The Artemis Fowl Files

by Eoin Colfer

  “Because the self-destruct has been switched off, meaning someone clever has got hold of it. Previously the helmet was active, which means someone was wearing it. We couldn’t risk blowing off a fairy’s head, even if he or she is a criminal.”

  Root chewed the butt of his cigar. “I’m tempted, believe me. Where did this helmet come from? And who is wearing it?”

  Foaly consulted a computer file on the com-card in his palm. “It’s an old model. Best guess, a surface fence sold it to a rogue dwarf.”

  Root crushed the cigar into an ashtray. “Dwarfs. If they’re not mining protected areas, they’re stealing from the humans. Do we have a name?”

  “No. The signal is too weak for us to run a voice-pattern analysis. Anyway, even if we could, as you know, due to the unique positioning of their larynx, all dwarf males have basically the same voice.”

  “This is all I need,” groaned the commander. “Another dwarf on the surface. I thought we’d seen the last of that when …” He paused, saddened by a sudden memory. The dwarf Mulch Diggums had been killed months earlier, tunneling out of Artemis Fowl’s manor. Mulch had been a huge pain in the rear end, but he hadn’t been without charisma.

  “So, what do we know?”

  Foaly read from a list on his screen. “Our unidentified subject burrows into a Manhattan basement, where he meets Artemis Fowl Junior. Then they leave together, so something is definitely up.”

  “What is up, exactly?”

  “We don’t know. Fowl knew enough about our technology to turn off the mike, and the self-destruct, probably because Butler took a load of equipment from LEP Retrieval during the Fowl Manor siege.”

  “What about global positioning? Did Artemis know enough to turn that off?”

  Foaly grinned smugly. “That can’t be turned off. Those old helmets had a tracker layer sprayed on.”

  “How fortunate for us. Where are they now?”

  “In Fowl’s jet, heading for Ireland. It’s a Lear, top of the line.” Foaly noticed the commander’s laser stare. “But you probably don’t care about the jet, so let’s move on, shall we?”

  “Yes, let’s,” said Root caustically. “Do we have anyone topside?” Foaly activated a large plasma screen on the wall, quickly negotiating his way through files to a world map. There were fairy icons pulsing in various countries.

  “We have three Retrieval teams but nobody in the old country.”

  “Naturally,” groaned Root. “That would be far too handy.” He paused. “Where’s Captain Short?”

  “On vacation aboveground. I would remind you that she’s off field duty, pending a tribunal.”

  Root waggled his fingers at imaginary regulations. “Minor detail. Holly knows Fowl better than any fairy alive. Where is she?”

  Foaly consulted his computer, as if he didn’t already know. As if he didn’t make a dozen calls from his workstation every day, to see if Holly had picked up that hoof moisturizer he’d asked for.

  “She’s in the Cominetto Spa. I don’t know about this, Commander. Holly is tough, but Artemis Fowl kidnapped her. Her judgement could be clouded.”

  “No,” said Root. “Holly is one of my best officers, even if she doesn’t believe it. Get me a line to that spa. She’s going back to Fowl Manor.”

  CHAPTER 3: THE SEVENTH DWARF

  The Island of Cominetto, Off the Coast of Malta, The Mediterranean

  THE Cominetto Spa is the most exclusive holiday destination for the People. It took several years of repeated application to get visa approval for a visit, but Foaly had done a little computer hocus-pocus to get Holly on the shuttle to the Spa. She needed the break after what she’d been through. And was still going through. For now, instead of giving her a medal for saving half of the ransom fund, LEP Internal Affairs was actually investigating her.

  In the past week, Holly had been exfoliated, laser peeled, purged (don’t ask), and tweezered within an inch of her life, all in the name of relaxation. Her coffee-colored skin was smooth and blemish free, and her cropped auburn hair glowed with internal luster. But she was bored out of her skull.

  The sky was blue, the sea was green, and the living was easy. And Holly knew that she would go completely berserk if she had to spend one more minute being pampered. But Foaly had been so pleased when he had set this trip up that she didn’t have the heart to tell him how fed up she was.

