by Paul Adam
Contents
Cover
About the Book
Title Page
Dedication
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
Also by Paul Adam
Praise
Copyright
About the Book
Max Cassidy now knows for sure that his mother did not kill his father, and his father is still alive …
But there are people very determined to prevent Max from discovering the truth – people who want him dead.
In this, the final instalment of the thrilling Max Cassidy sequence, Max travels across the world; from London to San Francisco to Russia in his dangerous quest to be reunited with his family.
For R and J
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
THE VIEW FROM the west walkway of Tower Bridge had to be the best in London. There were higher viewpoints, more central ones, but few of them gave such a magnificent panorama of the city.
From where Max stood, he could look down on the Tower of London, the union flag gusting in the breeze above the White Tower, then as his eyes scanned west, following the north bank of the Thames, he could see the shimmering glass skyscrapers of the financial district, the dome of St Paul’s Cathedral and, far away on the horizon, the tall, thin shape of the Telecom Tower, its top hazy in the summer heat.
The south bank of the river was less impressive – the circular skeleton of the London Eye just visible in the distance, then nondescript office blocks and apartments until you reached City Hall, with its curving glass façade that was like a huge car headlight beaming out over the Thames.
But what was unique about Tower Bridge, that made its view so special, was that you were directly over the river. Max could look upstream to where HMS Belfast was moored, then beyond that to London Bridge and Cannon Street Bridge, across which a locomotive, appearing no bigger than a child’s model train, was pulling a long line of carriages.
He diverted his gaze to the banks of the river. The north embankment, by the Tower of London, was crowded with people, and there were more on the approaches to the bridge and on the south bank, clustered tightly together on the lawns and steps outside City Hall. There were people out on the water too, lining the decks of tourist cruisers and pleasure boats which had formed a flotilla stretching right across the Thames. In all, there must have been five or six thousand spectators. Max felt a flutter of nerves in his stomach as he reminded himself that they were here to see him – to see Max Cassidy, the Half-Pint Houdini, perform one of his spectacular stunts.
He craned his neck out of the walkway window and looked straight down at the cloudy, brown waters of the Thames, forty metres below him. He braced himself mentally for what was about to happen. In just a short while, he was going to be handcuffed, sealed inside a large wooden crate and lowered into the river. Not for the first time in his escapology career, Max wondered whether he was quite right in the head.
‘Max, are you ready?’
He turned and saw his Spanish stage assistant, Consuela, coming towards him, her long, dark hair swinging around her shoulders, the light catching the sequins on her vivid red and gold top. She studied him closely.
‘Are you all right? You look tense.’
‘I’ve just had enough of this waiting around,’ Max said. ‘I want to get on with it.’
‘The waiting’s almost over,’ Consuela replied. ‘They’ve got the crate finished and the mayor is on his way across from City Hall.’ She smiled at him and gave his arm a reassuring squeeze. ‘Everything’s going to be OK, don’t you worry.’
Max nodded, trying to smile back, but feeling too much on edge to manage more than a brief twitch of the lips. He wasn’t enjoying this experience, wasn’t really sure he should be performing such a high-profile stunt at this time. After all the terrifying things that had happened to him over the past few weeks he knew it would be wiser to keep out of sight and avoid trouble. But he’d agreed to the stunt nine months earlier and signed a contract to do it. Tower Bridge had been closed to traffic, the event had been widely publicized, it was going to be on television and all those spectators down below had come to see him. If he pulled out now, he would probably be sued for thousands of pounds. Worse, he’d be letting down the public and tarnishing his image. The bad publicity would almost certainly finish his career as a performer.
But there was another reason why Max wanted to carry out this stunt, despite his fears for his own safety. He saw it as a gesture of defiance to his enemies, the people who’d tried to kill him. It was his way of showing them that he wasn’t afraid, that he wasn’t going to hide.
‘Shall we go?’ Consuela asked softly.
Max took a deep breath. This was the moment he’d been preparing himself for over the past few years. All those hours he’d spent in the basement of his house, practising picking locks, getting out of handcuffs, keeping fit: this was where that hard work paid off. Everything had been building towards this one important day, when he finally got to show the whole world what he could do.
He nodded. ‘OK, I’m ready.’
They headed along the walkway together, a television cameraman with a handheld camera filming them as they climbed out through an access door onto the platform that had been specially constructed on the outside of the bridge.
Max felt the cool breeze buffeting his body and glanced over the edge of the platform. The river looked a long way down, the water choppy, broken by waves as the wind cut across the surface. Ripples and eddies and tiny whirlpools could be seen in the centre of the channel, where the incoming tide collided with the outgoing flow of the river. The stunt had been timed to coincide exactly with high tide, when the Thames would be at its deepest beneath the bridge. Max needed that depth, and the silt and mud churned up by the currents, to hide his actions under the water.
