The Arctic Incident

The Arctic Incident by Eoin Colfer




For Betty





Artemis Fowl: A Psychological Assessment from “The Teenage Years”


by Prof. J. Argon, Brotherhood of Psychologists Commissioned by the Lower Elements Police

By the age of thirteen, our subject, Artemis Fowl, was displaying signs of an intellect greater than any human since Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Artemis had beaten European chess champion Evan Kashoggi in an on-line tournament, patented more than twenty-seven inventions, and won the architectural competition to design Dublin’s new opera house. He had also written a computer program that diverted millions of dollars from Swiss accounts to his own, forged more than a dozen Impressionist paintings that now hang in various galleries worldwide, and cheated the Fairy People out of a substantial amount of gold.

The question is, why? What drove Artemis to get involved in criminal enterprises?

The answer lies with his father. Artemis Fowl Senior was the head of a criminal empire that stretched from Dublin’s docklands to the backstreets of Tokyo, but he had had ambitions to establish himself as a legitimate businessman.

Artemis Fowl Senior had bought a cargo ship, stocked it with 250 thousand cans of cola, and set course for Murmansk in Northern Russia, where he had arranged a business deal that could prove profitable for decades to come.

Unfortunately, the Russian Mafiya decided they did not want an Irish tycoon cutting himself a slice of their market, and sank the Fowl Star in the Bay of Kola. Artemis Fowl the First was declared missing, presumed dead.

Artemis Junior was now the head of an empire with limited funds. In order to restore the family fortune, he embarked on a criminal career that would earn him over fifteen million pounds in two short years.

This vast fortune was mainly spent financing rescue expeditions to Russia. Artemis refused to believe that his father was dead, even though every passing day made it seem more likely.

Artemis avoided other teenagers and resented being sent to school, preferring to spend his time plotting his next crime.

So, even though his involvement with the goblin uprising during this year was to be traumatic, terrifying, and dangerous, it was probably the best thing that could have happened to him. At least he spent some time outdoors, and got to meet some new people.

It’s a pity most of them were trying to kill him.





PROLOGUE


Murmansk, Northern Russia; Two Years Before


The two Russians huddled around a flaming barrel in a futile attempt to ward off the Arctic chill. The Gulf of Kola was not a place you wanted to be after September, especially not Murmansk. In Murmansk, even the polar bears wore scarves. Nowhere was colder, except perhaps Norilsk.

The men were Mafiya enforcers, and were more used to spending their evenings inside stolen BMWs. The large gangster, Mikhael Vassikin, checked the fake Rolex beneath the sleeve of his fur coat.

“This thing could freeze up,” he said, checking the diving bezel. “What am I going to do with it then?”

“Stop your complaining,” said the one called Kamar. “It’s your fault we’re stuck outside in the first place.”

Vassikin paused. “Pardon me?”

“Our orders were simple: Sink the Fowl Star. All you had to do was blow the cargo bay. It was a big enough ship, heaven knows. Blow the cargo bay, and down she goes. But no, the great Vassikin hits the stern. Not even a backup rocket to finish the job. So now we have to search for survivors.”

“She sank, didn’t she?”

Kamar shrugged. “So what? She sank slowly, plenty of time for the passengers to grab on to something. Vassikin the famous sharpshooter. My grandmother could shoot better.”

Lyubkhin, the Mafiya’s man on the docks, approached before the discussion could develop into an all-out brawl.

“How are things?” asked the bearlike Yakut.

Vassikin spat over the quay wall. “How do you think? Did you find anything?”

“Dead fish and broken crates,” said the Yakut, offering both enforcers a steaming mug. “Nothing alive. It’s been over eight hours now. I have good men searching all the way down to Green Cape.”

Kamar drank deeply, then spat in disgust.

“What is this stuff? Pitch?”

Lyubkhin laughed. “Hot cola. From the Fowl Star. It’s coming ashore by the crate load. Tonight we are truly on the bay of Kola.”

“Be warned,” said Vassikin, spilling the liquid into the snow. “This weather is souring my temper. So no more terrible jokes. It’s enough that I have to listen to Kamar.”

“Not for much longer,” muttered his partner. “One more sweep, and we call off the search. Nothing could survive these waters for eight hours.”

Vassikin held out his empty cup. “Don’t you have something stronger? I know you always keep a flask hidden somewhere.”

Lyubkhin reached for his hip pocket, but stopped when the walkie-talkie on his belt began to emit static. Three short bursts.