Artemis Fowl - Eoin Colfer [1]
Nguyen’s shoulders sagged. “It is true. Amazing.”
“Hardly. A ragged apron does not a waiter make.”
Nguyen sat, pouring some mint tea into a tiny china cup.
“Let me fill you in on the weapons status,” continued Artemis. “I am unarmed. But Butler here, my . . . ah . . . butler, has a Sig Sauer in his shoulder holster, two shrike-throwing knives in his boots, a derringer two-shot up his sleeve, garrotte wire in his watch, and three stun grenades concealed in various pockets. Anything else, Butler?”
“The cosh, sir.”
“Oh, yes. A good old ball-bearing cosh stuffed down his shirt.”
Nguyen brought the cup trembling to his lips.
“Don’t be alarmed, Mister Xuan.” Artemis smiled. “The weapons will not be used on you.”
Nguyen didn’t seem reassured.
“No,” continued Artemis. “Butler could kill you a hundred different ways without the use of his weapons. Though I’m sure one would be quite sufficient.”
Nguyen was by now thoroughly spooked. Artemis generally had that effect on people. A pale adolescent speaking with the authority and vocabulary of a powerful adult. Nguyen had heard the name Fowl before—who hadn’t in the international underworld?—but he’d assumed he’d be dealing with Artemis senior, not this boy. Though the word “boy” hardly seemed to do this gaunt individual justice. And the giant, Butler. It was obvious that he could snap a man’s backbone like a twig with those mammoth hands. Nguyen was starting to think that no amount of money was worth another minute in this strange company.
“And now to business,” said Artemis, placing a micro recorder on the table. “You answered our Web advertisement.”
Nguyen nodded, suddenly praying that his information was accurate.
“Yes, Mister . . . Master Fowl. What you’re looking for . . . I know where it is.”
“Really? And am I supposed to take your word for this? You could be walking me straight into an ambush. My family is not without enemies.”
Butler snatched a mosquito out of the air beside his employer’s ear.
“No, no,” said Nguyen, reaching for his wallet.“Here, look.”
Artemis studied the Polaroid. He willed his heart to maintain a calm beat. It seemed promising, but anything could be faked these days with a PC and flatbed scanner. The picture showed a hand reaching from layered shadows. A mottled green hand.
“Hmm,” he murmured. “Explain.”
“This woman. She is a healer, near Tu Do Street. She works in exchange for rice wine. All the time, drunk.”
Artemis nodded. It made sense. The drinking. One of the few consistent facts his research had unearthed. He stood, pulling the creases from his white polo shirt.
“Very well. Lead on, Mister Xuan.”
Nguyen wiped the sweat from his stringy mustache.
“Information only. That was the agreement. I don’t want any curses on my head.”
Butler expertly gripped the informant behind the neck.
“I’m sorry, Mister Xuan, but the time when you had a choice in matters is long past.”
Butler steered the protesting Vietnamese man to the rented four-wheel drive. It was hardly necessary on the flat streets of Ho Chi Minh City, or Saigon, as the locals still called it, but Artemis preferred to be as insulated from civilians as possible.
The Jeep inched forward at a painfully slow rate, made all the more excruciating by the anticipation building in Artemis’s chest. He could suppress it no longer. Could they at last be at the end of their quest? After six false alarms across three continents, could this wine-sodden healer be the gold at the end of the rainbow? Artemis almost chuckled. Gold at the end of the rainbow. He’d made a joke. Now there’s something that didn’t happen every day.
The mopeds parted like fish in a giant shoal. There seemed to be no end to the crowds. Even the alleyways were full to bursting with vendors and hagglers. Cooks dropped fish heads into woks of hissing oil, and urchins threaded their way underfoot