by Paul Adam
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
The Story so Far
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
About the Author
Also by Paul Adam
Copyright
About the Book
‘Be careful, Max … They will try to destroy you, as they are trying to destroy me …’
His father is missing presumed dead and his mother is serving a twenty-year sentence for his murder, but teenage escapologist Max Cassidy is certain everybody is wrong – about both things … And now, his quest to find the truth has become very dangerous …
Max learns that his dad was part of a secret global organisation, the Cedar Alliance. Desperate to find him alive, he seeks help from the other members of the group. But they are scattered across the world – and then they start disappearing one by one …
For R and J
The story so far …
Fourteen-year-old Max Cassidy is an ordinary schoolboy by day, a daredevil escapologist by night, nicknamed the Half-Pint Houdini.
Two years ago Max’s father, Alexander – also an escapologist – disappeared mysteriously in the Central American country of Santo Domingo. Although Alexander’s body was never found, Max’s mother, Helen, was convicted of his murder and sentenced to twenty years in prison.
Convinced that his father was still alive, Max and his guardian, Consuela, travelled to Santo Domingo to try to track Alexander down. But while they were there, they were captured and taken to a fortress on the sinister Shadow Island, where billionaire tycoon Julius Clark was conducting horrific scientific experiments on prisoners, using a drug called Episuderon.
Max found the names of other prisoners who’d been held captive on the island, including his father, who had apparently managed to escape and then vanished. Using his escapology skills, and helped by another prisoner, Chris Moncrieffe, Max and Consuela got away from Shadow Island and destroyed the fortress. They then found a letter from Max’s father proving conclusively that he was still alive and referring to a mysterious organization named the Cedar Alliance. But what was this Alliance and what was its connection to Alexander Cassidy?
Max has now returned to Britain, where he is determined to continue the search for his dad and prove that his mum is innocent. But his enemies are right behind him – and they will stop at nothing to make sure he does not succeed.
www.rbooks.co.uk
Escapologists like Max undergo years of training before they can try the dangerous stunts like the ones in this book. Random House Children’s Books would like to make it clear that we do not recommend you try any of these stunts yourself.
ONE
Max Cassidy was back in his element, doing what he enjoyed most. He was up on stage, a spotlight illuminating his face, a crowd of spectators watching intently to see what astonishing trick he was going to perform.
Only this time there was one important difference. He wasn’t in a theatre, as he usually was for his shows: he was outside in London’s Hyde Park, standing on a stage that had been erected on the north bank of the Serpentine, the long, snake-like lake that curves across the centre of the park. The audience was in the open air too, sitting on camping chairs or picnic rugs, or sprawled on the grass immediately in front of the stage, the adults drinking wine and beer, the kids eating hot dogs or licking ice creams bought from the bustling food stalls.
It was almost dark – a clear, warm night, the sky speckled with stars. Behind the stage, the waters of the Serpentine were smooth and black, lights glimmering across the surface in silvery streaks.
Max gazed out at the audience, trying to estimate how big it was. One or two thousand, certainly – maybe more. He felt a flutter of butterflies in his stomach. He’d never performed in front of so many people before.
The presenter – a Capital Radio DJ named Jonny Sinclair – was at the microphone, reminding everyone that this was a charity show to raise money for children with leukaemia and that all the artists taking part were giving their services for free. There’d already been a girl band on stage, then two dance groups, a stand-up comedian and a twelve-year-old singer who’d shot to fame on a television talent show. Now it was Max’s turn. He was the last act, the finale of the whole evening’s entertainment.
‘He’s well known to audiences at the London Cabaret Club,’ Jonny Sinclair was saying. ‘If you haven’t seen him before, believe me, you’re in for a treat. Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome fourteen-year-old escapologist Max Cassidy, the Half-Pint Houdini.’
A huge cheer went up across the park as Max stepped over to the microphone. His mouth was dry, his heart pounding. He licked his lips, trying to steady his nerves.
‘Thank you, Jonny,’ he said, and was surprised at how self-assured he sounded over the loudspeakers. ‘It’s great to be here, and to be able to help such a worthwhile cause.’
He could see the eager faces stretching away into the darkness: couples, families, parents with children, teenagers – many of them about his age. Every pair of eyes was fixed on him, a tall, muscular, fair-haired boy who was already establishing a reputation as one of Britain’s most exciting performers. Show us, Max, they seemed to be urging him fervently. Show us what you can do. And whatever it is, make it spectacular.
And spectacular it was going to be.
‘As always,’ Max went on, ‘I can’t do this alone. I need the help of my brilliant Spanish assistant, Consuela.’
He waved his arm, and from the wings of the stage came a slim, dark young woman wearing tight gold trousers and a crimson top, her thick black hair curling over her shoulders. She was pushing a low, wheeled metal platform bearing a wooden trunk big enough to hold a man – or, in Max’s case, a boy. Another cheer went up from the crowd, punctuated by appreciative wolf whistles from some of the more raucous young men. Consuela smiled warmly, unfazed by all the attention, and came to a halt beside Max.
