The Arctic Incident by Eoin Colfer Page A

you’re still around.”
    Artemis pulled the suit over his clothes; it shrank to fit like a second skin.
    “Clever material.”
    “Memory latex. Molds itself to your shape, within reason. One use only, unfortunately. Wear it and recycle it.”
    Butler clinked over. He was carrying so much fairy weaponry that Foaly had supplied him with a Moonbelt. The belt reduced the effective weight of its attachments to one fifth of the Earth norm.
    “What about me?” asked Butler, nodding at the rad suits.
    Holly frowned. “We don’t have anything that deformed. Latex can only go so far.”
    “Forget it. I’ve been in Russia before. It didn’t kill me.”
    “Not yet it didn’t. Give it time.”
    Butler shrugged. “What choice do I have?”
    Holly smiled, and there was a nasty tinge to it.
    “Oh, I didn’t say there wasn’t a choice.”
    She reached into the locker, pulling out a large spray can. And for some reason, that little can scared Butler more than a bunker full of missiles.
    “Now, hold still,” she said, aiming a gramophone-type nozzle at the bodyguard. “This may stink worse than a hermit dwarf, but at least your skin won’t glow in the dark.”

CHAPTER 8
TO RUSSIA WITH GLOVES
Murmansk, Lenin Prospekt
    Mikhael Vassikin was growing impatient. For over two years now, he’d been on baby-sitting duty. At Britva’s request. Not that it had actually been a request. The term request implied that you have a choice in the matter.
    You did not argue with Britva. You did not even protest quietly. The menidzher , or manager, was from the old school, where his word was law.
    Britva’s instructions had been simple: feed him, wash him, and if he doesn’t come out of the coma in another year, kill him, and dump the body in the Kola.
    Two weeks before the deadline, the Irishman had bolted upright in his bed. He awoke screaming a name. That name was Angeline . Kamar got such a shock, he’d dropped the bottle of wine he’d been opening. The bottle smashed, piercing his Ferrucci loafers, cracking the big toenail. Toenails grow back, but Ferrucci loafers were hard to come by in the Arctic Circle. Mikhael had been forced to sit on his partner to stop him killing the hostage.
    So now they were playing the waiting game. Kidnapping was an established business, and there were rules. First you sent the teaser note, or in this case, e-mail. Wait a few days to give the pigeon a chance to put together some funds, then hit him with the ransom demand.
    They were locked in Mikhael’s apartment on Lenin Prospekt, waiting for the call from Britva. They didn’t even dare to go out for air. Not that there was much to see. Murmansk was one of those Russian cities that had been made by pouring concrete directly into a mold. The only time Lenin Prospekt looked good was when it was buried in snow.
    Kamar emerged from the bedroom. His sharp features were stretched in disbelief.
    “He wants caviar, can you believe it? I give him a nice bowl of stroganina and he wants caviar, the ungrateful Irlandskii .”
    Mikhael rolled his eyes. “I liked him better asleep.”
    Kamar nodded, spitting into the fireplace. “The sheets are too rough, he says. He’s lucky I don’t wrap him in a sack, and roll him into the bay.”
    Then the phone rang, interrupting Vassikin’s empty threats.
    “This is it, my friend,” he said, clapping Kamar on the shoulder. “We are on our way.”
    Vassikin picked up the phone.
    “Yes?”
    “It’s me,” said a voice, made tinny by old wiring.
    “Mister Brit . . .”
    “Shut up, idiot! Never use my name!”
    Mikhael swallowed. The Menidzher didn’t like to be connected to his various businesses. That meant no paperwork and no mention of his name where it could be recorded. It was his custom to make his calls while driving around the city, so his location could not be triangulated.
    “I’m sorry, boss.”
    “You should be,” continued the Mafiya kingpin. “Now listen and don’t talk. You have nothing to