“You have no idea,” he said.
The night of the Extinctionists’ banquet was upon him, and Kronski’s nerves were frazzled. He danced around his chalet wearing nothing but a bath towel, anxiously humming his way through the tunes from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. Kronski often dreamed that he was wearing the technicolor coat, and it was fashioned from the pelts of all the animals he had hunted to extinction. He always awoke smiling.
Everything has to be perfect. This is the biggest night of my life. Thank you, little Ah-temis.
There was a lot riding on this conference, and the banquet generally set the tone for the entire weekend. Pull off something big at the banquet trial and the members would be buzzing about it for days. The Internet would be alive with chatter.
And it doesn’t get any bigger than a brand-new sentient species. The Extinctionists are about to go global.
And just in time. Truth be told, the Extinctionists were old news. Subscriptions were dropping off, and for the first time since its inception, the conference was not a total sellout. In the beginning it had been wonderful, so many exciting species to hunt and nail to the wall. But now countries were protecting their rare animals, especially the big ones. There was no flying to India for a tiger shoot anymore. And the sub-Saharan nations took it extremely badly if a group of well-armed Extinctionists showed up in one of their reserves and began taking potshots at elephants. It was getting to the point where government officials were refusing bribes. Refusing bribes.
There was another problem with the Extinctionists, though Kronski would never admit it aloud. The group had become a touchstone for the lunatic fringe. His heartfelt hatred for the animal kingdom was attracting bloodthirsty crazies who could not see past putting a bullet in a dumb beast. They could not grasp the philosophy of the organization. Man is king, and animals survive only so long as they contribute to the comfort of their masters. An animal without use is wasting precious air and should be wiped out.
But this new creature changed everything. Everyone would want to see her. They would film the entire trial and execution, leak the tape, and then the world would come to Damon Kronski.
One year of donations, thought Kronski. Then I retire to enjoy my wealth. Five million. This fairy, or whatever it is, is worth ten times that. A hundred times.
Kronski jiggled in front of the air conditioner for a minute then selected a suit from his wardrobe.
Purple, he thought. Tonight I shall be emperor.
As an afterthought he plucked a matching tasseled Caspian tiger-skin hat from an upper shelf.
When in Fez, he thought brightly.
The Fowl Lear Jet, 30, 000 Feet Over Gibraltar
Ten-year-old Artemis Fowl tried his best to relax in one of the Lear jet’s plush leather chairs, but there was a tension knot at the base of his skull.
I need a massage, he thought. Or some herbal tea.
Artemis was perfectly aware what was causing the tension.
I have sold a creature . . . a person . . . to the Extinctionists.
Being as smart as he was, Artemis was perfectly capable of constructing an argument to justify his actions.
Her friends will free her. They almost outsmarted me, they can certainly outsmart Kronski. That fairy creature is probably on her way back to wherever she came from right now, with the lemur under her arm.
Artemis distracted himself from this shaky reasoning by concentrating on Kronski.
Something really should be done about that man.
A titanium PowerBook hummed gently on Artemis’s fold-out tray. He woke the screen and opened his personal Internet browser program that he had written as a school project. Thanks to a powerful and illegal antenna in the jet’s cargo bay, he was able to pick up radio, television, and Internet signals almost anywhere in the world.
Organizations like the Extinctionists live and die on their reputations, he thought. It would be an amusing exercise to destroy Kronski’s reputation using the power of the Web.
All it would take was some research and the placement of a little video on a few of the Net’s more popular networking sites.
Twenty minutes later Artemis junior was putting the finishing touches to his project when Butler ducked through the cockpit door.
“Hungry?” asked the bodyguard. “There’s some hummus in the fridge, and I made yogurt-and-honey smoothies.”
Artemis embedded his video project onto the final Web site.
“No, thank you,” mumbled Artemis. “I’m not hungry.”
“That will be the guilt gnawing at your soul,” said Butler candidly, helping himself from the fridge. “Like a rat on an old bone.”
“Thank you for the simile, Butler, but what’s done is done.”