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The Eternity Code
by Eoin Colfer
from the series
Artemis Fowl


Artemis Fowl was almost content. His father would be discharged from Helsinki's University Hospital any day now. He himself was looking forward to a delicious lunch at En Fin, a London seafood restaurant, and his business contact was due to arrive at any moment. All according to plan.

His bodyguard, Butler, was not quite so relaxed. But then again, he was never truly at ease. One did not become one of the world's deadliest men by dropping one's guard. The giant Eurasian man flitted between tables in the Knightsbridge bistro, hiding the usual security items and clearing exit routes.

'Are you wearing the earplugs?' he asked his employer.

Artemis sighed deeply. 'Yes, Butler, though I hardly think we are in danger here. It's a perfectly legal business meeting in broad daylight, for heaven's sake.'

The earplugs were actually sonic filter sponges cannibalized from fairy Lower Elements Police helmets. Butler had obtained the helmets, along with a treasure trove of fairy technology, when one of Artemis's schemes had pitted him against a fairy SWAT team more than a year before. The sponges were grown in LEP labs, and had tiny porous membranes that sealed automatically when decibel levels surpassed safety standards.

'Maybe so, Artemis, but the thing about assassins is that they like to catch you unawares.'

'Perhaps,' replied Artemis, perusing the menu's entrée section. 'But who could possibly have a motive to kill us?'

Butler shot one of the half dozen diners a fierce glare, just in case she might be planning something. The woman must have been at least eighty.

'They might not be after us. Remember, Jon Spiro is a powerful man. He put a lot of companies out of business. We could be caught in a crossfire.'

Artemis nodded. As usual, Butler was right, which explained why they were both still alive. Jon Spiro, the American he was meeting, was just the kind of man who attracted assassins' bullets-a successful IT billionaire with a shady past and alleged Mob connections. Rumor had it that his company, Fission Chips, had made it to the top on the back of stolen research. Of course, nothing was ever proven. Not that Chicago's district attorney hadn't tried. Several times.

A waitress wandered over, smiling a dazzling smile. 'Hello there, young man. Would you like to see the children's menu?'

A vein pulsed in Artemis's temple.

'No, mademoiselle, I would not like to see the children's menu. I have no doubt that the children's menu itself tastes better than the meals on it. I would like to order à la carte. Or don't you serve fish to minors?'

The waitress's smile shrunk by a couple of molars. Artemis's vocabulary had that effect on most people. Butler rolled his eyes. And Artemis wondered who would want to kill him? Most of the waiters and tailors in Europe, for a start.

'Yes, sir,' stammered the unfortunate waitress. 'Whatever you like.'

'What I would like is a medley of shark and swordfish. Pan seared. On a bed of julienned vegetables and new potatoes.'

'And to drink?'

'Spring water. Irish, if you have it. And no ice, please. As your ice is no doubt made from tap water, which rather defeats the purpose of spring water.'

The waitress scurried to the kitchen, relieved to escape from the pale youth at table six. She'd seen a vampire movie once. The undead creature had had the very same hypnotic stare. Maybe the kid spoke like a grown-up because he was actually five hundred years old.

Artemis smiled in anticipation of his meal, unaware of the consternation he'd caused. 'You're going to be a big hit at the school dances,' Butler commented.

'Pardon?'

'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 had made a killing in the stock market. Now, it was communications. He wore his trademark white linen suit, and there was enough jewelry hanging from his wrists and fingers to gold-leaf the Taj Mahal.

Artemis rose to greet his associate.

'Mr. Spiro, welcome.'

'Hey, little Artemis Fowl. How the hell are you?'

(Copyright by Eoin Colfer)


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