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CHAPTER 3: ON ICE

EN FIN, KNIGHTSBRIDGE

THE sonic blast from Butler’s grenade had crashed through the kitchen door, sweeping aside stainless-steel implements like stalks of grass. The aquarium had shattered, leaving the flagstones slick with water, perspex and surprised lobsters. They skittered through the debris, claws raised. The restaurant staff were on the floor, bound and saturated, but alive. Butler did not untie them. He did not need hysteria right now. Time enough to deal with them once all threats had been neutralized.

An assassin stirred, suspended halfway through a dividing wall. The manservant checked her eyes. They were crossed and unfocused. No threat there. Butler pocketed the old lady’s weapon just the same. You couldn’t be too careful — something he was learning all over again. If Madame Ko could have seen this afternoon’s display, she would have had his graduation tattoo lasered for sure.

The room was clear, but still something was bothering the bodyguard. His soldier’s sense grated like two broken bones. Once again Butler flashed back to Madame Ko, his sensei from the Academy. The bodyguard’s primary Junction is to protect his principal. The principal cannot be shot if you are standing in front of him. Madame Ko always referred to employers as principals. One did not become involved with principals.

Butler wondered why this particular maxim had occurred to him. Out of the hundreds Madame Ko had drummed into his skull, why this one? It was obvious really. He had broken the first rule of personal protection by leaving his principal unguarded. The second rule: Do not develop an emotional attachment to the principal was pretty much in smithereens too.

Butler had become so attached to Artemis that it was obviously beginning to affect his judgement.

He could see Madame Ko before him, nondescript in her khaki suit, for all the world an ordinary Japanese housewife. But how many housewives of any nationality could strike so quickly that the air hissed? You are a disgrace, Butler. A disgrace to your name. It would better suit your talents to get a job mending shoes. Your principal has already been neutralized.

Butler moved as though in a dream. The very air seemed to hold him back as he raced for the kitchen doors. He knew what would have happened.

Arno Blunt was a professional. Vain perhaps — a cardinal sin among bodyguards — but a professional nevertheless. Professionals always inserted earplugs if there was any danger of gunfire.

The tiles were slick beneath his feet, but Butler compensated by leaning forward and digging his rubber-soled toes into the surface. His intact eardrums picked up irregular vibrations from the restaurant. Conversation.

Artemis was speaking with someone. Arno Blunt, no doubt. It was already too late.

Butler came through the service door at a speed that would have shamed an Olympian. His brain began calculating odds the moment pictures arrived from his retinas: Blunt was in the act of firing. Nothing could be done about that now. There was only one option. Without hesitation, Butler took it.

In his right hand, Blunt held a silenced pistol.

‘You first,’ he said. ‘Then the ape.’

Arno Blunt cocked the gun, took aim briefly and fired.

Butler came from nowhere. He seemed to fill the entire room, flinging himself in the bullet’s path. From a greater distance, the Kevlar in his bulletproof vest might have held, but at point-blank range, the Teflon-coated bullet drilled through the waistcoat like a hot poker through snow.

It entered Butler’s chest a centimetre below the heart. It was a fatal wound. And this time Captain Short was not around to save him with her fairy magic.

The bodyguard’s own momentum, combined with the force of the bullet, sent Butler crashing into Artemis, pinning him to the dessert trolley.

Nothing of the boy was visible, save one Armani loafer.

Butler’s breathing was shallow and his vision gone, but he was not dead yet. His brain’s electricity was rapidly running out, but the bodyguard held on to a single thought: protect the principal.

Arno Blunt drew a surprised breath, and Butler fired six shots at the sound. He would have been disappointed with the spread had he been able to see it. But one of the bullets found its mark, clipping Blunt’s temple.

Unconsciousness was immediate, concussion inevitable. Arno Blunt joined the rest of his team, on the floor.

Butler ignored the pain squashing his torso like a giant fist. Instead he listened for movement. There was nothing locally, just the scratch of lobster claws on the tiles. And if one of the lobsters decided to attack, Artemis was on his own.

Nothing more could be done. Either Artemis was safe, or he was not. If not, Butler was in no condition to fulfil the terms of his contract. This realization brought tremendous calm. No more responsibility. Just his own life to live, for a few seconds at any rate. And anyway, Artemis wasn’t just a principal. He was part of the bodyguard’s life. His only true friend.

Madame Ko might not like this attitude, but there wasn’t much she could do about it now. There wasn’t much anybody could do.

Artemis had never liked desserts. And yet, he found himself submersed in eclairs, cheesecake and pavlova. His suit would be absolutely destroyed.

Of course, Artemis’s brain was only throwing up these facts so he could avoid thinking about what had happened. But a ninety-kilogram deadweight is a hard thing to ignore.

Luckily for Artemis, Butler’s impact had actually driven him through to the trolley’s second shelf, while the bodyguard remained on the ice-cream ledge above. As far as Artemis could tell, the Black Forest gateau had cushioned his impact sufficiently to avoid serious internal injury. Still, he had no doubt that a visit to the chiropractor would be called for. Possibly for Butler too, though the man had the constitution of a troll.

Artemis struggled out from underneath his manservant. With each movement, malignant cream horns exploded in his direction.

‘Really, Butler,’ grumbled the teenager. ‘I must begin choosing my business associates more carefully. Hardly a day goes by when we aren’t the victims of some plot.’ Artemis was relieved to see Arno Blunt unconscious on the restaurant floor.

‘Another villain dispatched. Good shooting, Butler, as usual. And one more thing, I have decided to wear a bulletproof vest to all future meetings. That should make your job somewhat easier, eh?’ It was at this point that Artemis noticed Butler’s shirt. The sight knocked the air from his chest like an invisible mallet. Not the hole in the material, but the blood leaking from it.

‘Butler, you’re injured. Shot. But the Kevlar?’

The bodyguard didn’t reply, nor did he have to. Artemis knew science better than most nuclear physicists. Truth be told, he often posted lectures on the Internet under the pseudonym Emmsey Squire. Obviously the bullet’s momentum had been too great for the jacket to withstand. It had possibly been coated with Teflon for extra penetration.

A large part of Artemis wanted to drape his arms across the bodyguard’s frame and cry as he would for a brother. But Artemis repressed that instinct. Now was the time for quick thinking.

Butler interrupted his train of thought.

‘Artemis . . . is that you?’ he said, the words coming in short gasps.

‘Yes, it’s me,’ answered Artemis, his voice trembling.

‘Don’t worry. Juliet will protect you. You’ll be fine.’

‘Don’t talk, Butler. Lie still. The wound is not serious.’ Butler spluttered. It was as close as he could get to a laugh.

‘Very well, it is serious. But I will think of something. Just stay still.’ With his last vestige of strength, Butler raised a hand.

‘Goodbye, Artemis,’ he said. ‘My friend.’

Artemis caught the hand. The tears were streaming now. Unchecked.

‘Goodbye, Butler.’

