Artemis Fowl and the Arctic Incident Chapter 13 Read Online

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Text copyright © 2002 by Eoin Colfer

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Visit www.artemisfowl.com

Table of Contents

Introduction

Prologue

Chapter 1 Family unit Ties

Chapter 2 Cruisin' For Chix

Chapter 3 Going Hugger-mugger

Chapter 4 Fowl Is Fair

Chapter five Daddy'south Girl

Affiliate six Photo Opportunity

Chapter 7 Connecting The Dots

Chapter 8 To Russia With Gloves

Affiliate 9 No Prophylactic Haven

Chapter 10 Trouble And Strife

Chapter 11 Mulch Ado About Nothing

Chapter 12 The Boys Are Back

Affiliate 13 Into The Alienation

Chapter 14 Father's Day

An Epilogue, Or Two

Preview Of Artemis Fowl: The Eternity Code

Artemis Fowl: Read The Entire Series

Artemis Fowl Book 1

Artemis Fowl Book two: The Arctic Incident

Artemis Fowl Book three: Eternity Lawmaking

Artemis Fowl Book 4: Opal Deception

Artemis Fowl Book 5: Lost Colony

Artemis Fowl Book 6: Fourth dimension Paradox

Artemis Fowl Volume vii: Atlantis Complex

For Betty

Artemis Fowl: A Psychological Cess from "The Teenage Years"

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

By the historic period of thirteen, our bailiwick, Artemis Fowl, was displaying signs of an intellect greater than whatever homo since Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart. Artemis had beaten European chess champion Evan Kashoggi in an on-line tournament, patented more xx-seven inventions, and won the architectural competition to design Dublin's new opera house. He had likewise written a computer programme that diverted millions of dollars from Swiss accounts to his ain, forged more than than a dozen Impressionist paintings that now hang in various galleries worldwide, and cheated the Fairy People out of a substantial amount of gilt.

The question is, why? What collection 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'due south docklands to the backstreets of Tokyo, but he had had ambitions to establish himself equally a legitimate businessman.

Artemis Fowl Senior had bought a cargo transport, stocked information technology with 250 thousand cans of cola, and prepare class for Murmansk in Northern Russia, where he had bundled 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 Inferior was now the caput of an empire with limited funds. In guild to restore the family fortune, he embarked on a criminal career that would earn him over fifteen meg pounds in ii short years.

This vast fortune was mainly spent financing rescue expeditions to Russian federation. 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 beingness sent to school, preferring to spend his time plotting his adjacent crime.

So, even though his involvement with the goblin uprising during this yr was to exist 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 compassion virtually of them were trying to kill him.

PROLOGUE

Murmansk, Northern Russian federation; Two Years Earlier

The ii Russians huddled around a flaming barrel in a futile attempt to ward off the Arctic chill. The Gulf of Kola was non a place you wanted to be afterwards September, especially not Murmansk. In Murmansk, fifty-fifty the polar bears wore scarves. Nowhere was colder, except peradventure Norilsk.

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

"This matter could freeze up," he said, checking the diving bezel. "What am I going to exercise with it and then?"

"Stop your lament," said the ane called Kamar. "It'due south your error we're stuck outside in the commencement place."

Vassikin paused. "Pardon me?"

"Our orders were unproblematic: Sink the Fowl Star. All you had to practise was accident the cargo bay. It was a big enough ship, sky knows. Accident the cargo bay, and downwardly she goes. But no, the swell Vassikin hits the stern. Not even a fill-in 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'southward man on the docks, approached before the word could develop into an all-out brawl.

"How are things?" asked the bearlike Yakut.

Vassikin spat over the quay wall. "How do you lot recall? Did you find anything?"

"Dead fish and broken crates," said the Yakut, offer both enforcers a steaming mug. "Nil alive. It's been over eight hours now. I have proficient men searching all the way downward to Green Cape."

Kamar drank deeply, then spat in cloy.

"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. And so no more terrible jokes. It'due south enough that I take 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 8 hours."

Vassikin held out his empty loving cup. "Don't you have something stronger? I know you lot always continue a flask hidden somewhere."

