The Getaway

TEN

Thursday. September 1.

10:05 am.

The bank was a Chase on 40and 7 Avenue. It was a good location, close to Times Square and convenient for all the tourists, yet also readily available for all the businesses and workers operating out of the Midtown area. It was accessible from both sides, located on the ground floor of a tall office building on the corner of the street. From the east, one would walk through a set of double doors from Broadway, through a golden lobby and over a marble floor, then turn left and pass through a doorway that led into the bank. From the west, access to the bank was a simple wide entrance on the corner of 40 and 7, right on the doorstep of Times Square. This portion of 7 was also known as Fashion Avenue and was right up there with the wealthiest areas in the city. Over three quarters of every piece of clothing in the entire United States were tailored and put together in this district, and once the garments were sold, the profits came straight back. Consequently this bank was another perfectly placed branch for Chase, right in the centre of a money-making and industriously corporate area, and when coupled with all the tourists in the neighbourhood, business thrived every single day.

That Thursday morning, the bank was busy. Customers were using ATMs, both just outside on the street and inside the bank itself, and tellers were lined up on the north wall behind bullet-proof glass, busy handling cheques and deposits and dealing with other customer requests. A queue of twelve people or so formed a line horizontal to the tellers, each waiting for their turn and for a teller to become available, some more patient than others. Against the south windows, a series of desks ran side-by-side all the way down the wall, several of them occupied with bank employees conducting private, one-on-one discussions with customers, handing out financial advice, organising loans or setting up new accounts.

There were two armed guards inside, as there were in every Chase bank in the city, and they were standing on either side of the bank, against the walls, blending into the background, yet alert and vigilant, watching everyone who walked into the branch. All things considered, they both figured they had a pretty cushy deal. Although the double entrances meant there was a constant stream of people flowing through the bank, and any one of them could be a potential thief, the NYPD had a headquarters set up on the southern edge of Times Square just two blocks away. All five tellers were protected behind bullet-proof glass with a silent alarm button by their feet, and each guard had a Glock 17 and two spare mags tucked into a holster on his hip as extra insurance. It would be foolhardy to say that a bank was impossible to hold up, but this branch was up there with the most impenetrable. Armed guards, five panic buttons, bulletproof glass, a vault as strong as a nuclear bomb shelter, and not to mention long windows on every wall revealing the interior of the bank to everyone walking outside on the sidewalk.

If anyone came in and tried to use weapons, they’d be spotted by about fifty witnesses outside in an instant, not to mention everyone else inside the bank. This was the kind of place that made bank robbers wake up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. In every aspect it was secure and protected. A couple of thieves had been stupid enough to try note-jobs here in the past, and had turned to find the entire south-Midtown NYPD division from Times Square rushing through the west doors, thirty seconds after the tellers had pushed the panic buttons with their toes. There were thousands of banks in Manhattan, but this was most definitely a branch that thieves would be best-served to leave well alone.

But at 10:06 am that September Thursday morning, three cops approached the west entrance to the bank.

They were two men and a woman. They were dressed in full navy-blue NYPD clothing, and each had large aviator sunglasses over their noses, sitting snugly under the police caps pulled low over their eyes. It was a bright, sunny day outside, so the sunglasses didn’t seem unusual or cause suspicion. Even cops needed protection from the sun.

As they approached the entrance and pulled the doors open, no one outside on the street or standing inside the building as they walked in, gave them a second glance. Cops like this were just as much a part of the city as burgers and baseball. If anything, people in their proximity felt just a little bit more secure by knowing they were there. The three cops moved across the floor into the heart of the bank. One of the men and the woman stopped, examining the interior of the place and the people around them, their faces impassive and expressionless. Meanwhile, the second man, the biggest of the trio, headed straight for the bank manager, who was just finishing up with a female customer.

The manager was a small, family man called Dean Wileman, thirty nine years old, only five-seven and a hundred fifty pounds, he was an academic, not an athlete. Wileman had a wife and daughter and a large house over in Long Island which was a benefit of his job in the bank. He’d met his wife when they were both students at Harvard, college sweethearts. She now worked five days a week at an accounting firm in Long Island. Wileman was physically slight and hated confrontation of any kind, but nature had found a balance and given him a brain for numbers and a talent for organisation which made him the perfect man for his job. He’d taken over the role eighteen months ago and he was damn good at it. His unintimidating nature and proficiency with spread-sheets and percentages were reassuring to customers as well as his superiors, and business had thrived since he’d taken over the role as manager of the bank.