The Eurasian’s sightless eyes were calm. ‘Artemis, call me — Domovoi.’ The name told Artemis two things. Firstly, his lifelong ally had been named after a Slavic guardian spirit. Secondly, graduates of the Madame Ko Academy were instructed never to reveal first names to their principals. It helped to keep things clinical. Butler would never have broken this rule . . . unless it no longer mattered.

‘Goodbye, Domovoi,’ sobbed the boy. ‘Goodbye, my friend.’ The hand dropped. Butler was gone.

‘No!’ shouted Artemis, staggering backwards.

This wasn’t right. This was not the way things should end. For some reason, he had always imagined that they would die together – facing insurmountable odds, in some exotic location. On the lip of a reactivated Vesuvius perhaps, or on the banks of the mighty Ganges. But together, as friends. After all they had been through, Butler simply could not be defeated at the hands of some grandstanding second-rate muscleman.

Butler had almost died before. The year before last, he had been mauled by a troll from the deep tunnels below Haven City. Holly Short had saved him then, using her fairy magic. But now there were no fairies around to save the bodyguard. Time was the enemy here. If Artemis had more of it, he could figure out how to contact the LEP and persuade Holly to use her magic once again. But time was running out. Butler had perhaps four minutes before his brain shut down. Not long enough, even for an intellect such as Artemis’s — he needed to buy some more time. Or steal some.

Think, boy, think. Use what the situation provides. Artemis shut off the wellspring of tears. He was in a restaurant, a fish restaurant. Useless!

Worthless! Perhaps in a medical facility he could do something. But here?

What was here? An oven, sinks, utensils. Even if he did have the proper tools, he had not yet completed his medical studies. It was too late for conventional surgery at any rate — unless there was a method of heart transplant that took less than four minutes.

The seconds were ticking by. Artemis was growing angry with himself.

Time was against them. Time was the enemy. Time needed to be stopped.

The idea sparked in Artemis’s brain in a flash of neurons. Perhaps he couldn’t stop time, but he could halt Butler’s passage through it.

The process was risky, certainly, but it was the only chance they had.

Artemis popped the dessert trolley’s brake with his foot, and began hauling the contraption towards the kitchen. He had to pause several times to drag moaning assassins from the vehicle’s path.

Emergency vehicles were approaching, making their way down Knightsbridge. Obviously the sonic grenade’s detonation would have attracted attention. There were only moments left before he would have to fabricate some plausible story for the authorities . . . Better not to be there . . . Fingerprints wouldn’t be a problem, as the restaurant would have had dozens of customers. All he had to do was get out of there before London’s finest arrived.

The kitchen was forged from stainless steel. Hobs, hoods and work surfaces were littered with fallout from the sonic grenade. Fish flapped in the sink, crustaceans clicked across the tiles and beluga dripped from the ceiling.

There! At the back, a line of freezers, essential in any seafood bistro.

Artemis put his shoulder against the trolley, steering it to the rear of the kitchen.

The largest of the freezers was of the custom-built pull-out variety, often found in large restaurants. Artemis hauled open the drawer, quickly evicting the salmon, sea bass and hake that were encrusted in the ice shavings.

Cryogenics. It was their only chance. The science of freezing a body until medicine had evolved sufficiently to revive it. Generally dismissed by the medical community, it nevertheless made millions each year from the estates of rich eccentrics who needed more than one lifetime to spend their money. Cryogenic chambers were generally built to very exact specifications, but there was no time for Artemis’s usual standards now.

This freezer would have to do as a temporary solution. It was imperative that Butler’s head be cooled to preserve the brain cells. So long as his brain functions were intact, he could theoretically be revived, even if there were no heartbeat.

Artemis manoeuvred the trolley until it overhung the open freezer; then, with the help of a silver platter, he levered Butler’s body into the steaming ice. It was tight, but the bodyguard fitted with barely a bend of the legs.

Artemis heaped loose ice on top of his fallen comrade, and then adjusted the thermostat to four below zero to avoid tissue damage. Butler’s blank face was just visible through a layer of ice.

‘I’ll be back,’ the boy said. ‘Sleep well.’

The sirens were close now. Artemis heard the screech of tyres.

‘Hold on, Domovoi,’ whispered Artemis, closing the freezer drawer.

Artemis left through the back door, mingling with the crowds of locals and sightseers. The police would have someone photographing the crowd, so he did not linger at the cordon, or even glance back towards the restaurant.

Instead, he made his way to Harrods and found himself a table at the gallery cafe.

Once he had assured the waitress that he was not looking for his mummy, and produced sufficient cash to pay for his pot of Earl Grey tea, Artemis pulled out his mobile, selecting a number from the speed-dial menu.

A man answered on the second ring.

‘Hello. Make it quick, whoever you are. I’m very busy at the moment.’ The man was Detective Inspector Justin Barre of New Scotland Yard.

Barre’s gravelly tones were caused by a hunting knife across the gullet during a bar fight in the nineties. If Butler hadn’t been on hand to stop the bleeding, Justin Barre would never have risen beyond Sergeant. It was time to call in the debt.

‘Detective Inspector Barre. This is Artemis Fowl.’

‘Artemis, how are you? And how’s my old partner, Butler?’ Artemis kneaded his forehead. ‘Not well at all, I’m afraid. He needs a favour.’ ‘Anything for the big man. What can I do?’

‘Did you hear something about a disturbance in Knightsbridge?’ There was a pause. Artemis heard paper rip as a fax was torn off the roll.

‘Yes, it just came in. A couple of windows were shattered in some restaurant. Nothing major. Some tourists are a bit shell-shocked.

Preliminary reports say it was some kind of localized earthquake, if you can believe that. We’ve got two cars there right now. Don’t tell me Butler was behind it?’ Artemis took a breath. ‘I need you to keep your men away from the freezers.’ ‘That’s a strange request, Artemis. What’s in the freezers that I shouldn’t see?’ ‘Nothing illegal,’ promised Artemis. ‘Believe me when I say this is life or death for Butler.’ Barre didn’t hesitate. ‘This is not exactly in my jurisdiction, but consider it done. Do you need to get whatever I’m not supposed to see out of the freezers?’ The officer had read his mind. ‘As soon as possible. Two minutes are all I need.’ Barre chewed it over. ‘OK. Let’s synchronize schedules. The forensics team is going to be in there for a couple of hours. Nothing I can do about that. But at six-thirty precisely, I can guarantee there won’t be anyone on duty. You have five minutes.’ ‘That will be more than sufficient.’

‘Good. And tell the big man that we’re quits.’

Artemis kept his voice even. ‘Yes, Detective Inspector. I’ll tell him.’ If I get the opportunity, he thought.

ICE AGE CRYOGENICS INSTITUTE, OFF HARLEY

STREET, LONDON

The Ice Age Cryogenics Institute was not actually on London’s Harley Street. Technically, it was tucked away in Dickens Lane, a side alley on the famous medical boulevard’s southern end. But this did not stop the facility’s MD, one Doctor Constance Lane, from putting Harley Street on all Ice Age stationery. You couldn’t buy credibility like that. When the upper classes saw those magic words on a business card they fell over themselves to have their frail frames frozen.

