Artemis Fowl: The Eternity Code af-3

by Eoin Colfer

  ‘Just how long was I out?’ he asked.

  TRANSATLANTIC BOEING 747

  Mulch had decided that the best way to undermine the mission was to antagonize Loafers until he went crazy. Driving people crazy was a talent of his, and one that he did not get to exercise often enough.

  The two diminutive individuals were seated side by side in a 747, watching the clouds shoot past below. First class: one of the perks of working for the Antonellis.

  Mulch sipped delicately from a champagne flute.

  ‘So, Slippers. .’

  ‘That’s Loafers.’

  ‘Oh yes, Loafers. What’s the story behind all the tattoos?’

  Loafers rolled up his sleeve, revealing a turquoise snake with drops of blood for eyes. Another of his own designs.

  ‘I get one done after every job.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Mulch. ‘So if you paint a kitchen, then you get a tattoo?’

  ‘Not that kind of job, stupid.’

  ‘What kind of job then?’

  Loafers ground his teeth. ‘Do I have to spell it out for you?’

  Mulch pinched some peanuts from a passing tray.

  ‘No point. I never got no schoolin’. Plain English will be fine.’

  ‘You can’t be this stupid! Spatz Antonelli doesn’t hire morons.’

  Mulch gave a smarmy wink. ‘You sure about that?’

  Loafers patted his shirt, hoping to find a weapon of some kind.

  ‘You wait until this is over, smart alec. Me and you will settle our differences.’

  ‘You keep telling yourself that, Boots.’

  ‘Loafers!’

  ‘Whatever.’

  Mulch hid behind the airline magazine. This was too easy. The mobster was half-crazed already. A few more hours in Mulch’s company should be enough to have Loafers McGuire foaming at the mouth.

  DUBLIN AIRPORT, IRELAND

  Mulch and Loafers passed through Irish customs without incident.

  After all, they were simply citizens returning home for the holidays. It wasn’t as if they were a Mob team up to no good. How could they be?

  Whoever heard of little people being involved in organized crime? Nobody.

  But maybe that was because they were very good at it.

  Passport control provided Mulch with another opportunity to infuriate his partner.

  The officer was doing his best not to notice Mulch’s height, or lack of it.

  ‘So, Mister Digence, home to visit the family?’

  Mulch nodded. ‘That’s right. My mother’s folks are from Killarney.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  ‘O’Reilly, actually. But what’s a vowel between friends?’

  ‘Very good. You should be on the stage.’ ‘It’s funny you should mention that — The passport officer groaned. Ten more minutes and his shift would have been over.

  ‘I was being sarcastic actually. .’ he muttered. - because my friend Mister McGuire and I are also doing a stint in the Christmas pantomime. It’s Snow White. I’m Doc, and he’s Dopey.’

  The passport officer forced a smile. ‘Very good. Next.’ Mulch spoke for the entire queue to hear. ‘Of course, Mister McGuire there was born to play Dopey, if you catch my drift.’

  Loafers lost it right there in the terminal. ‘You little freak!’ he screamed. ‘I’ll kill you! You’ll be my next tattoo. You’ll be my next tattoo!’

  Mulch tutted as Loafers disappeared beneath half a dozen security guards.

  ‘Actors,’ he said. ‘Highly strung.’

  They released Loafers three hours later after a full search and several phone calls to the parish priest in his home town. Mulch was waiting in the pre-ordered rental car, a specially modified model with elevated accelerator and brake pedals.

  ‘Your temper is seriously jeopardizing this operation,’ commented the dwarf, straight-faced. ‘I’ll have to phone Miss Frazetti if you can’t control yourself.’

  ‘Drive,’ said the metal man hoarsely. ‘Let’s get this over with.’

  ‘OK then. But you’re on your very last chance. One more episode like that and I’m going to have to crush your head between my teeth.’

  Loafers noticed his partner’s teeth for the first time. They were tombstone-shaped blocks of enamel, and there seemed to be an awful lot of them for just one mouth. Was it possible that Digence could actually do what he threatened? No, Loafers decided. He was just a bit spooked after the customs interrogation. Still, there was something about the dwarf’s smile. A glint that spoke of hidden and frightening talents. Talents that the metal man would prefer to stay hidden.