Lyubkhin reached for his hip pocket, merely stopped when the walkie-talkie on his belt began to emit static. Iii brusk bursts.

"Three squawks. That's the signal."

"The indicate for what?"

Lyubkhin hurried downwards the docks, shouting dorsum over his shoulder.

"Three squawks on the radio. It means that the K9 unit of measurement 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, peradventure fifty-fifty America. They were tailored to fit, and made from the highest-quality material.

Though the human being'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 t

heir 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 as well good either."

"Give thanks you, Dr. Mikhael," commented Kamar dryly. "Whatever ID?"

Vassikin conducted a quick thief'due south search. Wallet and watch.

"Nothing. That'southward odd. You lot'd think a rich homo 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 in that location'll be trouble. Keep the currency, I demand everything else."

The sailors considered it. The homo was not big. Only 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 past a Cartier chronograph. Gold with diamond studding. Worth 5 years of an average Russian's wages.

"Wise conclusion," said Kamar scooping upward the treasure trove.

"Well?" asked Vassikin. "Do we proceed 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 fashion our luck's going, he'll take hold of pneumonia. And believe me, we don't want anything to happen to this homo. He's our ticket to the large time."

Kamar was getting excited. This was completely out of character for him. Vassikin clambered to his feet. "Who are you lot calling? Who is this guy?" Kamar picked a number from his speed-dial card. "I'one thousand calling Britva. Who practise y'all call back I'g calling?" Vassikin paled. Even calling the dominate was dangerous.

Britva was well known for shooting the bearers of bad news. "It'due south practiced news, right? You're calling with adept news?" Kamar flipped the Visa at his partner. "Read that." Vassikin studied the carte for several moments. "I don't read Angliiskii. What does information technology say? What's the name?" Kamar told him. A boring grin spread across Mikhael'due south face up. "Make the call," he said.

Chapter 1

Family TIES

The loss of her married man had had a profound outcome 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 2d, washed a deal with the elf Holly Brusk: his mother'due south sanity in return for half the ransom gilt he had stolen from the fairy police. His female parent safely restored, Artemis Junior focused his efforts on locating his male parent, investing large chunks of the family unit 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 e'er more necessary to fund the search for his father.

Angeline, distraught over her son's obsession and agape of the effects of the by twelvemonth on Artemis'south mind, signed her thirteen-year-sometime up for handling with the school counselor.

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

Saint Bartleby's Schoolhouse for Young Gentlemen, County Wicklow, Ireland; Present Day

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

"Now, Principal Fowl, let's talk, shall we?"

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

"Certainly, Md. Permit'southward talk nigh your chair. Victorian?"

Po rubbed the leather arm fondly. "Yep, quite right. Something of a family heirloom. My grandfather acquired it at auction in Sotheby'south. Apparently it one time stood in the palace. The Queen'southward favorite."

A taut smile stretched Artemis's lips peradventure half an inch.

"Really, Doctor. They don't generally allow fakes in the palace."

Po's grip stretched the worn leather. "Fake? I assure you, Master Fowl, this is completely authentic."

Artemis leaned in for a closer examination. "It'south clever, I grant you. But look here."

Po's gaze followed the youth's finger.

"Those furniture tacks. See the crisscross pattern on the head? Automobile tooled. Nineteen twenty at the earliest. Your grandad was duped. But what matter? A chair is a chair. A possession of no importance, eh, Doctor?"

Po scribbled furiously, burying his dismay. "Yep, Artemis, very clever. Just as your file says. Playing your little games. At present shall nosotros become back to y'all?"

Artemis Fowl the Second straightened the crease in his trousers. "At that place is a problem here, Doctor."

"Really? And what might that exist?"

"The problem is that I know the textbook answers to whatsoever question you care to inquire."

Dr. Po jotted in his pad for a full minute. "We do have a problem, Artemis. But that's non information technology," he said eventually.

Artemis nearly smiled. No doubt the doctor would treat him to some other predictable theory. Which disorder would he have today? Multiple personality maybe, or perchance he'd be a pathological liar?

