The Getaway

FOUR

It had all started four days ago.

Back across the Atlantic in London, Friday morning had begun like any other typical Friday morning for Archer. He’d woken up at 6 am, headed out the door for a 45 minute gym session, returned, showered, then took the Underground to his police station in North London, the Armed Response Unit, for 8:30 am sharp. He’d signed in at the front desk, then headed straight upstairs to their team briefing room to report in with the rest of the team and grab a cup of tea. He saved time every morning by not having to worry about breakfast. He didn’t have any semblance of an appetite in the morning, and the tea was just about all his stomach could cope with until lunch.

The Armed Response Unit operated in two halves. The first half was an analyst team, who gathered intelligence and information from inside these headquarters, and the second was an armed ten-man task force, who used that information out in the field when they were called upon in a crisis. The two teams worked in synergy with each other, and during the last eighteen months, despite being a relatively new squad, the ARU had become the premier response and counter-terrorist team in the city. Archer was the youngest man on the task force, just turned twenty seven, but the events of the past eight months meant his age and relative inexperience was no longer the talking point it had been in the past.

The Unit’s headquarters was a two-floored building. The lower level contained locker rooms and interrogation and holding cells for any suspects that were brought in, whilst the upper level consisted of an operations area to the right, where the intelligence team worked behind high-tech computers and monitors, and a briefing room to the left, which the task force used as their base. That morning, Archer had jogged up the steps and joined the other officers in the briefing room, pouring a cup of tea and grabbing a newspaper someone had brought in. To an outsider it would have seemed like a pretty good job.

But the work wasn’t always this smooth.

Almost nine months ago, a nine-man terrorist cell had waged war on the city on New Year’s Eve, with thousands of people gathered all over London for the New Year celebrations. One of the terrorists had managed to get past security at a Premiership football match and had detonated a devastating quantity of home-made explosives hidden under his clothes, killing over a hundred and fifty people and injuring many more. That had triggered a series of events that unfolded over the next twenty four hours like some kind of nightmare. There had been a number of attempted further bombings, double-crosses, links to a drug cartel in the Middle East and a shooting in Trafalgar Square. The DEA, the American Drugs Enforcement Administration, had also become involved, and the ARU team had suddenly found themselves right in the middle of the action, thousands of people’s lives depending on them. The Prime Minister had ordered the Unit to be formed after the disastrous riots that had swept across the United Kingdom in the summer of 2011, and that night of chaos on New Year’s Eve had been a true baptism of fire for the newly-formed squad.

Prior to those chaotic twenty four hours at the end of last year, 2012 had been pretty quiet. But since then, it was as if the events of that New Year’s Eve had opened some kind of floodgates. Every week now something was going down that needed the Unit’s attention, things the public mostly never knew about, threats and attempted terrorist acts that would devastate the city if they were successful. The Unit had been set up by the Prime Minister to offer a no-nonsense response to any potential threat, foreign or domestic, to the city and the ten-man task force gathered every morning inside the briefing room at their headquarters with no idea what the day or week ahead held in store.

However, a benefit of all this trouble meant the entire ARU detail had been through some hellacious experiences together which had strengthened their cohesion. When the squad had been formed at the beginning of last year, the PM had demanded that the team be one that would last into the future, long after his tenure at 10 Downing Street had ended. As a consequence, the Unit was a blend of hardened experienced officers and some younger counterparts who would take over once the older officers had moved on. A few of them had been comparatively untested the year before, including Archer, but now they were an experienced outfit that any terrorist would be wise to take very seriously. When people in the city were in trouble, they called the police.

When the police were in trouble, they called the ARU.

Inside the briefing room Archer had just sat down in an empty chair alongside some of the other men when a dark-haired young woman appeared at the door. Her name was Nikki, the only person in the building who was referred to by her first name. She was head of the intelligence team that worked next door. Archer had known her for a long time. They’d started out at the Hammersmith and Fulham Police Station across the city, and were old friends, both the same age. It had even been romantic once, something no one else in the Unit knew about aside from the two of them, but that had fizzled out as so often happened with a relationship in a working environment.

