You’re still using wires, for heaven’s sake.
If it’s been sent, I can trace it.’
‘So, where did you trace it to?’
‘Every computer has a signature, as individual as a fingerprint,’ continued Foaly. ‘Networks too. They leave micro-traces, depending on the age of the wiring. Everything is molecular, and if you pack gigabytes of data into a little cable, some of that cable is going to wear off.’
Butler was growing impatient. ‘Listen, Foaly.Time is of the essence.
Mister Fowl’s life could hang in the balance. So get to the point before I start breaking things.’
The centaur’s first impulse was to laugh. Surely the human was joking?
Then he remembered what Butler had done to Trouble Kelp’s Retrieval squad, and decided to proceed directly to the point.
‘Very well, Mud Man. Keep your hair on.’
Well, almost directly to the point.
‘I put the MPEG through my filters. Uranium residue points to northern Russia.’
‘Now there’s a shock.’
‘I’m not finished,’ said Foaly. ‘Watch and learn.’
The centaur brought up a satellite photo of the Arctic Circle on the wall-screen. With every keystroke, the highlighted area shrank.
‘Uranium means Severomorsk. Or somewhere within fifty miles. The copper wiring is from an old network. Early twentieth century, patched up over the years. The only match is Murmansk. As easy as joining the dots.’,
Artemis sat forward in his chair.
‘There are two hundred and eighty-four thousand landlines on that network.’ Foaly had to stop for a laugh. ‘Landlines. Barbarians.’
Butler cracked his knuckles loudly.
‘Ah, so two hundred and eighty-four thousand landlines. I wrote a program to search for hits on our MPEG. Two possible matches. One, the Hall of Justice.’
‘Not likely. The other?’
‘The other line is registered to a Mikhael Vassikin on Lenin Prospekt.’
Artemis felt his stomach churn. ‘And what do we know about Mikhael Vassikin?’
Foaly wiggled his fingers like a concert pianist. ‘I ran a search on my own intelligence files archives. I like to keep tabs on Mud People’s so-called intelligence agencies. Quite a few mentions of you by the way, Butler.’
The manservant tried to look innocent, but his facial muscles couldn’t quite pull it off.
‘Mikhael Vassikin is ex-KGB, now working for the Mafiya. The official term is khuligany. An enforcer. Not high level, but not street trash either.
Vassikin’s boss is a Murmansker known as Britva.The group’s main source of income is the kidnapping of European businessmen. In the past five years they have abducted six Germans and a Swede.’
‘How many were recovered alive?’ asked Artemis, his voice a whisper.
Foaly consulted his statistics. ‘None,’ he said. ‘And in two cases, the negotiators went missing. Eight million dollars in lost ransom.’
Butler struggled from a tiny fairy chair. ‘Right, enough talk. I think it’s time Mister Vassikin was introduced to my friend, Mister Fist.’
Melodramatic, thought Artemis. But I couldn’t have put it better myself.
‘Yes, old friend. Soon enough. But I have no wish to add you to the list of lost negotiators. These men are smart. So we must be smarter. We have advantages that none of our predecessors had. We know who the kidnapper is, we know where he lives and, most importantly, we have fairy magic.’
Artemis glanced at Commander Root. ‘We do have fairy magic, don’t we?’
‘You have this fairy at any rate,’ replied the commander. ‘I won’t force any of my people to go to Russia. But I could use some back-up.’ He glanced at Holly. ‘What do you think?’
‘Of course I’m coming,’ said Holly. ‘I’m the best shuttle pilot you have.’
There was a firing range in the Koboi Labs’ basement. Opal had it constructed to her exact specifications. It incorporated her 3D projection system, was completely soundproof and was mounted on gyroscopes. You could drop an elephant from twenty metres in there and no seismograph under the world would detect so much as a shudder.
The purpose of the firing range was to give the B’wa Kell somewhere to practise with their Softnose lasers before the operation began in earnest. But it was Briar Cudgeon who had logged more hours on the simulators than anyone else. He seemed to spend every spare minute fighting virtual battles with his nemesis, Commander Julius Root.
When Opal found him, he was pumping shells from his prized Softnose
Redboy into a 3D holoscreen running one of Root’s old training films. It was pathetic really; a fact she didn’t bother mentioning.
Cudgeon twisted out his earplugs. ‘So. Who died?’
Opal handed him a video pad. ‘This just came in on the spy cameras.
Carrere proved as inept as usual. Everyone survived but, as you predicted,
Root has called off the alert. And now the commander has agreed to personally escort the humans to northern Russia, inside the Arctic Circle.’
‘I know where northern Russia is,’ Cudgeon snapped. He paused, stroking his bubbled forehead thoughtfully for several moments. ‘This could turn out to our advantage. Now we have the perfect opportunity to eliminate the commander. With Julius out of the way, the LEP will be like a headless stink worm. Especially with their surface communications down. Their communications are down I take it?’
‘Of course,’ replied Opal. ‘The jammer is linked into the chute sensors.
All interference with surface transmitters will be blamed on the magma flares.’
‘Perfect,’ said Cudgeon, his mouth twitching in what could almost be described as glee. ‘I want you to disable all LEP weaponry now. No need to give Julius any advantages.’
When Koboi Laboratories had upgraded LEP weapons and transport, a tiny dot of solder had been included in each device. The solder was actually a mercury/glycerine solution that would detonate when a signal of the appropriate frequency was broadcast from the Koboi communications dish.
LEP blasters would be useless, while the B’wa Kell would be armed to the teeth with Softnose lasers.
‘Consider it done,’ said Opal. ‘Are you certain Root won’t be returning?
He could upset our entire plan.’
Cudgeon polished the Redboy on the leg of his uniform. ‘Don’t fret, my dear. Julius won’t be coming back. Now that I know where he’s going, I’ll arrange for a little welcome party. I’m certain our scaly friends will be only too eager to oblige.’
The funny thing was that Briar Cudgeon didn’t even like goblins. In fact, he detested them. They made his skin crawl with their reptilian ways. Their gas-burner breath, their lidless eyes and their constantly darting forked tongues.
But they did supply a certain something that Cudgeon needed: dumb muscle.
For centuries, the B’wa Kell triad had skulked around Haven’s borders,
vandalizing what they couldn’t steal and fleecing any tourists stupid enough to stray off the beaten path. But they were never really any threat to society.
Whenever they got too cheeky, Commander Root would send a team into the tunnels to flush out the culprits.
One evening, a disguised Briar Cudgeon strolled into The Second Skin, a notorious B’wa Kell hang-out, plonked an attache case of gold ingots on the bar and said, ‘I want to talk to the triad.’
Cudgeon was searched and blindfolded by several of the club’s bouncers. When the tape came off his face, he was in a damp warehouse, walls lined with creeping moss. Three elderly goblins were seated across the table from him. He recognized them from their mugshots. Scalene, Sputa and Phlebum.The triad old guard.