Artemis Fowl was not so easily impressed. But then he had little choice; Ice Age was one of three cryogenic centres in the city, and the only one with free units. Though Artemis did consider the neon sign a bit much: ‘Pods to Rent’. Honestly.

The building itself was enough to make Artemis squirm. The facade was lined with brushed aluminium, obviously designed to resemble a spaceship, and the doors were of the whoosh Star Trek variety. Where was culture? Where was art? How did a monstrosity like this get planning permission in historic London?

A nurse, complete with white uniform and three-pointed hat, was manning the reception. Artemis doubted she was an actual nurse — something about the cigarette between her false nails.

‘Excuse me, miss?’

The nurse barely glanced up from her gossip magazine.

‘Yes? Are you looking for someone?’

Artemis clenched his fists behind his back.

‘Yes, I would like to see Doctor Lane. She is the surgeon, is she not?’ The nurse ground out her cigarette in an overflowing ashtray.

‘This is not another school project, is it? Doctor Lane says no more projects.’ ‘No. Not another school project.’

‘You’re not a lawyer, are you?’ asked the nurse suspiciously. ‘One of those geniuses who gets a degree while they’re still in nappies?’ Artemis sighed. ‘A genius, yes. A lawyer, hardly. I am, mademoiselle, a customer.’ And suddenly the nurse was all charm.

‘Oh, a customer! Why didn’t you say so? I’ll show you right in. Would sir care for tea, coffee or perhaps something stronger?’ ‘I am thirteen years old, mademoiselle.’

‘A juice?’

‘Tea would be fine. Earl Grey if you have it. No sugar, obviously; it might make me hyperactive.’ The nurse was quite prepared to accept sarcasm from an actual paying customer, and directed Artemis to a lounge where the style was, again, space age. Plenty of shining velour and eternity mirrors.

Artemis had half finished a cup of something that was most definitely not Earl Grey when Doctor Lane’s door swung open.

‘Do come in,’ said a tall woman uncertainly.

‘Shall I walk?’ asked Artemis. ‘Or will you beam me up?’ The office walls were lined with frames. Along one side were the doctor’s degrees and certificates. Artemis suspected that many of these certificates could be obtained over the weekend. Along the wall were several photographic portraits. Above these read the legend ‘Love Lies Sleeping’.

Artemis almost left then, but he was desperate.

Doctor Lane sat behind her desk. She was a very glamorous woman, with flowing red hair and the tapered fingers of an artist. Her smock was Dior.

Even Constance Lane’s smile was perfect too perfect. Artemis looked closer and realized that her entire face was the handiwork of a plastic surgeon. Obviously, this woman’s life was all about cheating time. He had come to the right place.

‘Now, young man, Tracy says you wish to become a customer?’ The doctor tried to smile, but the stretching made her face shine like a balloon.

‘Not personally, no,’ replied Artemis. ‘But I do wish to rent one of your units. Short term.’ Constance Lane pulled a company pamphlet from the drawer, ringing some figures in red.

‘Our rates are quite steep.’

Artemis did not even glance at the numbers.

‘Money is no object. We can set up a wire transfer right now from my Swiss bank. In five minutes you can have a hundred thousand pounds sitting in your personal account. All I need is a unit for a single night.’ The figure was impressive. Constance thought of all the nips and tucks it would buy. But she was still reluctant . . .

‘Generally minors are not allowed to commit relatives to our chambers.

It’s the law actually.’

Artemis leaned forward.

‘Doctor Lane. Constance. What I’m doing here is not exactly legal, but no one is being hurt either. One night and you’re a rich woman. This time tomorrow and I was never here. No bodies, no complaints.’ The doctor’s hand fingered her jaw line.

‘One night?’

‘Just one. You won’t even know we’re here.’

Constance took a hand mirror from her desk drawer, studying her reflection closely.

‘Call your bank,’ she said.

STONEHEHGE, WILTSHIRE

Two LEP chutes emerged in the south of England. One in London itself, but that was closed to the public due to the fact that Chelsea Football Club had built their grounds five hundred metres above the shuttle port.

The other port was in Wiltshire, beside what humans referred to as Stonehenge. Mud People had several theories as to the origins of the structure. These ranged from spaceship landing port to pagan centre of worship. The truth was far less glamorous. Stonehenge had actually been an outlet for a flat-bread-based food. Or, in human terms, a pizza parlour.

A gnome called Bog had realized how many tourists forgot their sandwiches on above-ground jaunts, and so had set up shop beside the terminal. It was a smooth operation. You drove up to one of the windows, named your toppings, and ten minutes later you were stuffing your face.

Of course, Bog had to shift his operation below ground once humans began talking in full sentences. And anyway, all that cheese was making the ground soggy. A couple of the service windows had even collapsed.

It was difficult for fairy civilians to get visas to visit Stonehenge because of the constant activity on the surface. Then again, hippies saw fairies every day and it never made the front page. As a police officer, Holly didn’t have a visa problem; one flash of the Recon badge opened a hole right through to the surface.

But being a Recon officer didn’t help if there was no magma flare scheduled. And the Stonehenge chute had been dormant for over three centuries. Not a spark. In the absence of a hotshot to ride, Holly was forced to travel aboard a commercial shuttle.

The first available shuttle was heavily booked, but luckily there was a late cancellation so Holly wasn’t forced to bump a passenger.

The shuttle was a fifty-seater luxury cruiser. It had been commissioned especially by the Brotherhood of Bog to visit their patron’s site. These fairies, mostly gnomes, dedicated their lives to pizza and every year on the anniversary of Bog’s first day in business, they chartered a shuttle and took a picnic above ground. The picnic consisted of pizza, tuber beer and pizza-flavoured ice cream. Needless to say, they did not remove their rubber pizza bonnets for the entire day.

So, for sixty-seven minutes, Holly sat wedged between two beer-swilling gnomes singing the pizza song: Pizza, pizza,

Fill up your face,

The thicker the pastry,

The better the base!

There were a hundred and fourteen verses. And it didn’t get any better.

Holly had never been happier to see the Stonehenge landing lights.

The actual terminal was pretty comprehensive, boasting a three-lane visa clearance booth, entertainment complex and duty-free shopping. The current souvenir craze was a Mud Man hippy doll that said, ‘Peace, man,’ when you pressed its tummy.

Holly badged her way through the customs queue, taking a security elevator to the surface. Stonehenge had become easier to exit recently, because the Mud People had put up fencing. The humans were protecting their heritage, or so they thought. Strange that Mud People seemed more concerned about the past than the present.

Holly strapped on her wings, and once the control booth had given her the go-ahead, she cleared the airlock, soaring to a height of seven thousand feet. There was plenty of cloud cover, but nevertheless she activated her shield. Nothing could spot her now; she was invisible to human and mechanical eyes. Only rats and two species of monkey could see through a fairy shield.

Holly switched on the on-board navigator in the wings’ computer and let the rig do the steering for her. It was nice to be above ground again, and at sunset too. Her favourite time of day. A slow smile spread across her face.