‘Arch?’ she said.

He looked up.

‘Cobb wants to speak to you.’

Archer paused, then nodded and rose, folding the newspaper in half and leaving it on the empty seat. He glanced at his best friend Chalky, who was sitting beside him, already eyeing the free newspaper.

‘I’m reading that,’ Archer told him.

Chalky nodded, but the blond man heard a rustle behind him as his friend immediately swiped it up. He shook his head and walked out of the room, heading towards Cobb’s office.

Cobb was Director of the Armed Response Unit, the man responsible for taking charge and ownership for the entire detail. He was a good man and an even better leader. The run-in with the terrorist cell during the winter had strengthened the bond between everyone involved in the squad, and especially in their collective gratitude for Cobb’s leadership. Everyone who worked here had respected Cobb before, but now they viewed him as a necessity, the perfect man for his role. Cool, collected and dependable, he was one of those people who was born to take charge as if it was in his DNA, a quality you couldn’t teach. Archer had never worked with Cobb in the field, but he knew if it ever came to that, he’d follow him through fire in a heartbeat if he had to.

Cobb’s office was located across the level, overlooking the operations room and his tech team. The walls to the room were made of transparent glass, so Archer saw his boss sitting at his desk, waiting for him, dark-brown features over a black suit and white shirt with navy-blue tie. Cobb saw the younger man coming, and beckoned him inside. Archer pushed the door open, stepping into the office and letting it close behind him.

‘Morning sir.’

‘Good morning.’

Archer noticed immediately from the expression on the Cobb’s face that something was bothering him.

‘Something wrong?’ he asked.

Cobb paused, then motioned to a chair the other side of his desk.

‘Take a seat.’

Archer sat.

He saw Cobb take a deep breath. Whatever was coming next didn’t look like it was going to be good.

‘I’m afraid I have some bad news. I just got a call from an FBI detective in New York twenty minutes ago,’ he said, slowly. ‘He told me the NYPD found a body last night in a parking lot in Queens.’

Pause.

‘It was your father.’

Archer looked at him, still, silent. He didn’t react, didn’t blink, didn’t move.

A long silence followed as he absorbed the news.

‘I’m sorry Arch,’ Cobb added.

Archer swallowed and felt light-headed. Surreal. As if this was all a dream, and soon he’d blink and wake up. Across the table, Cobb sat still, a compassionate look on his dark-featured face, waiting for the life-altering news to sink in a little deeper. He had lost his own father five years ago, and understood how hearing the news for the first time felt.

‘How did he die?’ Archer asked, his mouth dry.

Cobb looked across the desk at him. He seemed about to speak, but held back.

‘How did he die?’ Archer asked again, reading Cobb’s hesitance. ‘C’mon, sir, I can handle it.’

Cobb nodded. So be it.

‘He was shot from behind. Point blank. A single shotgun round to the head. He died instantly, so he wouldn’t have known anything about it.’

Archer didn’t respond. He felt dazed. But against his will, his mind started conjuring images from what Cobb had just told him. Awful images.

A shotgun round to the head, from behind.

Not an accident.

Not a freak occurrence.

A cold, calculated execution.

Someone murdered him.

Cobb continued, talking quietly.

‘I want you to take the week off,’ he said. ‘Compassionate leave.’

He pushed a printed piece of paper across the table.

‘I booked you on a flight to New York from Heathrow. It leaves later on this afternoon. The Bureau have organised the funeral and it’s taking place tomorrow so you don’t have to worry about setting anything up. I just want you to be there. To…say goodbye.’

Archer looked up at him, his mind reeling, a thousand thoughts rushing around his head, all jarring for attention. He didn’t respond. Cobb nodded and continued.

‘I also booked you into a hotel. The Marriott Marquis. Times Square. It’s a good spot. I’ve been there before myself. Stay there until you come back.’

‘Sir, I can’t accept that.’