He’d noticed the three cops enter through the west entrance, and wrapped up his conversation with the customer he was currently attending to. He thanked her for doing business with them, giving her his best smile, then once they had shaken hands and she’d departed, he turned to the big policeman approaching him. The cop was intimidating, a big man, the kind of guy who had given Wileman such a hard time at high school all those years ago. He looked at the man’s face as he approached, but all he saw was his own reflection in the cop’s sunglasses.

‘I’m looking for Dean Wileman. The bank manager,’ the cop asked.

Not a request, but a statement. Wileman nodded, offering his hand. The cop shook it, his hand enveloping Wileman’s.

‘That’s me. Is there a problem, officer?’ Wileman asked.

The cop nodded.

‘Yes. There is. I need to speak to you alone for a moment, sir.’

‘What’s the matter?’ he asked.

The cop stepped past him.

‘Just come this way and I can explain, sir.’

Wileman nodded and followed the cop to one side, towards the east windows and around the corner. Across the bank, the other two cops stayed still, side-by-side, both of them silent. Nearby, the two branch security guards were watching them, curious. The two cops just stood there, stern and expressionless. The guard on the east side of the bank moved off the wall and looked closer at the pair. Their heads turned in unison, and he saw the two of them staring back, their eyes hidden behind the sunglasses.

Across the bank, the big cop led Wileman around the corner, then pulled something from his pocket and passed it to the smaller man. It was a cell phone. Wileman looked down at it, confused. He had his back against the wall, the cop standing in front of him, shielding him from everyone else inside the branch.

‘What’s this?’

‘Listen,’ the cop said.

Confused, Wileman took the phone from the man’s hand and put it to his ear.

‘Hello?’

‘Dean?’ a voice replied, shaky, scared.

Wileman froze.

It was his wife.

He heard her crying down the other end of the phone, sobbing. She sounded terrified. Before he could react, the cop interjected, his voice low, his eyes hidden behind the sunglasses.

‘If you make a sound or react or do anything that pisses me off, she dies. So does your daughter. Understand?’

Wileman stared up at him, horrified. Around him, people in the bank continued with their activities, none of them aware of what was happening. Wileman nodded silently, hearing his wife’s terrified sobs through the receiver.

‘Dean, please do everything they say,’ she said, her voice shaky. ‘They have me and Kimberly. There’s a man here. He’s saying he’ll rape and kill us if you don’t do what they ask.’

Wileman tried to respond, but he couldn’t speak. He was in shock, and felt like he was going to throw up or faint. The policeman took back the phone and put it in his pocket.

‘Get everyone out of here,’ he ordered. ‘You trip an alarm, alert someone, do anything stupid, your entire family dies in a heartbeat. My man will go to town on them first. Your daughter first. Then your wife. Then your daughter again before he shoots her in the head. Then your wife again before he shoots her.’

Wileman swallowed, picturing it in his head. He tried not to hurl.

‘What do I do?’ he whispered.

‘I want this place empty.’

‘How?’

‘Think of something. Tell them there’s a gas leak. You’ve got sixty seconds or you’ll never see your family again.’

Wileman nodded, slowly, willing himself not to collapse or throw up. He looked up at the man’s face, desperate to find some humanity, some part of the man that he could reason with. But all he saw was his own terrified reflection in the man’s aviators.

He stepped past the cop, who turned to watch him. The two security guards had moved forward, seeing the cop take Wileman to one side.

‘Excuse me, everyone!’ Wileman suddenly called, thinking on his feet, desperately trying to hide his terror and keep his voice steady. Everyone in the bank turned. ‘I’m very sorry, but this officer has just informed me that there is a gas leak in a pipe running under the bank. I’m afraid that you will all need to step outside for your own safety whilst we investigate the problem further.’

There was a pause. People stood still for a moment, taking the news in, then they started to file through the exits, most of them irritated by the disruption. Chase employees at the desks finished up conversations, and the tellers behind the glass locked up their stations and headed for the exits. One of the two security guards stepped forward to talk to Wileman.

‘Is everything OK, sir?’ he asked.

Wileman nodded, and managed to keep his voice even, hiding his terror.

‘Everything’s fine, Ray. Just get everyone outside,’ he said.

