by Paul Adam
‘Cassidy? Not the Half-Pint Houdini?’
‘Yes, that’s me.’ Max had forgotten that he was a minor celebrity. ‘I read a piece you wrote about Clark. I have some information that you might find interesting.’
‘What information?’
‘Not on the phone. I need to meet you in person.’
‘I’m intrigued. When do you want to meet?’
‘Are you free today?’
‘Come to our offices. You know where they are?’
‘I can find them.’
‘I’ll be here until eight tonight.’ The line went dead. Max put the phone away in his pocket.
‘What are you up to, Max?’ Consuela asked suspiciously.
‘I’m taking out an insurance policy,’ Max replied. ‘Would you mind taking care of the travel arrangements again? The air tickets to Borneo? I’ll be back later.’ He looked at Chris. ‘I’d feel safer if you were with me.’
‘You don’t have to ask,’ Chris replied. ‘After what happened in Stockholm, I’m not letting you out of my sight.’
Dan Kingston wasn’t Max’s idea of a newspaper reporter. He’d expected some overweight, red-faced hack with a fifty-a-day cigarette habit and a fondness for malt whisky, but Kingston was small and neat, wearing a smart suit and tie and a pair of round wire-framed glasses that gave his face an owlish appearance. He looked more like an accountant or a librarian than a journalist.
He met them in the ground-floor foyer of the London News Chronicle offices and took them upstairs to the newsroom – a huge open-plan area divided up into smaller workspaces by chest-high partitions. Each workspace contained four or five desks and the same number of computer terminals. Reporters were talking on the phone or working on stories, tapping away on their keyboards; in the central section, where the desks were grouped together in two rows, sub-editors were hunched over screens, designing the layout for the following day’s edition.
Kingston led them across the newsroom to a glass-walled conference room containing a long, polished wooden table and a dozen chairs. The journalist sat down at one end of the table and gestured for Max and Chris to join him.
‘It’s a pleasure to meet you,’ he said to Max. ‘I’ve never seen your show, but I know people who have and they say it’s terrific.’
‘Thanks,’ Max said, shifting uncomfortably in his seat. Compliments always embarrassed him.
‘Your phone call surprised me,’ Kingston went on. ‘Why would Max Cassidy, the teenage escapologist, be interested in Julius Clark?’
Max took a moment to assess the journalist before he replied. He liked the look of Kingston. He had a serious manner and inquisitive, intelligent eyes. Max felt instinctively – as he had with Chief Superintendent Richardson – that he could trust him; that Kingston could keep a secret.
‘That article you wrote about Clark,’ Max said. ‘I read it on the Internet. You seem to know quite a bit about him.’
Kingston pulled a wry face. ‘Well, I wouldn’t say that. No one knows very much about him – no journalist, at any rate. Clark has made sure that his activities aren’t subject to public scrutiny.’
‘You think he has things to hide?’
‘He has a lot of things to hide. Most people who are as wealthy as he is don’t like anyone enquiring about the source of their money. But even by those standards, Clark is exceptionally secretive. He loathes any kind of publicity.’
‘You said in your article that he had lots of different businesses.’
‘He does, though it’s impossible to say how many. He keeps everything very complex so that no outsiders can really see what he’s doing.’
‘And he has powerful friends.’
‘Very powerful friends, yes,’ Kingston agreed.
‘In Britain?’
‘Everywhere he does business.’
‘He pays them?’
Kingston smiled. ‘Some of them.’
‘Bribes?’
Kingston pursed his lips, gazing thoughtfully at Max. ‘I don’t want to patronize you, Max. You’re a teenager, but you seem like a bright kid, quite well clued up about the world. Yes, Clark bribes people. In some countries around the world, that’s how you do business. You pay people off to get what you want. But even in the West, where we think we’re more honest, you can buy influence.’
The journalist paused, glancing from Max to Chris, then back to Max. ‘Why don’t you tell me what this is all about? You said on the phone you had some information for me.’
