THE SPIRO NEEDLE, CHICAGO, ILLINOIS, USA

 

JON Spiro took the Concorde from Heathrow to O’Hare International Airport in Chicago. A stretch limousine ferried him downtown to the Spiro Needle, a sliver of steel and glass rising eighty-six storeys above the Chicago skyline. Spiro Industries was located on floors fifty through to eighty-five. The eighty-sixth floor was Spiro’s personal residence, accessible either by private lift or helipad.

Jon Spiro hadn’t slept for the entire journey, too excited by the little cube sitting in his briefcase. The head of his technical staff was equally excited when Spiro informed him what this harmless-looking box was capable of, and immediately scurried off to unravel the C Cube’s secrets. Six hours later he scurried back to the conference room for a meeting.

 ‘It’s useless,’ said the scientist, whose name was Doctor Pearson.

Spiro swirled an olive in his martini glass.

‘I don’t think so, Pearson,’ he said. ‘In fact, I know that little gizmo is anything but useless. I think that maybe you’re the useless one in this equation.’

Spiro was in a terrible mood. Arno Blunt had just called to inform him of Fowl’s survival. When Spiro was in a dark mood people had been known to disappear off the face of the earth, if they were lucky.

Pearson could feel the stare of the conference room’s third occupant bouncing off his head. This was not a woman you wanted angry with you: Pearson knew that if Jon Spiro decided to have him thrown out the window, this particular individual would have no problem signing an affidavit swearing that he had jumped.

Pearson chose his words carefully. ‘This device -’

‘The C Cube. That’s what it’s called. I told you that, so use the name.’

‘This C Cube undoubtedly has enormous potential. But it’s encrypted.’

Spiro threw the olive at his head scientist. It was a humiliating experience for a Nobel Prize winner.

‘So break the encryption. What do I pay you guys for?’

Pearson could feel his heart rate speeding up. ‘It’s not that simple. This code. It’s unbreakable.’

 ‘Let me get this straight,’ said Spiro, leaning back in his ox-blood leather chair. ‘I’m putting two hundred million a year into your department, and you can’t break one lousy code, set up by a kid?’

Pearson was trying not to think about the sound his body would make hitting the pavement. His next sentence would save him or damn him.

‘The Cube is voice-activated, and coded to Artemis Fowl’s voice patterns. Nobody can break the code. It’s not possible.’

Spiro did not respond; it was a signal to continue.

‘I’ve heard of something like this. We scientists theorize about it. An Eternity Code, it’s called. The code has millions of possible permutations and, not only that, it’s based on an unknown language. It seems as though this boy has created a language that is spoken only by him. We don’t even know how it corresponds to English. A code like this is not even supposed to exist. If Fowl is dead, then I’m sorry to say, Mister Spiro, the C Cube died with him.’

Jon Spiro stuck a cigar into the corner of his mouth. He did not light it. His doctors had forbidden it. Politely.

‘And if Fowl were alive?’

Pearson knew a lifeline when it was being thrown to him.

‘If Fowl were alive, he would be a lot easier to break than an Eternity Code.’

 ‘OK, Doc,’ said Spiro. ‘You’re dismissed. You don’t want to hear what’s coming next.’

Pearson gathered his notes and hurried for the door. He tried not to look at the face of the woman at the table. If he didn’t hear what came next, he could kid himself that his conscience was clear. And if he didn’t actually see the woman at the conference table, then he couldn’t pick her out of a line-up.

 

‘It looks like we have a problem,’ said Spiro to the woman in the dark suit.

The woman nodded. Everything she wore was black. Black power suit, black blouse, black stilettos. Even the Rado watch on her wrist was jet black.

‘Yes. But it’s my kind of problem.’

Carla Frazetti was god-daughter to Spatz Antonelli, who ran the downtown section of the Antonelli crime family. Carla operated as liaison between Spiro and Antonelli, possibly the two most powerful men in Chicago. Spiro had learned early in his career that businesses allied to the Mob tended to flourish.

Carla checked her manicured nails.

‘It seems to me that you only have one option: you nab the Fowl kid and squeeze him for this code.’

Spiro sucked on his unlit cigar, thinking about it.

‘It’s not that straightforward. The kid runs a tight operation. Fowl Manor is like a fortress.’

Carla smiled. ‘This is a thirteen-year-old kid we’re talking about, right?’