  Mulch took care of the driving while Loafers made a couple of calls on his mobile phone. It was a simple matter for him to contact a few old associates and arrange for a weapon, a silencer and two headsets to be left in a duffel bag behind the motorway exit sign for Fowl Manor. Loafers’ associates even took credit cards, so there was no need for the usual macho trade-off that generally accompanied black-market transactions.

  Loafers checked the weapon’s action and sights in the car. He felt in control again.

  ‘So, Mo,’ said Loafers, chuckling as if that simple rhyme was the funniest joke he had ever made. And sadly, it was. ‘Have you put together a plan yet?’

  Mulch didn’t take his eyes from the road. ‘Nope. I thought you were the head honcho here. Plans are your department. I just break and enter.’

  ‘That’s right. I am the head honcho, and believe me Master Fowl is going to realize that too when I’m finished talking to him.’

  ‘Master Fowl?’ said Mulch innocently. ‘We’re here for some kid?’

  ‘Not just some kid,’ revealed Loafers, against orders. ‘Artemis Fowl.

  Heir to the Fowl criminal empire. He has something in his head that Miss Frazetti wants. So we’re supposed to impress upon the little brat how important it is that he come with us and spill the beans.’

  Mulch’s grip tightened on the wheel. He should have made his move before now. But the trick was not to incapacitate Loafers, it was persuading Carla Frazetti not to send another team.

  Artemis would know what to do. He had to get to the boy before Loafers did. A mobile phone and a visit to the bathroom were all he needed. A pity he had never bothered purchasing a phone, but there had never been anybody to call before. Besides, you could never be too careful with Foaly. That centaur could triangulate a chirping cricket.

  ‘We better stop for supplies,’ said Loafers. ‘It could take days to check this place out.’

  ‘No need. I know the layout. I burgled it before, in my youth. Piece of cake.’

  ‘And you didn’t mention this before because Mulch made a rude gesture at a lorry driver hogging both lanes.

  ‘You know the way it is. I work on commission. The commission is calculated on a hardship basis. The second I say I turned this place over before, ten grand is cut off my fee.’

  Loafers didn’t argue. It was true. You always exaggerated the difficulty of the job. Anything to squeeze a few more bucks out of your employer.

  ‘So, you can get us in there?’

  ‘I can get me in there. Then I come back out for you.’

  Loafers was suspicious. ‘Why don’t I just come with you? It would be a lot easier than hanging around in broad daylight.’

  ‘Firstly, I’m not going in until after dark. And secondly, sure you can come with me, if you don’t mind crawling through the septic tank and up nine metres of effluent pipe.’

  Loafers had to open a window at the thought of it.

  ‘OK. You come get me. But we stay in contact over the headsets.

  Anything goes wrong and you let me know.’

  ‘Yes, sir, boss,’ said Mulch, screwing the earpiece into a hairy ear and clipping the mike to his jacket. ‘Wouldn’t want you to miss your appointment intimidating a kid.’

  The sarcasm made a slight whistling noise as it flew over Loafer’s head.

  ‘That’s right,’ said the Kilkenny man. ‘I am the
boss. And you don’t want to make me late for my appointment.’

  Mulch had to concentrate to stop his beard hair curling. Dwarf hair is very mood-sensitive, especially to hostility, and it was flowing out of this man’s every pore. Mulch’s bristles had never been wrong yet. This little partnership was not going to end well.

  Mulch parked in the shadow of the Fowl Estate’s boundary wall.

  ‘You certain this is the place?’ asked Loafers.

  Mulch pointed a stubby finger at the ornate iron gate.

  ‘You see there where it says Fowl Manor?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘I’d say this was probably the place.’

  Even Loafers couldn’t miss a direct jibe like that.

  ‘You better get me in there, Digence, or. .’

  Mulch showed him the teeth. ‘Or what?’

  ‘Or Miss Frazetti will be extremely annoyed,’ completed Loafers lamely, well aware that he was losing the hard-man-banter battle. Loafers resolved to teach Mo Digence a lesson as soon as possible.

  ‘We wouldn’t want to annoy Miss Frazetti,’ said Mulch. He climbed down from the elevated seat and reclaimed his gear bag from the trunk.

