Eoin Colfer - Artemis Fowl - The Eternity Code

EXCERPT FROM ARTEMIS FOWL’S DIARY DISK 2 ENCRYPTED

For the past two years my business enterprises have thrived without parental interference. In this time, I have sold the Pyramids to a Western businessman, forged and auctioned off the lost diaries of

Leonardo da Vinci and separated the fairy People from a large portion of their precious gold. But my freedom to plot is almost at an end. As I write, my father lies in a hospital bed in Helsinki, where he recovers after a two-year imprisonment by the Russian Mafiya. He is still unconscious following his ordeal, but he will awaken soon and retake control of the Fowl finances.

With two parents resident in Fowl Manor, it will be impossible for me to conduct my various illegal ventures undetected. Previously this would not have been a problem as my father was a bigger crook than me, but Mother is determined that the Fowls are going straight.

However, there is time for one last job. Something that my mother would not approve of. I don’t think the fairy folk would like it much either.

So I shall not tell them.

EN FIN, KNIGHTSBRIDGE, LONDON

Artemis Fowl was almost content. His father would be discharged from Helsinki’s University Hospital any day now. He himself was looking forward to a delicious late lunch at En Fin, a London seafood restaurant, and his business contact should arrive any moment. All according to plan.

His bodyguard, Butler, was not quite so relaxed. But then again he was never truly at ease — one did not become one of the world’s deadliest men by dropping one’s guard. The giant Eurasian flitted between tables in the Knightsbridge bistro, positioning the usual security items and clearing exit routes.

‘Are you wearing the earplugs?’ he asked his employer.

Artemis sighed deeply. ‘Yes, Butler. Though I hardly think we are in danger here. It’s a perfectly legal business meeting in broad daylight, for heaven’s sake.’

The earplugs were actually sonic filter sponges, cannibalized from fairy Lower Elements Police helmets. Butler had obtained the helmets, along with a treasure trove of fairy technology, over a year previously when one of Artemis’s schemes pitted him against a fairy SWAT team.

The sponges were grown in LEP labs, and had tiny porous membranes that sealed automatically when decibel levels surpassed safety standards.

‘Maybe so, Artemis, but the thing about assassins is that they like to catch you unawares.’

‘Perhaps,’ replied Artemis, perusing the menu’s entree section. ‘But who could possibly have a motive to kill us?’

Butler shot one of the half-dozen diners a fierce glare, just in case she was planning something. The woman must have been at least eighty.

‘They might not be after us. Remember, Jon Spiro is a powerful man. He put a lot of companies out of business. We could be caught in a crossfire.

Artemis nodded. As usual, Butler was right, which explained why they were both still alive. Jon Spiro, the American he was meeting, was just the kind of man to attract assassins’ bullets. A successful IT billionaire, with a shady past and alleged mob connections. Rumour had it that his company, Fission Chips, had made it to the top on the back of stolen research. Of course, nothing was ever proved — not that Chicago’s district attorney hadn’t tried. Several times.

A waitress wandered over, giving them a dazzling smile.

‘Hello there, young man. Would you like to see the children’s menu?’

A vein pulsed in Artemis’s temple.

‘No, mademoiselle, I would not like to see the children’s menu. I have no doubt the children’s menu itself tastes better than the meals on it. I would like to order a la carte. Or don’t you serve fish to minors?’

The waitress’s smile shrank by a couple of molars. Artemis’s vocabulary had that effect on most people.

Butler rolled his eyes. And Artemis wondered who would want to kill him. Most of the waiters and tailors in Europe, for a start.

‘Yes, sir,’ stammered the unfortunate waitress. ‘Whatever you like.’

‘What I would like is a medley of shark and swordfish, pan-seared, on a bed of vegetables and new potatoes.’

‘And to drink?’

‘Spring water. Irish, if you have it. And no ice, please, as your ice is no doubt made from tap water, which rather defeats the purpose of spring water.’

The waitress scurried to the kitchen, relieved to escape from the pale youth at table six. She’d seen a vampire movie once. The undead creature had the very same hypnotic stare. Maybe the kid spoke like a grown-up because he was actually five hundred years old.

Artemis smiled in anticipation of his meal, unaware of the consternation he’d caused.

‘You’re going to be a big hit at the school dances,’ Butler commented.

‘Pardon?’

‘That poor girl was almost in tears. It wouldn’t hurt you to be nice occasionally.’

Artemis was surprised. Butler rarely offered opinions on personal matters.

‘I don’t see myself at school dances, Butler.’

‘Dancing isn’t the point. It’s all about communication.’

‘Communication?’ scoffed young Master Fowl. ‘I doubt there is a teenager alive with a vocabulary equal to mine.’

Butler was about to point out the difference between talking and communicating when the restaurant door opened. A small tanned man entered, flanked by a veritable giant. Jon Spiro and his security.

Butler bent low to whisper in his charge’s ear. ‘Be careful, Artemis. I know the big one by reputation.’

Spiro wound through the tables, arms outstretched. He was a middle-aged American, thin as a javelin, and barely taller than Artemis himself. In the eighties, shipping had been his thing; in the nineties he made a killing in stocks and shares. Now, it was communications.

He wore his trademark white linen suit, and there was enough jewellery hanging from his wrists and fingers to gold leaf the Taj Mahal.

Artemis rose to greet his associate. ‘Mister Spiro, welcome.’

‘Hey, little Artemis Fowl. How the hell are you?’

Artemis shook the man’s hand. His jewellery jangled like a rattlesnake’s tail.

‘I am well. Glad you could come.’

Spiro took a chair. ‘Artemis Fowl calls with a proposition: I would’ve walked across broken glass to be here.’

The bodyguards appraised each other openly. Apart from their bulk, the two were polar opposites. Butler was the epitome of understated efficiency. Black suit, shaven head, as inconspicuous as it was possible to be at almost seven feet tall. The newcomer had bleached blond hair, a cut-off T-shirt and silver pirate rings in both ears. This was not a man who wanted to be forgotten, or ignored.

‘Arno Blunt,’ said Butler. ‘I’ve heard about you.’

Blunt took up his position at Jon Spiro’s shoulder.

‘Butler. One of the Butlers,’ he said, in a New Zealand drawl. ‘I hear you guys are the best. That’s what I hear. Let’s hope we don’t have to find out.’

Spiro laughed. It sounded like a box of crickets.

‘Arno, please. We are among friends here. This is not a day for threats.’

Butler was not so sure. His soldier’s sense was buzzing like a nest of hornets at the base of his skull. There was danger here.

‘So, my friend. To business,’ said Spiro, fixing Artemis with his close-set dark eyes. ‘I’ve been salivating all the way across the Atlantic. What have you got for me?’

Artemis frowned. He’d hoped business could wait until after lunch.