‘I’m not asking you to. It’s an order. Besides, it’s on the Unit’s funds. Marked down as necessary expenses. The Prime Minister told me to handle our budget at my own discretion and that’s exactly what I’m doing.’

Archer paused and tracked back mentally in their conversation. He blinked and frowned. He was confused, and about more than just his father’s murder.

‘You said the Bureau, sir?’

Cobb nodded.

‘That doesn’t make sense,’ Archer continued. ‘My father’s a- I mean he was- a sergeant in the NYPD. The FBI wouldn’t organise a funeral for him. Why would they? The cops and the feds hate each other.’

Cobb frowned, then read Archer’s face.

‘When was the last time you spoke with him?’ he asked.

‘Not for a long time.’

‘So you didn’t know?’

‘Know what, sir?’

‘He was a Federal agent. A Special Agent-in-Charge. Been with them for the last two years. Your father wasn’t a cop, Archer. He was working for the FBI.’



Archer and Cobb sat in silence for a few more minutes, Archer absorbing everything he’d just been told. Then he scooped up the flight ticket, thanked Cobb and returned to the briefing room, still stunned. The other officers could see immediately something was wrong, and once quiet word spread about what had happened, they all sat there with him in the room, providing company. All ten of them sat there silently. No one left. No one knew what to say. But that didn’t matter. Some of them had been in the younger man’s situation before. They knew that just providing company was enough at that moment. It was all they could do.

Archer had sat in his chair without moving for half an hour, just staring straight ahead. Then his head had started to clear and he’d said his short goodbyes, heading downstairs for his unexpected week off. He made a pit-stop at his apartment in Angel, grabbing his passport, packing a bag and grabbing a black suit and shoes from the closet for the funeral. He locked the door to his apartment, stepped out onto the street, hailed a cab and went straight to the airport.



Cobb had booked him on a British Airways flight, which meant he was leaving from Heathrow Terminal Five. As he paid the taxi fare and walked into the huge glass building, he realised that the last time he’d been here, he’d been face to face with a suicide bomber on New Year’s Eve. She’d been a young girl, no older than twenty, but with bricks of C4 plastic explosive packed into her clothes, concealed as a baby bump. Archer had been the first man at the scene to locate and confront her before she was shot and killed just in time by another officer.

He walked across the Departures Hall and checked in at the British Airways desk. His flight was leaving at 2 pm, around three hours from now, direct from Heathrow to JFK. Cobb had booked him a seat in Club Class, which he hadn’t needed to do, but Archer appreciated the gesture. He had no luggage to check, just a carry-on and his suit, and he moved through the security checkpoints without a problem and headed straight for the Gate as soon as it came up on the screens.

The next three hours felt like the shortest of his life. He’d taken a seat facing the airfield and had been staring out of the window one moment, lost in thought, staring at all the planes on the tarmac. When he finally looked away and checked the time, he realised they had already opened boarding for the plane.

Three hours, gone in what seemed like a second.

London Heathrow to New York JFK was about a seven hour flight, and all seven seemed to pass by almost as fast. This was the first time Archer had ever flown Club Class in his life, and he could instantly see why people paid the extra money.

The seats had been arranged in pairs, one seat facing the rear of the plane, one facing the front, and they were separated by a screen that you could pull up for some privacy. Archer didn’t need to use the screen, seeing as there was no one sitting beside him, but he pulled it up anyway. He had a seat by the window, no one close to him, and the chair was wide and comfortable. It seemed he could press a button to make the seat slide back and turn into a bed if he wanted to. But during those seven hours he didn’t drink a drop of fluid, nor eat a mouthful of food, nor watch a second of any movie. He just sat still, silent, staring at the sky outside the window, watching the wispy white clouds as they drifted past, high above the Atlantic Ocean far below.

This whole thing just felt like some big dream. He’d woken up this morning expecting just another day at the office. Planning what he was going to do over the weekend. Instead, he’d discovered someone had murdered his father and he was now on his way to New York for a week-long compassionate leave, put up in one of the nicest hotels in Manhattan. Maybe he was still asleep. Maybe he’d suddenly wake up.

