Jon Spiro took a deep, shuddering breath. ‘Not for sale? You brought me across the Atlantic to show me something you’re not going to sell me? What’s going on here?’

Butler wrapped his fingers around the handle of a pistol in his waistband. Arno Blunt’s hand disappeared behind his back. The tension cranked up another notch.

Artemis steepled his fingers. ‘Mister Spiro. Jon. I am not a complete idiot. I realize the value of my Cube. There is not enough money in the world to pay for this particular item. Whatever you could give me, it would be worth a thousand per cent more in a week.’

‘So what’s the deal, Fowl?’ asked Spiro, through gritted teeth. ‘What are you offering?’

‘I’m offering you twelve months. For the right price, I’m prepared to keep my Cube off the market for a year.’

Jon Spiro toyed with his ID bracelet. A birthday present to himself.

‘You’ll suppress the technology for a year?’

‘Correct. That should give you ample time to sell your stocks before they crash, and to use the profits to buy into Fowl Industries.’

‘There is no Fowl Industries.’

Artemis smirked. ‘There will be.’

Butler squeezed his employer’s shoulder. It was not a good idea to bait a man like Jon Spiro.

But Spiro hadn’t even noticed the jibe. He was too busy calculating, twisting his bracelet like a string of worry beads.

‘Your price?’ he asked eventually.

‘Gold. One metric ton,’ replied the heir to the Fowl estate.

‘That’s a lot of gold.’

Artemis shrugged. ‘I like gold. It holds its value. And anyway, it’s a pittance compared to what this deal will save you.’

Spiro thought about it. At his shoulder, Arno Blunt continued staring at Butler. The Fowl bodyguard blinked freely: in the event of confrontation, dry eyeballs would only lessen his advantage. Staring matches were for amateurs.