“You only meant to lure me outside, where I could be snatched and used to trade. Please, Commander Root, raise your game or send someone intelligent.”
Root felt the blood pump through his cheeks.
“Now you just listen to me, you young . . .”
Artemis smiled, in command again. “Not very good negotiation techniques, Commander, to lose your cool before we even get to the table.”
Root took several deep breaths.
“Fine. Whatever you say. Where would you prefer to conduct our talks?”
“Inside, of course. You have my permission to enter, but remember, Captain Short’s life is in your hands. Be careful with it.”
Root followed his host down the vaulted hallway. Generations of Fowls glared down at him from classical portraits. They passed through a stained-oak doorway to a long conference room. There were two places set at a round table, complete with pads, ashtrays, and water jugs.
Root was delighted to see the ashtrays, and immediately pulled a half-chewed cigar from his vest.
“Maybe you’re not such a barbarian after all,” he grunted, exhaling a huge cloud of green smoke. The commander ignored the water jugs, instead pouring himself a shot of something purple from a hip flask. He drank deeply, belched, and sat.
“Ready?” Artemis shuffled his notes, like a news anchor. “Here is the situation as I see it. I have the means to expose your subterranean existence, and you are powerless to stop me. So, basically, whatever I ask for is a small price to pay.”
Root spat out a shred of fungus tobacco. “So, you think you can just put all this information out over the Internet.”
“Well, not immediately, not with the time-stop in effect.”
Root choked on a lungful of smoke. Their ace in the hole. Gone.
“Well, if you know about the time-stop, you must also know that you are completely cut off from the outside world. You are, in effect, powerless.”
Artemis jotted a note on the pad. “Let’s save some time here. I grow weary of your clumsy bluffs. In the case of an abduction, the LEP will first send a crack Retrieval team to get back what has been lost. You have done so. Excuse me while I titter. Crack team? Honestly. A Cub Scout patrol armed with water pistols could have defeated them.”
Root fumed silently, taking out his anger on the cigar butt.
“The next official step is negotiation. And finally, when the eight-hour time limit is about to run out, and if no solution can be reached, a bio-bomb is detonated, contained by the time-field.”
“You appear to know an awful lot about us, Master Fowl. I don’t suppose you’ll tell me how?”
“Correct.”
Root mashed the remains of his cigar into the crystal ashtray.
“So, let’s have it, what are your demands?”
“One demand. Singular.”
Artemis slid his notepad across the polished table. Root read what was written there.
“‘One ton of twenty-four-carat gold. Small unmarked ingots only.’ You can’t be serious.”
“Oh, but I am.”
Root sat forward in his chair. “Don’t you see? Your position is untenable. Either you give us back Captain Short or we will be forced to kill you all. There is no middle ground. We don’t negotiate. Not really. I’m just here to explain the facts to you.”
Artemis smiled his vampire smile. “Oh, but you will negotiate with me, Commander.”
“Oh, really? And what makes you so special?”
“I am special, because I know how to escape the time-field.”
“Impossible,” snorted Root. “Can’t be done.”
“Oh, yes it can. Trust me, I haven’t been wrong yet.”
Root tore off the top page, folding it into his pocket.
“I’ll have to think about this.”
“Take your time. We have eight hours . . . excuse me, seven and a half hours, then time’s up for everybody.”
Root said nothing for a long while, tapping his nails on the tabletop. He took a breath to speak, then changed his mind and stood abruptly.
“We’ll be in touch. Don’t worry, I’ll see myself out.”
Artemis pushed his chair back.
“You do that. But remember this, none of your race has permission to enter here while I’m alive.”
Root stalked down the hallway, glaring back at the oil paintings. Better to leave now and process this new information. The Fowl boy was indeed a slippery opponent. But he was making one basic mistake—the assumption that Root would play by the rules. However, Julius Root hadn’t gotten his commander’s stripes by following any rule book. Time for a bit of unorthodox action.
The videotape from Root’s iris-cam was being reviewed by experts.
“You see there,” said Professor Cumulus, a behavioral specialist—“that twitch. He’s lying.”
“Nonsense,” huffed Dr. Argon, a psychologist from below the United States. “He’s itchy, that’s all. He’s itchy so he scratches. Nothing sinister in it.”
Cumulus turned to Foaly.
“Listen to him. How can I be expected to work with this charlatan?”
“Witch doctor,” countered Argon.
Foaly raised his hairy palms.
“Gentlemen, please. We need agreement here. A concrete profile.”
“It’s no use,” said Argon. “I can’t work in these conditions.”
Cumulus folded his arms. “If he can’t work, neither can I.”
Root strode through the shuttle double doors. His trademark purple complexion was even rosier than usual.
“That human is toying with us. I will not have it. Now, what did our experts make of the tape?”
Foaly moved slightly to the side, allowing the commander a clear run at the so-called experts.
“Apparently they can’t work in these conditions.”
Root’s eyes narrowed to slits, bringing his prey into sharp focus. “Excuse me?”
“The good doctor is a half-wit,” said Cumulus, unfamiliar with the commander’s temper.
“I—I’m a half-wit?” stuttered Argon, equally ignorant. “What about you, you cave fairy? Plastering your absurd interpretations onto the most innocent of gestures.”
“Innocent? The boy is a bag of nerves. Obviously lying. It’s textbook.”
Root slammed a clenched fist on to the table, sending a spiderweb of cracks scurrying across the surface.
“Silence!”
And silence there was. Instantly.
“Now, you two experts are on handsome retainers for your profiling work. Correct?”
The pair nodded, afraid to speak in case that broke the silence rule.
“This is probably the case of your lives, so I want you to concentrate very hard. Understood?”
More nods.
Root popped the camera out of his weeping eye.
“Fast-forward it, Foaly. Toward the end.”
The tape hopped forward erratically. On screen, Root followed the human into his conference room.
“There. Stop it there. Can you zoom in on his face?”
“Can I zoom in on his face?” snorted Foaly. “Can a dwarf steal the web from under a spider?”
“Yes,” replied Root.
“That was a rhetorical question, actually.”