‘Well?’ asked Vassikin. ‘Do we keep him?’
Kamar pulled a platinum Visa card from the kidskin wallet, checking the name.
‘Oh we keep him,’ he replied, activating his mobile phone. ‘We keep him, and put some blankets over him. The way our luck’s going, he’ll catch pneumonia. And believe me, we don’t want anything to happen to this man. He’s our ticket to the big time.’
Kamar was getting excited. This was completely out of character for him.
Vassikin clambered to his feet. ‘Who are you calling? Who is this guy?’
Kamar picked a number from his speed-dial menu. ‘I’m calling Britva.
Who do you think I’m calling?’
Vassikin paled. Calling the boss was dangerous. Britva was well known for shooting the bearers of bad news. ‘It’s good news, right?You’re calling with good news?’
Kamar flipped the Visa at his partner. ‘Read that.’
Vassikin studied the card for several moments. ‘I don’t read Angliskii.
What does it say? What’s the name?’
Kamar told him. A slow smile spread across Mikhael’s face. ‘Make the call,’ he said.
CHAPTER 1: FAMILY TIES
The loss of her husband had a profound effect on Angeline Fowl. She had retreated to her room, refusing to go outside. She took refuge in her mind, preferring dreams of the past to real life. It is doubtful whether she would have recovered had not her son, Artemis the Second, done a deal with the elf Holly
Short: his mother’s sanity in return for half the ransom gold he had stolen from the fairy police. His mother fully recovered, Artemis Junior focused his efforts on locating his father, investing large chunks of the family fortune in Russian excursions, local intelligence and Internet-search companies.
Young Artemis had received a double share of Fowl guile. However, with the recovery of his mother, a moral and beautiful lady, it became increasingly difficult for him to realize his ingenious schemes. Schemes that were ever more necessary to fund the search for his father.
Angeline, distraught by her son’s obsession and afraid of the effects of the past two years on his mind, signed up her thirteen-year-old for treatment with the school counsellor.
You have to feel sorry for him. The counsellor, that is.
Doctor Po leaned back in his padded armchair, eyes flicking across the page in front of him.
‘Now, Master Fowl, let’s talk, shall we?’
Artemis sighed deeply, smoothing his dark hair back from a wide, pale brow. When would people learn that a mind such as his could not be dissected? He himself had read more psychology textbooks than the counsellor. He had even contributed an article to The Psychologists’ Journal under the pseudonym Doctor F. Roy Dean Schlippe.
‘Certainly, Doctor. Let’s talk about your chair. Victorian?’
Po rubbed the leather arm fondly. ‘Yes, quite correct. Something of a family heirloom. My grandfather acquired it at auction at Sotheby’s. Apparently it once stood in the palace. The Queen’s favourite.’
A taut smile stretched Artemis’s lips perhaps a centimetre. ‘Really,
Doctor. They don’t generally allow fakes in the palace.’
Po’s grip stretched the worn leather. ‘Fake? I assure you, Master Fowl, this is completely authentic.’
Artemis leaned in for a closer examination. ‘It’s clever, I grant you. But look here.’ Po’s gaze followed the youth’s finger. ‘Those furniture tacks. See the criss-cross pattern on the head? Machine tooled. Nineteen twenty at the earliest. Your grandfather was duped. But what matter? A chair is a chair. A possession of no importance, eh, Doctor?’
Po scribbled furiously, burying his dismay. ‘Yes, Artemis, very clever. Just as your file says. Playing your little games. Now, shall we get back to you?’
Artemis Fowl the Second straightened the crease in his trousers.
‘There is a problem here, Doctor.’
‘Really? And what might that be?’
‘The problem is that I know the textbook replies to any question you care to ask.’
Doctor Po jotted in his pad for a full minute. ‘We do have a problem, Artemis. But that’s not it,’ he said eventually.
Artemis almost smiled. No doubt the doctor would treat him to another predictable theory. Which disorder would he have today? Multiple personality perhaps, or maybe he’d be a pathological liar?
‘The problem is that you don’t respect anyone enough to treat them as an equal.’
Artemis was thrown by the statement. This doctor was smarter than the rest. ‘That’s ridiculous. I hold several people in the highest esteem.’
Po did not glance up from his notebook. ‘Really? Who, for example?’
Artemis thought for a moment. ‘Albert Einstein. His theories were usually correct. And Archimedes, the Greek mathematician.’
‘What about someone that you actually know?’
Artemis thought hard. No one came to mind.
‘What? No examples?’
Artemis shrugged. ‘You seem to have all the answers, Doctor Po. Why don’t you tell me?’
Po opened a window on his laptop. ‘Extraordinary. Every time I read this
‘My biography, I presume?’
‘Yes, it explains a lot.’
‘Such as?’ asked Artemis, interested in spite of himself.
Doctor Po printed off a page.
‘Firstly there’s your associate, Butler. A bodyguard, I understand. Hardly a suitable companion for an impressionable boy. Then there’s your mother. A wonderful woman in my opinion, but with absolutely no control over your behaviour. Finally, there’s your father. According to this, he wasn’t much of a role model even when he was alive.’
The remark stung, but Artemis wasn’t about to let the doctor realize how much. ‘Your file is mistaken, Doctor,’ he said. ‘My father is alive. Missing perhaps, but alive.’
Po checked the sheet. ‘Really? I was under the impression that he has been missing for almost two years. Why, the courts have declared him legally dead.’
Artemis’s voice was devoid of emotion, though his heart was pounding.
‘I don’t care what the courts say, or the Red Cross. He is alive, and I will find him.’
Po scratched another note.
‘But even if your father were to return, what then?’ he asked. ‘Will you follow in his footsteps? Will you be a criminal like him? Perhaps you already are?’
‘My father is no criminal,’ Artemis pointed out testily. ‘He was moving all our assets into legitimate enterprises. The Murmansk venture was completely above board.’
‘You’re avoiding the question, Artemis,’ said Po.
But Artemis had had enough of this line of questioning. Time to play a little game. ‘Why, Doctor?’ said Artemis, shocked. ‘This is a sensitive area. For all you know, I could be suffering from depression.’
‘I suppose you could,’ said Po, sensing a breakthrough. ‘Is that the case?’
Artemis dropped his face into his hands. ‘It’s my mother, Doctor.’
‘Your mother?’ prompted Po, trying to keep the excitement from his voice. Artemis had retired half a dozen counsellors from St Bartleby’s already this year. Truth be told, Po was on the point of packing his own bags. But
