by Eoin Colfer
Back to Juliet. The bodyguard-in-training ran like a sprinter out of the blocks, dodging around stunned merchants and hanging a hard right down the alley. Madam Ko couldn’t have gone far. She could still complete her assignment.
Juliet was furious with herself. This was exactly the kind of stunt her brother had warned her about.
Watch out for Madam Ko, Butler had advised. You never know what she’ll cook up for a field assignment. I heard that she once stampeded a herd of elephants in Calcutta, just to distract an acolyte.
The trouble was that you couldn’t be sure. That carpet merchant may have been in Madam Ko’s employ, or he may have been an innocent civilian who happened to stick his nose in where it didn’t belong.
The alley narrowed so the human traffic ran single file. Makeshift clotheslines zigzagged at head height, gutras and abayas hung limp and steaming in the heat. Juliet ducked below the laundry, dodging around dawdling shoppers. Startled turkeys hopped as far out of the way as their string leads would allow.
And suddenly she was in a clearing. A dim square surrounded by three-story houses. Men lounged in the upper balconies puffing on fruit-flavored water pipes. Underfoot was a priceless chipped mosaic, depicting a Roman bath scene.
In the center of the square, lying with her knees hugged to her chest, was Madam Ko. She was being assaulted by three men. These were no local traders. All three wore special-forces black, and attacked with the assuredness and accuracy of trained professionals. This was no test. These men were actually trying to kill her sensei.
Juliet was unarmed, this was one of the rules. To be caught smuggling arms into the African country would automatically mean life imprisonment. Luckily, it seemed as though her adversaries were also without weapons, though hands and feet would certainly be sufficient for the job they had in mind.
Improvisation was the key to survival here. There was no point in attempting a straight assault. If these three had subdued Madam Ko, then they would be more than a match for her in regular combat. Time to try something a bit unorthodox.
Juliet leapt on the run, snagging a clothesline on her way past. The ring resisted for a second, then popped out of the dry plaster. The cable played out behind her, sagging with its load of rugs and head scarves. Juliet veered left as far as the line’s other anchor would allow, and then swung around toward the men. “Hey, boys!” she yelled, not from bravado, but because her maneuver would work better head-on.
The men looked up just in time to get a faceful of sopping camel-hair. The heavy rugs and garments wrapped themselves around their flailing limbs, and the nylon cable caught them below the chins. In less than a second the three were down.
Juliet made certain they stayed down with pinches to the nerve clusters at the base of the neck.
“Madam Ko,” she cried, searching the laundry for her sensei.
The old woman lay shuddering in an olive dress, a plain head scarf covering her face.
Juliet helped the woman to her feet. “Did you see that move, Madam? I totally decked those morons. I bet they never saw anything like that before. Improvisation. Butler always says it’s the key. You know, I think my eye shadow distracted them. Glitter green. Never fails&”
Juliet stopped talking because there was a knife at her throat. The knife was wielded by Madam Ko herself, who was in fact not Madam Ko, but some other tiny Asian lady, in an olive dress. A decoy.
“You are dead,” said the lady.
“Yes,” agreed Madam Ko, stepping from the shadows. “And if you are dead, then the Principal is dead. And you have failed.”
Juliet bowed low, joining her hands. “That was a sly trick, Madam,” she said, trying to sound respectful.
Her sensei laughed. “Of course. That is the way of life. What did you expect?”
“But those assassins, I completely kicked their b—I defeated them comprehensively.”
Madam Ko dismissed the claim with a wave. “Luck. Fortunately for you, these were not assassins, but three graduates of the academy. What was that nonsense with the wire?”
“It’s a wrestling trick,” said Juliet. “It’s called the clothesline.”
“Unreliable,” said the Japanese lady. “You succeeded because fortune was with you. Fortune is not enough in our business.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” protested Juliet. “There was this guy in the market. Totally in my face. I had to put him to sleep for a while.”
