"Artemis Fowl 02 - The Arctic Incident" - читать интересную книгу автора (Colfer Eoin)

Holly fired up all four flight engines, tumbling the shuttle into the abyss. Her worries evaporated like the eddies of mist swirling around the cockpit. It was a fly-boy thing. The lower you went without pulling out of the dive, the tougher you were. Even the fiery demise of Retrieval Officer Bom Arbles couldn't stop the LEP pilots core diving. Holly held the current record. Five hundred metres from the Earth's core before dipping the flaps. That had cost her two weeks' suspension, plus a hefty fine.
Not today though. No records in a slammer. With the g-force rippling the skin on her cheeks, Holly dragged the joysticks back, pulling the nose out of vertical. It gave her no small satisfaction to hear both humans sigh with relief.
'OK, Foaly, we're on the up 'n' up. What's the situation above ground?'
She could hear Foaly tapping a keyboard. 'Sorry, Holly. I can't get a lock on any of our surface equipment. Too much radiation from the last flare. You're on your own. Holly eyed the two pale humans in the cockpit. On my own, she thought. I wish.

PARIS, FRANCE

So, if Artemis wasn't the human helping Cudgeon in his quest to arm the B'wa Kell, who was? Some tyrannical dictator? Perhaps a disgruntled general with access to an unlimited supply of power cells? Well, no. Not exactly.
Luc Carrere was responsible for selling batteries to the B'wa Kell. Not that you'd know it to look at him. In fact, he didn't even know it himself. Luc was a small-time French private eye, who was well known for his inefficiency. In PI circles, it was said that Luc couldn't trace a golf ball in a barrel of mozzarella.
Cudgeon decided to use Luc for three reasons. One, Foaly's files showed that Carrere had a reputation as a wheeler-dealer. In spite of his ineptness as an investigator, Luc had a knack for laying his hand on whatever it was the client wanted to buy. Two, the man was greedy and had never been able to resist the lure of easy money. And three, Luc was stupid. And as every little fairy knows, weak minds are easier to mesmerize.
The fact that he had located Carrere in Foaly's database was nearly enough to make Cudgeon smile. Of course, Briar would have preferred not to have any human link in the chain. But a chain comprised completely of goblin links is one dumb chain.
Establishing contact with any Mud Man was not something Cudgeon took lightly. Deranged as he was, Briar was well aware of what would happen if the humans got wind of a new market below ground. They would swarm to the Earth's core like an army of red-backed flesh-eating ants. Cudgeon was not ready to meet the humans head on. Not yet. Not until he had the might of the LEP behind him.
So instead, Cudgeon sent Luc Carrere a little package. First class, shielded goblin mail ...
Luc Carrere had shuffled into his office apartment' one July evening to find a small parcel lying on his desk. The package was nothing more than a FedEx delivery. Or something that looked very much like a FedEx delivery.
Luc slit the tape. Inside the box, cushioned on a nest of hundred-euro bills, was a small flat device of some kind. Like a portable CD player, but made from a strange black metal that seemed to absorb light. Luc would have shouted to reception and instructed his secretary to hold all calls. If he had had a reception. If he had had a secretary. Instead the PI began stuffing cash down his grease-stained shirt as though the notes would disappear.
Suddenly, the device popped open, clam-like, revealing a micro-screen and speakers. A shadowy face appeared on the display. Though Luc could see nothing but a pair of red-rimmed eyes, that was enough to set goose bumps popping across his back.
Funny though, because when the face began to speak, Luc's worries slid away like an old snakeskin. How could he have been worried?This person was obviously a friend. What a lovely voice. Like a choir of angels, all on its own.
'Luc Carrere?'
Luc nearly cried. Poetry.
'Oui. It's me.'
'Bonsoir. Do you see the money, Luc? It's all yours.' Sixty miles below ground, Cudgeon almost smiled. This was easier than expected. He had been worried that the dribble of power left in his brain wouldn't be sufficient to mesmerize the human. But this particular Mud Man seemed to have the will-power of a hungry hog faced with a trough of turnips.
Luc held two wads of cash in his fists. 'This money. It's mine? What do I have to do?'
'Nothing. The money is yours. Do whatever you want.'
Now Luc Carrere knew that there was no such thing as free cash, but that voice ... That voice was truth in a micro-speaker.
'But there's more. A lot more.'
Luc stopped what he was doing, which was kissing a hundred-euro bill. 'More? How much more?'
The eyes seemed to glow crimson. 'As much as you want, Lac. But to get it, I need you to do me a favour.'
Luc was hooked. 'Sure. What kind of favour?'
The voice emanating from the speaker was as clear as spring water. 'It's simple, not even illegal. I need batteries, Luc. Thousands of batteries. Maybe millions. Do you think you can get them for me?'
Luc thought about it for about two seconds. The banknotes were tickling his chin. As a matter of fact, he had a contact on the river who regularly shipped boatloads of hardware to the Middle East, including batteries. Luc was confident that some of those shipments could be diverted.
'Batteries. Oui, certainment, I could do that.'
And so it went on for several months. Luc Carrere hit his contact for every battery he could lay his hands on. It was a sweet deal. Luc would crate the cells up in his apartment and in the morning they would be gone. In their place would sit a fresh pile of bills. Of course, the euros were fake, run off on an old Koboi printer, but Luc couldn't tell the difference. Nobody outside the Treasury could.
Occasionally, the voice on the screen would make a special request. Some fire suits, for example. But hey, Luc was a player now. Nothing was more than a phone call away. In six months, Luc Carrere went from a one-room studio to a fancy loft apartment in St Germain. So naturally, the Surete and Interpol were building separate cases against him. But Luc wasn't to know that. All he knew was that for the first time in his corrupt life, he was riding the gravy train.
One morning there was another parcel on his new marble-topped desk. Bigger this time. Bulkier. But Luc wasn't worried. It was probably more money.
Luc popped the top to reveal an aluminium case and a second communicator. The eyes were waiting for him.
'Bonjour, Luc. fa ra?'
'Bien,' replied Luc, mesmerized from the first syllable.
'I have a special assignment for you today. Do this right and you will never have to worry about money again. Your tool is in the case.'
'What is it?' asked the PI nervously. The instrument looked like a weapon and, even though Luc was mesmerized, Cudgeon did not have enough magic to completely suppress the Parisian's nature. The PI may have been devious, but he was no killer.
'It's a special camera, Luc, that's all. If you pull that thing that looks like a trigger, it takes a picture,' said Cudgeon.
'Oh,' said Luc Carrere blearily.
'Some friends of mine are coming to visit you. And I want you to take their picture. It's just a game we play.'
'How will I know your friends?' asked Luc. 'A lot of people visit me.'
'They will ask about the batteries. If they ask about the batteries, then you take their picture.'
'Sure. Great.' And it was great. Because the voice would never make him do anything wrong. The voice was his friend.

E37 SHUTTLE PORT

Holly steered the slammer through the chute's final section. A proximity sensor in the shuttle's nose set off the landing lights.
'Hmm,' muttered Holly.