Artemis Fowl_ The Arctic Incident - Eoin Colfer [34]
MIKHAEL Vassikin was growing impatient. For over two years now he’d been on babysitting duty. At Britva’s request. Not that it had actually been a request. The term request implied that you had 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 Ferruci loafers and cracking a big toenail. Toenails grow back, but Ferruci 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 the e-mail. Wait a few days to give the pigeon a chance to put some funds together, 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 poured directly from a concrete mould. 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 Irlanskii.’
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 – ’
The phone rang, interrupting his empty threats.
‘This is it, my friend,’ Vassikin 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 if it could be recorded. It was his custom to make calls while driving around the city so that 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 contribute.’
Vassikin covered the handset. ‘Everything’s fine,’ he whispered, giving Kamar the thumbs up. ‘We’re doing a great job.’
‘The Fowls are a clever outfit,’ continued Britva. ‘And I have no doubt they are concentrating on tracing the last e-mail.’
‘But I spiked the last –’
‘What did I tell you?’
‘You said not to talk, Mister Brit… sir.’
‘That’s right. So send the ransom message and then move Fowl to the drop point.’
Mikhael paled. ‘The drop point?’
‘Yes, the drop point. No one will be looking for you there, I guarantee it.’
‘But –’
‘Again with the talking! Get yourself a spine, man. It’s only for a couple of days. So, you might lose a year off your life. It won’t kill you.’
Vassikin’s brain churned, searching for an excuse. Nothing came.
‘OK, boss. Whatever you say.’
‘That’s right. Now listen to me. This is your big chance. Do this right and you move up a couple of steps in the organization.’
Vassikin grinned. A life of champagne and expensive cars beckoned.
‘If this man really is young Fowl’s father, the boy will pay up. When you get the money, dump them both in the Kola. I don’t want any survivors to start a vendetta. Call me if there’s any trouble.’
‘OK, boss.’
‘Oh, and one more thing.’
‘Yes?’
‘Don’t call me.’
The line went dead. Vassikin was left staring at the handset as though it were a handful of plague virus.
‘Well?’ asked Kamar.
‘We are to send the second message.’
A broad