A cheer went up from the crowd on the embankments as the pictures from the platform were relayed to two enormous screens on either side of the river. Max gave a wave, the people just a blur of faces and bodies far below him, and saw thousands of arms raised to acknowledge his gesture.
There was a television presenter stationed on the platform: a young, blonde woman named Mandy Nelson, who was shivering in a low-cut dress and high-heeled shoes which seemed terribly inappropriate, hazardous even, for such a precarious position – a four-metre-square metal frame suspended out over the river with no guard rail. One stumble and she’d be over the edge and tumbling down into the Thames.
‘Hi, Max, it’s good to see you,’ Mandy said brightly, and sincerely. She was overjoyed to see him. She’d been out on the platform for the past half hour, watching the carpenters constructing the wooden crate in which Max was going to be sealed, and she was freezing, her bare arms and legs covered with goose pimples. ‘How are you feeling?’ She pushed her microphone under Max’s nose.
‘I’m feeling good,’ he replied. ‘I’m looking forward to it.’
; ‘So are we,’ Mandy said. ‘So are all the spectators down there and millions of viewers watching at home. We’ve seen this crate being put together from scratch by local craftsmen, so I can vouch that there’s nothing funny about it. No hidden doors or secret escape hatches. It’s a good, solid wooden crate. Now we just need to handcuff you and put you inside. And for that we are—’ She paused, fingering the radio receiver in her ear. ‘I’m just getting word, the mayor has arrived. And here he is …’
A shambling figure in a crumpled suit climbed out onto the platform, his blond hair flopping across his face.
‘Golly, there’s a bit of a gale blowing up here, isn’t there?’ he exclaimed good-humouredly. ‘I say, what a splendid view. I’ll have to get my office moved over this way.’
‘Thank you for coming today,’ Mandy said.
‘I wouldn’t have missed it for the world. Let me shake your hand, young man.’ The mayor grabbed Max’s hand and pumped it up and down. ‘You’re an extremely brave young chap. I admire you tremendously for your pluck. Well done!’
‘Mr Mayor,’ Mandy said. ‘If you’d like to search Max, make sure he’s not got any tools or keys hidden on him.’
The mayor frisked Max thoroughly, going through his pockets and patting his arms and legs. ‘Nothing there, as far as I can tell,’ he confirmed. ‘The chap’s as clean as a whistle.’
‘Everything’s ready for you, Max,’ Mandy said. ‘This is the point of no return – your last chance to pull out. Are you sure you still want to go ahead with this stunt?’
‘I’m sure,’ Max replied firmly.
‘Where are the handcuffs?’
Consuela unclipped a pair of steel handcuffs from her belt and handed them to the mayor. Max held out his arms. The mayor snapped the cuffs over his wrists and tested them.
‘Locked tight,’ he said. ‘If he can get out of those, well, he’s a better man than I am.’
Max lifted his arms to show the crowd down below, then stepped across to the wooden crate, Consuela by his side. He looked at her. She smiled at him, her eyes warm, affectionate. Max smiled back. There were too many strangers around him today. Thank goodness Consuela was also there; he’d be lost without her.
He paused for a second. All the talking was over. The show-business hype, the celebrity presenters, the mayor of London faded away into the background and Max took centre stage. The crowd had fallen silent. All eyes were fixed on the tall, fair-haired boy standing high on the platform above the river. Max was no longer nervous. He was in control now. Whether he succeeded or failed was entirely in his own hands. He felt confident, exhilarated. This was going to be fun.
He climbed up onto the small wooden block that had been placed next to the crate. Consuela held his arm to steady him, and for an instant their hands touched. Then Max swung his leg over the top and dropped nimbly down inside the crate. The cameraman zoomed in on him, the pictures showing on the big screens by the river and on millions of televisions around the world. Max held up his cuffed hands again and grinned. Then the wooden lid was slid into place and he disappeared from sight. It was a sombre, slightly chilling moment. If anything went wrong with the stunt, this was the last time anyone would see Max Cassidy alive.
One of the professional carpenters who had constructed the crate came back out onto the platform and expertly nailed the lid to the base. To make absolutely sure it couldn’t be removed, a thick rope was fastened around the crate and knotted on the top like a gift-wrapped box tied up with ribbon.
Consuela pressed a button on the small crane at the back of the platform and a metal hook descended and was attached to the rope around the crate. Consuela adjusted the controls. The crate was lifted into the air and swung round away from the platform so that it was suspended above the river.
She waited. Down below, at the foot of the south tower, a man with a walkie-talkie gave a command to the bridge’s main control room and the bascules – the two lifting halves of the roadway – began to tilt back and rise upwards. When the bascules were fully raised, there was now nothing to stop the crate going straight down to the river.
Consuela closed her eyes briefly, praying silently for Max, then pressed the button on the crane. Very slowly, the cable began to unwind.