The guard called Ray looked at him for a moment, then nodded, turning and moved towards the exit, guiding people out. After about a minute, the whole place had been cleared. Wileman turned back to the cop, who had stood and watched the whole thing, expressionless.

‘Very good,’ the cop said. ‘Now take me to the vault.’

‘The vault?’

‘I know it’s open. You had a delivery six minutes ago. Don’t try to lie to me. You waste another second, my man will start on your daughter. I hear she just turned sixteen, correct?’

Wileman paled.

He moved unsteadily around the teller counter and headed into a second portion of the room. The design on the vault here was exactly the same as the other Chase banks in the city. He entered the spin lock combination. They were around the corner, out of sight from the street, so no one out there had any idea what was going on. After entering the six-digit code, he twisted it, and it opened.

‘Now the second one,’ the cop ordered.

Wileman looked at him then moved forward, taking a key from a keychain around his neck and sliding it into the lock. He twisted this one and pulled open the second door.

The cop was right, but Wileman had no idea how he’d known that information. They’d just had a delivery less than ten minutes ago. Most Chase banks did the drop-offs every fortnight on a Monday, but with a spate of bank robberies in the area recently the company had decided to change the routine. As a consequence, that morning the vault was packed with stacks of bricked and banded hundred-dollar bills, fully stocked. Close to two million dollars, neatly piled on the shelves.

‘Over there,’ he ordered Wileman, pointing to the corner. ‘Face the wall.’

Wileman complied, trembling. But before he turned, he saw the cop do something bizarre.

He unzipped his trousers.

Wileman sneaked a longer glance as he shuffled to the wall and saw that the man had a second pair of dark trousers under his police-issue pair, compartments stitched into the black fabric running all the way up each leg. He proceeded to pack a stack of bills in each slot, ten on each leg, taking them one at a time from the shelf, moving fast. Each stack contained ten thousand dollars, so that was two hundred thousand. He pulled his trousers back up, then unbuttoned his shirt. Wileman glanced over his shoulder and saw the man was wearing a black vest with similar compartments.

He filled them up. Fifteen more.

Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars in total, strapped to his body.

He zipped his coat back up and smoothed down his trousers, making sure none of the shapes of the bill-stacks were visible. Satisfied, he looked at Wileman.

‘Don’t move or I’ll kill you.’

He moved outside and nodded at one of the other two cops. They swapped places, the female officer moving into the back, the big guy taking her position beside the third man on the bank floor. Outside, he could see people were standing just outside the windows, talking to each other, waiting for the issue to be resolved. He saw one of the guards was staring inside, but his partner wasn’t paying any attention, his head back, enjoying the sunlight and respite from being indoors as he stood with all the other employees and customers.

After a brief spell, the woman reappeared and the third cop took his cue, moving into the back. He did the same thing. Once he re-appeared, the big guy went back into the vault. Wileman was still stood against the wall, trembling.

‘Close it,’ he ordered.

Wileman nodded, then shuffled outside, locking the second vault, then doing the same with the first. That done, he stood there, facing the cop, who towered over him, twice his size. The big man checked his watch, then turned to the small manager.

‘We’re leaving. But this isn’t over for you. If I hear or see anything suspect, anyone chasing us, any sirens, your family dies. Clear? Face the wall again.’

Wileman trembled and nodded, turning.

He pictured his wife and daughter in his mind, taped and gagged, some anonymous man threatening them, a gun in his hand, the worst of intentions on his mind.

‘But how-’ he started.

He stopped, and risked a quick scared glance over his shoulder, hoping to plead with the man.

But it was useless.

The cop was already gone.



Outside on the street, the guard called Ray was standing there in the sunshine, looking into the bank. He could see two of the cops there, but Mr Wileman wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Around him, the other employees who were enjoying the unexpected break in the morning's work and the handful of customers who were still hoping to complete their business, had their backs turned to the bank and were chatting with each other. But Ray wasn’t so relaxed. Something about the three cops wasn’t sitting right with him. There was something about them, a coldness, that was trying to set off alarm bells in his mind.

Something just didn’t add up.

Through the glass, he saw the third cop reappear, and watched as the three of them walked towards the east exit, the opposite side from where they had entered, but no sign of Mr Wileman. The guard walked around the corner on Broadway and 40 and over to the doors to the building, waiting for them to exit. When they passed through the doors, he noticed none of them were carrying anything. Nothing to make him suspicious. They did however seem to be in a hurry, all three of them moving fast.