Madam Ko tapped Juliet between the eyes. “Quiet, girl. Think for once. What should you have done?”
Juliet bowed an inch lower. “I should have incapacitated the merchant immediately.”
“Exactly. His life means nothing. Insignificant, compared to the Principal’s safety.”
“I can’t just kill innocent people,” protested Juliet.
Madam Ko sighed. “I know, child. And that is why you are not ready. You have all the skill, but you lack focus and resolve. Perhaps next year.”
Juliet’s heart plummeted. Her brother had earned the blue diamond at eighteen years of age. The youngest graduate in the academy’s history. She had been hoping to equal that feat. Now she would have to try again in twelve months. It was pointless to object any further. Madam Ko never reversed a decision.
A young woman in acolyte’s robes emerged from the alley, holding a small briefcase.
“Madam,” she said, bowing. “There is a call for you on the satellite phone.”
Madam Ko took the offered handset, listening intently for several moments. “A message from Artemis Fowl,” she said eventually.
Juliet itched to straighten from her bow, but it would be an unforgivable breach of protocol. “Yes, Madam?”
“The message is: Domovoi needs you.”
Juliet frowned. “You mean, Butler needs me.”
“No,” said Madam Ko without a trace of emotion. “I mean Domovoi needs you. I am just repeating what was told to me.”
And suddenly Juliet could feel the sun pounding on her neck, and she could hear the mosquitoes whining in her ear like dentists’ drills, and all she wanted to do was straighten up and run all the way to the airport. Butler would never have revealed his name to Artemis. Not unless&No, she couldn’t believe it. She couldn’t even allow herself to think it.
Madam Ko tapped her chin thoughtfully. “You are not ready. I should not let you leave. You are too emotionally involved to be an effective bodyguard.”
“Please, Madam,” said Juliet.
Her sensei considered it for two long minutes. “Very well,” she said. “Go.”
Juliet was gone before the word finished echoing around the square, and heaven help any carpet merchant who blocked her path.
The Spiro Needle, Chicago
Jon Spiro took the Concorde from Heathrow to O’Hare International Airport in Chicago. A stretch limousine ferried him downtown to the Spiro Needle, a sliver of steel and glass rising eighty-six stories above the Chicago skyline. Spiro Industries was located on floors fifty through eighty-five. The eighty-sixth floor was Spiro’s personal residence, accessible either by private elevator or helipad.
Jon Spiro hadn’t slept for the entire journey, too excited by the little cube sitting in his briefcase. The head of his technical staff was equally excited when Spiro informed him what this harmless-looking box was capable of, and immediately scurried off to unravel the C Cube’s secrets. Six hours later he scurried back to the conference room for a midnight meeting.
“It’s useless,” said the scientist, whose name was Dr. Pearson.
Spiro swirled an olive in his martini glass. “I don’t think so, Pearson,” he said. “In fact, I know that little gizmo is anything but useless. I think that maybe you’re the useless one in this equation.”
Spiro was in a terrible mood. Arno Blunt had just called to inform him of Fowl’s survival. When Spiro was in a dark mood, people had been known to disappear off the face of the earth, if they were lucky.
Pearson could feel the stare of the conference room’s th
ird occupant bouncing off his head. This was not a woman you wanted angry with you. Pearson knew that if Jon Spiro decided to have him thrown out the window, this particular individual would have no problem signing an affidavit swearing that he had jumped.
Pearson chose his words carefully. “This device&”
“The C Cube. That’s what it’s called. I told you that, so use the name.”
“The C Cube undoubtedly has enormous potential. But it’s encrypted.”
Spiro threw the olive at his head scientist. It was a humiliating experience for a Nobel Prize winner.
“So break the encryption. What do I pay you guys for?”
Pearson could feel his heart speeding up. “It’s not that simple. This code. It’s unbreakable.”
“Let me get this straight,” said Spiro, leaning back in his oxblood leather chair. “I’m putting two hundred million a year into your department, and you can’t break one lousy code, set up by a kid?”
