by Eoin Colfer
Mystery gas aside, Artemis knew that it was perfectly safe to open the tube. He did so, carefully slitting the seal with a craft knife.
Artemis put on a set of surgical gloves, teasing the painting from the cylinder. It plopped on to the table in a tight roll, but sprang loose almost immediately; it hadn’t been in the tube long enough to retain the shape.
Artemis spread the canvas wide, weighing the corners with smooth gel sacs. He knew immediately that this was no fake. His eye for art took in the primary colours and the layered brushwork. Herve’s figures seemed to be composed of light. So beautifully were they painted, the picture seemed to sparkle. It was exquisite. In the picture, a swaddled baby slept in its sun-drenched cot inside an open window. A fairy with green skin and gossamer wings had alighted on the window sill and was preparing to snatch the baby from its cradle. Both of the creature’s feet were on the outside of the sill.
‘It can’t go inside,’ muttered Artemis absently, and was immediately surprised.
How did he know that? He didn’t generally voice opinions without some evidence to back them up.
Relax, he told himself. It was simply a guess. Perhaps based on a sliver of information he had picked up on one of his Internet trawls.
Artemis returned his attention to the painting itself. He had done it. The Fairy Thief was his, for the moment at any rate. He selected a surgical scalpel from his kit, scraping the tiniest sliver of paint from the picture’s border. He deposited the sliver in a sample jar and labelled it. This would be sent to the Technical University of Munich, where they had one of the giant spectrometers necessary for carbon dating. Artemis had a contact there. The radiocarbon test would confirm that the painting, or at least the paint, was as old as it was supposed to be.
He called to Butler, in the suite’s other room.
‘Butler, could you take this sample over to the university now? Remember, only give it to Christina, and remind her that speed is vital.’
There was no answer for a moment, then Butler came charging through the door, his eyes wide. He did not look like a man coming to collect a paint sample.
‘Is there a problem?’ asked Artemis.
Two minutes earlier, Butler had been holding his hand to the window, lost in a rare moment of self-absorption. He glared at the hand, almost as if the combination of sunlight and staring would make the skin transparent. He knew that there was something different about him. Something hidden below the skin. He felt strange this past year. Older. Perhaps the decades of physical hardship were taking their toll on him.
Though he was barely forty, his bones ached at night and his chest felt as though he was wearing a Kevlar vest all the time. He was certainly nowhere near as fast as he had been at thirty-five, and even his mind seemed less focused. More inclined to wander… Just as it is doing now, the bodyguard scolded himself silently.
Butler flexed his fingers, straightened his tie and got back to work. He was not at all happy with the security of the hotel suite. Hotels were a bodyguard’s nightmare.
Service lifts, isolated upper floors and totally inadequate escape routes made the principal’s safety almost impossible to guarantee. The Kronski was luxurious, certainly,
and the staff efficient, but that was not what Butler looked for in a hotel. He looked for a ground-floor room, with no windows and a fifteen-centimetre-thick steel door.
Needless to say, rooms like this were impossible to find, and even if he could find one, Master Artemis would undoubtedly turn up his nose at it. Butler would have to make do with this third-storey suite.
Artemis wasn’t the only one with a case of instruments. Butler opened a chrome briefcase on the coffee table. It was one of a dozen such cases that he held in safety deposit boxes in some of the world’s capitals. Each case was full to bursting with surveillance equipment, counter-surveillance equipment and weaponry. Having one in each country meant that he did not have to break Customs laws on each overseas trip from Ireland.
He selected a bug sweeper and quickly ran it around the room, searching for listening devices. He concentrated on the electrical appliances: phone, television, fax machine. The electronic waffle from those items could often drown a bug’s signal, but not with this particular sweeper. The Eye Spy was the most advanced sweeper on the market and could detect a pinhole mike half a mile away.
After several minutes he was satisfied, and he was on the point of returning the device to the case when it registered a tiny electrical field. Nothing much, barely a single flickering blue bar on the indicator. The first bar solidified, then turned bright blue. The second bar began to flicker. Something electronic was closing in on them. Most men would have discounted the reading; after all, there were several thousand electronic devices within a square mile of the Kronski Hotel. But normal electronic fields did not register on the Eye Spy, and Butler was not most men. He extended the sweeper’s aerial and panned the device around the room. The reading spiked when the aerial was pointing at the window. A claw of anxiety tugged at Butler’s intestines. Something airborne was coming closer at high speed.
He dashed to the window, ripping the net curtains from their hooks and flinging the window wide open. The winter air was pale blue, with remarkably few clouds. Jet trails criss-crossed the sky like a giant’s game of noughts and crosses. And there, twenty degrees up, a gentle spiralling curve, was a tear-shaped rocket of blue metal. A red light winked on its nose and white-hot flames billowed from its rear end. The rocket was heading for the Kronski, no doubt about it.
It’s a smart bomb, Butler said to himself, without one iota of doubt. And Master Artemis is the target.
Butler’s brain began flicking through his list of alternatives. It was a short list.