‘A few months ago,’ Max said into the microphone, ‘the Metropolitan Police asked me if I would check out some new handcuffs for them, to see whether they’re completely escape-proof. Well, tonight I’m going to put those handcuffs to the test.’ He looked towards the side of the stage. ‘Would my special guest come out now, please?’
From the shadows in the curtained-off wings, a tall, heavily built man emerged. He was in his fifties, with a balding head and grizzled toothbrush moustache. The crowd applauded politely. No one wolf-whistled this time.
Max shook hands with the man, then said, ‘Will you tell the audience who you are, please?’
‘I am Detective Chief Superintendent John Richardson, of Scotland Yard,’ the man said. ‘I have been a police officer for thirty-five years, the last ten as head of the Criminal Investigation Department of the Metropolitan Police.’
‘So you’ve seen a few villains in your time?’ Max said.
‘More than a few.’
‘Have you something to show us?’
Chief Superintendent Richardson reached into the pocket of his tweed jacket and pulled out a gleaming pair of metal handcuffs.
‘
Would you tell the audience what you’re holding?’ Max said.
‘This is a pair of Conqueror handcuffs, made of titanium steel by Hamshaw and Verney of Sheffield, who claim that they are the toughest, strongest handcuffs ever manufactured. They say that no one could possibly escape from them’ – Richardson’s mouth twitched slyly beneath his moustache – ‘even you.’
Max smiled with quiet confidence. ‘We’ll see about that.’ He held out his hands. ‘Chief Superintendent, would you put the handcuffs on me, please?’
The detective clipped the cuffs around Max’s wrists and made sure they were securely fastened.
‘And the key?’
Richardson held up the key to the handcuffs, then slipped it away into his pocket.
Consuela came forward, lifted up the lid of the wooden trunk and removed a heavy canvas sack.
‘Chief Superintendent,’ Max said, ‘would you take a good look at the trunk? Check that the sides are solid, that there’s nothing hidden inside it.’
The detective examined the trunk, peering closely at the wood, hammering the sides and bottom with his fists, inspecting the hinges and the lock. ‘It seems a good strong wooden box,’ he said. ‘Nothing funny about it.’
‘And will you check this sack too, please? Make sure there are no holes in it, no secret escape slits, no loose stitching.’
Richardson gave the sack a thorough examination. ‘It all seems to be in order,’ he said.
‘Thank you, Chief Superintendent.’
Consuela placed the sack in the bottom of the wooden trunk and spread open the mouth for Max to climb inside.
‘There is a leather drawstring around the top of the sack and a padlock,’ Max said to the detective. ‘When I duck down, I’d like you to pull the drawstring tight above me and secure it with the padlock.’
Max crouched down inside the sack so he was hidden from sight. Chief Superintendent Richardson tightened the drawstring and fastened it with the padlock, then Consuela pushed the loose folds of the sack down into the trunk, closed the lid and locked it.
Two more assistants came out from the wings. They picked up the trunk between them, carried it down the steps at the side of the stage and walked twenty metres along the Serpentine to an open space where the audience had an uninterrupted view of the water. Everyone watched in fascinated silence, intrigued by what was going to happen next.
At the edge of the lake was moored a floating wooden platform, about two metres square. In the centre stood a large black cabinet, about the size of a bedroom wardrobe. The assistants placed the trunk inside the cabinet and closed the doors. Then they retreated and Consuela took over the next part of the act.
She was standing by a console, hidden in the wings of the stage, with the side curtain pulled open a little so that she could see the floating platform. She checked her wristwatch, which had a special dial calibrated in tenths of a second, like an athlete’s stopwatch. Timing was crucial here. She had to get it just right. Wait too long and the stunt would have less of an impact; go too soon and she might put Max in jeopardy. She let the second hand tick round to twelve, then pressed a green button on the control panel in front of her.
Down on the lake, the floating platform began to glide slowly out onto the water, drawn across by an electric motor and a simple arrangement of pulleys and steel wires that had been strung from one side of the Serpentine to the other.
Inside the trunk, Max felt the platform start to move and knew that the clock was ticking; knew that he had twenty-five seconds to free himself before the climax of the act. He was already out of the sack. That bit had been easy: he’d just taken the razor blade that was secreted in the sole of his trainer and sliced through the canvas. Now he was working on the handcuffs, and that was much trickier.
The Conqueror manacles were good, probably the best he’d ever encountered. He very much doubted that any ordinary person, criminal or otherwise, would be able to escape from them. But Max wasn’t an ordinary person and he also had the advantage of having seen a pair of the handcuffs before. Unbeknown to Chief Superintendent Richardson, Max had obtained his own set direct from the manufacturers several weeks earlier, taken them apart to study how the locks worked, then practised incessantly until he could pick them blindfold in under fifteen seconds. This charity show had been organized months ago and he left nothing to chance. Every stage of his stunts was always meticulously planned and executed. It had to be. Escapology was an inherently dangerous business. It was rarely possible to eliminate the risks altogether, but Max always did his utmost to minimize them. Some stunts were relatively safe, but not the one he was performing tonight. If this went wrong, he knew he would be lucky to escape with his life.