‘Everything OK, officers?’ he asked, as the trio moved out into the street.

The lead cop nodded.

‘It’s just a maintenance issue,’ he said. ‘Ruptured pipe. We’re going to get back-up and call maintenance to come fix it. Stay here and keep everyone outside, sir. We’ll be back soon.’

Ray looked at the three of them, their faces expressionless, their eyes covered by the aviators. He nodded, satisfied, and watched as the three of them walked off swiftly down the street, headed towards Bryant Park and 6 Avenue.

Watching them go, Ray thought for a moment then decided to go check on Mr Wileman and see if he could shed some light on the situation and an estimation of when it was likely be fixed. He wasn’t intruding, he was just doing his job. He pulled open the east entrance, moving through the golden lobby, and then moved left and pulled open the second door, walking back into the Chase bank.

It was quiet, strangely so. He was so used to seeing the place full, but it was empty and silent, all the activity outside on the street.

Mr Wileman wasn’t around. No sign of him.

‘Sir?’ he called. ‘Sir?’

No response.

He walked through to the back, behind the teller desks.

He found him.

It was bizarre. He was standing there, facing the wall, like he was a kid who had been in trouble and put there as a punishment. He looked absurd. To his right, Ray saw the vault door was shut.

‘Are you OK, sir?’ Ray asked.

Wileman didn’t move. Ray moved forward and lightly touched his shoulder.

‘Sir?’

Wileman jerked around, and looked at him. Ray was shocked.

The small man was pale, his eyes wide, and he seemed almost paralysed with fear.

‘Sir? Talk to me. What’s going on?’ he said.

Wileman went to speak, but no words would come.

The only thing he did was flick his eyes to the left and look at the vault.

And Ray realised what had just happened.



The response was as fast as lightning.

Despite Mr Wileman’s sudden and unexplained panic and frantic protestations begging him to stop, Ray rushed back into the bank floor and pushed the silent alarm button on the teller station. The NYPD were there in less than a minute from Times Square, six cops in bulletproof vests bursting in through the East entrance, shotguns in their hands. Ray told them three cops had just held up the bank, and that they were somewhere in the area, headed towards Bryant Park. He couldn’t give any detailed descriptions, seeing as each had been disguised, but he confirmed the trio were two men and one woman. One of the cops who’d arrived made a call over the radio instantly and it was passed on straight away to the FBI Bank Robbery Task Force Office at 26 Federal Plaza.

Gerrard was nearest to the phone and he took the call. The moment he heard what had happened, he raced for his car with the rest of his team, ordering all bridges and tunnels off Manhattan to be closed. His orders were carried out within minutes, and traffic in and out of the island ground to a halt. The word was put out over every NYPD and Federal frequency in Manhattan that they were searching for three cops, each of whom had approximately three hundred and fifty thousand dollars hidden about their person.

Inside his Mercedes, Gerrard raced straight for the scene of the crime, Katic in the car beside him, Siletti and Parker following close behind, whilst O’Hara and Lock headed for the roadblocks at the Midtown Tunnel. They figured geographically that would be the trio’s best bet of escape.

But twenty minutes after Ray made the call, an NYC MTA M train pulled into the 36 Avenue station in Astoria, across the East River. The doors slid open, and all along the platform passengers stepped out, the doors shutting behind them after a few seconds and the train moving out of the station and on into the tunnel. Everyone who had disembarked proceeded to walk to the stairs and the two exits and the place slowly emptied.

However, three people stayed where they were, leaning against the wall as everyone else passed. They had been in separate carriages, and were standing around thirty feet from each other.

Three cops.

Once the last person had gone, they stood still for a moment longer, then the officer on the far right turned and started walking down the platform. Once he passed the officer in the middle, she started walking beside him and they approached the third man. They each high-fived as they finally joined up in a three, and together, the trio headed for the stairs that would lead up to the maze of streets in Queens. One of them, the biggest one, looked behind them and smiled.

No one was following them.

No one knew who they were.

They did it.

*

Later that day, Archer opened his eyes and woke up from a deep sleep. He blinked, yawning, and sat up. He’d been watching the television across the room, but had passed out on the hotel bed, fully dressed. He yawned again then rose and wandered to the window, pulling open the curtain and looking out at the view.

