|Houx Motel|

  Mulch Diggums was, as of the moment, extremely busy with a task that anyone other than the dwarf probably would have abandoned long ago. However, Mulch was a dwarf was a cause, no matter how self-oriented that cause was. Actually, it was completely self-oriented.

  Mulch was, with a knife, carefully picking out the needle-eye locator that the LEP had installed in his ankle. He had been doing so for the last half-hour and was almost to the point where he could jimmy the microtechnological wonder out. Not yet though. Mulch winced at the sight of the bloody hole in his own foot. Why did the LEP have to go in so deep?

  It had been an elementary thing to do. He had taken a leaf out of Artemis Fowl's book with the proverb Know thine enemy, and had persuaded his jail officer to get him a copy of the LEP standard rules and regulations on the pretext that he was finally breaking down. Textbook in hand, the dwarf had leafed through the pages, carefully marking all laws referring to dangerous convicts. It had been easy. All convicts therefore being released from their prison thereof shalt be marked with a locator surgically installed on their person. It was like taking candy from a baby. Mulch figured that the LEP must have done their dirty business when he'd blacked out on the return shuttle from the Artemis Fowl site. No wonder he'd thought it odd.

   When he was released, he had immediately taken a shuttle to France's surface. He'd "borrowed" a portable scanner from an official's desk and, when he arrived at a motel that seemed suitable, had, in the privacy of his room, proceeded to swipe himself down. When the scanner passed over his ankle, it had gone haywire. Simple as that – and now he was chipping away at his own flesh, removing the locator. If only it wasn't so – Mulch shuddered- darn bloody.

   Ten minutes later, he had cleaned, washed and bandaged his gory battle wound. The now clean, minute locator was set in a glass on the dresser. Mulch stared at it. It was absolutely tiny, only about one half centimeter square. How was it that something so small could be so dangerous to him?

   He blinked. He'd just had an idea – but, of course, it would involve more blood. And gore. Mulch suppressed a shudder. He was a thief, not a surgeon! How long was this going to go on?

|Police Plaza|

Holly cruised down the hallway into the Ops Booth. She wanted to see something.

  She pushed the door open, disturbing Foaly in the middle of what looked to be an equation of squiggly lines and chicken feet. The attractive officer decided to let that slip for the time being and poked the centaur in the back.

  Foaly jumped. "D'arvit, Holly. What d'you need?"

  "Just a whim. Where's our favorite convict right now?"

  Foaly tapped a key and a map popped up on screen, marked in the general European area by a bright red dot.

  "France. In the Houx Motel. He's not doing anything much. Just sitting, probably reveling in his newfound freedom."

   Holly snorted. "Well, if I know Mulch, he won't be sitting around for long doing nothing."

  "Yeah," agreed Foaly. "Not Mulch."

|In the rues of France|

  Mulch dumped the big tomcat next to a garbage can and slipped into a café through the back door. Seated in a booth and lazily waving away some of the cigarette smoke that clouded the air, he recounted what he had just finished, not denying himself a very wide grin of triumph.

  He had picked the tom off of the street and sedated him with an animal tranquilizer again borrowed from a clinic. In his motel room he had preceded to make a small cut in the animal's side, insert the locator, and sew 'er up. Mulch was no neurologist, but he felt that he had done a capital job on the cat. So, now that he was no longer being tracked by the LEP…

  He went outside to a pay phone, slotted in a few coins, and made the call.

|Fowl Manor|

  The phone in Artemis's office purred.

  "Butler?" the teenager called.

  With a slightly amused glance towards his charge's bathroom door, the manservant picked up the receiver and answered.

  "The office of Artemis Fowl. May I help you in any way?"

  Artemis emerged from the bathroom, dressed unusually casually in jeans and a Calvin Klein shirt. Butler gave him a look before returning to the phone.

  "I would like to speak to Master Fowl." The voice was clipped and courteous. The bodyguard didn't recognize it.

  He tapped the phone and mouthed at Artemis, "It's for you."

  With a nod, Artemis took the receiver. "This is Artemis Fowl speaking," he said.

  "Edmund… Manchester," returned the voice on the other end. "I would, if your schedule would allow, to arrange a meeting of sorts. Preferably within the next week or so."

  Artemis frowned. Most – indeed, practically all – businessmen did not take Artemis seriously enough as a genius and possible rival. After all, he was only available during his school holidays, such as now. And this man wanted an appointment?

  It would be rude to refuse. After all, the meeting would take place in Artemis's own house. What could go wrong? The teenager checked his calendar.

  "Would two-thirty on Thursday work?" he asked politely.

  "Sure – pardon me, certainly. Of course. I will arrive at your manor promptly."

  Artemis was about to say some more, but he was interrupted by the dial tone. Mr. Manchester had hung up.

  Artemis closed his eyes and would probably have started to massage his temples if Butler had not intervened.

  "What did he say, Artemis?"

  Artemis told him, finishing with the part that aggravated him most. "And I don't even know what his business is!" he burst out.

  Butler raised his eyebrows, a six-foot-plus pillar of calm. "Well, at least your holiday will be more eventful than you anticipated," he pointed out.

  Artemis opened his mouth, then nodded. "That's true," he admitted.