He closed his eyes, then opened them again.

No luck.

He was still on the plane.

This was all real.

He shook his head and glanced away from the window, pulling down the screen next to him and looking at the people occupying the other seats in the cabin. Most of them looked like businessmen and women, probably for whom this trip was a mundane routine or a necessary part of their corporate lifestyle. He saw several tapping into laptops and netbooks and writing and reading documents they’d need for meetings that would take place later at some point or which had already happened. There were also several seats which were empty, but none of the flight attendants had made an effort to upgrade anyone. He figured that only happened in random occurrences or in an ideal world in the movies. He pictured everyone farther down the cabin jammed together in Economy, arm-to-arm with strangers, uncomfortable and counting the minutes till the plane landed. One thing was for sure, the extra money for a Club Class ticket was well worth it.

Towards the end of the flight, the blue water of the ocean far below changed into the greenery of the American East Coast, and half an hour later they landed smoothly at New York’s John F Kennedy International Airport. Once the plane had rolled to a stop and parked and the light for the seatbelt in the cabin dinged off, Archer had grabbed his bag and suit from the overhead lockers then disembarked, quickly navigating his way through immigration and through baggage claim to the exit. His father was an American, so his son had dual citizenship. It meant he could live anywhere in the United States and the United Kingdom whenever he pleased with no immigration problems, but at that moment it also meant that he could avoid the growing line of people gathering at the non-American immigration line. Walking towards one of the desks for American citizens, he breathed a sigh of relief as he saw the long line of non-Americans increasing by the minute. He’d been in that queue in other countries, and they were going to be standing there for a while.

After his passport was checked and stamped, he thanked the woman behind the desk and walked through Customs out into the Arrivals hall. There was the usual crowd gathered behind the cordon, drivers holding name-signs or family members eagerly waiting for loved ones or friends to appear, but he made his way past them all and headed to an ATM on the right, pushing his credit card into the slot and withdrawing sixty bucks. That done, he turned and followed the sign for the Airtrain.

The Airtrain was an over-ground service, connecting JFK to the city’s MTA subway system and Archer rode it over to Sutphin Boulevard, a hub of a station on the east side of Queens. The time here was five hours behind the U.K, so it was still only early afternoon, and the weather was beautiful, the sun shining over the sea of houses and buildings across Queens, the air warm and summery.

Inside the train, Archer stood still, looking out of the window, the sun shining down on him through the glass as he gazed out.

It was a beautiful day.

One that his father would never get to see.

At Sutphin, he bought a Metrocard for the subway and got onto an E train, which would head west through Queens and pass under the East River into Manhattan. It would take him all the way to Times Square, and the Marriott Hotel Cobb had booked him into. Archer sat alone on one of the blue benches, his bag beside him, one of only three people in the carriage, the other two sat down the other end, far away from him. They were underground, but the lights inside the carriage showed Archer’s features in the glass window across the carriage and he looked at his reflection. He took most of his looks from his mother, but the one characteristic he’d inherited from his father were piercing blue eyes.

He stared into them in the window across the train, and saw his father staring back.

Someone murdered him echoed in his mind.

And the train rumbled on towards the city.

*

The funeral had taken place the next day, Saturday, in a picturesque green graveyard across the East River in Queens. Seeing as his father had died in the line of service, the whole thing had already been organised and paid for by the Bureau, and there was a good turnout, lots of people he didn’t recognise, a couple he did. Archer was standing in his black suit, white shirt and black tie at the front of those gathered, looking over at the polished brown coffin held by levers over the freshly dug grave. He was the only family member present. High above, the sun was shining, not a single cloud in the sky. It was another beautiful day, a strange contrast to his mood. Hollywood liked to make it rain in situations like this, to match the mood or the lead character’s feelings. Life, however, often wasn’t that black and white.