The sun was setting in the distance, the buildings ahead black and silhouetted against the orange-tinted sky. He’d been out for a while. Moving back into the room, he checked the clock on the bed-side drawer.

7:04 pm. He’d been asleep all afternoon.

He reached for his cell phone which was resting on a chair to see if Gerry had tried to get in touch. He had no missed calls, but saw he had a text message from Farrell. He clicked it open.

MSG, Friday. 8 o’clock. Meet 33rd and 8th. Don’t be late.

Archer read the message again, and nodded. That was twenty four hours before the job. Farrell would probably want to walk through it, get a feel for the place and the atmosphere, making sure that Archer knew every detail of his role and that they were both on the same page. Archer tossed the phone onto the bed and sat down in a chair, thinking. Across the room, the television was still on, sound coming from it quietly, and he grabbed the remote and clicked it off.

Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. Three raps, quick. Taptaptap. Every knock conveyed something and this one sounded urgent. He wasn’t expecting a guest, so he grabbed the Sig from the bedside table and walked over, the pistol in his right hand.

‘Who is it?’ he asked.

‘It’s me,’ a familiar voice said.

Shielding the pistol down his right leg, Archer pulled it open. Gerrard was standing there, still wearing the suit with the guacamole stain on the shoulder, looking stressed and worn out.

‘What’s wrong?’ Archer asked.

‘They did it again,’ he said.



‘I’ve been called up to D.C to explain myself,’ Gerrard said, sitting on the edge of the bed inside the room. Archer had let him in, then shut and locked the door behind them. ‘I’ll be back tomorrow or Sunday.’

Archer moved to the minibar and pulling it open, took out two cans of beer from the shelf, kicking the door shut behind him. He passed one to Gerry, who took it with a nod of thanks. The beer was a Miller, All-American, the can golden, the liquid inside cold.

‘You’re not going to be here Saturday?’ Archer asked. He lifted the ring-pull on his can and the beer gave a tschick as it opened.

He beckoned Gerrard to follow him and he opened the sliding door leading out to the balcony, stepping outside with the FBI agent then sliding the door shut behind them.

‘They summoned me,’ Gerrard said in a low voice, taking a seat in a white plastic chair. He continued to speak in lowered tones, seeing as the balconies of rooms adjacent were in earshot. ‘When that happens, you know you’re in deep shit. Nothing you can do will get you out of it. I tried to explain what the situation was, but they weren’t having it.’

‘This is bad, Gerry. I need you here on Saturday.’

‘I should be back sometime over the weekend. Don’t worry. I’m going to brief my team tomorrow on the intel we’ve gathered and the all details you’ve provided. They’re a good outfit. They can handle it without me. I’ll have them set up at the Garden, ready and waiting.’

He shook his head and looked at the beer can in his hand. The sounds of Times Square down below filled the silence, the constant hum of electric lights under the interjections of car horns and the occasional shout.

‘Shit. They’re going to have me for lunch. This could be the end of my career.’

‘Don’t think like that. You’ll be fine. Tell them you’ll have Farrell and his entire crew in hand-cuffs by Sunday. This will all be over by Monday morning.’

Gerrard didn’t reply. He opened his beer instead, lifting the can and taking a mouthful of cold beer.

‘Shit, that’s good,’ he said, savouring the taste and clearing his throat. ‘Anyway, they didn’t tell you about the job today?’

Archer shook his head.

‘They only need me on Saturday,’ he said. ‘Farrell won’t tell me anything other than the absolute essentials, and it’s clear that Ortiz and Regan still don’t trust me. Tell me what happened.’

‘It was another Chase, on 40. Two minute walk from here. They went in dressed as cops, probably the same outfits they’ll use on Saturday.’

Archer pictured the location.

‘Wait, I know that bank,’ he said. ‘I passed it the other day. It’s the one on 7 right?’

Gerrard nodded.

Archer frowned. ‘In a location like that? How the hell did they pull it off? Did they use guns?’

‘No. Farrell went straight to the manager. Handed him a cell phone and told him to listen. On the other end, he heard his wife crying, telling them to do everything they say or a man holding her captive would rape her and his daughter and kill them both. It took my detectives two hours just to pull that information from him. Apparently the thieves told him that if he told anyone what had happened, he’d never see his family again.’

‘Have you found them?’

