The Arctic Incident

“Understood.”


“Well,” added the commander. “Not unless it’s absolutely necessary.”





CHAPTER 3





GOING UNDERGROUND


Saint Bartleby’s School for Young Gentlemen


Butler had been in Artemis Fowl’s service since the moment of the boy’s birth. He had spent the first night of his charge’s life standing guard on the Sisters of Mercy maternity ward. For over a decade, Butler had been teacher, mentor, and protector to the young heir. The pair had never been separated for more than a week, until now. It shouldn’t bother him, he knew that. A bodyguard should never become emotionally attached to his charge: it affects his judgment. But in his private moments, Butler couldn’t help thinking of the Fowl heir as the younger brother he had never had.

Butler parked the Bentley Arnage Red Label on the College Avenue. If anything, the Eurasian manservant had bulked up since midterm. With Artemis in boarding school, he was spending a lot more time in the gym. Truth be told, Butler was bored pumping iron, but the college authorities absolutely refused to allow him a bunk in Artemis’s room. And when the gardener had discovered the bodyguard’s hideout just off the seventeenth green, they had banned him from the school grounds altogether.

Artemis slipped through the school’s gate, Dr. Po’s comments still in his thoughts.

“Problems, sir?” said Butler, noticing his employer’s sour expression.

Artemis ducked into the Bentley’s wine-colored leather interior, selecting a bottle of still water from the bar.

“Hardly, Butler. Just another quack spouting psychobabble.”

Butler kept his voice level. “Should I have a word with him?”

“Never mind him now. What news of the Fowl Star?”

“We got an e-mail at the manor this morning. It’s an MPG.”

Artemis scowled. He could not access MPG video files on his mobile phone.

Butler pulled a portable computer from the glove compartment.

“I thought you might be anxious to see the file, so I downloaded it onto this.”

He passed the computer over his shoulder. Artemis activated the compact machine, folding out the flat color screen. At first he thought the battery was dead, then realized he was looking at a field of snow. White on white, with only the faintest shadows to indicate dips and drumlins.

Artemis felt the uneasiness rolling in his gut. Funny how such an innocent image could be so foreboding.

The camera panned upward, revealing a dull twilight sky. Then a black hunched object, in the distance. A rhythmic crunching issued through the compact speakers as the cameraman advanced through the snow. The object grew clearer. It was a man sitting on, no, tied to, a chair. The ice clinked in Artemis’s glass. His hands were shaking.

The man was dressed in the rags of a once fine suit. Scars branded the prisoner’s face like lightning bolts, and one leg appeared to be missing. It was difficult to tell. Artemis’s breath was jumpy now, like a marathon runner’s.

There was a sign around the man’s neck. Cardboard and twine. On the sign was scrawled in thick black letters: Zdravstvutye syn. The camera zoomed in on the message for several seconds, then went blank.

“Is that all?”

Butler nodded.“Just the man, and the sign. That’s it.”

“Zdravstvutye syn,” muttered Artemis, his accent flawless. Since his father’s disappearance, he had been teaching himself the language.

“Should I translate for you?” asked Butler, also a Russian speaker. His accent, however, was not quite so sophisticated.

He had picked it up during a five-year stint with an espionage unit in the late eighties.

“No, I know what it means,” replied his young employer. “Zdravstvutye syn: Hello, son.”

Butler pulled the Bentley onto the divided highway. No one spoke for several minutes. Eventually Butler had to ask.

“Do you think it’s him, Artemis? Could that man be your father?”

Artemis rewound the MPG, freezing it on the mysterious man’s face. He touched the display, sending rainbow distortions across the screen.

“I think so, Butler. But the picture quality is too poor. I can’t be certain.”

Butler understood the emotions battering his young charge. He, too, had lost someone aboard the Fowl Star. His uncle, the major, had been assigned to Artemis’s father on that fateful trip. Unfortunately, the major’s body had turned up in the Tchersky morgue.

Artemis regained his composure. “I must pursue this, Butler.”

“You know what’s coming next, of course?”

“Yes. A ransom demand. This is merely the teaser, to get my attention. I need to cash in some of the People’s gold. Contact Lars in Zurich, immediately.”

Butler accelerated into the fast lane.

“Master Artemis, I have had some experience in these matters.”