Artemis Fowl: the time paradox

‘Very well, troops,’ he said with forced joviality. ‘Let’s move it out, as an old friend of mine would say. We have a lemur to catch.’

‘What about my gold?’ asked Mulch.

‘I shall put this as simply as possible. No lemur, no gold.’

Mulch tapped his lips with eight fingers and his beard hairs vibrated like the tendrils of a sea anemone. Thinking.

‘How much is stupendous exactly, in bucket terms?’

‘How many buckets do you have?’

Mulch took this as a serious question. ‘I have a lot of buckets. Most of them are full of stuff, though. I could empty them, I suppose.’

Artemis almost gnashed his teeth. ‘It was a rhetorical question. A lot of buckets. As many as you like.’

‘If you want me to go any further down this monkey road, I need some kind of down payment. A good-faith deposit.’

Artemis slapped his empty pockets. He had nothing.

Holly straightened her silver wig. ‘I have something for you, Mulch Diggums. Something better than a stupendous amount of gold. Six numbers, which I will reveal when we get there.’

‘Get where?’ asked Mulch, who suspected that Holly was being melodramatic.

‘The LEP equipment lock-up at Tara.’

Mulch’s eyes glowed with dreams of sky skis and dive bubbles, laser cubes and fat vacuums. The motherload. He’d been trying to crack an LEP lock-up for years.

‘I can have anything I want?’

‘Whatever you can get on to a hover trolley. One trolley.’

Mulch spat a marbled blob of phlegm into his palm.

‘Shake on it,’ he said.

Artemis and Holly looked at each other.

‘It’s your lock-up,’ said Artemis, stuffing his hands into his pockets.

‘It’s your mission,’ countered Holly.

‘I don’t know the combination.’

And then the trump. ‘We’re here for your mother.’

Artemis smiled ruefully. ‘You, Captain Short, are getting as bad as me,’ he said, and sealed the deal with a sopping handshake.

CHAPTER 9: THE PRINCE FROG

YOUNG Artemis made a video call from his Powerbook to the the ancient town of Fez in Morocco. Even as he waited for the connection, Artemis silently fumed that it was necessary to make this intercontinental trip at all. Even Casablanca would have been more convenient. Morocco was hot enough without having to drive across country to Fez.

On screen, a window popped open, barely containing the huge head of Doctor Damon Kronski, one of the most hated men in the world, but revered too in certain circles. Damon Kronski was the current president of the Extinctionists’ organization. Or, as Kronski said in his most notorious interview: ‘The Extinctionists are not just an organization. We are a religion.’ Not a statement that endeared him to the peace-loving churches of the world.

The interview had run for months on Internet news sites and was sampled every time the Extinctionists made the headlines. Artemis had viewed it himself that very morning and was repulsed by the man he was about to do business with.

I am swimming with sharks, he realized. And I am prepared to become one of them.

Damon Kronski was an enormous man whose head began its slope into his shoulders just below the ears. His skin was translucent, redhead white with a scattershot of penny freckles, and he wore violet sunglasses clamped in place by the folds of his brow and cheeks. His smile was broad, shining and insincere.

‘Little Ah-temis Fowl,’ he said with a pronounced New Orleans drawl. ‘You find your daddy yet?’

Artemis gripped the armrest of his chair, squeezing dents in the leather, but his smile was as shiny and fake as Kronski’s. ‘No. Not yet.’

‘Well now, that’s a pity. Anything I can do to help, you be sure to let your Uncle Damon know.’

Artemis wondered if Kronski’s amiable-uncle act would fool a drunken halfwit. Perhaps it was not supposed to.

‘Thank you for the offer. In a few hours we may be able to help each other.’

Kronski clapped his hands delightedly. ‘You have located my silky sifaka.’

‘I have. Quite a specimen. Male. Three years old. More than a metre in length from head to tail. Easily worth a hundred thousand.’

Kronski feigned surprise. ‘A hundred? Did we really say a hundred thousand euro?’

There was steel in Artemis’s eyes. ‘You know we did, Doctor. Plus expenses. Jet fuel is not cheap, as you are aware. I would like to hear you confirm it, or I will turn this plane round.’

Kronski leaned close to the camera, his face ballooning on the screen.

‘I’m generally a good judge of character, Ah-temis,’ he said. ‘I know what people are capable of. But you… I have no idea what you might do. I think it’s because you haven’t reached your limit yet.’ Kronski leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking under his weight. ‘So, very well. One hundred thousand euro, as we agreed. But a word of warning …’

‘Ye-es?’ said Artemis, stretching the word to two syllables, in the New Orleans fashion, to demonstrate his lack of awe.

‘You lose my lemur, my little silky, then you’d better be ready to cover my expenses. The trial is all set up, and my people don’t like to be disappointed.’

The word expenses sounded a lot more sinister when Kronski used it.

‘Don’t worry,’ snapped Artemis. ‘You will get your lemur. Just have my money ready.’

Kronski spread his arms wide. ‘I’ve got rivers of gold here, Ah-temis. I’ve got mountains of diamonds. The only thing I don’t have is a silky sifaka lemur. So hurry down here, boy, and make my life complete.’

And he hung up, a second before Artemis could click the terminate-call button.

Psychologically, that puts Kronski in the power seat, thought Artemis. I must learn to be quicker on the mouse.

He closed the Powerbook’s lid and reclined his chair. Outside, in the sky, sunlight was burning through the lower layers of mist and jet trails drew tic-tac-toe patterns in the sky.

Still in busy airspace. Not for long. Once we hit Africa, the jet streams will thin out considerably. I need a few hours’ sleep. Tomorrow will be a long and distasteful day.

He frowned. Distasteful, yes, but necessary.

Artemis hit the recline button and closed his eyes. Most boys his age were swapping football cards or wearing out their thumbs on games consoles. He was in a jet six thousand metres over Europe, planning the destruction of a species with a deranged Extinctionist.

Perhaps I am too young for all this.

Age was immaterial. Without his efforts, Artemis Fowl Senior would be lost forever in Russia, and that was simply not going to happen.

Butler’s voice came over the jet’s intercom. ‘All quiet up front, Artemis. Once we get out over the Mediterranean, I’m going to put her on autopilot for an hour and try to wind down …’

Artemis stared at the speaker. He could sense that Butler had more to say. Nothing but static and the beep of instruments for a moment, then… ‘Today, Artemis, when you told me to shoot the lemur, you were bluffing? You were bluffing, weren’t you?’

‘It was no bluff,’ said Artemis, his voice unwavering. ‘I will do whatever it takes.’