In spite of the situation, she was content. This was what she was born to do. Recon. With the wind against her visor and a challenge between her teeth.

KNIGHTSBRIDGE, LONDON

It had been almost two hours since Butler had been shot. Generally the grace period between heart failure and brain damage is about four minutes, but that period can be extended if the patient’s body temperature is lowered sufficiently. Drowning victims, for example, can be resuscitated for up to an hour after their apparent death. Artemis could only pray that his makeshift cryogenic chamber could hold Butler in stasis until he could be transferred to one of Ice Age’s pods.

Ice Age Cryogenics had a mobile unit for transporting clients from the private clinics where they expired. The van was equipped with its own generator and full surgery. Even if cryogenics was considered crackpot medicine by many physicians, the vehicle itself would meet the strictest standards of equipment and hygiene.

‘These units cost almost a million pounds apiece,’ Doctor Constance Lane informed Artemis, as they sat in the stark white surgery. A cylindrical cryo pod was strapped to a trolley between them.

‘The vans are custom-made in Munich, specially armoured too. This thing could drive over a landmine and come out smiling.’ For once, Artemis was not interested in gathering information.

‘That’s very nice, Doctor, but can it go any faster? My associate’s time is running out. It has already been one hundred and twenty seven-minutes.’ Constance Lane tried to frown, but there wasn’t enough slack skin across her brow.

‘Two hours. Nobody has ever been revived after that long. Then again, no one has ever been revived from a cryogenic chamber.’ The Knightsbridge traffic was, as usual, chaotic. Harrods was running a one-day sale, and the block was crowded with droves of tired customers on their way home. It took a further seventeen minutes to reach En Fin’s delivery entrance and, as promised, there were no policemen present, except one. Detective Inspector Justin Barre himself was standing sentry at the rear door. The man was huge, a descendant of the Zulu nation, according to Butler. It was not difficult to imagine him at Butler’s side in some faraway land.

Incredibly, they found a parking space, and Artemis climbed down from the van.

‘Cryogenics,’ said Barre, noting the vehicle’s inscription. ‘Do you think you can do anything for him?’ ‘You looked in the freezer then?’ said Artemis.

The officer nodded. ‘How could I resist? Curiosity is my business. I’m sorry I checked now; he was a good man.’ ‘Is a good man,’ insisted Artemis. ‘I am not ready to give up on him yet.’ Barre stood aside to admit two uniformed Ice Age paramedics.

‘According to my men, a group of armed bandits attempted to rob the establishment, but they were interrupted by an earthquake. And if that’s what really happened, I’ll eat my badge. I don’t suppose you can throw any light on the situation?’ ‘A competitor of mine disagreed with a business strategy. It was a violent disagreement.’ ‘Who pulled the trigger?’

‘Arno Blunt. A New Zealander. Bleached hair, rings in his ears, tattoos on his body and neck. Most of his teeth are missing.’ Barre took a note. ‘I’ll circulate the description to the airports. You never know, we might catch him.’ Artemis rubbed his eyes.

‘Butler saved my life. The bullet was meant for me.’

‘That’s Butler all right,’ said Barre, nodding. ‘If there’s anything I can do .

. . ?’

‘You’ll be the first to know,’ said Artemis. ‘Did your officers find anyone on the scene?’ Barre consulted his notebook. ‘Some customers and staff. They all checked out, so we let them go. The thieves escaped before we arrived.’ ‘No matter. Better I deal with the culprits myself.’

Barre made a concerted effort to ignore the activity in the kitchen behind him.

‘Artemis, can you guarantee this is not going to come back to haunt me?

Technically, we’re looking at a homicide.’

Artemis looked Barre in the eye, which was quite an effort.

‘Detective Inspector, no body, no case. And I guarantee that by tomorrow Butler will be alive and kicking. I shall instruct him to call you, if that would set your mind at rest.’ ‘It would.’

The paramedics rolled Butler past on a trolley. A frosting of ice covered his face. Tissue damage was already turning his fingers blue.

‘Any surgeon who could fix this would have to be a real magician!’ Artemis glanced downwards.

‘That’s the plan, Detective Inspector. That’s the plan.’ Doctor Lane administered glucose injections in the van.

‘These are to stop the cells collapsing,’ she informed Artemis, massaging Butler’s chest to circulate the medication. ‘Otherwise the water in his blood will freeze in spikes and puncture the cell walls.’ Butler was lying in an open cryo unit, with its own gyroscopes. He had been dressed in a special silver freezer suit, and cold packs were heaped on his body like sachets of sugar in a bowl.

Constance was unaccustomed to people actually paying attention when she explained the process, but this pale youth absorbed facts faster than she could present them.

‘Won’t the water freeze anyway? Glucose can’t prevent that.’ Constance was impressed. ‘Why, yes it will. But in small pieces, so it can float safely between cells.’ Artemis jotted a note in his hand-held computer. ‘Small pieces, I understand.’ ‘The glucose is only a temporary measure,’ continued the doctor. ‘The next step is surgery; we need to completely wash out his veins, and replace the blood with a preservative. Then we can lower the patient’s temperature to minus thirty degrees. We’ll have to do that back at the institute.’ Artemis shut down his computer. ‘No need for that. I just need him held in stasis for a few hours. After that it won’t make any difference.’ ‘I don’t think you understand, young man,’ said Doctor Lane. ‘Current medical practices have not evolved to the point where this kind of injury can be healed. If I don’t do a complete blood substitution soon, there will be severe tissue damage.’ The van jolted as a wheel crashed into one of London’s numerous potholes. Butler’s arm jerked and, for a moment, Artemis could pretend he was alive.

‘Don’t worry about that, Doctor.’

‘But. . .’

‘A hundred thousand pounds, Constance. Just keep repeating that figure to yourself. Park the mobile unit outside and forget all about us. In the morning we’ll be gone. Both of us.’ Doctor Lane was surprised.

‘Park outside?You don’t even want to come in?’

‘No, Butler stays outside,’ said Artemis. ‘My . . . ah . . . surgeon, has a problem with dwellings. But may I enter for a moment to use your phone?

I need to make a rather special phone call.’

LONDON AIRSPACE

The lights of London were spread out below Holly like the stars of some turbulent galaxy. England’s capital was generally a no-fly area for Recon officers, because of the four airports feeding planes into the sky. Five years ago, Captain Trouble Kelp had narrowly missed being impaled by a Heathrow-JFK airbus. Since then, all flight plans involving airport cities had to be cleared personally by Foaly.

Holly spoke into her helmet mike.

‘Foaly. Any flights coming in I should know about?’

‘Let me just bring up the radar. OK, let’s see. I’d drop down to five hundred feet if I were you. There’s a 747 coming in from Malaga in a couple of minutes. It won’t hit you, but your helmet computer could interfere with its navigation systems.’ Holly dipped her flaps until she was at the correct altitude. Overhead, the giant jet screamed across the sky. If it hadn’t been for Holly’s sonic filter sponges, both her eardrums would have popped.

