The Chicago Police had put Arno Blunt in a wagon with a couple of officers. Two would be sufficient, they reasoned, since the perp was handcuffed and manacled. They revised this opinion when the van was discovered six miles south of Chicago with the officers manacled and no sign of the suspect. To quote Sergeant Iggy Lebowski’s report: “The guy ripped those handcuffs apart as though they were links in a paper chain. He came at us like a steam train. We never had a chance.”
But Arno Blunt did not escape clean. His pride had taken a severe beating in the Spiro Needle. He knew that word of his humiliation would soon spread through the bodyguard network. As Pork Belly LaRue later put it on the Soldiers for Hire Web site:“Arno done got hisself outsmarted by some snot-nosed kid.” Blunt was painfully aware that he would have to suffer chortles every time he walked into a room full of tough guys. Unless he avenged the insult paid to him by Artemis Fowl.
The bodyguard knew that he had minutes before Spiro gave up his address to the Chicago PD, so he packed a few spare sets of teeth and took the shuttle to O’ Hare.
Blunt was delighted to find that the authorities had not yet frozen his Spiro corporate credit card, and used it to purchase a first-class British Airways Concorde ticket to Heathrow, London. From there he would enter Ireland on the Rosslare ferry. Just another one of five hundred tourists visiting the land of the leprechaun. It wasn’t a terribly complicated plan, and it would have worked if it hadn’t been for one thing. The passport official in Heathrow just happened to be Sid Commons, the ex-green beret who had served with Butler on bodyguard duty in Monte Carlo. The second Blunt opened his mouth, alarm bells went off in Commons’s head. The gentleman before him fit the description Butler had faxed to him perfectly. Right down to the strange teeth. Blue oil and water, if you don’t mind. Commons pressed a button under his desk, and in seconds a squad of security men relieved Blunt of his passport and took him into custody.
The chief security official took out his mobile phone as soon as the detainee was under lock and key. He dialed an international number. It rang twice.
“The Fowl residence.”
“Butler? It’s Sid Commons, in Heathrow. A man came through here you might be interested in. Funny teeth, neck tattoos, New Zealand accent. Detective Justin Barre faxed out the description from Scotland Yard a few days ago, he said you might be able to ID him.”
“Do you still have him?” asked the manservant.
“Yes. He’s in one of our holding cells. They’re running a check right now.”
“How long will that take?”
“A couple of hours. Max. But if he’s the professional you say he is, a computer check won’t turn up anything. We need a confession to turn him over to Scotland Yard.”
“I will meet you in the arrival hall under the departure board in thirty minutes,” said Butler, severing the connection.
Sid Commons stared at his cell phone. How could Butler possibly get here in thirty minutes from Ireland? It wasn’t important. All Sid knew was that Butler had saved his life a dozen times in Monte Carlo all those years ago, and now the debt was about to be repaid.
Thirty-two minutes later, Butler showed up in the arrival all.
Sid Commons studied him as they shook hands.
“You seem different. Older.”
“The battles are catching up with me,” said Butler, a palm pressing his heaving chest. “Time to retire, I think.”
“Is there any point asking how you got here?”
Butler straightened his tie. “Not really. You’re better off not knowing.”
“I see.”
“Where’s our man?”
Commons led the way toward the rear of the building, past hordes of tourists and card-bearing taxi drivers.
“Through here. You’re not armed, are you? I know we’re friends, but I can’t allow firearms in here.”
Butler spread his jacket wide. “Trust me. I know the rules.”
They took a security elevator up two floors and followed a dimly lit corridor for what seemed like miles.
“Here we are,” said Sid eventually, pointing at a glass rectangle. “In there.”
The glass was actually a two-way mirror. Butler could see Arno Blunt seated at a small table, drumming his fingers impatiently on the Formica surface.
“Is that him? Is that the man who shot you in Knightsbridge?”
Butler nodded. It was him all right. The same indolent expression. The same hands that pulled the trigger.
“A positive ID is something, but it’s still your word against his, and to be honest, you don’t look too shot.”
Butler laid a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I don’t suppose ...”
Commons didn’t even let him finish. “No. You cannot go in there. Absolutely not. I’d be out of a job for sure, and anyway even if you did pry a confession out of him it would never hold up in court.”
Butler nodded. “I understand. Do you mind if I stay? I want to see how this turns out.”
Commons agreed eagerly, relieved that Butler hadn’t pressured him.
“No problem. Stick around as long as you like. But I have to get you a visitor’s badge.” He strode down the corridor, then turned.
“Don’t go in there, Butler. If you do, we lose him forever. And anyway, there are cameras all over this place.”
Butler smiled reassuringly. Something he didn’t do very often.