  Today she was lying in a bubble pool of algae sludge having her pores rejuvenated and playing Guess the Crime. This was a game in which you assumed everyone who passed by was a criminal, and you had to guess what they were guilty of.

  The white-suited algae therapist wandered over with a phone on a transparent tray.

  “A call from Police Plaza, Sister Short,” he said. His tone left Holly in no doubt what he thought of phone calls in this oasis of calm.

  “Thank you, Brother Hummus,” she said, snatching the handset. Foaly was on the other end.

  “Bad news, Holly,” said the centaur. “You’ve been recalled to active duty. A special assignment.”

  “Really?” said Holly, simultaneously punching the air and trying to sound disappointed. “What’s the assignment?”

  “Take a couple of deep breaths,” advised Foaly. “And maybe a few pills.”

  “What is it, Foaly?” insisted Holly, though her gut already knew.

  “It’s …”

  “Artemis Fowl,” said Holly. “I’m right, aren’t I?”

  “Yes,” admitted Foaly. “The Irish boy is back. And he’s teamed up with a dwarf. We don’t know what they’re planning, so you need to find out.”

  Holly clambered from the sludge tub, leaving a trail of green algae on the white carpet.

  “I can’t imagine what they are planning,” she said, bursting into the locker room. “But I can tell you two things. We won’t like it, and it won’t be legal.”

  * * *

  The Fowl Lear Jet, Over the Atlantic Ocean

  Mulch Diggums was soaking in the Lear jet’s high tech Jacuzzi bath. He absorbed gallons of water through his thirsty pores, flushing the toxins from his system. When he felt sufficiently refreshed, he emerged from the bathroom wrapped in an oversize bathrobe. He looked like nothing more than the world’s ugliest bride, trailing a train behind him.

  Artemis Fowl was toying with an iced tea while he waited for the dwarf. Butler was flying the plane.

  Mulch sat down at the coffee table and poured an entire saucer of nuts down his gullet, shells and all.

  “So, Mud Boy,” he said. “What’s going on in that devious brain of yours?”

  Artemis steepled his fingers, peering around them through wide-set blue eyes. There was quite a lot going on in his devious mind, but Mulch Diggums would only be hearing a small portion of it. Artemis did not believe in sharing all the details of his schemes with anyone. Sometimes the success of these plans depended on nobody knowing exactly what they were doing. Nobody but Artemis himself.

  Artemis put on his friendliest face, leaning forward in his chair.

  “The way I see it, Mulch,” he said. “You already owe me a favor.”

  “Really, Mud Boy? And how do you figure that?”

  Artemis patted the LEP helmet on the table beside him. “No doubt you bought this on the black market. It is an older model, but it still has the standard LEP voice-activated mike, and the self-destruct.”

  Mulch tried to swallow the nuts, but his throat was suddenly dry.

  “Self-destruct?”

  “Yes. There’s enough explosive packed in here to turn your head to jelly. There would be nothing left but teeth. Of course there would be no need to activate the self-destruct if the voice-activated mike leads the LEP right to your door. I have switched these functions off.”

  Mulch frowned. He would be having words with the fence who had sold him the helmet. “Okay. Thanks. But you don’t expect me to believe that you saved me out of the goodness of your heart.”

  Artemis chuckled. He could hardly expect anyon
e who knew him to believe that.

  “No. We have a common goal. The Fei Fei tiara.”

  Mulch folded his arms across his chest. “I work alone. I don’t need you to help me steal the tiara.”

  Artemis plucked a newspaper from the table, spinning it across to the dwarf. “Too late, Mulch. Someone already beat us to it.”

  The headline was in bold capitals: CHINESE TIARA STOLEN FROM MET.

  Mulch frowned. “I’m getting a bit confused here, Mud Boy. The tiara was at the Met? It was supposed to be at the Fleursheim.”

  Artemis smiled. “No, Mulch. The tiara was never at the Fleursheim. That was just what I needed you to believe.”

  “How did you know about me?”

  “Simple,” replied Artemis. “Butler told me of your unique tunneling talents, so I began to research recent robberies. A pattern began to emerge. A series of jewelery robberies in New York state. All subterranean entries. It was a simple matter to lure you to the Fleursheim by planting some misinformation at Arty Facts, the Web site you get your data from. Obviously, with the special talents you displayed at Fowl Manor, you would be invaluable to me.”