‘OK. One jet full of tourists successfully avoided. What now?’ ‘Now we wait. I won’t call again unless it’s important.’ They didn’t have to wait long. Less than five minutes later Foaly broke radio silence.

‘Holly. We got something.’

‘Another probe?’

‘No. Something from Sentinel. Hold on, I’m sending the file to your helmet.’ A sound file appeared in Holly’s visor. Its wave resembled a seismograph’s readout.

‘What is it, a phone tap?’

‘Not exactly,’ said Foaly. ‘It’s one of a billion throwaway files that Sentinel sends us every day.’ The Sentinel system was a series of monitoring units that Foaly had piggybacked to obsolete US and Russian satellites. Their function was to monitor all human telecommunications. Obviously, it would be impossible to review every phone call made each day. So the computer was programmed to pick up on certain key words. If, for example, the words ‘fairy’, ‘haven’ and ‘underground’ appeared in a conversation, the computer would flag the call. The more People-related phrases that appeared, the more urgent the rating.

‘This call was made in London minutes ago. It’s loaded with keywords.

I’ve never heard anything like it.’

‘Play,’ said Holly clearly, using voice command. A vertical line cursor began scrolling across the sound wave.

‘People,’ said a voice, hazy with distortion. ‘LEP, magic, Haven, shuttle ports, sprites, B’wa Kell, trolls, time-stop, Recon, Atlantis.’ ‘That’s it?’

‘That’s not enough? Whoever made that call could be writing our biography.’ ‘But it’s just a string of words. It makes no sense.’

‘Hey, there’s no point arguing with me,’ said the centaur. ‘I just collect information. But there has to be a connection to the probe. Two things like this don’t just happen on the same day.’ ‘OK. Do we have an exact location?’

‘The call came from a cryogenics institute in London. Sentinel quality is not enough to run a voice-recognition scan. We just know it came from inside the building.’ ‘Who was our mystery Mud Man calling?’

‘Strange thing. He was calling The Times newspaper crossword hotline.’ ‘Maybe those words were the answers to today’s crossword?’ said Holly hopefully.

‘No. I checked the correct solution. Not a fairy-related word in sight.’ Holly set her wings to manual. ‘OK. Time to find out what our caller is up to. Send me the institute’s coordinates.’ Holly suspected that it was a false alarm. Hundreds of these calls came in every year. Foaly was so paranoid that he believed the Mud People were invading every time someone mentioned the word ‘magic’ on a phone line. And with the recent trend for human fantasy movies and video games, magical phrases cropped up quite a lot. Thousands of police hours were wasted staking out the dwellings of residents where these phone calls originated, and it usually turned out to be some kid playing on his PC.

More than likely this phantom phone call was the result of a crossed line, or some Hollywood hack pitching a screenplay, or even an undercover LEP operative trying to phone home. But then, today of all days, everything had to be checked.

Holly kicked up her legs behind her, dropping into a steep dive. Diving was against Recon regulations. All approaches were supposed to be controlled and gradual, but what was the point of flying if you couldn’t feel the slipstream tugging at your toes?

ICE AGE CRYOGENICS INSTITUTE, LONDON

Artemis leaned against the cryogenics mobile unit’s rear bumper. It was funny how quickly a person’s priorities could change. This morning he had been worried about which loafers to wear with his suit, and now all he could think about was the fact that his dearest friend’s life hung in the balance. And the balance was rapidly shifting.

Artemis wiped a coating of frost from the spectacles he’d retrieved from his bodyguard’s jacket. These were no ordinary spectacles. Butler had 20/20 vision. These particular eye glasses had been specially tooled to accommodate filters taken from an LEP helmet. Anti-shield filters. Butler had carried them since Holly Short almost got the jump on him at Fowl Manor.

‘You never know,’ he’d said. ‘We’re a threat to LEP security, and some day Commander Root could be replaced with someone who isn’t quite so fond of us.’ Artemis wasn’t convinced. The fairies were, by and large, a peaceful people. He couldn’t believe they would harm anyone, even a Mud Person, on the basis of past crimes. After all, they had parted friends. Or, at least, not enemies.

Artemis presumed the call would work — there was no reason to believe it wouldn’t: several government security agencies monitored phone lines using the key word system, recording conversations that could compromise national security. And if humans were doing it, it was a safe bet that Foaly was two steps ahead.

Artemis donned the glasses, climbing into the vehicle’s cabin. He had placed the call ten minutes ago. Presuming Foaly got working on a trace straight away, it could still be another two hours before the LEP could get an operative on the surface. That would make it almost five hours since Butler’s heart had stopped. The record for a revival was two hours and fifty minutes for an Alpine skier frozen in an avalanche. There had never been a revival after three hours. Maybe there shouldn’t be.

Artemis glanced at the tray of food sent out by Doctor Lane. Any other day he would have complained about virtually everything on the plate, but now the meal was simply sustenance to keep him awake until the cavalry arrived. Artemis took a long drink from a polystyrene cup of tea. It sloshed audibly around his empty stomach. Behind him, in the van’s surgery, Butler’s cryo unit hummed like a common household freezer.

Occasionally the computer emitted electronic beeps and whirrs as the machine ran self-diagnostics. Artemis was reminded of the weeks spent in Helsinki waiting for his father to regain consciousness. Waiting to see what the fairy magic would do to him . . .

EXCERPT FROM ARTEMIS FOWL’S DIARY. DISK 2.

ENCRYPTED.

Today my father spoke to me. For the first time in over two years I heard his voice, and it is exactly as I remembered it. But not everything was the same.

It had been over two months since Holly Short used her healing magic on his battered body, and still he lay in his Helsinki hospital bed. Immobile, unresponsive. The doctors could not understand it.

‘He should be awake,’ they informed me. ‘His brainwaves are strong, exceptionally so. And his heart beats like a horse. It is incredible; this man should be at death’s door, yet he has the muscle tone of a twenty-year-old.’ Of course, it is no mystery to me. Holly’s magic has overhauled my father’s entire being, with the exception of his left leg, which was lost when his ship went down off the coast of Murmansk. He has received an infusion of life, body and mind.

The effect of the magic on his body does not worry me, but I cannot help but wonder what effect this positive energy will have on my father’s mind.

For my father, a change like this could be traumatic. He is the Fowl patriarch, and his life revolves around moneymaking.

For sixteen days we sat in my father’s hospital room, waiting for some sign of life. I had, by then, learned to read the instruments and noticed immediately the morning that my father’s brainwaves began spiking. My diagnosis was that he would soon regain consciousness, and so I called the nurse.

We were ushered from the room to admit a medical team of at least a dozen. Two heart specialists, an anaesthetist, a brain surgeon, a psychologist and several nurses.

In fact, my father had no need of medical attention. He simply sat up, rubbed his eyes and uttered one word: ‘Angeline’.

Mother was admitted. Butler, Juliet and I were forced to wait for several more agonizing minutes until she reappeared at the door.

‘Come in, everyone,’ she said. ‘He wants to see you.’

And suddenly I was afraid. My father, the man whose shoes I had been trying to fill for two years, was awake. Would he still live up to my expectations? Would I live up to his?