‘He’ll be fourteen in six months,’ said Spiro defensively. ‘Anyway, there are complications.’

‘Such as?’

‘Arno is injured. Somehow Fowl blew his teeth out.’

‘Ouch,’ said Carla, wincing.

‘He can’t even stand in a breeze, never mind head up an operation.’

‘That’s a shame.’

‘In fact, the kid incapacitated all my best people. They’re on a dental plan too. It’s going to cost me a fortune. No, I need some outside help on this one.’

‘You want to contract the job to us?’

‘Exactly. But it’s got to be the right people. Ireland is an old-world kind of place. Wise guys are going to stick out a mile. I need guys who blend in and can persuade a kid to accompany them back here. Easy money.’

Carla winked. ‘I read you, Mister Spiro.’

‘So, you got guys like that? Guys who can take care of business without drawing attention to themselves?’

‘The way I see it, you need a metal man and a monkey?’

Spiro nodded, familiar with Mob slang. A metal man carried the gun, and a monkey got into hard-to-reach places.

‘We have two such men on our books. I can guarantee they won’t attract the wrong kind of attention in Ireland. But it won’t be cheap.’

‘Are they good?’ asked Spiro.

Carla smiled. One of her incisors was inset with a tiny ruby.

‘Oh, they’re good,’ she replied. ‘These guys are the best.’

 

THE METAL MAN

 

THE INK BLOT TATTOO PARLOUR,

DOWNTOWN CHICAGO

 

Loafers McGuire was having a tattoo done. A skull’s head in the shape of the ace of spades. It was his own design and he was very proud of it. So proud, in fact, that he’d wanted the tattoo on his neck. Inky Burton, the tattooist, managed to change Loafers’ mind, arguing that neck tattoos were better than a name tag when the cops wanted to ID a suspect. Loafers relented. ‘OK,’ he’d said. ‘Put it on my forearm.’

Loafers had a tattoo done after every job. There wasn’t much skin left on his body that still retained its original colour. That was how good Loafers McGuire was at his job.

Loafers’ real name was Aloysius, and he hailed from the Irish town of Kilkenny. He’d come up with the nickname Loafers himself, because he thought it sounded more Mob-like than Aloysius. All his life, Loafers had wanted to be a mobster, just like in the movies. When his efforts to start a Celtic mafia had failed Loafers came to Chicago.

The Chicago Mob welcomed him with open arms. Actually, one of their enforcers grabbed him in a bear-hug. Loafers sent the man and six of his buddies to the Mother of Mercy Hospital. Not bad for a guy five feet tall. Eight hours after stepping off the plane, Loafers was on the payroll.

And here he was, two years and several jobs later, already the organization’s top metal man. His specialities were robbery and debt collection. Not the usual line of work for five-footers. But then, Loafers was not the usual five-footer.

Loafers leaned back in the tattooist’s adjustable chair.

‘You like the shoes, Inky?’

Inky blinked sweat from his eyes. You had to be careful with Loafers. Even the most innocent question could be a trap. One wrong answer and you could find yourself making your excuses to Saint Peter.

‘Yeah. I like ‘em. What are they called?’

‘Loafers!’ snapped the tiny gangster. ‘Loafers, idiot. They’re my trademark.’

‘Oh yeah, loafers. I forgot. Cool, havin’ a trademark.’

Loafers checked the progress on his arm.

‘You ready with that needle yet?’

‘Just ready,’ replied Inky. ‘I’m finished painting on the guidelines. I just gotta put in a fresh needle.’

‘It’s not gonna hurt, is it?’

Of course it is, moron, thought Inky. I’m sticking a needle in your arm.

But out loud he said, ‘Not too much. I gave your arm a swab of anaesthetic.’

‘It better not hurt,’ warned Loafers. ‘Or you’ll be hurting shortly afterwards.’

Nobody threatened Inky except Loafers McGuire. Inky did all the Mob’s tattoo work. He was the best in the state.

Carla Frazetti pushed through the door. Her black-suited elegance seemed out of place in the dingy establishment.

‘Hello, boys,’ she said.

‘Hello, Miss Carla,’ said Inky, blushing deeply. You didn’t get too many ladies in the Ink Blot.

Loafers jumped to his feet. Even he respected the boss’s god-daughter.

‘Miss Frazetti. You could have beeped me. No need for you to come down to this dump.’