  “But now someone else has stolen the tiara.”

  “Exactly. And I need you to recover it.”

  Mulch sensed that he had the upper hand. “And why would I want to recover it? And even if I did, why would I need you, human?”

  “I need precisely that tiara, Mulch. The blue diamond on its crown is unique, in hue and quality. It will form the basis for a new laser I am developing. The rest of the tiara will be yours to keep. We would be a formidable team. I plan, you execute. You will live out your exile in total luxury. This first job will be a test.”

  “And if I say no?”

  Artemis sighed. “Then I will post my information concerning your being alive and your whereabouts on the Internet. I’m sure LEP Commander Root, will stumble on it eventually. Then, I fear, your exile will be short-lived and completely devoid of luxury.”

  Mulch jumped to his feet. “So it’s blackmail, is it?”

  “Only if it has to be. I prefer ‘cooperation.’”

  Mulch felt his stomach acid bubble. Root thought he had died during the Fowl Manor siege. If the LEP found out that he was alive, then the commander would make it his personal mission to put Mulch behind bars. He didn’t have much choice.

  “Okay, human. I’ll do this job. But no partnership. One job only, then I disappear. I feel like going straight for a couple of decades.”

  “Very well. It’s a bargain. Remember, if you ever change your mind, there are many so-called impregnable vaults in the world.”

  “One job,” insisted Mulch. “I’m a dwarf. We work alone.”

  Artemis pulled a sheet of paper from a tube, spreading it on the table.

  “That’s not strictly true, you know,” he said, pointing to the first column on the sheet. “The tiara was stolen by dwarfs, and they have been working together for several years. Very successfully, too.”

  Mulch crossed the room, reading the name above Artemis’s finger.

  “Sergei the Significant,” he said. “I think someone has an inferiority complex.”

  “He’s the leader. There are six dwarfs in Sergei’s little band, collectively known as the Significants,” continued Artemis. “You are to be the seventh.”

  Mulch giggled hysterically. “Of course, why not? The seven dwarfs. This day started off badly, and my beard hair tells me that it’s about to get a whole lot worse.”

  Butler spoke for the first time. “If I were you, Mulch,” he said in his deep gravelly tones, “I’d trust the hair.”

  Holly was out of the spa as soon as she had hosed the algae from her skin. She could have taken a shuttle back to Haven, then caught a connecting flight, but Holly preferred to fly. Foaly contacted her on her helmet intercom as she skipped across the Mediterranean wave tops, trailing her fingers in the spume.

  “Hey, Holly, did you get that hoof cream?”

  Holly smiled. No matter what the crisis, Foaly never lost sight of his first priority: himself. She dipped the flaps on her wings, rising to a hundred feet.

  “Yes, I got it. It’s being couriered down. There was a buy-one-get-one-free deal on. So expect two tubs.”

  “Excellent. You have no idea how hard it is to get good moisturizer below ground. Remember, Holly, this is between us. The rest of the guys are still a bit old fashioned when it comes to cosmetics.”

  “Our little secret,” said Holly reassuringly. “Now, do we have any idea yet what Artemis is up to?”

  Holly’s cheeks reddened at the mere mention of the Mud Boy’s name. He had kidnapped her, drugged her, and ransomed her for gold. And just because he’d had a change of heart at the last minute, and decided to let her go, didn’t mean all was forgiven.

  “We don’t know exactly what’s going on,” admitted Foaly. “All we know is that they must be up to no good.”

  “Any video?”

  “Nope. Audio only. And we don’t even have that anymore. Fowl must have disconnected the mike. All we have left is the tracker.”

  “What are my orders?”

  “The commander says to stick close, plant a bug if you can, but under no circumstances make contact. That is Retrieval’s job.”

  “Okay. Understood. Surveillance only, no contact with the Mud Boy or the dwarf.”

  Foaly opened a video window in Holly’s visor, so she could see the skepticism on his face. “You say that as if the very idea of disobeying an order is unheard of for you. If I remember correctly, and I think I do, you’ve been reported a dozen times for ignoring your superiors.”