  There were certain unorthodox burglary tools in the bag, supplied by his fairy contact in New York. Hopefully none of them would be needed. Not the way he intended gaining entrance to the manor.

  Mulch rapped on the passenger window. Loafers buzzed it open.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Remember, you stay here until I come and get you.’

  ‘That sounds like an order, Digence. Are you giving me orders now?’

  ‘Me?’ said Mulch, revealing the full expanse of his teeth. ‘Giving orders? I wouldn’t dream of it.’

  Loafers buzzed the window back up.

  ‘You better not be,’ he said as soon as there was a layer of toughened glass between him and those teeth.

  Inside Fowl Manor, Butler had just finished clipping and shaving. He was beginning to look like his old self again. His older self.

  ‘Kevlar, you say?’ he repeated, examining the darkened tissue on his chest.

  Artemis nodded. ‘Apparently some fibres were trapped in the wound. The magic replicated them. According to Foaly, the new tissue will restrict your breathing, but it isn’t dense enough to be bulletproof, except for a small-calibre bullet.’

  Butler buttoned his shirt. ‘Everything is different, Artemis. I can’t guard you any more.’

  ‘I won’t need guarding. Holly was right. My grand schemes generally lead to people getting hurt. As soon as we have dealt with Spiro I intend to concentrate on my education.’

  ‘As soon as we have dealt with Spiro? You make it sound like a foregone conclusion. Jon Spiro is a dangerous man, Artemis. I thought you would have learned that.’

  ‘I have, old friend. Believe me, I won’t underestimate him again. I have already begun to formulate a plan. We should be able to retrieve the C Cube and neutralize Mister Spiro, providing Holly agrees to help.’

  ‘Where is Holly? I need to thank her. Again.’ Artemis glanced out of the window. ‘She has gone to complete the Ritual. You can guess where.’

  Butler nodded. They had first encountered Holly at a sacred fairy site in the south-east while she was conducting the power-restoring Ritual. Although ‘encountered’ was not the term Holly used. ‘Abducted’ was closer to the truth.

  ‘She should be back within the hour. I suggest you rest until then.’

  Butler shook his head. ‘I can rest later. Right now, I have to check the grounds. It’s unlikely that Spiro could put a team together so quickly. But you never know.’

  The bodyguard crossed to a wall panel that linked his room to the security-system control booth. Artemis could see that each step was an effort. With Butler’s new chest tissue, just climbing the stairs would seem like a marathon.

  Butler split-screened his monitor so he could view all the CCTVs simultaneously. One of the screens interested him more than the others, so he punched it up on the monitor.

  ‘Well, well,’ he chuckled. ‘Look who’s dropped in to say hello.’

  Artemis crossed to the security panel. There was a very small individual making rude gestures at the kitchen-door camera.

  ‘Mulch Diggums,’ said Artemis. ‘Just the dwarf I wanted to see.’

  Butler transferred Mulch’s image to the main screen.

  ‘Perhaps. But why does he want to see you?’

  Melodramatic as always, the dwarf insisted on a sandwich before explaining the situation. Unfortunately for Mulch, it was Artemis who volunteered to prepare it for him. He emerged from the pantry with what resembled nothing more than an explosion on a plate.

  ‘It’s more difficult than it looks,’ explained the boy.

  Mulch cranked open his massive jaws, pouring the whole pile down in one swallow. After several minutes’ chewing, he reached an entire hand into his mouth and dislodged a chunk of roast turkey.

  ‘Next time more mustard,’ he said, brushing some crumbs from his shirt and, in the process, inadvertently switching on the mike clipped there.

  ‘You’re welcome,’ said Artemis.

  ‘You should be thanking me, Mud Boy,’ said Mulch. ‘I came all the way from Chicago to save your life. Surely that’s worth one lousy sandwich? And when I say sandwich I mean it in the loosest sense of the word.’

  ‘Chicago? Jon Spiro sent you?’

  The dwarf shook his head. ‘Possibly, but not directly. I work for the Antonelli family. Of course, they have no idea that I am an actual fairy dwarf; they think I’m simply the best cat burglar in the business.’