Pearson was trying not to think about the sound his body would make hitting the pavement. His next sentence would save him or damn him.
“The Cube is voice activated, and coded to Artemis Fowl’s voice patterns. Nobody can break the code. It’s not possible.”
Spiro did not respond, it was a signal to continue.
“I’ve heard of something like this. We scientists theorize about it. An eternity code, it’s called. The code has millions of possible permutations, and not only that, but it’s based on an unknown language. It seems as though this boy has created a language that is spoken only by him. We don’t even know how it corresponds to English. A code like this is not even supposed to exist. If Fowl is dead, then I’m sorry to say, Mr. Spiro, but the C Cube died with him.”
Jon Spiro stuck a cigar into the corner of his mouth. He did not light it. His doctors had forbidden it. Politely.
“And if Fowl were alive?”
Pearson knew a lifeline when it was being thrown to him.
“If Fowl were alive, he would be a lot easier to break than an eternity code.”
“Okay, Doc,” said Spiro. “You’re dismissed. You don’t want to hear what’s coming next.”
Pearson gathered his notes and hurried for the door. He tried not to look at the face of the woman at the table. If he didn’t hear what came next, he could kid himself that his conscience was clear. And if he hadn’t actually seen the woman at the conference table, then he couldn’t pick her out of a lineup.
“It looks like we have a problem,” said Spiro to the woman in the dark suit.
The woman nodded. Everything she wore was black. Black power suit, black blouse, black stilettos. Even the Rado watch on her wrist was jet black.
“Yes. But it’s my kind of problem.”
Carla Frazetti was goddaughter to Spatz Antonelli, who ran the downtown branch of the Antonelli crime family. Carla operated as liaison between Jon Spiro and Antonelli, possibly the two most powerful men in Chicago. Spiro had learned early in his career that businesses allied to the Mob tended to flourish.
Carla checked her manicured nails. “It seems to me that you only have one option, you nab the Fowl kid, and squeeze him for this code.”
Spiro sucked on his unlit cigar, thinking about it. “It’s not that straightforward. The kid runs a tight operation. Fowl Manor is like a fortress.”
Carla smiled. “This is a thirteen-year-old kid we’re talking about, right?”
“He’ll be fourteen in six months,” said Spiro defensively. “Anyway, there are complications.”
“Such as?”
“Arno is injured. Somehow Fowl blew his teeth out.”
“Ouch,” said Carla, wincing.
“He can’t even stand in a breeze, never mind head up an operation.”
“That’s a shame.”
“In fact, the kid incapacitated all my best people. They’re on a dental plan too. It’s going to cost me a fortune. No, I need some outside help on this one.”
“You want to contract the job to us?”
“Exactly. But it’s got to be the right people. Ireland is an Old World kind of place. Wise guys are going to stick out a mile. I need guys who blend in and can persuade a kid to accompany them back here. Easy money.”
Carla winked. “I read you, Mr. Spiro.”
“So, you got guys like that? Guys who can take care of business without drawing attention to themselves?”
“The way I see it, you need a metal man and a monkey.”
Spiro nodded, familiar with Mob slang. A metal man carried the gun, and a monkey got into hard-to-reach places.
“We have two such men on our books. I can guarantee they won’t attract the wrong kind of attention in Ireland. But it won’t be cheap.”
“Are they good?” asked Spiro.
Carla smiled. One of her incisors was inset with a tiny ruby.
“Oh, they’re good,” she replied. “These guys are the best.”
The Inkblot tattoo parlor, downtown Chicago
Loafers McGuire was having a tattoo done. A skull’s head in the shape of the ace of spades. It was his own design, and he was very proud of it. So proud in fact, that he’d wanted the tattoo on his neck. Inky Burton, the tattooist, managed to change Loafers’ mind, arguing that neck tattoos were better than a name tag when the cops wanted to ID a suspect. Loafers relented. Okay, he’d said. Put it on my forearm.