There were only two choices really: get out or die. It was how to get out that was the problem. They were three storeys up, with the exit on the wrong side. He spared a moment to take one last look at the approaching missile. It was unlike anything he’d ever seen. Even the emission was different from conventional weapons, with hardly any vapour trail. Whatever this was, it was brand new. Somebody must very badly want Artemis dead.
Butler turned from the window and barged into Artemis’s bedroom. The young master was busy conducting his tests on The Fairy Thief.
‘Is there a problem?’ asked Artemis.
Butler did not reply, because he didn’t have time. Instead he grabbed the teenager by the scruff of the neck and hoisted him on to his own back.
‘The painting!’ Artemis managed to shout, his voice muffled by the bodyguard’s jacket.
Butler grabbed the picture, unceremoniously stuffing the priceless masterpiece into his jacket pocket. If Artemis had seen the century-old oil paint crack, he would have sobbed. But Butler was paid to protect only one thing, and it was not The Fairy Thief.
‘Hang on extremely tightly,’ advised the massive bodyguard, hefting a king-size mattress from the bed.
Artemis held on tightly as he’d been told, trying not to think. Unfortunately his brilliant brain automatically analysed the available data: Butler had entered the room at speed and without knocking, therefore there was danger of some kind. His refusal to answer questions meant that the danger was imminent. And the fact that he was on Butler’s back, hanging on tightly, indicated that they would not be escaping the aforementioned danger through conventional exit routes. The mattress would indicate that some cushioning would be needed…
‘Butler,’ gasped Artemis. ‘You do know that we’re three storeys up?’
Butler may have answered, but his employer did not hear him, because by then the giant bodyguard had propelled them through the open double windows and over the balcony railing.
For a fraction of a second, before the inevitable fall, the air currents spun the mattress round and Artemis could see back into his own bedroom. In that splinter of a moment, he saw a strange missile corkscrew through the bedroom door and come to a complete halt, directly over the empty perspex tube.
The
re was some kind of tracker in the tube, said the tiny portion of his brain that wasn’t panicking. Someone wants me dead.
Then came the inevitable fall. Ten metres. Straight down.
Butler automatically spread his limbs in a skydiving ‘X’, bearing down on the four corners of the mattress to stop it flipping. The trapped air below the mattress slowed their fall slightly, but not much. The pair went straight down, fast, G-force increasing their speed with every centimetre.
Sky and ground seemed to stretch and drip like oil paints on a canvas, and nothing seemed solid any more. This impression came to an abrupt halt when they slammed into the extremely solid tiled roof of a maintenance shed at the hotel’s rear.
The tiles seemed almost to explode under the impact, though the roof timbers held,
just. Butler felt as though his bones had been liquidized, but he knew that he would be OK after a few moments’ unconsciousness. He had been in worse collisions before.
His last impression before his senses deserted him was the feel of Master Artemis’s heartbeat through his jacket. Alive then. They had both survived. But for how long? If their assassin had seen his attempt fail, then maybe he would try again.
Artemis’s impact was cushioned by Butler and the mattress. Without them he would certainly have been killed. As it was, the bodyguard’s muscle-bound frame was dense enough to break two of his ribs. Artemis bounced a full metre into the air before coming to rest on the unconscious bodyguard’s back, facing the sky.
Each breath was short and painful, and two nubs of bone rose like knuckles from his chest. Sixth and seventh ribs, he guessed.
Overhead, a block of iridescent blue light flashed from his hotel window. It lit the sky for a split second, its belly busy with even brighter blue flares that wriggled like hooked worms. No one would pay much attention; the light could easily have come from an oversized camera flash. But Artemis knew better.
Bio-bomb, he thought. Now how do I know that?
Butler must be unconscious or else he would be moving, so it was up to Artemis to foil their attacker’s next murderous attempt. He tried to sit up, but the pain in his chest was ferocious and enough to knock him out for a second. When he awoke, his entire body was slick with sweat. Artemis saw that it was too late to escape; his assassin was already here, crouched, catlike, on the shed wall.
The killer was a strange individual, no bigger than a child but with adult proportions. She was female, with pretty, sharp features, cropped auburn hair and huge hazel eyes, but that didn’t mean any mercy would be forthcoming. Butler had once told him that eight of the top ten paid hitters in the world were women. This one wore a strange jumpsuit that shifted colours to suit the background, and those large eyes were red from crying.
Her ears are pointed, thought Artemis. Either I’m in shock, or she’s not human.
Then he made the mistake of moving again, and one of his broken ribs actually punched through the skin. A red stain blossomed on his shirt and Artemis gave up the fight to stay conscious.
It had taken Holly almost ninety minutes to reach Germany. On a normal mission it would have taken at least twice that long, but Holly had decided to break a few LEP regulations. Why not? she reasoned. It wasn’t as if she could get into any more trouble.
The LEP already thought she had killed the commander, and her communications were blocked so she could not explain what had really happened. No doubt she was classified as rogue and a Retrieval squad was already on her tail. Not to mention the fact that Opal Koboi was probably keeping electronic tabs on her. So there was no time to lose.
