”
For once, Artemis was not interested in gathering information.
“That’s very nice, Doctor, but can it go any faster? My associate’s time is running out. It has already been one hundred and twenty-seven minutes.”
Constance Lane tried to frown, but there wasn’t enough slack skin across her brow.
“Two hours. Nobody has ever been revived after that long. Then again, no one has ever been revived from a cryogenic chamber.”
The Knightsbridge traffic was, as usual, chaotic. Harrods was running a one-day sale, and the block was besieged by droves of eager customers lining up for access to the luxury store. It took a further seventeen minutes to reach En Fin’s delivery entrance.
Just as promised, there were no policemen present, except one. Detective Justin Barre himself was standing sentry at the rear door. The man was huge, a descendant of the Zulu nation, according to Butler. It was not difficult to imagine him at Butler’s side in some faraway land.
Incredibly, they found a parking space, and Artemis climbed down from the van.
“Cryogenics,” said Barre, noting the vehicle’s inscription. “Do you think you can do anything for him?”
“You looked in the freezer, then?” said Artemis.
The detective nodded. “How could I resist? Curiosity is my business. I’m sorry I checked now. He was a good man.”
“Is a good man,” insisted Artemis. “I am not ready to give up on him yet.”
Barre stood aside to admit two uniformed Ice Age paramedics.
“According to my men, a group of armed bandits attempted to rob the establishment, but they were interrupted by an earthquake. And if that’s what really happened, I’ll eat my badge. I don’t suppose you can throw any light on the situation?”
“A competitor of mine disagreed with a business strategy. It was a violent disagreement.”
“Who pulled the trigger?”
“Arno Blunt. A New Zealander. Bleached hair, tattoos on his body and neck. Most of his teeth are missing.”
Barre took a note. “I’ll circulate the description to the airports. You never know, we might catch him.”
Artemis rubbed his eyes.“Butler saved my life. The bullet was meant for me.”
“That’s Butler all right.” Barre nodded. “If there’s anything I can do?”
“You’ll be the first to know,” said Artemis. “Did your officers find anyone on the scene?”
Barre consulted his notebook. “Some customers and staff. They all checked out, so we let them go. The thieves escaped before we arrived.”
“No matter. Better I deal with the culprits myself.”
Barre made a concerted effort to ignore the activity in the kitchen behind him.
“Artemis, can you guarantee this is not going to come back to haunt me? Technically, we’re looking at a homicide.”
Artemis looked Barre in the eye, which was quite an effort.
“Inspector Barre, no body, no case. And I guarantee that by tomorrow Butler will be alive and kicking. I shall instruct him to call you, if that would set your mind at est.”
“It would.”
The paramedics rolled Butler past on a gurney, a frosting of ice covered his face. Tissue damage was already turning his fingers blue.
“Any surgeon who could fix this would have to be a real magician.”
Artemis glanced downward.
“That’s the plan, Inspector Barre. That’s the plan.”
Dr. Lane administered glucose injections in the van.
“These are to stop the cells collapsing,” she informed Artemis, massaging Butler’s chest to circulate the medication. “Otherwise, the water in his blood will freeze in spikes and puncture the cell walls.”