Foaly took a breath. “That was the best-case scenario.”
Commander Root called Holly into his office. The room stank of cigar smoke in spite of the purifier built into the desk. Foaly was already there, his fingers a blur over the Commander’s keyboard.
“The signal originated in London somewhere,” said the centaur. “We only know that because I happened to be looking at the monitor at the time.” He leaned back from the keyboard, shaking his head. “This is incredible. It’s some kind of hybrid technology. Almost like our ion systems, but not quite, just a hair’s breadth away.”
“The how is not important now,” said Root. “It’s the who I’m worried about.”
“What can I do, sir?” asked Holly.
Root stood, walking to a map of London on the wall plasma screen.
“I need you to sign out a surveillance pack, go topside and wait. If we get pinged again, I want someone on site ready to go. We can’t record this thing, but we can certainly get a visual on the signal. As soon as it shows up on the screen, we’ll feed you the coordinates and you can invesigate.”
Holly nodded. “When is the next hotshot?”
Hotshot was LEP-speak for the magma flares that Recon officers ride to the surface in titanium eggs. Pod pilots referred to this seat-of-the-pants procedure as “riding the hotshots.”
“No such luck,” replied Foaly. “Nothing in the pipes for the next two days. You’ll have to take a shuttle.”
“What about the lockdown?”
“I’ve restored power to Stonehenge and our satellite arrays. We’ll have to risk it, you need to get aboveground and we need to stay in contact. The future of our civilization could depend on it.”
Holly felt the weight of responsibility settle on her shoulders. This “future of our civilization” thing was happening more and more, lately.
CHAPTER 3
ON ICE
Knightsbridge
The sonic blast from Butler’s grenade had crashed through the kitchen door, sweeping stainless-steel implements aside like grass stalks. The aquarium shattered, leaving the flagstones slick with water, Plexiglas, and surprised lob-sters. They skittered through the debris, claws raised.
The restaurant staff were on the floor, bound and soaking, but alive. Butler did not untie them. He did not need hysteria right now. Time enough to deal with them once all threats had been neutralized.
An assassin stirred, suspended halfway through a dividing wall. The manservant checked her eyes. They were crossed and unfocused. No threat there. Butler pocketed the old lady’s weapon just the same. You couldn’t be too careful. Something he was learning all over again. If Madame Ko could have seen this afternoon’s display, she would have had his graduation tattoo lasered off for sure.
The room was clear, but still something was bothering the bodyguard. His soldier’s sense grated like two broken bones. Once again Butler flashed on Madame Ko, his sensei from the Academy. The bodyguard’s primary function is to protect his Principal. The Principal cannot be shot if you are standing in front of him. Madame Ko always referred to employers as Principals. One did not become involved with Principals.
Butler wondered why this particular maxim had occurred to him. Out of the hundreds Madame Ko had drummed into his skull, why this one? It was obvious, really. He had broken the first rule of personal protection by leaving his Principal unguarded. The second rule, Do not develop an emotional attachment to the Principal, was pretty much in smithereens too. Butler had become so attached to Artemis that it was obviously beginning to affect his judgement.
He could see Madame Ko before him, nondescript in her khaki suit, for all the world like an ordinary Japanese housewife. But how many housewives of any nationality could strike so quickly that the air hissed? You are a disgrace, Butler. A disgrace to your name. It would better suit your talents to get a job mending shoes. Your Principal has already been neutralized.
Butler moved as though in a dream. The very air seemed to hold him back as he raced for the kitchen doors. He knew what would have happened. Arno Blunt was a professional. Vain, perhaps, a cardinal sin among bodyguards, but a professional, nevertheless. Professionals always inserted earplugs if there was any danger of gunfire.
The tiles were slick beneath his feet, but Butler compensated by leaning forward and digging his rubber-soled toes into the surface. His intact eardrums picked up irregular vibrations from the restaurant. Conversation. Artemis was speaking with someone. Arno Blunt, no doubt. It was already too late.
Butler came through the service door at a speed that would have shamed an Olympian. His brain began calculating odds the moment pictures arrived from his retinas. Blunt was in the act of firing. Nothing could be done about that now. There was only one option. Without hesitation, Butler took it.
