‘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.
‘Wouldn’t you like to see a menu?’
‘No. I don’t eat much any more. Pills and liquids mostly. Gut problems.’
‘Very well,’ said Artemis, laying an aluminium briefcase on the table. ‘To business then.’
He flipped the case’s lid, revealing a red cube the size of a minidisc player, nestling in blue foam.
Spiro cleaned his spectacles with the tail end of his tie.
‘What am I seeing here, kid?’
Artemis placed the shining box on the table.
‘The future, Mister Spiro. Ahead of schedule.’
Jon Spiro leaned in, taking a good look.
‘Looks like a paperweight to me.’
Arno Blunt sniggered, his eyes taunting Butler.
‘A demonstration then,’ said Artemis, picking up the metal box. He pressed a button and the gadget purred into life. Sections slid back to reveal speakers and a screen.
‘Cute,’ muttered Spiro. ‘I flew three thousand miles for a micro-TV?’
Artemis nodded. ‘A micro-TV. But also a verbally controlled computer, a mobile phone, a diagnostic aid. This little box can read any information on absolutely any platform, electrical or organic. It can play videos, laserdiscs, DVDs; go online, retrieve e-mail, hack any computer. It can even scan your chest to see how fast your heart’s beating. Its battery is good for two years and, of course, it’s completely wireless.’
Artemis paused, to let it sink in.
Spiro’s eyes seemed huge behind his spectacles.
‘You mean, this box…?’
‘Will render all other technology obsolete. Your computer plants will be worthless.’
The American took several deep breaths.
‘But how… how?’
Artemis flipped the box over. An infrared sensor pulsed gently on the back.
‘This is the secret. An omni-sensor. It can read anything you ask it to. And if the source is programmed in, it can piggyback any satellite you choose.’
Spiro wagged a finger. ‘But that’s illegal, isn’t it?’
‘No, no,’ said Artemis, smiling. ‘There are no laws against something like this. And there won’t be for at least two years after it comes out. Look how long it took to shut down Napster.’
The American rested his face in his hands. It was too much.