‘Yeah. They’re OK, aside from the trauma. We sent a squad car over to the family home in Long Island and the two cops found them duct taped-up in chairs in the main room. Apparently it was one man, wearing a hockey mask and armed with a sawn-off shotgun. Tied them up and sat there with the Ithaca on them, waiting for the job to be done, the phone in his hand. The guy left straight after apparently.’

‘He didn’t harm them?’

‘No. And neither one could tell the cops anything about the guy later. Both are still in shock, and the guy was masked up anyway.’

Archer drank from his beer, thinking.

‘OK, so they passed the manager the phone, laid out the threat. What happened next?’

‘He was ordered to clear the place out. He got everyone’s attention and said there was a pipe leak, and that the area needed to be evacuated immediately. Everyone complied, leaving him and the three cops inside. There were two guards, but only one of them thought something might be up. They took the manager round the corner to the vault, out of sight of anyone on the street. Gave him another listen on the phone, and told him to open it or they’d open up his daughter. Funnily enough, he did what they asked.’

‘Wasn’t there some kind of time lock?’

‘They got it when it was still open. Given the unpredictability of traffic in the area, the time-lock on the vault in that bank is different. It’s unlocked for twenty minutes at a time. There was a delivery a few minutes earlier so the damn thing was packed full. They had fifteen minutes to work with.’

Archer drank from his beer again, and shook his head.

‘OK, but they couldn’t just walk out of there carrying bags. Everyone outside would know in a second that something was up.’

Gerrard nodded, drinking from his Miller. ‘That’s the thing. They didn’t. They walked out the same they walked in. One of the guards approached them but said they looked perfectly normal.’

‘So the cash had to be hidden under their clothing then?’

Gerrard nodded. ‘Yes. The guard went into the bank to talk to the manager and saw that he was petrified with fear. He pushed the alarm and ran back out to the street, but by the time he got there the three cops had gone.’

‘Did you close off the city exits?’

‘Of course. But we screwed up. We figured they’d be in a car. But with Brown gone-’

‘They used the subway,’ Archer finished.

Gerrard nodded.

‘I’m an idiot,’ he said. ‘I wasn’t thinking fast enough, otherwise we could have shut down the subway too and trapped them on the island. There are cameras down in Bryant Park Station, and we found them on the tapes heading through the station. Looks like they split up, and got on an M train headed to Queens, but after that, we lost them. Passed right under all our road blocks, which held up Midtown traffic on a weekday morning. And they got away with the cash. Needless to say, my bosses and the Mayor are seriously pissed. The other jobs have been humiliating enough, but this happened right under our noses. That bank should have been impossible to rob. But they did it. And now I’ve got to go and explain how.’

He drank more from his beer, a long mouthful, then shook his head and cursed.

‘We sent a squad car over to Farrell’s gym, but the three of them were all in there, Ortiz working the pads with Farrell, Regan working the timer. They claimed they’d been there all morning. We asked around, but their alibis checked out. It’s useless asking the gym staff. They’ve all been paid off for sure.’

‘What was the take?’

Gerrard shook his head in frustration. ‘Over a million.’

Archer stared at him.

There was silence.

‘Jesus.’

Gerrard nodded, draining his beer.

‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘Yet more on the total. And down goes my clearance rate another notch. This is beyond a joke now.’

Archer thought for a moment, opting for a positive approach.

‘Look, you’ll be OK,’ he said. ‘Explain the operation to everyone in D.C. If you get down there today, you could be back by Saturday and lead the take-down yourself. We now know Tate is going back and forth to Atlantic City with the stolen cash. Get someone to arrest him at the casino or at the hotel. You know he’ll be going down there before Sunday. You’re in control of this situation, Gerry. You’ll get that money back.’

‘When was the last time you spoke to Farrell?’ he asked.

‘Yesterday. But he dropped me a text earlier. He wants to meet tomorrow night at the Garden. I’m guessing he’ll want to walk through the job. I’ll get in touch afterwards and pass it all on.’

Gerrard nodded, scrunching up the empty beer can in his hand.

‘I’ll be in D.C, but like I said, there are five other agents on my team. I’ll brief them. They can handle it.’ Pause. ‘Thanks for the beer. I needed it.’

Archer nodded, finishing his own.

‘Hang in there, Gerry. Two more days. Then you’ll be the one bringing the beer,’ he said.

Gerrard nodded and rose.

‘I’ll see you soon, kid. Keep your phone switched on.’

Archer rose 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 floor.

Now she knew where he was staying.

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