The gift of gold, and the promise of more, were enough to pique their curiosity. His first utterance was carefully planned.
‘Ah, Generals, I am honoured you greet me in person.’
The goblins puffed out their wrinkled old chests proudly. Generals?
The rest of Cudgeon’s patter was equally smooth. He could ‘help’ organize the B’wa Kell, streamline it and, most importantly, arm it. Then, when the time was right, they would rise up and overthrow the Council and their lackeys, the LEP. Cudgeon promised that his first act as Governor General would be to free all the goblin prisoners in Howler’s Peak. It didn’t hurt that he subtly laced his speech with hints of the hypnotic mesmer.
It was an offer the goblins could not refuse. Gold, weapons, freedom for their brothers and, of course, a chance to crush the hated LEP. It never occurred to the B’wa Kell that Cudgeon could betray them just as easily as he had the LEP. They were as dumb as stink worms and twice as short-sighted.
Cudgeon met with General Scalene in a secret chamber beneath the
Koboi Labs. He was in a foul mood following Luc’s failure to put a scratch on any of his enemies. But there was always Plan B. . The B’wa Kell was always eager to kill someone. It didn’t really matter who.
The goblin was excited, thirsty for blood. He panted blue flames like a broken heater. ‘When do we go to war, Cudgeon? Tell us when?’
The elf kept his distance. He dreamed of the day when these stupid creatures would no longer be necessary.
‘Soon, General Scalene. Very soon. But first I need a favour. It concerns Commander Root.’
The goblin’s yellow eyes narrowed. ‘Root? The hated one. Can we kill him? Can we crack his skull and fry his brains?’
Cudgeon smiled magnanimously. ‘Certainly, General. All of these things. Once Root is dead, the city will fall easily.’
The goblin was bobbing now, jiggling with excitement. ‘Where is he? Where is Root?’
‘I don’t know,’ Cudgeon admitted. ‘But I know where he will be in six hours.’
‘Where?Tell me, elf!’
Cudgeon heaved a large case on to the table. It contained four pairs of Koboi DoubleDex. ‘Chute 93. Take these, send your best hit squad. And tell them to wrap up warm.’
Julius Root always travelled in style. In this instance, he had commandeered the Atlantean ambassador’s shuttle. All leather and gold.
Seats softer than a gnome’s behind, and drag buffers that negated all but the most serious jolts. Needless to say, the Atlantean ambassador hadn’t been all that thrilled about handing over the starter chip. But it was difficult to refuse the commander when his fingers were drumming a tattoo on the tri-barrelled blaster strapped to his hip. So now the humans and their two elfin chaperones were climbing E93 in some considerable comfort.
Artemis helped himself to a still water from the chiller cabinet. ‘This tastes unusual,’ he commented. ‘Not unpleasant, but different.’
‘Clean is the word you’re searching for,’ said Holly. ‘You wouldn’t believe how many filters we have to put it through to purge the Mud People from it.’
‘No bickering, Captain Short,’ warned Root. ‘We’re on the same side now. I want a smooth mission. Now suit up, all of you. We won’t last five minutes out there without protection.’
Holly cracked open an overhead locker. ‘Fowl, front and centre.’
Artemis complied, a bemused smile twitching at his lips.
Holly pulled several cubic packages from the locker. ‘What are you, about a six?’
Artemis shrugged. He wasn’t familiar with the People’s system of measurement.
‘What? Artemis Fowl doesn’t know? I thought you were the world’s expert on the People. It was you who stole our Book last year, wasn’t it?’
Artemis unwrapped the package. It was a suit of some ultra-light rubber polymer.
‘Anti-radiation,’ explained Holly. ‘Your cells will thank me in fifty years, if you’re still around.’
Artemis pulled the suit over his clothes. It shrank to fit like a second skin. ‘Clever material.’
‘Memory latex. Moulds itself to your shape, within reason. One use only unfortunately. Wear it and recycle it.’
Butler clinked over. He was carrying so much fairy weaponry that Foaly had supplied him with a Moonbelt. The belt reduced the effective weight of its attachments to one fifth of the Earth norm.
‘What about me?’ asked Butler, nodding at the rad suits.
Holly frowned. ‘We don’t have anything that big. Latex can only go so far.’
‘Forget it. I’ve been in Russia before. It didn’t kill me.’
‘Not yet it hasn’t. Give it time.’
Butler shrugged. ‘What choice do I have?’
Holly smiled, and there was a nasty twist to it. ‘Oh, I didn’t say there wasn’t a choice.’
She reached into the locker, pulling out a large pump ‘n’ spray can. And, for some reason, that little can scared Butler more than a bunker full of missiles.
‘Now, hold still,’ she said, aiming a gramophone-type nozzle at the bodyguard. ‘This may stink worse than a hermit dwarf, but at least your skin won’t glow in the dark.’
CHAPTER 8: TO RUSSIA WITH GLOVES
Mikhael Vassikin was growing impatient. For over two years now he’d been on babysitting duty. At Britva’s request. Not that it had actually been a request. The term request implied that you had a choice in the matter.You did not argue with Britva.You did not even protest quietly. The Menidzher, or manager, was from the old school where his word was law.
Britva’s instructions had been simple: feed him, wash him and, if he doesn’t come out of the coma in another year, kill him and dump the body in the Kola.
Two weeks before the deadline, the Irishman had bolted upright in his bed. He awoke screaming a name. That name was Angeline. Kamar got such a shock, he’d dropped the bottle of wine he’d been opening. The bottle smashed, piercing his Ferruci loafers and cracking a big toenail.Toenails grow back, but Ferruci loafers were hard to come by in the Arctic Circle. Mikhael had been forced to sit on his partner to stop him killing the hostage.
So now they were playing the waiting game. Kidnapping was an established business and there were rules. First you sent the teaser note, or in this case the e-mail. Wait a few days to give the pigeon a chance to put some funds together, then hit him with the ransom demand.
They were locked in Mikhael’s apartment on Lenin Prospekt, waiting for the call from Britva. They didn’t even dare to go out for air. Not that there was much to see. Murmansk was one of those Russian cities that had been poured directly from a concrete mould. The only time Lenin Prospekt looked good was when it was buried in snow.
Kamar emerged from the bedroom. His sharp features were stretched in disbelief. ‘He wants caviar, can you believe it? I give him a nice bowl of stroganina and he wants caviar, the ungrateful Irlanskii.’
Mikhael rolled his eyes. ‘I liked him better asleep.’
Kamar nodded, spitting into the fireplace. ‘The sheets are too rough, he says. He’s lucky I don’t wrap him in a sack and roll him into the bay —’
The phone rang, interrupting his empty threats.
‘This is it, my friend,’Vassikin said, clapping Kamar on the shoulder. ‘We are on our way.’
Vassikin picked up the phone. ‘Yes?’
‘It’s me,’ said a voice, made tinny by old wiring.
‘Mister Brit — ’
‘Shut up, idiot! Never use my name!’