In his right hand, Blunt held a silenced pistol.
“You first,” he said. “Then the ape.” Arno Blunt cocked the gun, took aim briefly, and fired.
Butler came from nowhere, he seemed to fill the entire room, flinging himself in the bullet’s path. From a greater distance, the Kevlar in his bulletproof vest might have held, but at point-blank range the Teflon-coated bullet drilled through the vest like a hot poker through snow. It entered Butler’s chest half an inch below the heart. It was a fatal wound.
The bodyguard’s own momentum combined with the force of the bullet sent Butler crashing into Artemis, pinning him to the dessert trolley. Nothing of the boy was visible, save one Armani loafer.
Butler’s breathing was shallow and his vision gone, but he was not dead yet. Even though his brain’s electricity was rapidly running out, the bodyguard held on to a single thought: Protect the Principal.
Arno Blunt drew a surprised breath and Butler fired six shots at the sound. He would have been disappointed with the spread had he been able to see it. But one of the bullets found its mark, clipping Blunt’s temple. Unconsciousness was immediate, concussion inevitable. Arno Blunt joined the rest of his team, on the floor.
Butler ignored the pain squashing his torso like a giant fist. Instead he listened for movement. There was nothing locally, just the scratch of lobster claws on the tiles. And if one of the lobsters decided to attack, Artemis was on his own.
Nothing more could be done. Either Artemis was safe, or he was not. If not, Butler was in no condition to fulfill the terms of his contract. This realization brought tremendous calm. No more responsibility. Just his own life to live, for a few seconds at any rate. And anyway, Artemis wasn’t just a Principal. He was his only true friend. Madame Ko might not have liked this attitude, but there wasn’t much she could do about it now. There wasn’t much anybody could do.
* * *
Artemis had never liked desserts. And yet, he found himself submersed in éclairs, cheesecake, and pavlova. His suit would be absolutely destroyed. Of course Artemis’s brain was only throwing up these facts so he could avoid thinking about what had happened. But a two-hundred-pound dead weight is a hard thing to ignore.
Luckily for Artemis, Butler’s impact had actually driven him through to the trolley’s second shelf, while the bodyguard remained on the ice-cream ledge above. As far as Artemis could tell, the Black Forest Gâteau had cushioned his impact sufficiently to avoid serious internal injury. Still, he had no doubt that a visit to the chiropractor would be called for. Possibly for Butler too, though the man had the constitution of a troll.
Artemis struggled out from underneath his manservant. With each movement, malignant cream horns exploded over him.
“Really, Butler,” grumbled the teenager. “I must begin choosing my business associates more carefully. Hardly a day goes by when we aren’t the victims of some plot.”
Artemis
was relieved to see Arno Blunt unconscious on the restaurant floor.
“Another villain dispatched. Good shooting, Butler, as usual. And one more thing, I have decided to wear a bulletproof vest to all future meetings. That should make your job somewhat easier, eh?”
It was at this point that Artemis noticed Butler’s shirt. The sight knocked the air from his chest like an invisible mallet. Not the hole in the material, but the blood leaking rom it.
“Butler, you’re injured. Shot. But the Kevlar?”
The bodyguard didn’t reply, nor did he have to. Artemis knew science better than most nuclear physicists. Truth be told, he often posted Internet lectures on the subject under the pseudonym Emmsey Squire. Obviously the bullet’s momentum had been too great for the jacket to withstand. Possibly it had been coated with Teflon for extra penetration.
A large part of Artemis wanted to drape his arms across the bodyguard’s frame, and cry as he would for a brother. But Artemis repressed that instinct. Now was the time for quick thinking.
Butler interrupted his train of thought.
“Artemis . . . is that you?” he said, the words coming in short gasps.
“Yes, it’s me,” answered Artemis, his voice trembling.
“Don’t worry. Juliet will protect you. You’ll be fine.”
“Don’t talk, Butler. Lie still. The wound is not serious.”
Butler spluttered. It was as close as he could get to a laugh.
“Very well, it is serious. But I will think of something. Just stay still.”
With his last vestige of strength, Butler raised a hand.
“Good-bye, Artemis,” he said. “My friend.”