  ‘Chicago’s district attorney has linked the Antonellis to Spiro in the past. Or rather, he’s tried to.’

  ‘Whatever. Anyway, the plan is that I break in here, and then my partner encourages you to accompany us to Chicago.’

  Butler was leaning against the table. ‘Where is your partner now, Mulch?’

  ‘Outside the gate. He’s the small angry one. Glad to see you’re alive by the way, big man. There was a rumour going around the underworld that you were dead.’

  ‘I was,’ said Butler, heading for the security booth. ‘But I’m better now.’

  Loafers took a small spiral pad from his breast pocket. In it he had recorded any quips that he felt had really worked in dangerous situations.

  Snappy dialogue, that was the trademark of a good gangster — according to the movies at any rate. He flicked through the pages, smiling fondly.

  ‘It’s time to close your account. Permanently.’ — Larry Ferrigamo.

  Bent banker. 9th August.

  ‘I’m afraid your hard drive has just been wiped.’ — David Spinski.

  Computer hacker. 23rd September.

  ‘I’m doing this ‘cause I knead the dough.’ — Morty the Baker. 17th July.

  It was good material. Maybe he would write his memoirs some day.

  Loafers was still chuckling when he heard Mo talking in his earpiece.

  At first he thought the monkey was speaking to him, but then he realized that his so-called partner was spilling the beans to their pigeon.

  ‘You should be thanking me, Mud Boy,’ said Digence. ‘I came all the way from Chicago to save your life.’

  To save his life! Mo was working for the other side and the little idiot had forgotten about his mike.

  Loafers climbed out of the car, being careful to lock it. He would lose the deposit if the rental was stolen, and Miss Frazetti would take it out of his commission. There was a small pedestrian entrance in the wall beside the main gate. Mo Digence had left it open. Loafers slipped through and hurried down the avenue, careful to stay in the shadow of the trees.

  In his ear, Mo kept rabbiting on. He laid out their entire plan to the Fowl kid without so much as the threat of torture. It was completely voluntary. Digence had somehow been working for the Irish kid all along.

  And what’s more, Mo was not Mo, he was Mulch. What kind of a name was that? Mulch,
who was apparently a fairy dwarf. This was getting weirder and weirder. Maybe the fairy dwarfs were some kind of gang.

  Although it wasn’t much of a gang name. The fairy dwarfs were hardly going to strike terror into the hearts of the competition.

  Loafers trotted up the avenue, past a line of elegant silver birches and an honest-to-God croquet pitch. Two peacocks strutted around the edge of a water feature. Loafers snorted. Water feature! In the days before TV gardeners it would have been called a pond.

  Loafers was wondering where the delivery entrance was when he saw the sign: ‘Deliveries at rear’. Thank you very much. He checked his silencer and load one more time, and tiptoed across the gravel driveway.

  Artemis sniffed the air. ‘What’s that smell?’

  Mulch poked his head round the refrigerator door.

  ‘Me, I’m afraid,’ he mumbled, an unfeasible amount of food revolving inside his mouth. ‘Sunblock. Disgusting, I know, but I’d smell a whole lot worse without it. Think bacon strips on a flat rock in Death Valley.’

  ‘A charming image.’

  ‘Dwarfs are subterranean creatures,’ explained Mulch. ‘Even during the Frond Dynasty we lived underground. .’

  Frond was the first elfin king. During his reign, fairies and humans had shared the earth’s surface.

  ‘. . Being photosensitive makes it difficult to exist among humans.

  To be honest, I’m a bit fed up of this life.’

  ‘Your wish is my command,’ said a voice. It was Loafers. He was standing at the kitchen door, brandishing a very large gun.

  In fairness to Mulch, he recovered well.

  ‘I thought I told you to wait outside.’

  ‘It’s true, you did. But I decided to come in anyway. And guess what? No septic tank, no effluent pipe. The back door is wide open.’

  Mulch tended to grind his teeth when he thought. It sounded like nails being scraped down a chalkboard.

  ‘Ah. . yes. A stroke of luck there. I took advantage of it, but unfortunately I was interrupted by the boy. I had just gained his confidence when you burst in.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Loafers. ‘Your mike is on. I heard the whole thing, Mo. Or should I say Mulch, the fairy dwarf?’