‘I have,’ Max said. ‘But I’ll only give it to you on the condition that you don’t use it straight away. You can only use it if anything happens to me.’
Kingston blinked behind his glasses. ‘That sounds very melodramatic. Why should anything happen to you?’
‘Because someone’s already tried to kill me,’ Max said.
The journalist stared at him. ‘Kill you? You’re joking! Who? Why?’
‘I don’t know for certain. But Julius Clark is involved, I know that.’
‘Just wait a minute,’ Kingston said. ‘I think we need this on the record. Let me get my notebook and my file on Clark.’ He stood up and left the conference room.
Chris glanced uneasily at Max. ‘I hope you’re doing the right thing here.’
‘We can’t trust the police or the security services,’ Max said. ‘I want someone to know what’s been happening, and I think this guy is the right person.’
Max looked out through the glass wall into the newsroom. Dan Kingston was bending down by a desk, taking a folder out of a drawer. He picked up a few other items from the desktop and came back to the conference room.
‘You don’t mind if I record our conversation, do you?’ he asked as he resumed his seat. ‘I’ll take notes too, but a verbatim record would be useful. I like to get my facts right.’
‘No, I don’t mind,’ Max said.
Kingston placed a small digital recorder on the table, switched it on and adjusted its position so that the microphone was facing Max. Then he opened his notebook to a clean page and picked up his pen. ‘OK, fire away.’
Max collected his thoughts for a couple of seconds, then told the journalist all about Shadow Island: why he’d gone there, what had happened to him, what he’d seen, how he’d escaped – pretty much word for word the same account he’d given Axel Svensson. Kingston listened carefully, taking a few notes but mostly watching Max with a mixture of shock and disbelief registering on his face.
When Max had finished, the journalist sat back and let out a long, deep breath. ‘You know, Max,’ he said, ‘if I didn’t know your name, your reputation, I’d think you were mad. I’ve never heard such an incredible story in my life.’
‘But it’s true,’ Max said.
‘I can corroborate every word of it,’ Chris added. ‘I was there.’
‘Let me get your details down,’ Kingston said.
He made a note of Chris’s name and asked him a few questions about his background and his experiences on the island. Then he turned back to Max.
‘Let’s go over a few things again. You say there were other prisoners on this island. How many?’
‘I don’t know how many had been kept there at one time or another,’ Max replied, ‘but there were a lot of files in Julius Clark’s office. Dozens. We only saw one other prisoner – a man who looked Middle Eastern. I think his name was Arhat Zebari.’
Kingston’s jaw dropped open. He gaped at Max in utter astonishment. ‘Arhat Zebari?’ he repeated.
‘Yes. Have you heard of him?’
In reply, Kingston rummaged in his folder and pulled out a newspaper cutting. He put it on the table and turned it around so that Max and Chris could see it more clearly. It was a black-and-white photograph from an Arabic newspaper. In the foreground was a group of three men standing a few metres in front of an oil derrick. One of the men was Julius Clark.
Kingston pointed with his finger to a second group of people in the background of the photograph – four men standing almost
directly underneath the derrick. ‘Do you recognize a face?’
‘That’s him!’ Max gasped. ‘The one on the left. Isn’t it, Chris?’
Chris leaned closer and nodded. ‘That’s the man we saw on Shadow Island,’ he confirmed. ‘Who is he?’
‘He’s a Kurdish journalist. This photo was taken near Kirkuk, in northern Iraq, earlier this year. Julius Clark was there to oversee the signing of an agreement giving one of his companies a large part of the oil fields in the area. The other two men are the chairman and the chief executive officer of the company, Rescomin International.’
‘Rescomin?’ Chris said sharply. ‘That’s one of Clark’s companies?’
‘Yes,’ Kingston replied. ‘It stands for Resources, Commodities and Minerals. It drills for oil and mines minerals and metals all over the world.’
‘It’s also the company I was monitoring in the Amazon rainforest – for illegally felling trees, clearing the jungle to graze cattle for beef production.’
‘Arhat Zebari’s a journalist?’ Max said.