The clergyman conducting the service began a final prayer and those gathered bowed their heads. Archer kept his head up, still staring at the polished wooden coffin, a series of bouquets of white flowers resting on the lacquered wood, small envelopes tucked amongst the flowers with personal notes written to Special-Agent-in-Charge James Archer. Looking at the coffin, his son pictured him inside. He hadn’t seen him in over a decade, but here they were, ten feet from each other, the last time they would ever be in such close proximity. He swallowed, as the clergyman approached the end of the prayer.

He suddenly sensed someone watching him. He looked up and saw a woman with dark-brown hair standing the other side of the freshly-dug grave. She was about his age, attractive and dressed in a dark work suit, but was staring at him with a strange look on her face. If anything, she looked tense. Worried. Concerned. Maybe a mix of all three.

They held each other’s gaze, brown eyes on blue, but that look of concern on her face didn’t diminish.

If anything, she looked almost scared.

Maybe she and Dad were friends, he thought. Probably colleagues in the Bureau. She looked the type.

Once the service had ended, Archer had taken one last look at the coffin, then turned and walked away. He moved slowly over the grass, headed towards the old gates that led out of the graveyard. He’d hailed a taxi here, and planned to head back into Manhattan. Someone had told him earlier that there was some kind of wake planned, but he wasn’t going to go. Right now, he just wanted to be alone.

But a voice called quietly from behind him, cutting into his thoughts and solitude.

‘Sam.’

He turned, and saw a man he hadn’t seen in over a decade approaching him, dressed in a black suit and tie over a white shirt. His name was Todd Gerrard, but all his friends called him Gerry. He and James Archer had been close friends, having come up in the NYPD together in the 80’s when the city was nowhere near as safe for a cop as it was now. Judging by his suit and demeanour, Gerry had moved on to bigger things. Archer noted streaks of grey in his brown hair, but he still looked in good nick, lean-faced and alert.

‘Hey Gerry,’ Archer said. ‘It’s been a while.’

Gerrard offered his hand, and the younger man shook it, as other mourners passed them.

‘Damn it’s good to see you kid,’ he said. ‘I didn’t think you’d make it.’

Archer shrugged.

‘Here I am.’

Gerrard glanced around. ‘Where’s your sister?’

‘In D.C. She couldn’t get time off.’

‘Your mother?’

‘She’s gone. Two years ago. Blood clot in her lung.’

There was a pause. Archer started to walk on towards the gate, and his father’s old friend kept pace alongside him. There was a brief silence. Then Gerry broke it.

‘You want to grab a coffee?’ he asked.

Archer looked over at him. He decided he could probably use some company, especially with an old friend of his father.

Gerry read his expression and took it as affirmation.

‘C’mon, it’s on me,’ he said. ‘We’ve got some catching up to do.’



Twenty minutes later, they were inside a Starbucks coffee shop in Manhattan, on the corner of 35 and 7Avenue. Gerry had driven them here. Inside the Bureau car, Archer had watched the streets flash past through the tinted windows of the black Mercedes as they drove through Astoria, over the Queensborough and then into Manhattan. Traffic was lighter considering it was the weekend and the journey was a relatively quick one, but neither man said a word during the ride. They were saving the conversation for over coffee.

Once Gerrard had parked near Herald Square and put a Bureau marker on the dashboard that would save him from being clamped, they had walked over and moved inside the coffee shop. Gerrard headed to the counter whilst Archer grabbed them a seat and a table across the room by the window, asking for tea instead of coffee. He couldn’t abide the black stuff. Once Gerrard had placed their order, the barista took a few moments to prepare the drinks then passed them over the counter. Gerrard paid and approached the table, taking a seat across from the younger man and placing the two cups on the table-top. Archer noticed that the older man had brought something with him from the car, an A4 sized yellow folder containing some white documents. He nodded thanks for his drink.

More silence followed. Archer looked out of the window, lost in thought, watching people walk past on the sunny street. Much like yesterday, today just felt surreal, as if it was a dream.

‘You’re looking well kid. Your dad said you’d ended up a cop in the UK?’ Gerrard asked.