‘No time for that. This is urgent. You leave straight away.’

 

‘I’m leaving? Where am I going?’

‘Ireland. Your Uncle Pat is sick.’

Loafers frowned.

‘Uncle Pat? I don’t have an Uncle Pat.’

Carla tapped the toe of one stiletto. ‘He’s sick, Loafers. Real sick, if you catch my drift.’

Loafers finally caught on. ‘Oh, I get it. So I gotta pay him a visit.’

‘That’s it. That’s exactly how sick he is.’

Loafers used a rag to clean the ink off his arm. ‘OK, I’m ready. Are we going straight to the airport?’ Carla linked the tiny gangster.

‘Soon, Loafers. But first we need to pick up your brother.’

‘I don’t have a brother,’ protested Loafers.

‘Of course you do. The one with the keys to Uncle Pat’s house. He’s a regular little monkey.’

‘Oh,’ said Loafers. ‘That brother.’

 

Loafers and Carla took the limo out to the East Side. Loafers was still in awe of the sheer size of American buildings.   In   Kilkenny  there  was   nothing  over  five storeys, and Loafers himself had lived all his life in a suburban bungalow. Not that he would ever admit that to his Mob friends. For their benefit he had reinvented himself as an orphan, who spent his youth in and out of various remand homes.

‘Who’s the monkey?’ he asked.

Carla  Frazetti  was  fixing her jet-black hair  in  a compact mirror. It was short and slicked back.

‘A new guy. Mo Digence. He’s Irish, like you. It makes things very convenient. No visas, no papers, no elaborate cover story. Just two short guys home for the holidays.’

Loafers bristled.

‘What do you mean two short guys?’

Carla snapped the compact shut.

‘Who are you talking to, McGuire? Because you couldn’t be talking to me. Not in that tone.’

Loafers paled, his life flashing before him.

‘I’m sorry, Miss Frazetti. It’s just the short thing. I’ve been listening to it my whole life.’

‘What do you want people to call you? Lofty? You’re short, Loafers. Get over it. That’s what gives you your edge. My godfather always says there’s nothing more dangerous than a short guy with something to prove. That’s why you’ve got a job.’

‘I suppose.’

Carla patted him on the shoulder.

‘Cheer up, Loafers. Compared to this guy, you’re a regular giant.’

Loafers perked up considerably. ‘Really? Just how short is Mo Digence?’

‘He’s short,’ said Carla. ‘I don’t know the exact centimetres, but any shorter and I’d be changing his diaper and stuffing him in a stroller.’

Loafers grinned. He was going to enjoy this job.

 

THE MONKEY

 

Mo Digence had seen better days. Less than four months ago he had been living it up in a Los Angeles penthouse with over a million dollars in the bank. But now his funds had been frozen by the Criminal Assets Bureau and he was working for the Chicago Mob on a commission basis. Spatz Antonelli was not known for the generosity of his commissions. Of course, Mo could always leave Chicago and go back to LA, but there was a police task force there with his name on it, just waiting for him to return to the scene of the crime. In fact, there was no safe haven for Mo above ground or below it, because Mo Digence was actually Mulch Diggums, kleptomaniac dwarf and fugitive from the LEP.

Mulch was a tunnel dwarf, who decided that a life in the mines was not for him and put his mining talents to another use: namely, relieving Mud People of their valuables and selling them on the fairy black market. Of course, entering another’s dwelling without permission meant forfeiting your magic, but Mulch didn’t care. Dwarfs didn’t have much power anyway, and casting spells had always made him nauseous.

Dwarfs have several physical features that make them ideal burglars. They can dislocate their jaws, ingesting several kilos of soil a second. It is stripped of any beneficial minerals, then ejected at the other end. They have also developed the ability to drink through their pores, an attribute that can be very handy during cave-ins. It also transforms the pores into living suction cups, a convenient tool in any burglar’s arsenal. Finally, dwarf hair is actually a network of living antennae, similar to feline whiskers, which can do everything from trap beetles to bounce sonar waves off a tunnel wall.

Mulch had been a rising star in the fairy underworld -until Commander Julius Root got hold of his file. Since then, he had spent over three hundred years in and out of prison. He was currently on the run for stealing several gold bars from the Holly Short ransom fund. There was no safe haven below ground any more, even among his own kind. So Mulch was forced to pass himself off as human, and take whatever work he could get from the Chicago Mob.