How many seconds had passed since the platform had moved away from the shore? Five? Six? Max was still tackling the lock on the left-hand cuff, using a couple of tiny picks he’d concealed in a special slot in the end of his jacket sleeve – where he could always be sure of reaching them. Some manacles only required one pick to crack them, but the Conquerors were so complex they needed two – one to hold open the keyhole, the other to manipulate the tumblers inside.
Max twisted the angled point of the pick deeper into the lock. It was pitch black in the trunk, but that wasn’t a problem. He was used to working blind. The mechanisms of most locks weren’t visible – they were hidden away behind a metal plate – and Max always went by touch and instinct, feeling his way through the process.
How many seconds had elapsed now? Ten, probably more. This was taking longer than it should have done, certainly longer than it had in his practice sessions. Stage nerves – that had to be part of the explanation. Performing outdoors for the first time and in front of such a big audience. His hands were less steady than usual; he was trying to go too fast. But that wasn’t the only reason. It was the cuffs themselves. They were slightly different from the ones on which he’d practised. The lock was stiffer, the tumblers sticky, as if the cuffs had been stored in a damp environment – something that he couldn’t possibly have foreseen. He could crack them, he was sure of that. It was just taking a few seconds too long. Take it easy, he told himself. You’ve plenty of time. Yet he knew he didn’t have plenty of time. He had only another fifteen seconds before— He tried not to think about what was going to happen in fifteen seconds’ time.
Up on the stage, Consuela was looking continually from her watch to the cabinet on the floating platform, which was now ten metres out from the shore. One of the show technicians had a powerful spotlight trained on it, following its progress across the water, illuminating the cabinet so the crowd could see it clearly. Consuela gauged the distance to the middle of the lake – just another few seconds. She glanced at her watch again. Max would be out of the cuffs by now, waiting to make his next move. Wouldn’t he? Consuela felt a sudden flicker of doubt. She had moments like that – strange intuitive moments when she could sense that something was wrong; when Max was in trouble. Her stomach tightened. Are you there, Max? she asked silently inside her head. Talk to me. Just let me know you’re all right.
Click! The last of the tiny tumblers inside the lock snapped back and the cuff came loose. Max tore it off his left wrist and turned his attention to the right-hand cuff. This one would be easier, quicker to tackle now he had one hand free. He eased the first pick into the keyhole, then slid the second one in underneath, probing into the heart of the mechanism. He wasn’t sure how much time he had left. Eight, nine seconds, he thought. That should be enough, provided he was slick and stayed calm. Then he heard the electric motor cut out, felt the float come to a stop. A sudden shiver of fear pulsed through him. He’d run out of time.
Consuela looked out across the lake at the cabinet, lit up in the beam of the spotlight. An eerie silence had descended over the crowd. They were waiting, watching, their gazes locked on the cabinet.
Max knew he had to change his plan. And quickly. The second cuff could wait. Right now, he had to get out of the trunk. Get out fast. He thrus
t the lock picks into his pocket and groped along the side of the trunk, feeling for the concealed catch that opened the sliding panel in the base.
Consuela couldn’t take her eyes off the cabinet. Her pulse was hammering furiously, nausea rising in her throat. What was going on out of sight in the trunk? Was Max OK? The spectators were still waiting patiently, but they wouldn’t wait for ever. She couldn’t delay any longer. She just had to have faith in Max, trust him to get it right. Taking a deep breath, she pressed a red button on the console.
Out on the platform, the shallow, petrol-filled metal troughs that surrounded the cabinet suddenly ignited, sending a wall of fire shooting up into the air. A gasp of surprise reverberated around the crowd, the people recoiling at the explosion. Max was inside the cabinet, in a trunk, handcuffed, locked in a thick sack. He had a reputation for pulling off the impossible, but surely this time he had overstretched himself. No one, not even the Half-Pint Houdini, could possibly survive the inferno that was raging in the middle of the lake.
The cabinet was a roaring ball of fire, almost invisible behind the searing red and yellow flames that hissed and crackled and leaped upwards in smoking tongues, the heat and light reflecting off the surface of the lake so fiercely that some of the audience had to turn their heads away. Other spectators had their eyes tightly shut, a few with their hands over their faces – not just because of the glare, but because they simply couldn’t bear to watch.
Max heard the petrol erupt around him, felt the force of the explosion through the thin sides of the trunk. It was as if he’d been punched in the head. For an instant he was stunned by the shock, unable to move; then he recovered his senses and forced himself into action. The base panel had already slid back, leaving an opening big enough for him to get through. He could feel the rough boards of the platform beneath his hands. In the centre was a small trapdoor on a spring. Max pushed down on it and felt it give way a little. The flames were licking around him now. The trunk was on fire. The acrid stench of petrol stung his nostrils; smoke poured in, scorching his lungs. He felt a sharp pain in his feet and realized his trainers were alight. He took one last breath and hurled himself at the trapdoor, plunging down through the platform and out into the cool embrace of the lake.