  “I wasn’t ignoring them,” retorted Holly. “I was taking their opinions under advisement. Sometimes only the officer on the spot can take the proper decision. That’s what being a field agent is all about.”

  Foaly shrugged. “Whatever you say, captain. But if I were you, I’d think twice before going against Julius on this one. He had that look on his face. You know the one.”

  Holly terminated the link with Police Plaza. Foaly didn’t need to explain further. She knew the one.

  CHAPTER 4: SHOWTIME

  The Circus Maximus; Wexford Racecourse, Southern Ireland

  ARTEMIS, Butler and Mulch had ringside seats for the Circus Maximus. This was one of a new breed of circus in which the acts lived up to the advertising, and there were no animals involved. The clowns were genuinely funny, the acrobats were little short of miraculous, and the dwarfs were little and short.

  Sergei the Significant and four of his five teammates were lined up at the center of the ring, doing a spot of preshow posturing to the capacity crowd. Each dwarf was less than three feet tall and wore a tight-fitting crimson leotard with a lightning-flash logo. Their faces were concealed by matching masks.

  Mulch was wrapped in an oversize raincoat. He wore a peaked hat pulled over his brow, and his face was slathered with a pungent homemade sunblock. Dwarfs are extremely photosensitive, with a burn time of mere minutes, even in overcast conditions.

  Mulch poured an entire jumbo carton of popcorn down his gullet.

  “Yep,” he mumbled, spitting out kernels. “These boys are actual dwarfs, no doubt about it.”

  Artemis smiled tightly, glad to have his suspicions confirmed. “I discovered them quite by accident. They use the same Web site you do.”

  “My computer search revealed two patterns, and it was easy to match the circus’s movements to a series of crimes. I am surprised that Interpol and the FBI aren’t already on to Sergei and his gang. When the Fei Fei tiara’s tour schedule was announced, and it coincided with the circus tour, I knew it was no coincidence. I was, of course, correct. The dwarfs stole the tiara, then smuggled it back to Ireland using the circus as cover. Actually it will be far easier to steal the tiara from these dwarfs, than it would have been from the Met.”

  “And why is that?” asked Mulch.

  “Because they are not expecting it,” explained Arte
mis.

  Sergei the Significant and his troupe prepared for their first trick. It was as simple as it was impressive. A small unadorned wooden box was lowered by crane into the center of the ring. Sergei, with much bowing and flexing of his tiny muscles, made his way toward the box. He lifted the lid and climbed in. The cynical audience waited for some curtain or screen shenanigans that would allow the little man to escape, but nothing happened. The box sat there. Immobile. With every eye in the tent drilling into its surface. Nobody went within twenty feet of it.

  A full minute passed before a second dwarf entered the ring. He set an old fashioned T-bar detonator on the ground and, following a five-second drum roll, pushed the plunger. The box exploded in a dramatic cloud of soot and balsawood. Either Sergei was dead, or he was gone.

  “Hmmph,” grunted Mulch, amid the thunderous applause. “Not much of a trick.”

  “Not when you know how it’s done,” agreed Artemis.

  “He gets in the box, he tunnels out to the dressing room, and presumably he shows up again later.”

  “Correct. They set down another box at the end of the performance, and lo-and-behold, Sergei reappears. It’s a miracle.”

  “Some miracle. All the talents we have, and that’s the best those bums could come up with.”

  Artemis rose. Butler instantly stood behind him to block any possible attack from the rear. “Come, Mister Diggums, we need to plan for tonight.”

  Mulch swallowed the last of the popcorn. “Tonight? What’s tonight?”

  “Why, the late-evening performance,” replied Artemis with a grin. “And you, my friend, are the star performer.”

  Fowl Manor, North County Dublin; Ireland

  It was a two-hour drive back to Fowl Manor from Wexford. Artemis’s mother was waiting for them at the front doors.

  “And how was the circus, Arty?” she said, smiling for her boy, in spite of the pain in her eyes. That pain was never far away, not even since the fairy Holly Short had cured her of her depression following the disappearance of her husband, Artemis’s father.