There were hazards associated with impersonating a human. Of course, his size drew attention from everyone who happened to glance downwards. But Mulch quickly discovered that Mud People could find a reason to distrust almost anyone. Height, weight, skin colour, religion. It was almost safer to be different in some way.

The sun was a bigger problem. Dwarfs are extremely photosensitive, with a burn time of less than three minutes. Luckily, Mulch’s job generally involved night work, but when he was forced to venture abroad in daylight hours the dwarf made certain that every centimetre of exposed skin was covered with long-lasting sun block.

Mulch had rented a basement apartment in an early twentieth-century brownstone. It was a bit of a fixer-upper, but this suited the dwarf just fine. He stripped out the floorboards in the bedroom, dumping two tons of topsoil and fertilizer on to the rotten foundations. Mould and damp already clung to the walls, so no need to remodel anything there. In a matter of hours, insect life was thriving in the room. Mulch would lie back in his pit and snag cockroaches with his beard hair. Home sweet home. Not only was the apartment beginning to resemble a tunnel cave, but if the LEP came a callin’, he could be fifty metres below ground in the blink of an eye.

In the coming days, Mulch would come to regret not taking that route as soon as he heard the knock at the door.

 

There was a knock at the door. Mulch crawled out of his tunnel bed and checked the video buzzer. Carla Frazetti was checking her hair in the brass knocker.

The boss’s god-daughter? In person. This must be a big job. Perhaps the commission would be enough to set him up in another state. He’d been in Chicago for nearly three months now, and it was only a matter of time before the LEP picked up his trail. He would never leave the US though. If you had to live above ground, it might as well be somewhere with cable TV and a lot of rich people to steal from.

Mulch pressed the intercom panel.

‘Just a minute, Miss Frazetti, I’m getting dressed.’

‘Hurry it up, Mo,’ snapped Carla, her voice crackly through the cheap speakers. ‘I’m getting old here.’

Mulch threw on a robe he had fashioned from old potato sacks. He found the texture of the cloth, reminiscent of Haven Penitentiary pyjamas, to be weirdly comforting. He gave his beard a quick comb to dislodge any straggling beetles, and answered the door.

Carla Frazetti swept past him into the lounge, settling into the room’s only armchair. There was another person on the doorstep, hidden beneath the camera’s field. Mulch made a mental note. Redirect the CCTV lens. A fairy could sneak right in under it, even if he or she wasn’t shielded.

The man gave Mulch a dangerous squint. Typical Mob behaviour. Just because these people were murdering gangsters, didn’t mean they had to be rude.

‘Don’t you have another chair?’ asked the small human, following Miss Frazetti into the lounge.

Mulch closed the door. ‘I don’t get many visitors. Actually, you’re the first. Usually Bruno beeps me and I come into the chop shop.’

Bruno the Cheese was the Mob’s local supervisor. He ran his business from a local hot-car warehouse. Legend had it that he hadn’t been out from behind his desk during work hours in fifteen years.

‘Quite a look you’ve got going here,’ said Loafers sarcastically. ‘Mould and woodlice. I like it.’

Mulch ran a fond finger along a green strip of damp. ‘That mould was just sitting behind the wallpaper when I moved in. Amazing what people cover up.’

Carla Frazetti took a bottle of White Petals perfume from her bag and sprayed the air around her person.

‘OK, enough conversation. I have a special job for you, Mo.’

Mulch forced himself to stay calm. This was his big chance. Maybe he could find a nice damp hell hole and settle down for a while.

‘Is this the kind of job where there’s a big pay-off if you do it right?’

‘No,’ replied Carla. ‘This is the kind of job where there’s a painful pay-off if you do it wrong.’

Mulch sighed. Didn’t anyone talk nicely any more?

‘So why me?’ he asked.

Carla Frazetti smiled, her ruby winking in the gloom.

‘I’m going to answer that question, Mo. Even though I’m not used to explaining myself to the hired help. Especially not a monkey like yourself.’

Mulch swallowed. Sometimes he forgot how ruthless these people were. Never for long.

 ‘You’ve been chosen for this assignment, Mo, because of the outstanding job you did with that Van Gogh.’

Mulch smiled modestly. The museum alarm had been child’s play. There hadn’t even been any dogs.