‘Yeah. That’s right.’

‘Forget that, you should be a damn model with a face like that,’ the older man added, trying to lighten the mood.

Archer forced a smile, but said nothing.

‘Where are you staying?’

‘Marriott. Times Square.’

Gerrard whistled. ‘Who’s picking up the bill?’

‘My boss.’

Gerrard went to say more, but suddenly remembered something, and reached into his pocket, pulling out a pair of keys wrapped in a small piece of paper. He slid them across the table.

‘These are for your Dad’s place in Astoria,’ he said. ‘He’d been renting an apartment off 30 Avenue for the past few years. I figured there might be some stuff there you wanted to…see. He was on a lease so there’ll be new tenants moving in there soon. I figured you’d be the best person to take what you want and leave the rest to be thrown out. The address is on the paper.’

Archer nodded and took the keys and scrap of paper, tucking them into his pocket, saying nothing. Light guitar music flowed from speakers around the Starbucks, filling the moments of silence between the two men, and people chatted and tapped away on laptops around them, all sorts of ethnicities enjoying all sorts of different drinks and specials from the counter. It was busy with weekend activity, but the coffee shop still felt relaxed.

Archer looked down at his tea, at the circular green Starbucks logo printed on the side of the cup. A mermaid wearing a crown, two stars either side of her, with the company’s name printed in a semi-circular shape underneath.

‘Shit, I’m sorry, Sam,’ Gerrard said, sighing. ‘Jimmy didn’t deserve to go out like that.’

‘No. He didn’t.’

‘When was the last time you saw him?’

Archer glanced out the window.

‘About eleven years ago.’

‘He always talked about you, you know. He was proud. That terrorist thing in London at Christmas? He wouldn’t stop going on about it. It made the front page of the New York Times. When it was over, he kept saying that’s my son, my son did that. He was real proud of you, you know.’

‘No. I didn’t know.’

There was a pause.

Archer loosened the long black tie around his neck and unbuttoned his top button, then lifted the white cap off his tea. Steam swirled up from the cup, the water tinted and infused. He lifted the string on the bag and dunked it up and down, watching the water darken as it soaked up the tea leaves inside the bag.

He dropped the bag inside and watched it sink to the bottom. His mood felt just as low.

‘I know he screwed up,’ Gerrard said. ‘Made some mistakes. But he turned his life around, Sam. He quit the booze. He joined the Bureau. Neither one is easy to do. He hadn’t taken a sip in almost two years.’

Archer listened but didn’t respond. He looked back out the window again, at the people walking past on the street, each with their own cares and concerns.

There was such a wide variety of people out there. Tourists distracted as they looked at maps and tried to establish their bearings, looking for the way to Macy’s or the Empire State Building over on 34 and 5. Locals accustomed to the sights, dodging and stepping past them. A young street busker on the corner, singing and strumming a guitar, people tossing the odd coin or spare dollar note into the open guitar case beside him. This place really was a melting pot. If he took a photo right now, he could probably point out about fifteen or twenty different nationalities.

But despite the wandering meander of his mind, a voice was constantly echoing in there, a voice he couldn’t shake, as if someone had shouted into a cave and three words kept reverberating back to him.

The echo was saying the same thing over and over again, three words, five syllables.

Someone murdered him.

‘How long are you in town for?’ Gerrard asked.

‘Till next Sunday. A week tomorrow,’ Archer said.

He shifted his gaze from the window to Gerrard, sensing something in his voice.

He looked like he had more to say.

‘Why?’

‘Did you speak to anyone about the murder? Or read the coroner’s report?’

‘No. But I know what happened. Twelve gauge, point blank, back of the skull. Took most of his head off. No suspects, no witnesses. The FBI is handling the investigation and its going absolutely nowhere. Why?’

Gerrard looked across the table at him.

Didn’t speak.

‘Why, Gerry?’ Archer repeated, his face hardening. ‘Don’t waste my time.’

Gerrard nodded.

‘Because I think I know who pulled the trigger,’ he said.