I entered hesitantly. Artemis Fowl the First was propped up by several pillows. The first thing that I noticed was his face. Not the scar traces — which were already almost completely healed, but the expression. My father’s brow, usually a thunderhead of moody contemplation, was smooth and carefree.

After such a long time apart, I didn’t know what to say.

My father had no such doubts.

‘Arty,’ he cried, stretching his arms towards me. ‘You’re a man now. A young man.’ I ran into his embrace, and while he held me close all plots and schemes were forgotten. I had a father again.

ICE AGE CRYOGENICS INSTITUTE, LONDON

Artemis’s memories were interrupted by a sly movement on the wall above. He peered out the rear window and fixed his gaze on the spot, watching through filtered eyes. There was a fairy crouching on a third-storey window sill: a Recon officer, complete with wings and helmet.

After only fifteen minutes! His ruse had worked. Foaly had intercepted the call and sent someone to investigate. Now all that remained was to hope this particular fairy was full to the brim with magic and willing to help.

This had to be handled sensitively. The last thing he wanted to do was spook the Recon officer. One wrong move and he’d wake up in six hours, with absolutely no recollection of the day’s events. And that would be fatal for Butler.

Artemis opened the van door slowly, stepping down into the yard. The fairy cocked its head, following his movements. To his dismay, Artemis saw the creature draw a platinum handgun.

‘Don’t shoot,’ said Artemis, raising his hands. ‘I am unarmed. And I need your help.’ The fairy activated its wings, descending slowly until its visor was level with Artemis’s eyes.

‘Do not be alarmed,’ continued Artemis. ‘I am a friend to the People. I helped to defeat the B’wa Kell. My name is —’ The fairy unshielded, her opaque visor sliding up. ‘I know what your name is, Artemis,’ said Captain Holly Short.

‘Holly,’ said Artemis, grasping her by the shoulders. ‘It s you.’ Holly shrugged off the human’s hands. ‘I know it’s me. What’s going on here? I presume you made the call?’ ‘Yes, yes. No time for that now. I can explain later.’

Holly opened the throttle on her wings, rising to a height of four metres.

‘No, Artemis. I want an explanation now. If you needed help, why didn’t you call on your own phone?’ Artemis forced himself to answer the question.

‘You told me that Foaly had pulled surveillance on my communications, and anyway I wasn’t sure you’d come.’ Holly considered it.

‘OK. Maybe I wouldn’t have.’ Then she noticed. ‘Where’s Butler?

Watching our backs as usual, I suppose.’

Artemis didn’t answer, but his expression told Holly exactly why the Mud Boy had summoned her.

Artemis pressed a button, and a pneumatic pump opened the cryo pod’s lid. Butler lay inside, encased in a centimetre of ice.

‘Oh no,’ sighed Holly. ‘What happened?’

‘He stopped a bullet that was meant for me,’ replied Artemis.

‘When are you going to learn, Mud Boy?’ snapped the fairy. ‘Your little schemes have a tendency to get people hurt. Usually the people who care about you.’ Artemis didn’t answer. The truth was the truth after all.

Holly peeled away a cold pack from the bodyguard’s chest.

‘How long?’

Artemis consulted the clock on his mobile phone.

‘Three hours. Give or take a few minutes.’

Captain Short wiped away the ice, laying her hand flat on Butler’s chest.

‘Three hours. I don’t know, Artemis. There’s nothing here. Not a flicker.’ Artemis faced her across the cryo pod.

‘Can you do it, Holly? Can you heal him?’

Holly stepped back. ‘Me? I can’t heal him. We need a professional warlock to even attempt something like this.’ ‘But you healed my father.’

‘That was different. Your father wasn’t dead. He wasn’t even critical. I hate to say it, but Butler is gone. Long gone.’ Artemis pulled a gold medallion from a leather thong around his neck. The disc was perforated by a single circular hole. Dead centre.

‘Remember this? You gave it to me for ensuring your trigger finger got reattached to your hand. You said it would remind me of the spark of decency inside me. I’m trying to do something decent now, Captain.’ ‘It’s not a question of decency. It just can’t be done.’ Artemis drummed his fingers on the trolley. Thinking.

‘I want to talk to Foaly,’ he said finally.

‘I speak for the People, Fowl,’ said Holly testily. ‘We don’t take orders from humans.’ ‘Please, Holly,’ said Artemis. ‘I can’t just let him go. It’s Butler.’ Holly couldn’t help herself. After all, Butler had saved all their hides on more than one occasion.

‘Very well,’ she said, fishing a spare com set from her belt. ‘But he’s not going to have any good news for you.’ Artemis hooked the speaker over one ear, adjusting the mike stem so it wound across his mouth.

‘Foaly? Are you listening?’

‘Are you kidding?’ came the reply. ‘This is better than human soap operas.’ Artemis composed himself. He would have to present a convincing case or Butler’s last chance was gone.

‘All I want is a healing. I accept that it may not work, but what does it cost to try?’ ‘It’s not that straightforward, Mud Boy,’ replied the centaur. ‘Healing isn’t a simple process. It requires talent and concentration. Holly is pretty good, I grant you, but for something like this we need a trained team of warlocks.’ ‘There’s no time,’ snapped Artemis. ‘Butler has already been under too long. This has to be done now, before the glucose is absorbed into his bloodstream. There is already tissue damage to the fingers.’ ‘Maybe his brain too?’ suggested the centaur.

‘No. I got his temperature down in minutes. The cranium has been frozen since the incident.’ ‘Are you sure about that? We don’t want to bring Butler’s body back and not his mind.’ ‘I’m sure. The brain is fine.’

Foaly didn’t speak for several moments.

‘Artemis, if we agree to try this, I have no idea what the results would be.

The effect on Butler’s body could be catastrophic, not to mention his mind. An operation of this kind has never been attempted on a human.’ ‘I understand.’

‘Do you, Artemis? Do you really? Are you prepared to accept the consequences of this healing? There could be any number of unforeseeable problems. Whatever emerges from this pod is yours to care for. Will you accept this responsibility?’ ‘I will,’ said Artemis, without hesitation.

‘Very well, then it’s Holly’s decision. Nobody can force her to use her magic — it’s up to her.’ Artemis lowered his eyes. He could not bring himself to look at the LEP elf.

‘Well, Holly. Will you do it? Will you try?’

Holly brushed the ice from Butler’s brow. He had been a good friend to the People.

‘I’ll try,’ she said. ‘No guarantees, but I’ll do what I can.’ Artemis’s knees almost buckled with relief. Then he was in control again.

Time enough for weak knees later.

‘Thank you, Captain. I realize this could not be an easy decision to take.

Now, what can I do?’

Holly pointed to the rear doors. ‘You can get out. I need a sterile environment. I’ll come and get you when it’s over. And whatever happens, whatever you hear, don’t come in until I call.’ Holly unclipped her helmet camera, suspending it from the cryo pod’s lid to give Foaly a better view of the patient.

‘How’s that?’

