Eoin Colfer
Artemis Fowl. The Arctic Incident
Artemis Fowl: A Psychological Assessment
By the age of thirteen, our subject, Artemis Fowl, was showing signs of an intellect greater than that of any human since Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Artemis had beaten European chess champion Evan Kashoggi in an on- line tournament, patented over twenty-seven inventions and won the architectural competition to design Dublin’s new opera house. He had also written a computer program that diverted millions of dollars from Swiss bank accounts to his own, forged over a dozen Impressionist paintings and cheated the Fairy People out of a substantial amount of gold.
The question is, why? What drove Artemis to get involved in criminal enterprises? The answer lies with his father.
Artemis Fowl Senior was the head of a criminal empire that stretched from Dublin’s docklands to the backstreets of Tokyo, but he had ambitions to establish himself as a legitimate businessman. He bought a cargo ship, stocked it with 250,000 cans of cola and set course for Murmansk, in northern Russia, where he had set up a business deal that could have proved profitable for decades to come.
Unfortunately, the Russian Mafia decided they did not want an Irish tycoon cutting himself a slice of their market, and sank the Fowl Star in the Bay of Kola. Artemis Fowl the First was declared missing, presumed dead.
Artemis Junior was now the head of an empire with limited funds. In order to restore the family fortune, he embarked on a criminal career that would earn him over fifteen million pounds in two short years.
This vast fortune was mainly spent financing rescue expeditions to Russia. Artemis refused to believe that his father was dead, even though every passing day made it seem more likely.
Artemis avoided other teenagers and resented being sent to school, preferring to spend his time plotting his next crime.
So even though his involvement with the goblin uprising during his fourteenth year was to be traumatic, terrifying and dangerous, it was probably the best thing that could have happened. At least he spent some time outdoors and got to meet some new people.
It’s a pity most of them were trying to kill him.
PROLOGUE
The two Russians huddled around a flaming barrel in a futile attempt to ward off the Arctic chill. The Bay of Kola was not a place you wanted to be after September, especially not Murmansk. In Murmansk even the polar bears wore scarves. Nowhere was colder, except perhaps Noril’sk.
The men were Mafiya enforcers and were more used to spending their evenings inside stolen BMWs. The larger of the two, Mikhael Vassikin, checked the fake Rolex beneath the sleeve of his fur coat.
‘This thing could freeze up,’ he said, tapping the diving bezel. ‘What am I going to do with it then?’
‘Stop your complaining,’ said the one called Kamar. ‘It’s your fault we’re stuck outside in the first place.’
Vassikin paused. ‘Pardon me?’
‘Our orders were simple: sink the Fowl Star. All you had to do was blow the cargo bay. It was a big enough ship, heaven knows. Blow the cargo bay and down she goes. But no, the great Vassikin hits the stern. Not even a back-up rocket to finish the job. So now we have to search for survivors.’
‘She sank, didn’t she?’
Kamar shrugged. ‘So what? She sank slowly, plenty of time for the passengers to grab on to something. Vassikin, the famous sharpshooter! My grandmother could shoot better.’
Lyubkhin, the Mafiya’s man on the docks, approached before the discussion could develop into an all-out brawl.
‘How are things?’ asked the bear-like Yakut.
Vassikin spat over the quay wall. ‘How do you think? Did you find anything?’
‘Dead fish and broken crates,’ said the Yakut, offering both enforcers a steaming mug. ‘Nothing alive. It’s been over eight hours now. I have good men searching all the way down to Green Cape.’
Kamar drank deeply, then spat in disgust. ‘What is this stuff? Pitch?’
Lyubkhin laughed. ‘Hot cola. From the Fowl Star. It’s coming ashore by the crate-load. Tonight we are truly on the Bay of Kola.’
‘Be warned,’ said Vassikin, spilling the liquid on to the snow. ‘This weather is souring my temper. So no more terrible jokes. It’s enough that I have to listen to Kamar.’
‘Not for much longer,’ muttered his partner. ‘One more sweep and we call off the search. Nothing could survive these waters for eight hours.’
Vassikin held out his empty cup. ‘Don’t you have something stronger? A shot of vodka to ward off the cold? I know you always keep a flask hidden somewhere.’
Lyubkhin reached for his hip pocket, but stopped when the walkie-talkie on his belt began to emit static. Three short bursts.
‘Three squawks. That’s the signal.’
‘The signal for what?’
Lyubkhin hurried down the docks, shouting back over his shoulder.
‘Three squawks on the radio. It means that the K9 unit has found someone.’
The survivor was not Russian. That much was obvious from his clothes.
Everything, from the designer suit to the leather overcoat, had obviously been purchased in Western Europe, perhaps even America. They were tailored to fit, and made from the highest-quality material.
Though the man’s clothes were relatively intact, his body had not faredso well. His bare feet and hands were mottled with frostbite. One leg hung strangely limp below the knee, and his face was a horrific mask of burns.
The search crew had carried him from a ravine three klicks south of the harbour on a makeshift tarpaulin stretcher. The men crowded around their prize, stamping their feet against the cold that invaded their boots. Vassikin elbowed his way through the gathering, kneeling for a closer look.
‘He’ll lose the leg for sure,’ he noted. ‘A couple of fingers too. The face doesn’t look too good either.’
‘Thank you, Doctor Mikhael,’ commented Kamar drily. ‘Any ID?’
Vassikin conducted a quick thief’s search. Wallet and watch.
‘Nothing. That’s odd. You’d think a rich man like this would have some personal effects, wouldn’t you?’
Kamar nodded. ‘Yes, I would.’ He turned to the circle of men. ‘Ten seconds, then there’ll be trouble. Keep the currency, everything else I need returned.’
The sailors considered it. The man was not big. But he was Mafiya, the Russian organized-crime syndicate.
A leather wallet sailed over the crowd, skidding into a dip in the tarpaulin. Moments later it was joined by a Car tier chronograph. Gold with diamond studding. Worth five years of an average Russian’s wages.
‘Wise decision,’ said Kamar, scooping up the treasure trove.