‘But also because you have an Irish passport.’

A gnome fugitive hiding out in NYC had run him up some Irish papers on a stolen LEP copier. The Irish had always been Mulch’s favourite humans, so he had decided to be one. He should have known it would lead to trouble.

‘This particular job is in Ireland, which might be a problem, generally. But for you two it’ll be like a paid holiday.’

Mulch nodded at Loafers. ‘Who’s the mutt?’

Loafers’ squint narrowed. Mulch knew that if Miss Frazetti gave the word, the man would kill him on the spot.

‘The mutt is Loafers McGuire, your partner. He’s a metal man. It’s a two-tiered job. You open the doors. Loafers escorts the mark back here.’

Escorting the mark. Mulch understood what that term meant, and he didn’t want any part of it. Robbery was one thing, but kidnapping was another. Mulch knew that he couldn’t actually turn down this assignment. What he could do was ditch the metal man at the first opportunity and head to one of the southern states. Apparently Florida had some lovely swamps.

 ‘So, who’s the mark?’ said Mulch, pretending that it mattered.

‘That’s need-to-know information,’ said Loafers.

‘And let me guess, I don’t need to know.’

Carla Frazetti pulled a photograph from her coat pocket.

‘The less you know, the less you have to feel guilty about. This is all you need. The house. This photograph is all we have for the moment; you can case the joint when you get there.’

Mulch took the photo. What he saw on the paper hit him like a gas attack. It was Fowl Manor. Therefore Artemis was the target. This little psychopath was being sent to kidnap Artemis.

Frazetti sensed his discomfort. ‘Something wrong, Mo?’

Don’t let it show on your face, thought Mulch. Don’t let them see.

‘No. It’s . . . eh . . . That’s quite a set-up. I can see alarm boxes and outdoor spots. It’s not going to be easy.’

‘If it was easy, I’d do it myself,’ said Carla.

Loafers took a step forward, looking down at Mulch. What’s the matter, little man? Too tough for you?’

Mulch was forced to think on his feet. If Carla Frazetti thought he wasn’t up to the job, then they would send somebody else. Somebody with no qualms about leading the Mob to Artemis’s door. Mulch was surprised to realize that he couldn’t let that happen. The Irish boy had saved his life during the goblin rebellion, and was the closest thing he had to a friend — which was pretty pathetic when you thought about it. He had to take the job, if only to make sure that it didn’t go according to plan.

‘Hey, don’t worry about me. A building hasn’t been built that Mo Digence can’t crack. I just hope Loafers is man enough for the job.’

Loafers grabbed the dwarf by the lapels. ‘What’s that supposed to mean, Digence?’

Mulch generally avoided insulting people who were likely to kill him, but it might be useful to establish Loafers as a hothead now. Especially if he was going to blame him for things going wrong later.

‘It’s one thing being a midget monkey, but a midget metal man? How good can you be at close quarters?’

Loafers dropped the dwarf and ripped open his shirt to reveal a chest rippling with a tapestry of tattoos.

‘That’s how good I am, Digence. Count the tattoos. Count ‘em.’

Mulch shot Miss Frazetti a loaded look. The look said: You’re going to trust this guy?

‘That’s enough!’ said Carla. ‘The testosterone in here is starting to stink worse than the walls. This is a very important job. If you two can’t handle it, I’ll bring in another team.’

Loafers buttoned his shirt. ‘OK, Miss Frazetti. We can handle it. This job is as good as done.’

Carla stood, brushing a couple of centipedes from the hem of her jacket. The insects didn’t bother her unduly. She’d seen a lot worse in her twenty-five years.

‘Glad to hear it. Mo, put some clothes on and grab your monkey kit. We’ll wait in the limo.’

Loafers poked Mulch in the chest. ‘Five minutes. Then we’re coming in to get you.’

Mulch watched them go. This was his last chance to duck out. He could chew through the bedroom foundations and be on a southbound train before Carla Frazetti knew he was gone.

Mulch thought about it seriously. This kind of thing was totally against his nature. It wasn’t that he was a bad fairy, it was simply that he wasn’t accustomed to helping other people. Not unless there was something in it for him. Deciding to help Artemis Fowl was a completely selfless act. Mulch shuddered. A conscience was the last thing he needed right now. Next thing you knew, he’d be selling cookies for the Girl Guides.