The Arctic Incident

“Three squawks. That’s the signal.”


“The signal for what?”

Lyubkhin hurried down the docks, shouting back over his shoulder.

“Three squawks on the radio. It means that the K9 unit has found someone.”

The survivor was not Russian, that much was obvious from his clothes. Everything from the Gore-Tex boots to the leather overcoat had obviously been purchased in western Europe, perhaps even America. They were tailored to fit, and made from the highest-quality material.

Though the man’s clothes were relatively intact, his body had not fared so well. His bare hands were mottled with frostbite. One leg had been snapped below the knee, and his face was a horrific mask of burns.

The search crew had carried him from a ravine three klicks south of the harbor on a makeshift tarpaulin stretcher. The men crowded around their prize, stamping their feet against the cold that invaded their boots. Vassikin elbowed his way through the gathering, kneeling for a closer look.

“He’ll lose the leg for sure,” he noted. “A couple of fingers, too. The face doesn’t look too good either.”

“Thank you, Dr. Mikhael,” commented Kamar dryly. “Any ID?”

Vassikin conducted a quick thief’s search. Wallet and watch.

“Nothing. That’s odd. You’d think a rich man like this would have some personal effects, wouldn’t you?”

Kamar nodded. “Yes I would.”

He turned to the circle of men. “Ten seconds, then there’ll be trouble. Keep the currency, I need everything else.”

The sailors considered it. The man was not big. But he was Mafiya, the Russian organized-crime syndicate.

A leather wallet sailed over the crowd, skidding into a dip in the tarpaulin. Moments later it was joined by a Cartier chronograph. Gold with diamond studding. Worth five years of an average Russian’s wages.

“Wise decision,” said Kamar scooping up the treasure trove.

“Well?” asked Vassikin. “Do we keep him?”

Kamar pulled a platinum Visa card from the kidskin wallet, checking the name.

“Oh, we keep him,” he replied, activating his cell phone. “We keep him, and put some blankets over him.

The way our luck’s going, he’ll catch pneumonia. And believe me, we don’t want anything to happen to this man. He’s our ticket to the big time.”

Kamar was getting excited. This was completely out of character for him. Vassikin clambered to his feet. “Who are you calling? Who is this guy?” Kamar picked a number from his speed-dial menu. “I’m calling Britva. Who do you think I’m calling?” Vassikin paled. Even calling the boss was dangerous.

Britva was well known for shooting the bearers of bad news. “It’s good news, right? You’re calling with good news?” Kamar flipped the Visa at his partner. “Read that.” Vassikin studied the card for several moments. “I don’t read Angliiskii. What does it say? What’s the name?” Kamar told him. A slow smile spread across Mikhael’s face. “Make the call,” he said.





CHAPTER 1





FAMILY TIES


The loss of her husband had had a profound effect on Angeline Fowl. She had retreated to her room, refusing to go outside. She had taken refuge in her mind, preferring dreams of the past to real life. It is doubtful that she would have recovered had not her son, Artemis the Second, done a deal with the elf Holly Short: his mother’s sanity in return for half the ransom gold he had stolen from the fairy police. His mother safely restored, Artemis Junior focused his efforts on locating his father, investing large chunks of the family fortune in Russian excursions, local intelligence, and Internet search companies.

Young Artemis had received a double share of Fowl guile. But with the recovery of his mother, a moral and beautiful lady, it became increasingly difficult for him to realize his ingenious schemes, schemes that were ever more necessary to fund the search for his father.

Angeline, distraught over her son’s obsession and afraid of the effects of the past year on Artemis’s mind, signed her thirteen-year-old up for treatment with the school counselor.

You have to feel sorry for him. The counselor, that is ...





Saint Bartleby’s School for Young Gentlemen, County Wicklow, Ireland; Present Day


Dr. Po leaned back in his padded armchair, eyes flicking across the page in front of him.

“Now, Master Fowl, let’s talk, shall we?”

Artemis sighed deeply, smoothing his dark hair back from a wide, pale brow. When would people learn that a mind such as his could not be dissected? He himself had read more psychology textbooks than the counselor. He had even contributed an article to The Psychologists’Journal, under the pseudonym Dr. F. Roy Dean Schlippe.

“Certainly, Doctor. Let’s talk about your chair. Victorian?”

Po rubbed the leather arm fondly. “Yes, quite correct. Something of a family heirloom. My grandfather acquired it at auction in Sotheby’s. Apparently it once stood in the palace. The Queen’s favorite.”