Crouched inside the crate, Max felt the box start to descend and he knew he had only a few seconds before it hit the water. He was already out of the handcuffs. The moment the lid had been nailed in place, he had reached up behind his right ear and removed the key that was taped underneath his thick hair – a place the mayor hadn’t thought to search; no one ever did – and unlocked the cuffs. That was the easy bit. The hard part was still to come: getting out of the crate while it was underwater. But for that, too, he had come prepared.
He opened his fingers and looked at the small pair of nail-cutters that were hidden in the palm of his hand – the nail-cutters that Consuela had so slickly passed him as she helped him climb into the crate. Max smiled at the memory. They’d done it right under the noses of the mayor and Mandy Nelson, not to mention the spectators and television viewers, and no one had noticed. He looked down, sensing the Thames drawing nearer, and got himself ready for the next stage of the escape.
Up on the platform, Consuela was watching the crate carefully, gauging its distance from the river. When it was five metres above the surface, she slowed the winch right down so that the impact, when it came, wouldn’t jar Max too much. Four metres … three … two … one … The base of the crate touched the river with barely any more force than a feather. At that exact moment, Consuela clicked the stopwatch around her left wrist to begin timing. There was a clock up on the television screens too – a digital display registering the seconds ticking by – so that the audience could see how long Max had been underwater.
Consuela could feel her heart pounding. They’d practised this stunt many times, but that didn’t make it any less dangerous. She knew Max could do it in a tank of water, but conditions were different today. He was in the river. There were the currents and tide to deal with, the cold, dirty water, a massive crowd of onlookers. The pressure was enormous. Max had nerves of steel, but inevitably he would be feeling the weight of expectations on his young shoulders. He would be tense, and that might affect how long he could hold his breath. Timing was critical. Consuela had to judge it exactly right – to prolong the stunt for as long as possible, but not so long that Max drowned.
Inside the crate, Max was on his knees, waiting until the base was underwater before he began his escape. Water was seeping in through two holes the carpenters had drilled in the bottom of the crate. It was a few centimetres deep now, creeping around Max’s feet and lower legs, soaking his trousers and cooling the skin underneath. It was cleaner than he’d expected, but still brown and cloudy with particles of mud. He didn’t fancy swallowing any of it.
The water got deeper. Max’s legs were submerged now. He gripped the nail-cutters in his right hand and leaned over into the corner, slipping the cutters down to where the side planks of the crate were joined to the base. There was a narrow gap along the joint into which Max slid the cutters, searching for the nails holding the planks together. He found the first nail, encircled it with the jaws of the cutters and squeezed. The sharp blades sliced easily through the soft metal. He moved on to the next nail – there should have been only two per plank – and cut through that too.
The water edged up his thighs. The crate was filling quickly, sinking deeper into the Thames. Max knew he had to get a move on. He slid the cutters along the joint to the next plank, feeling for a nail. It took him a few seconds to locate it, then a couple more to snip through it. The water was up to his waist now, cold enough to make him catch his breath. He paused for a second, forcing himself to slow his breathing. That was important. When the water finally closed over his head, he needed his body to be completely relaxed, to be using as little oxygen as possible.
He found the next nail and sliced through that too. One more plank to go. The water crep
t up over his chest. It was so murky he couldn’t see his hand. He had to rely on his sense of touch to find the joint in the planks. The cutters encountered an obstacle – a nail. Max sliced quickly through it, then moved along to the last nail, severing it with another squeeze of the cutters.
He was only just in time. The water had reached his neck and was swirling around his throat. He took a few breaths, exhaling hard to flush out his lungs. He knelt up as high as he could go, so his hair was touching the underside of the lid, and waited until the water was almost over his chin before he tilted back his head and took an enormous breath. Then he clamped his lips tight shut and ducked down under the water.
He felt good. Everything was going according to plan. The ends of three side planks had been detached from the base. There was enough flexibility in the timber for Max to bend them out, creating a gap through which he could squeeze. But before he did so, he had to wait for the crate to descend deeper into the river. At least four or five metres below the surface to make sure his escape was concealed from the spectators on the bridge and the embankments.
Five seconds passed … ten … fifteen. The pressure on his ears increased. He had to be at least four metres underwater by now. Max pushed on the loose planks. Two of them moved. One didn’t. Max pushed harder, an alarm bell jangling inside his head. Something was wrong. The plank still seemed to be attached to the base. How could that be? He’d cut through six nails. He applied more force. The plank gave a little, but didn’t bend out. He could think of only one explanation. The carpenters had put in more than two nails.
He reached down with his cutters again, trying to find the joint at the bottom of the plank. But the joint had closed shut under the pressure of the water outside. Max put his elbow to the plank, opening up a tiny gap, and jammed the cutters in, sliding them along until he hit an obstacle. Was it a nail? He couldn’t see, even if he put his eyes right down next to the wood. It had to be a nail. He hooked the cutters around it and squeezed. Nothing happened. This nail was tougher than the others. He squeezed harder – and felt something snap. He pushed on the plank again and was relieved to feel it flex away from the base.