Loafers had a tattoo done after every job. There wasn’t much skin left on his body that still retained its original color. That was how good Loafers McGuire was at his job.
Loafers’ real name was Aloysius, and he hailed from the Irish town of Kilkenny. He’d come up with the nickname Loafers himself, because he thought it sounded more Moblike than Aloysius. All his life, Loafers had wanted to be a mobster, just like the guys in the movies. When his efforts to start a Celtic Mafia had failed, Loafers came to Chicago.
The Chicago Mob welcomed him with open arms. Actually, one of their enforcers grabbed him in a bear hug. Loafers sent that man and six of his buddies to the Mother of Mercy Hospital. Not bad for a guy five feet tall. Eight hours after stepping off the plane, Loafers was on the payroll.
And here he was, two years and several jobs later, already the Antonellis’ top metal man. His specialties were robbery and debt collection. Not the usual line of work for fivefooters. But then, Loafers was not the usual five-footer.
Loafers leaned back in the tattooist’s adjustable chair.
“You like the shoes, Inky?”
Inky blinked sweat from his eyes. You had to be careful with Loafers. Even the most innocent question could be a trap. One wrong answer and you could find yourself making your excuses to Saint Peter.
“Yeah. I like ’em. What are they called?”
“Loafers!” snapped the tiny gangster. “Loafers, idiot. They’re my trademark.”
“Oh yeah, loafers. I forgot. Cool, havin’ a trademark.”
Loafers checked the progress on his arm. “You ready with that needle yet?”
“Just ready,” replied Inky. “I’m finished painting on the guidelines. I just gotta put in a fresh needle.”
“It’s not gonna hurt, is it?”
Of course it is, moron, thought Inky, I’m sticking a needle in your arm. But out loud he said, “Not too much. I gave your arm a swab of anesthetic.”
“It better not hurt,” warned Loafers. “Or you’ll be hurting shortly afterward.”
Nobody threatened Inky except Loafers McGuire. Inky did all the Mob’s tattoo work. He was the best in the state.
Carla Frazetti pushed through the door. Her black-suited elegance seemed out of place in the dingy establishment.
“Hello, boys,” she said.
“Hello, Miss Carla,” said Inky, blushing deeply. You didn’t get too many ladies in the Inkblot.
Loafers jumped to his feet. Even he respected the boss’s goddaughter.
“Miss Frazetti. You could have beeped me. No need for you to come down to this dump.”
“No time for that. This is urgent. You leave straightaway.”
“I’m leaving. Where am I going?”
“Ireland. Your Uncle Pat is sick.”
Loafers frowned. “Uncle Pat? I don’t have an Uncle Pat.”
Carla tapped the toe of one stiletto. “He’s sick, Loafers. Real sick, if you catch my drift.”
Loafers finally caught on. “Oh, I get it. So I gotta pay him a visit.”
“That’s it. That’s exactly how sick he is.”
Loafers used a rag to clean the ink off his arm.
“Okay, I’m ready. Are we going straight to the airport?”
Carla winked at the tiny gangster. “Soon, Loafers. But first we need to pick up your brother.”
“I don’t have a brother,” protested Loafers.
“Of course you do. The one with the keys to Uncle Pat’s house. He’s a regular little monkey.”
“Oh,” said Loafers. “That brother.”
* * *
Loafers and Carla took the limo out to the East Side. Loafers was still awed by the sheer size of American buildings. In Kilkenny there was nothing over five stories, and Loafers himself had lived all his life in a suburban bungalow. Not that he would ever admit that to his Mob friends. For their benefit he had reinvented himself as an orphan who had spent his youth in and out of various foster homes.
“Who’s the monkey?” he asked.
Carla Frazetti was fixing her jet black hair in a compact mirror. It was short and slicked back.
“A new guy. Mo Digence. He’s Irish, like you. It makes things very convenient. No visas, no papers, no elaborate cover story. Just two short guys home for the holidays.”