Ever since the goblin gangs had been caught smuggling human contraband through disused chutes, sentries had been posted in each surface shuttle port. Paris was guarded by a sleepy gnome who was only five years from retirement. He was awakened from his afternoon nap by an urgent communique from Police Plaza. There was a rogue Recon jock on the way up. Detain for questioning. Proceed with caution.
Nobody really expected that the gnome would have any success. Holly Short was in peak physical condition and had once lived through a tussle with a troll. The gnome sentry couldn’t remember the last time he’d been in shape, and he had to lie down if he got a hangnail. Nevertheless the sentry guarded the shuttle bay gamely until Holly blew past him on her way to the surface.
Once in the air, she peeled back a Velcro patch on her forearm and ran a search on her computer. The computer found the Kronski Hotel and flashed up three route options. Holly chose the shortest one, even though it meant passing over several major human population centres. More LEP regulations smashed to bits. At this point she really didn’t care. Her own career was beyond salvaging, but that didn’t matter. Holly had never been a career elf anyway. The only reason she hadn’t already been booted out of the LEP was the commander. He had seen her potential, and now he was gone.
The earth flashed by below. European smells drifted through her helmet filters.
The sea, baked earth, vines and the tang of pure snow. Generally this was what Holly lived for, but not today. Today she felt none of the usual above-ground euphoria. She simply felt alone. The commander had been the closest thing to family she had left. Now he was gone too. Perhaps because she had missed the sweet spot. Had she effectively killed Julius herself? It was too awful to think about, and too awful to forget.
Holly opened her visor to clear the tears. Artemis Fowl must be saved. As much for the commander as for himself. Holly closed her visor, kicked up her legs and opened the throttle to maximum. Time to see what these new wings of Foaly’s could do.
In a little more than an hour Holly sped into Munich’s airspace. She dropped to thirty metres, activating her helmet’s radar. It would be a shame to make it this far, only to be pasted by an incoming aircraft. The Kronski showed up as a red dot in her visor.
Foaly could have sent a live satellite feed, or at least the most recent video footage, but she had no way to contact the centaur — and even if she did, the Council would order her back to Police Plaza immediately.
Holly zeroed in on the red dot in her visor. That was where the bio-bomb would be headed, so she had to go there too. She dropped lower until the Kronski’s roof was just under her toes, then touched down on the rooftop. She was on her own now. This was as far as the on-board tracker could take her. She would have to locate Artemis’s room on her own.
Holly chewed her lip for a moment, then typed a command into the keypad on her wrist. She could have used voice command, but the software was touchy and she did not have time for computer error. In seconds, her on-board computer had hacked into the hotel computer and was displaying a guest list and schematic. Artemis was in room 304. Third storey on the south wing of the hotel.
Holly sprinted across the roof, activating her wings as she ran. She was seconds away from saving Artemis. Having a mythological creature drag him from his hotel room might be a bit of a shock, but not as much of a shock as being vaporized by a bio-bomb.
She stopped dead. A guided missile was arcing in from the horizon, towards the hotel. It was of fairy manufacture, no doubt about that, but new. Slicker and faster, with bigger tail rockets than she’d ever seen on a missile. Opal Koboi had obviously been making upgrades.
Holly spun on her heels, racing for the other side of the hotel. In her heart she knew she was too late, and the realization hit her that Opal had set her up again. There never was any hope of rescuing Artemis, just as there had never been any chance of rescuing the commander.
Before her wings even had a chance to kick in, there was a bright blue flash from beyond the lip of the roof, and a slight shudder underfoot as the bio-bomb detonated. It was the perfect weapon. There was no structural damage, and the bomb casing would consume itself, leaving no evidence that it had ever been there.
Holly dropped to her knees in frustration, peeling off her helmet to gulp in breaths of fresh air. The Munich air was laced with toxins, but it still tasted better than the below-ground filtered variety. But Holly d
id not notice the sweetness. Julius was gone. Artemis was dead. Butler was dead. How could she go on? What was the point?
Tears dropped from her lashes, running into tiny cracks in the concrete.
Get up! said her core of steel. The part of her that made Holly Short such an excellent officer. You are an LET officer. There is more at stake here than jour personal grieving. Time enough to cry later.
In a minute. I’ll get up in a minute. I just need sixty seconds.
Holly felt as though the grief had scooped out her insides. She felt hollow, numb.
Incapacitated.
‘How touching,’ said a voice. Robotic and familiar.
Holly did not even look up. ‘Koboi. Have you come to gloat? Does murder make you happy?’
‘Hmm?’ said the voice, seriously considering the question. ‘You know, it does. It actually does make me happy.’
Holly sniffled, shaking the last tears from her eyes. She decided not to cry again until Koboi was behind bars.
‘What do you want?’ she asked, rising from the concrete roof. Hovering at head height was a small bio-bomb. This model was spherical, about the size of a melon, and equipped with a plasma screen. Opal’s happy features were plastered across the monitor.
‘Oh, I just followed you from the chute because I wanted to see what total despair looks like. It’s not very fetching, is it?’