‘A very good one,’ Kingston said. ‘I spoke to him a few months ago, when I was researching my article on Clark. He was doing similar research, investigating Rescomin’s activities in Iraq.’
‘You haven’t spoken to him since?’
‘He disappeared in the late spring. He hasn’t been seen since. Now I know why.’
‘You believe us then?’ Max said.
‘I believe you. But one thing I don’t get. Julius Clark is a rich, successful man. Why would he be doing any of this?’
‘That’s what we’re going to find out,’ Max said. ‘And that’s why we don’t want you to publish anything yet. It all sounds too unbelievable. We need to collect more information, find evidence to back up our story.’
Kingston nodded. ‘I couldn’t write anything without that, in any case. With a man as powerful as Julius Clark, it would be crazy to publish without cast-iron proof. But can you get it?’
‘We can try.’
The journalist regarded Max with concern – and something else that might have been admiration. ‘You’ve got guts, I’ll give you that,’ he said. ‘But are you sure you’re not biting off more than you can chew? Julius Clark is a formidable opponent.’
‘I know,’ Max said. ‘But it’s too late to worry about that now. He’s hunting my dad, he’s got my mum put in prison for a murder she didn’t commit and he’s tried to kill us. There’s too much at stake for us to give up now. But if anything does happen to me, I’d like you to use what we’ve just told you; make sure Clark doesn’t get away with it. Will you do that?’
Kingston held out his hand. Max took it in his own.
‘Yes, I’ll do that, Max.’
Rupert Penhall was lounging back comfortably at his desk, drinking coffee and reading a sheaf of intelligence reports, when his assistant – a hatchet-faced young man in a grey suit – came into the office and handed him a fax message.
‘This just came through, sir. I thought you’d want to see it immediately.’
Penhall glanced at the sheet of paper and stiffened. He sat up abruptly, tossing the intelligence reports to one side. ‘Thank you, James.’
He waited for the young man to leave the room, then punched a number into his phone. ‘Julius, it’s Rupert. I’ve just had word from my monitoring section. Max Cassidy and Consuela Navarra have booked flights to Borneo. What do you want me to do?’
There was a pause before Clark responded. ‘Do nothing, Rupert,’ he said. ‘Let them go.’
‘But Borneo, that’s—’
‘I know what it is,’ Clark interrupted sharply. ‘I said let them go.’
‘You’re sure you don’t want me to take care of it?’
Clark gave an icy laugh that, even over the phone, made Penhall shiver.
‘You haven’t had much success so far, have you, Rupert? The boy is still at large, still a problem. I think it’s time I stepped in.’
‘You’re going to deal with him?’
‘Oh, yes. Make no mistake about it: I’m going to deal with him.’
SEVENTEEN
The suffocating heat hit Max the moment they stepped off the plane in Kuching. It was so intense it was difficult to breathe. His chest felt tight, as if a very large boa constrictor had wrapped its coils around him and was slowly squeezing him to death. Then, as if that wasn’t bad enough, there was the humidity to deal with. Just seconds after their arrival, Max’s whole body was dripping with sweat. If he’d taken a warm shower fully clothed he could hardly have been much wetter.
Chris saw the expression on his face and grinned. ‘First time in the tropics it’s always like this,’ he said. ‘But you soon get used to it. When I was in the army, the first three weeks in the jungle were hell – leeches sucking your blood, mosquitoes chewing you up alive – but after that you got to love it and never wanted to come out.’
Max grimaced. ‘I hope we’re not here for three weeks.’
They walked across to the small terminal building, collected their baggage and went through immigration and passport control. Max looked on anxiously as the uniformed officer examined his passport. There’d been no problems in Singapore, but he was steeling himself for trouble now they’d landed in Sarawak. Penhall would have had access to the passenger records at Heathrow and would know where they’d gone. It would have been simple for him to contact the Kuching authorities and ask for Max and Consuela to be detained. But the immigration officer clearly hadn’t been instructed to watch out for them. He simply stamped their passports, wished them a pleasant stay and let them through the barrier.