"The trouble is that yous don't respect anyone enough to care for them as an equal."

Artemis was thrown by the statement. This medico was smarter than the rest.

"That's ridiculous. I hold several people in the highest esteem."

Po did not glance up from his notebook.

"Actually? Who, for instance?"

Artemis idea for a moment. "Albert Einstein. His theories were usually correct. And Archimedes, the Greek mathematician."

"What about someone whom you actually know?"

Artemis thought hard. No one came to mind.

"What? No examples?"

Artemis shrugged. "You lot seem to have all the answers, Dr. Po, why don't you tell me?"

Po opened a window on his laptop. "Extraordinary. Every time I read this—"

"My biography, I presume?"

"Yes, it explains a lot."

"Such as?" asked Artemis, interested in spite of himself.

Dr. Po printed off a page.

"Firstly, in that location'south your associate, Butler. A bodyguard, I understand. Hardly a suitable companion for an impressionable boy. And then there's your mother. A wonderful woman in my opinion, just with absolutely no command over your behavior. Finally, there's your father. According to this, he wasn't much of a role model, even when he was alive."

The remark stung, but Artemis wasn't nearly to let the doctor realize how much.

"Your file is mistaken, Doctor," he said. "My male parent is live. Missing perhaps, only alive."

Po checked the sheet. "Really? I was under the impression that he has been missing for almost two years. Why, the courts take declared him legally dead."

Artemis'due south voice was devoid of emotion, though his heart was pounding. "I don't care what the courts say, or the Cerise Cross. He is live, and I will observe him."

Po scratched another note.

"But even if your father were to return, what then?" he asked. "Volition you follow in his footsteps? Will y'all exist a criminal like him? Perhaps y'all already are?"

"My father was no criminal," Artemis said testily. "He was moving all our avails into legitimate enterprises. The Murmansk venture was completely aboveboard."

"You're avoiding the question, Artemis," said Po.

But Artemis had had plenty of this line of questioning. Time to play a petty game.

"Why, Doctor?" said Artemis, shocked. "This is a sensitive area. For all you know, I could be suffering from depress

ion."

"I suppose you could," said Po, sensing a breakthrough. "Is that the case?"

Artemis dropped his face into his hands. "It's my female parent, Doc."

"Your mother?" prompted Po, trying to go along the excitement from his vocalization. Artemis had caused half a dozen counselors to retire from Saint Bartleby'due south already this year. Truth exist told, Po was on the point of packing his own numberless. But now ...

"My mother, she . . ."

Po leaned forward on his imitation Victorian chair. "Your mother, yep?"

"She forces me to endure this ridiculous therapy, when the and then-chosen counselors are little better than misguided do-gooders with degrees."

Po sighed. "Very well, Artemis. Have it your way, simply you are never going to find peace if yous proceed to run away from your problems."

Artemis was spared further analysis by the vibration of his prison cell phone. He had a coded secure line. But one person had the number. The male child retrieved it from his pocket, flipping open up the tiny communicator. "Yes?"

Butler's voice came through the speaker. "Artemis. It's me."

"Obviously. I'm in the middle of something here."

"Nosotros've had a bulletin."

"Yes. From where?"

"I don't know exactly. But it concerns the Fowl Star."

A jolt raced up Artemis'due south spine.

"Where are y'all?"

"The primary gate."

"Good human. I'm on my way."

Dr. Po whipped off his glasses. "This session is non over, young man. We made some progress today, even if you won't acknowledge it. Leave at present, and I volition be forced to inform the dean."

The alarm was lost on Artemis. He was already somewhere else. A familiar electrical buzz was crackling over his peel. This was the beginning of something. He could experience information technology.

CHAPTER 2

CRUISIN' FOR CHIX

The Lower Elements, Haven City, W Depository financial institution

The traditional image of a leprechaun is of a small, green-suited imp. Of form, this is the human image. Fairies take their ain stereotypes. The People mostly imagine officers of the Lower Elements Police Reconnaissance Squad to be truculent gnomes or bulked-upward elves, recruited straight from their higher crunchball squads.

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