‘Good,’ replied Foaly. ‘I can see the whole upper body. Cryogenics. That Fowl is a genius, for a human. Do you realize that he had less than a minute to come up with this plan? That’s one smart Mud Boy.’ Holly scrubbed her hands thoroughly in the medi-sink.

‘Not smart enough to keep himself out of trouble. I can’t believe I’m doing this. A three-hour healing. This has got to be a first.’ ‘Technically it’s only a two-minute healing, if he got the brain down to below zero straight away. But . . .” ‘But what?’ asked Holly, rubbing her fingers briskly with a towel.

‘But the freezing interferes with the body’s own bio-rhythms and magnetic fields — things even the People don’t understand fully. There’s more than skin and bone at stake here. We have no idea what a trauma like this could do to Butler.’ Holly stuck her head under the camera.

‘Are you sure this is a good idea, Foaly?’

‘I wish we had time for discussion, Holly, but every second costs our old friend a couple of brain cells. I’m going to talk you through it. The first thing we need to do is to take a look at the wound.’ Holly peeled off several cold packs, unzipping the foil suit. The entry wound was small and black, hidden in the centre of a pool of blood, like a flower’s bud.

‘He never had a chance. Right under the heart. I’m going to zoom in.’ Holly closed her visor, using the helmet’s filters to magnify Butler’s wound.

‘There are fibres trapped in there. Kevlar, I’d say.’

Foaly groaned over the speakers. ‘That’s all we need. Complications.’ ‘What difference do fibres make? And this really is not the time for jargon. I need plain Gnommish.’ ‘OK. Surgery for morons it is. If you poke your fingers into that wound, the magic will reproduce Butler’s cells, complete with their new strands of Kevlar. He’ll be dead, but completely bulletproof.’ Holly could feel the tension creeping up her back.

‘So, I need to do what?’

‘You need to make a new wound, and let the magic spread from there.’ Oh great, thought Holly, a new wound. Just slice open an old friend.

‘But he’s as hard as rock.’

‘Well then, you’re going to have to melt him down a little. Use your Neutrino 2000, low setting, but not too much. If that brain wakes up before we want it to, he’s finished.’ Holly drew her Neutrino, adjusting the output to minimum.

‘Where do you suggest I melt?’

‘The other pectoral. Be ready to heal; that heat is going to spread rapidly.

Butler needs to be healed before oxygen gets to his brain.’ Holly pointed the laser at the bodyguard’s chest.

‘Just say the word.’

‘In a bit closer. Fifteen centimetres approximately. A two-second burst.’ Holly raised her visor, taking several deep breaths. A Neutrino 2000 being used as a medical instrument. Who would have thought it?

Holly pulled her trigger to the first click. One more click would activate the laser. ‘Two seconds.’ ‘OK. Go.’ Click. An orange beam of concentrated heat spilled from the Neutrino’s snout, blossoming across Butler’s chest. Had the bodyguard been awake, he would have been knocked unconscious. A neat circle of ice evaporated, rising to condense on the surgery’s ceiling.

‘Now,’ said Foaly, his voice high-pitched with urgency. ‘Narrow the beam and focus it.’ Holly manipulated the gun controls expertly with her thumb. Narrowing the beam would intensify its power, but the laser would have to be focused at a certain range to avoid slicing right through Butler’s body. ‘I’m setting it for fifteen centimetres.’ ‘Good, but hurry; that heat is spreading.’ The colour had returned to Butler’s chest and the ice was melting across his body. Holly pulled the trigger again, this time carving a crescent-shaped slit in Butler’s flesh. A single drop of blood oozed from between the wound’s edges.

‘No steady flow,’ said Foaly. ‘That’s good.’ Holly bolstered her weapon.

‘Now what?’ ‘Now get your hands in deep, and give it every drop of magic you’ve got. Don’t just let it flow; push the magic out.’ Holly grimaced. She never liked this bit. No matter how many healings she performed, she could never get used to sticking her fingers into other people’s insides. She lined her thumbs up, back to back, and slid them into the incision.

‘Heal,’ she breathed, and the magic scurried down her fingers. Blue sparks hovered over Butler’s wound, then disappeared inside, like shooting stars diving behind the horizon.

‘More, Holly,’ urged Foaly. ‘Another shot.’

Holly pushed again, harder. The flow was thick at first, a roiling mass of blue streaks; then, as her magic ebbed, the flow grew weaker.

‘That’s it,’ she panted. ‘I have barely enough left to shield on the way home.’ ‘Well then,’ said Foaly, ‘stand back until I tell you, because all hell is about to break loose.’ Holly backed up to the wall. Nothing much happened for several moments, then Butler’s back arched, throwing his chest into the air. Holly heard a couple of vertebrae groaning.

‘That’s the heart started,’ noted Foaly. ‘The easy bit.’ Butler flopped back into the pod, blood flowing from his most recent wound. The magical sparks knitted together, forming a vibrating lattice over the bodyguard’s torso. Butler bounced on the trolley, like a bead in a rattle, as the magic reshaped his atoms. His pores vented mist as toxins were expelled from his system. The coating of ice around him dissolved instantly, causing clouds of steam and then rain, as the water particles condensed on the metal ceiling. Cold packs popped like balloons, sending crystals ricocheting around the surgery. It was like being in the centre of a multicoloured storm.

‘You need to get in there now!’ said Foaly in Holly’s ear.

‘What?’

‘Get in there. The magic is spreading up his spinal column. Hold his head still for the healing, or any damaged cells could be replicated. And once something’s been healed, we can’t undo it.’ Great, thought Holly. Hold Butler still. No problem. She battled her way through the debris, cold-pack crystals impacting against her visor.

The human’s frame continued thrashing in the cryo pod, shrouded by a cloud of steam.

Holly clamped a hand on either side of Butler’s head. The vibrations travelled the length of her arms and through her body.

‘Hold him, Holly. Hold him!’

Holly leaned across the pod, placing the weight of her body on the manservant’s head. In all the confusion, she couldn’t tell if her efforts were having any effect whatsoever.

‘Here it comes!’ said Foaly in her ear. ‘Brace yourself!’ The magical lattice spread along Butler’s neck and across his face. Blue sparks targeted the eyes, travelling along the optic nerve, into the brain itself. Butler’s eyes flew open, rolling in their sockets. His mouth was reactivated too, spewing out long strings of words in various languages, none of which made any sense.

‘His brain is running tests,’ said Foaly. ‘Just to check everything’s working.’ Each muscle and joint was tested to its limit, rolling, swivelling and stretching. Hair follicles grew at an accelerated rate, covering Butler’s normally shaven dome with a thick growth of hair. Nails shot out of his fingers like tiger claws, and a raggedy beard snaked from his chin.

Holly could only hang on. She imagined that this was how it must feel to be a rodeo cowboy straddling a particularly bad-tempered bull.

Eventually the sparks dissipated, spiralling into the air like embers on a breeze. Butler calmed and settled, his body sinking into fifteen centimetres of water and coolant. His breathing was slow and deep.