At the information desk on the airport concourse Max asked where they could find Kalimantan Air Charters and was directed out of the building and two hundred metres along the road to a small group of cabins housing businesses linked to the airport – catering services, fuel supplies, car hire and a couple of air charter companies.
Kalimantan Air Charters had the smartest-looking premises – a one-storey wooden shed with a brightly coloured sign over the main door and a plastic replica model of a twin-engined plane sitting on the flat roof as if it were about to take off.
Behind the reception desk inside, a smiling young woman wearing a crisp white dress welcomed them in excellent English and asked how she could help. Max explained that they wanted to charter a plane to take them to Pangkalan Bun. But of course – that would be simple to arrange, the receptionist said, and took out a booking sheet. Max gave her Consuela’s name, then Chris’s alias of Alan Montgomery, spelling them out letter by letter when it became clear that they were unfamiliar to her. Then he gave his own name. He started to spell that out too, and was surprised to see her write it down perfectly without any prompting.
She looked up at him. ‘Cassidy – that must be a common English name, no?’
‘Why do you say that?’ Max asked.
‘We had another Mr Cassidy who chartered one of our planes. A very nice gentleman.’
Max gave a start. ‘His name wasn’t Alexander Cassidy, was it?’ he said.
‘Yes, it was.’ The receptionist gazed at him curiously. ‘You look very like him, actually.’
‘You remember him? You must have a good memory.’
‘Good memory? No, I don’t think so.’
‘But it was more than two years ago.’
The young woman frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
‘Alexander Cassidy chartered a plane two years ago,’ Max said.
The receptionist shook her head. ‘No, not two years ago. It was only last week.’
The room fell so silent that Max thought he could hear the beating of his heart. He stared at the woman. ‘Last week? He chartered a plane last week?’
‘Yes.’ She smiled uncertainly. ‘Is everything all right? This Mr Cassidy, he is a relative?’
‘He’s my father,’ Max said. He leaned across the counter so eagerly that the receptionist shrank back from him, as if she feared he might attac
k her.
‘He chartered a plane last week?’ Max repeated. ‘When last week? Where did he go? You must tell me.’
The woman glanced around nervously. ‘Perhaps I should not have said so much. The information is confidential. I should not talk about other customers.’
‘No!’ Max exclaimed. ‘You can’t do that. I need to know. I need to know now. It’s vitally important.’
Consuela pulled him away from the counter. ‘Take it easy, Max – you’re upsetting her.’
She smiled at the receptionist. ‘I’m sorry, but we really need your help,’ she said sweetly. ‘We’re trying to find Alexander Cassidy. If you have any information about him, please tell us.’
The young woman looked at her, then at Max. ‘Information?’ she said hesitantly.
‘Can you tell us where he went?’
‘Well …’
‘Please.’ Consuela smiled at her again. ‘Wherever it was, we would like to charter one of your planes to take us there too. We’ll pay cash, in US dollars.’
Max took a wad of money out of his pocket and peeled off a few notes. The receptionist eyed the money greedily and seemed to forget her worries about talking to them.
‘He went to Pangkalan Bun,’ she said. She brought out a file and checked through the papers in it. ‘Last Monday. He flew out at two fifteen in the afternoon.’
‘Thank you,’ Consuela said. ‘Do you know where in Pangkalan Bun he was headed? What he was planning to do there?’
‘He didn’t say. You could ask the pilot. He might have told him.’
But the pilot – a slim young Chinese Malay named Sammy Lin – didn’t know either. He flew them south from Kuching in a six-seater Cessna. Max was allowed to sit up front in the cockpit next to Sammy and took the opportunity to ply him with questions. But Alex Cassidy had clearly not been in a talkative mood the previous week.
‘He say nothing,’ Sammy told Max.
‘What, nothing at all?’
The pilot shook his head. ‘He was only passenger. I say he can sit next to me, but he no want to. He sit in back and say nothing the whole trip. He have things on his mind, I think.’
‘He never mentioned why he was going to Pangkalan Bun?’
