The Getaway (Sam Archer 2) (21 page)

Archer ro
se and the two men shook hands.

Then the FBI Supervisory Special Agent pulled open the sliding door, walked across the room to the hotel room door and left.

Downstairs in the lobby, a woman was
sitting
in a chair facing the reception desk, a newspaper in front of her. The elevators from the upper levels were lined with glass windows, so she saw Gerrard step into one and make his way down. She couldn’t work out which floor it was from here,
but she’d find out soon enough.

After a few moments, the elevator arrived on the ground floor and she lifted the paper back in front of her, covering her face and upper body in the chair. She sensed him passing her, and glanced past the broadsheet to the right and saw the FBI agent walk through the doors and head out onto the street. He looked stressed.

Once he was out of sight, she folded the newspaper and rose. She walked over to the reception desk, and asked the woman sat behind the counter a question, showing her the appropriate I.D. The receptionist nodded and carried out the request, tapping away on the keyboard in front of her.

‘Sam Archer. That’s the one you’re looking for?’

‘Yes. He’s a friend.’

‘He’s booked into Room 38 C. Would you like me to call and let him know you’re coming up?’

‘No thank you, I’ll come back later.’

The receptionist nodded as the woman turned and walked away from the counter. She looked up at the giant lobby, all the way up the 38
th
floor.

Now she knew where he was staying.

And she was going to pay him a visit sometime soon.

ELEVEN

The following day, Archer headed over to
Madison
Square
Garden
forty minutes before he was supposed to meet Farrell. He holed up in a bar across the street from the stadium and watched and waited as the time ticked on towards 8 pm. He saw Farrell appear, right on cue, at 7:55 pm. Archer
watched
him through the glass, weighing up the other man’s demeanour. He was standing on the corner of 33
rd
, and streams of people moved past him, completely unaware that they were passing the most wanted bank robber in
New York
State
. He looked calm, and judging from the smoothness of his clothing he wasn’t carrying a pistol. Archer gave it a couple more minutes, then trapped a five dollar bill under his empty glass of Coke, stepped outside and walked across
8
th
Avenue
towards Farrell.

Farrell
turned and saw him coming. As Archer approached, he didn’t bother with greetings. He didn’t even react. He just turned and started walking east. Archer moved up onto the sidewalk from the road and followed. The streets around them were busy, people and cars everywhere, and they blended right in, two men in an ocean of activity. They walked side-by-side down 33
rd
, then Farrell stopped by the kerb, the stadium directly to their right, traffic flowing past them in both directions on the road to the left.

‘Check it out,’ Farrell said. ‘You’ll be here in the car. Get a feel for it.’

Archer looked straight ahead at the long stretch of road. He had ridden this route before and knew the street led all the way across town to
1
st
Avenue
and
East River Drive
, and from there access over the water to Queens or
Brooklyn
. He saw the
Empire
State
Building
looming to the left up ahead on Sixth, proud and iconic. He pictured how the stretch of road would look tomorrow night. Twenty four hours from now, he would be parked here on the kerb in a stolen cop car, as the three thieves moved inside the stadium for the biggest heist of their lives. Little did they know that Gerrard’s FBI team would be ready and waiting for them. As the thought of Gerry flashed into his mind, he pictured him entering the FBI D.C main office, headed straight for a gruelling debriefing and a directorial firing squad. He hoped his father’s old friend would be OK. He deserved better than that.

‘Straight and true,’ Farrell said, standing be
side him as people walked past.

Archer nodded.

Farrell then reached into his pocket and pulled something out, passing it to Archer. He looked down and saw it was a piece of card. A ticket for the rock concert set to take place inside the stadium. Archer took it as Farrell pulled out another ticket and beckoned the other man to follow him. They walked to the right up some steps and moved towards the entrance to the stadium,
Madison
Square
Garden
printed in white letters above the wide doors to the mezzanine.

Inside, it was even busier than the street, people everywhere, buying t-shirts, mementos and snacks and beverages for the concert that was about to begin. There were all sorts of banners and notices announcing upcoming events, everything from concerts to basketball games to a political debate. Farrell led the way and walked on through the crowds of people, heading for some escalators thirty yards ahead. The two men stepped on and waited as they moved up a level. Upstairs, it was more of the same, lots of concession stands and fans buying concert programmes. On the walls were photos and black and white snapshots from the greatest events in the stadium’s history, and Archer glanced at them as he walked past. The first fight between Joe Frazier and Muhammad Ali, the
Fight of the Century
, where Frazier shocked the world and beat the future greatest of all time. The New York Rangers ice hockey team winning the Stanley Cup in 1994. John Lennon’s historic, and sell-out, concert here on August 30
th
, 197
2. Iconic moments and for some,
unforgettable memories.

They walked forward and arrived at a set of turnstiles. An usher checked their tickets and they moved through into the heart of the stadium. With seating on four sides of the Garden, there was a long wide corridor that led all the way around the place in a big oval, providing access to each stand and seating area. Farrell turned and started walking left. From the way he was moving, Archer reckoned he could probably do this blindfolded, having studied the blueprints of this place to the point that they were imprinted in his mind, tattooed
o
n his brain. They passed a number of security officials and stadium employees, none of whom gave them a second glance, and walked on down the white corridor, passing people headed into the seating area to take their
spots before the concert began.

