On screen a window popped open, barely containing the huge head of Dr. Damon Kronski, one of the most hated men in the world, but revered, too, in certain circles. Damon Kronski was the current president of the Extinctionists organization. Or as Kronski said in his most notorious interview: The Extinctionists are not just an organization. We are a religion. Not a statement that endeared him to the peace-loving churches of the world.
The interview had run for months on Internet news sites and was sampled every time the Extinctionists made the headlines. Artemis had viewed it himself that very morning and was repulsed by the man he was about to do business with.
I am swimming with sharks, he realized. And I am prepared to become one of them.
Damon Kronski was an enormous man, whose head began its slope into his shoulders just below the ears. Kronski’s skin was translucent, redhead white with a scattershot of penny freckles, and he wore violet sunglasses that were clamped in place by the folds of his brow and cheeks. His smile was broad, shining, and insincere.
“Little Ah-temis Fowl,” he said with a pronounced New Orleans drawl. “You find your daddy yet?”
Artemis gripped the armrest of his chair, squeezing dents in the leather, but his smile was as shiny and fake as Kronski’s. “No. Not yet.”
“Well now, that’s a pity. Anything I can do to help, you be sure to let your uncle Damon know.”
Artemis wondered if Kronski’s amiable uncle act would fool a drunken half-wit. Perhaps it was not supposed to.
“Thank you for the offer. In a few hours we may be able to help each other.”
Kronski clapped his hands delightedly. “You have located my silky sifaka.”
“I have. Quite a specimen. Male. Three years old. Four feet in length from head to tail. Easily worth a hundred thousand.”
Kronski feigned surprise. “A hundred? Did we really say a hundred thousand euros?”
There was steel in Artemis’s eyes. “You know we did, Doctor. Plus expenses. Jet fuel is not cheap, as you are aware. I would like to hear you confirm it, or I will turn this plane around.”
Kronski leaned close to the camera, his face ballooning in the screen.
“I’m generally a good judge of character, Ah-temis,” he said. “I know what people are capable of. But you, I have no idea what you might do. I think it’s because you haven’t reached your limit yet.” Kronski leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. “So, very well. One hundred thousand euros, as we agreed. But a word of warning . . .”
“Ye-es?” said Artemis, stretching the word to two syllables, in the New Orleans fashion, to demonstrate his lack of awe.
“You lose my lemur, my little silky, then you’d better be ready to cover my expenses. The trial is all set up, and my people don’t like to be disappointed.”
The word expenses sounded a lot more sinister when Kronski used it.
“Don’t worry,” snapped Artemis. “You will get your lemur. Just have my money ready.”
Kronski spread his arms wide. “I’ve got rivers of gold here, Ah-temis. I’ve got mountains of diamonds. The only thing I don’t have is a silky sifaka lemur. So hurry down here, boy, and make my life complete.”
And he hung up a second before Artemis could click the terminate-call button.
Psychologically, that puts Kronski in the power seat, thought Artemis. I must learn to be quicker on the mouse.
He closed the PowerBook lid and reclined his chair. Outside, sunlight was burning through the lower layers of mist, and jet trails drew tic-tac-toe patterns in the sky.
Still in busy airspace. Not for long. Once we hit Africa, the jet streams will thin out considerably. I need a few hours’ sleep; tomorrow will be a long and distasteful day.
He frowned. Distasteful, yes, but necessary.
Artemis hit the recline button and closed his eyes. Most boys his age were swapping football cards or wearing out their thumbs on game consoles. He was in a jet, twenty thousand feet over Europe, planning the destruction of a species with a deranged Extinctionist.
Perhaps I am too young for all this.
Age was immaterial. Without his efforts, Artemis Fowl Senior would be lost forever in Russia, and that was simply not going to happen.
Butler’s voice came over the jet’s intercom. “All quiet up front, Artemis. Once we get out over the Mediterranean, I’m going to put her on autopilot for an hour and try to wind down. . . .”
Artemis stared at the speaker. He could sense that Butler had more to say. Nothing but static and the beep of instruments for a moment, then . . . “Today, Artemis, when you told me to shoot the lemur, you were bluffing. You were bluffing, weren’t you?”
“It was no bluff,” said Artemis, his voice unwavering. “I will do whatever it takes.”
Tara
Access to the Tara shuttleport was hindered by several steel doors, various scans and codes, tamper-proof biolocks, and a 3600 surveillance network at the entrance, which is not as easy to set up as it is to say. Of course, all of this could be bypassed if one knew a secret way in.
“How did you know I had a secret way in?” pouted Mulch.
In response, Artemis and Holly simply looked at him as though he were an idiot, waiting for the penny to drop.