‘We did it,’ said Holly, sliding off the pod on to her knees. ‘He’s alive.’ ‘Don’t start celebrating just yet,’ said Foaly. ‘There’s still a long way to go. He won’t regain consciousness for a couple of days at least, and even then who knows what shape his mind will be in. And, of course, there’s the obvious problem.’ Holly raised her visor. ‘What obvious problem?’

‘See for yourself.’

Captain Short was almost afraid to look at whatever lay in the pod.

Grotesque images crowded her imagination. What kind of misshapen mutant human had they created?

The first thing she noticed was Butler’s chest. The bullet hole itself had completely disappeared, but the skin had darkened, with a red line amongst the black. It looked like a capital T.

‘Kevlar,’ explained Foaly. ‘Some of it must have replicated. Not enough to kill him, thankfully, but enough to slow down his breathing. Butler won’t be running any marathons with those fibres clinging to his ribs.’ ‘What’s the red line?’

‘At a guess, I’d say dye. There must have been writing on the original bulletproof jacket.’ Holly glanced around the surgery. Butler’s vest lay discarded in a corner.

The letters ‘FBI’ were printed in red across the chest. There was a small hole in the centre of the’I’.

‘Ah well,’ said the centaur. ‘It’s a small price to pay for his life. He can pretend it’s a tattoo. They’re very popular among the Mud People these days.’ Holly had been hoping the Kevlar-reinforced skin was the ‘obvious problem’ to which Foaly had been referring. But there was something else.

The something else became immediately apparent when her gaze landed on the bodyguard’s face. Or, more accurately, the hair sprouting from his face.

‘Oh gods,’ she breathed. ‘Artemis is not going to like this.’ Artemis paced the yard while his bodyguard underwent magical surgery.

Now that his plan was actually in progress, doubts began to chew at the edges of his mind, like slugs on a leaf. Was this the right thing to do?

What if Butler wasn’t himself? After all, his father had been undeniably different on the day he had finally come back to them. He would never forget that first conversation . . .

EXCERPT FROM ARTEMIS FOWL’S DIARY. DISK 2.

ENCRYPTED.

The doctors in Helsinki were determined that they should pump my father full of vitamin supplements. He was just as determined that they shouldn’t.

And a determined Fowl usually gets his way.

‘I am perfectly fine,’ he insisted. ‘Please allow me some time to reacquaint myself with my family.’ The doctors withdrew, disarmed by his personality. I was surprised by this approach. Charm had never been my father’s weapon of choice. He had previously achieved his aims by bulldozing over anybody stupid enough to stand in his way.

Father was sitting in the hospital room’s only armchair, his shortened leg resting on a footstool. My mother was perched on the armrest, resplendent in white faux fur.

Father caught me looking at his leg.

‘Don’t worry, Arty,’ he said. ‘I’m being measured for a prosthetic tomorrow. Doctor Hermann Gruber is being flown in from Dortmund.’ I had heard of Gruber. He worked with the German Paralympics squad.

The best.

‘I’m going to ask for something sporty. Maybe with speed stripes.’ A joke. That wasn’t like my father.

My mother ruffled my father’s hair.

‘Stop teasing, darling. This is difficult for Arty, you know. He was only a baby when you left!

‘Hardly a baby, Mother,’ I said. ‘I was eleven, after all.’ My father smiled at me fondly. Perhaps now would be an appropriate time for us to talk, before his good mood wore off to be replaced by the usual gruffness?

‘Father, things have changed since your disappearance. I have changed!

Father nodded solemnly. ‘Yes, you are right. We need to talk about the business!

Ah yes. Back to business. This was the father I remembered.

‘I think you will find that the family bank accounts are healthy, and I trust you will approve of the stocks portfolio. It has yielded an eighteen per cent dividend in the past financial year. Eighteen per cent is quite exemplary in the current market; I haven’t failed you!

‘I have failed you, son,’ said Artemis Senior, ‘if you think bank accounts and stocks are all that’s important. You must have learned that from me!

He pulled me close to him. ‘I haven’t been the perfect father, Arty, far from it. Too busy with the family business. I was always taught that it was my duty to manage the Fowl empire. A criminal empire, as we both know.

If any good has come out of my abduction, it’s that I have reassessed my priorities. I want a new life for us all.’ I could not believe what I was hearing. One of my most persistent memories was of Father repeatedly quoting the family motto, ‘aurum potestas est’ — ‘Gold is power’. And now, here he was, turning his back on Fowl principles. What had the magic done to him?

‘Gold isn’t all-important, Arty,’ he continued. ‘Neither is power. We have everything we need right here. The three of us!

I was utterly surprised. But not unpleasantly so.

‘But, Father. You have always said . . . This isn’t you. You’re a new man!’ Mother joined the conversation. ‘No, Arty. Not a new man. An old one.

The one I fell in love with and married, before the Fowl empire took over.

And now I have him back; we’re a family again.’

I looked at my parents — how happy they were together. A family? Was it possible that the Fowls could be a normal family?

Artemis was yanked back to the present by a commotion from inside the Ice Ape mobile unit. The vehicle began to rock on its axles, blue light crackling from beneath the door.

Artemis did not panic. He had seen healings before. Last year, when Holly reattached her index finger, the magical fallout had shattered half a ton of ice — and that was for one little finger. Imagine the damage Butler’s system could do repairing a critical injury.

The pandemonium continued for several minutes, popping two of the van’s tyres, and completely wrecking the suspension. Luckily the institute was locked up for the night or Doctor Lane would certainly be adding automobile repairs to her bill.

Eventually the magical storm subsided, and the vehicle settled like a rollercoaster car after the ride. Holly opened the rear door, leaning heavily against the frame. She was exhausted, drained. A sickly pallor glowed through her coffee complexion.

‘Well?’ demanded Artemis. ‘Is he alive?’

Holly didn’t answer. A strenuous healing often resulted in nausea and fatigue. Captain Short took several deep breaths, resting on the rear bumper.

‘Is he alive?’ repeated the youth.

Holly nodded. ‘Alive. Yes, he’s alive. But . . .’

‘But what, Holly? Tell me!’

Holly tugged off her helmet. It slipped from her fingers, rolling across the yard.

‘I’m sorry, Artemis. I did the best I could.’

It was possibly the worst thing she could have said.

*

Artemis climbed into the van. The floor was slick with water and coloured crystals. Smoke leaked from the fractured grille of the air-conditioning system, and the overhead neon strip flickered like lightning in a bottle.

The cryo pod lay off-kilter in one corner, its gyroscopes leaking fluid. One of Butler’s arms flopped over the unit’s edge, throwing a monster shadow on the wall.

The cryo pod’s instruments panel was still operating. Artemis was relieved to see the heartbeat icon blipping gently in the display. Butler was alive!

Holly had done it again! But something had been worrying the fairy captain. There was a problem.

As soon as Artemis looked inside the pod it became immediately apparent what that problem was. The manservant’s newly grown hair was heavily streaked with grey: Butler had gone into the cryo chamber forty years of age; the man before Artemis now was at least fifty. Possibly older. In the space of just over three hours Butler had grown old.