After a few moments, the two men walked past an entrance to the seating area near Tower D, just past all the press boxes. There was a blue security door there to the right by the stairs that led into the stadium, almost inconspicuous, a lone guard in front of it looking bored, a thick keypad lock on the front. He flicked his eyes over to Farrell and Archer, but they continued to walk past, neither man prolonging his gaze and attracting the man’s attention. They moved on for a further fifteen yards, people passing them from both sides, then Farrell turned to Archer, leaning close so he could hear.

‘That’s the door,’ Farrell said. ‘My guy is going to let us in there tomorrow. The asshole there right now won’t be on duty.’

Archer nodded.

‘What’s through the door?’ he asked.

‘Flight of stairs and another security door leading to the cash room on the first sub-level. I paid off another guy
down there. He’ll let us in.’

They moved on through the crowd, but Farrell turned left, moving through one of the turnstiles the other way, Archer following close behind. They moved down the escalator and eventually came out of the East entrance by
7
th
Avenue
, moving to avoid everyone making their way inside. Although they had only been inside for a few minutes, Archer was glad to get back out on the street and get some personal space back, taking a deep breath. It was seriously crowded and congested in there. He’d thought the city subway was bad, but this was on another level.

Back out on
33
rd
Street
, both men stood still for a moment. Then Farrell turned to Archer.

‘Happy?’

Archer nodded.

‘Let’s go grab a beer. I’m buying,’ Farrell said.

They moved on to a pub called Blaggard’s, an Irish joint two blocks away on
35
th
Street
. As they approached the place, Archer realised it was ironically pretty much across the street from the Starbucks which he and Gerrard had used as a meeting ground. It was
moderately
busy inside, the odd customer at the bar or at a table, but the place had a low-key and dull vibe. Music tried to force its way out of old speakers mounted on the walls, and the lights were dim. All in all, it was a pretty dreary place. Farrell went to the bar whilst Archer walked to a table away from the bar so they could talk without being overheard. The bartender pulled the cap on two beers, and Farrell dropped a ten on the bar and carried them over, taking a seat.

Silence followed. Archer didn’t feel compelled to speak. He was waiting for Farrell to start. There was a television mounted on the wall behind the bar, but it was showing some kind of sports show, nothing interesting or eye-catching.

‘Feels strange, that I’m leaving this city,’ Farrell said eventually, taking a long pull from his beer. ‘Lived here my whole life. Born in
Queens
, been here ever since. Never even left the goddamn state before.’

Archer nodded, drinking from his own bottle. The beer was good, just about the only thing that was in this place.

‘You know getting out of here isn’t going to be straightforward,’ Archer told him. ‘You said you’re taking all kinds of heat from the cops and feds. The FBI won’t just let you go or forget what you guys have done.’

Farrell nodded.

‘Yeah, I hear you. But we’ll make it. Trust me. We’ve run circles around these assholes so far. We’ll keep doing it, all the way to the cabanas.’ He paused. ‘Anyway, I can’t stay here, man. I’m two strikes in the hole. If I hang around, they’ll find a way to put a third on me. That puts me away for life. And I’m never going back to jail.’

He paused.

Archer drank from his beer, and said nothing.

‘We pulled another job yesterday,’ Farrell said, his voice low. ‘Took two hostages. First time we’ve ever done that.’

‘Seriously? Did you kill them?’

Farrell shook his head.

‘Tate was the one who held them,’ he said. ‘Once the job was done, he just walked out and left them be.’

‘Could they I.D him?’

‘He was wearing a hockey mask. And he also told them what would happen to them if they tried.’

‘You ever kill any cops?’ Archer suddenly asked. He couldn’t help himself.

Farrell looked over at him. Paused. Then he shook his head, taking
a long deep pull from his beer.

‘No. Not yet. Haven’t needed to.’

Archer
read his face. He wasn’t lying.

‘What about feds? Surely robbing banks puts you in their crosshairs?’ he asked.

Farrell nodded. ‘Of course. If it came down to it, then yeah, we’d probably have to take some of them out. But I try to make sure it never comes to that. Not because I’m a pussy. Because if you kill a cop, you get the entire damn NYPD on your ass. You better leave town immediately and never come back. And if you kill a fed? That’s even worse. Don’t be fooled, guy. We may be fighters, but we ain’t dumb. Last thing I need is an army of pigs or feds tearing apart my gym looking for answers.’

Archer
drank from his beer, thinking.

‘You mentioned a dead fed the other day? You said if I talked I’d join him and Brown. Who was he?’

‘I don’t know. None of us put a move on him.’

‘Then how’d you hear about it?’

Pause.

Archer’s face stayed expressionless, but inside his common sense was screaming at him to shut
up.

He had to be careful.

He was getting carried away
and asking too many questions.

Farrell turned to him. ‘I can trust you, right?’

‘Of course.’

‘We had some inside help.’

Archer managed to hide his ex
pression behind a pull of beer.

‘The cops?’ he asked.

‘No. Bigger. The feds.’

This time
Archer couldn’t hide his shock.

‘Who?’

‘Someone on the Bank Robbery Task Force. They tipped us off. Telling us what to look for. That’s the main reason why we’ve been so successful. That’s why they couldn’t get near us and build a case.’

Archer blinked.

‘You still working with them?’ he asked.

Farrell shook his head. ‘No. Not anymore. I cut them out.’