by Barber, Tom
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 38th 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 33rd, 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 8th 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 33rd, 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 1st 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 beside 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 30th, 1972. 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 on 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 mome
nts, 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 7th 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 33rd 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 35th 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 expression 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.’
‘Why?’
‘They got greedy. Wanted a bigger cut. So I told them to go screw themselves and that was the end of it. We always met in secure locations and checked for any wires or recording equipment so they didn’t have anything they could put on me. If anything, it was the other way round. I said I’d go to the other feds and tell them there was a rat in the Task Force.’
‘When was this?’
‘Six weeks ago, give or take.’
‘You haven’t been in touch since?’
Farrell shook his head.
‘No. They’ve got no idea what we’ve got planned this weekend. If they did, they’d probably try to screw us for the cash. But they can’t arrest me. If I go down, I’ll start talking and it’ll take them down with me.’
‘What’s his name?’
Farrell grinned, drinking from his beer. ‘Now I can’t tell you that. And I didn’t say he.’
He paused.
‘Anyway, apparently the fed who got shot was some asshole sent down here to see what was going on in their team. He found something but the rat took him out before he had a chance to squeal. They called and told me last week. Said they did me a favour and that I owed them to continue our partnership. But I told them where to get off. I don’t need them anymore.’
Archer kept looking straight ahead, seemingly impassive. Farrell drained his beer, then looked over at the other man.
‘Another one?’ he asked, nodding at the beer. Archer shook his head, keeping his eyes on the door ahead.
‘No. Think I’ll head out. Big day tomorrow, right?’
Farrell nodded.
‘OK. I’ll be in touch. Stay near your phone.’
Archer nodded, finishing his beer.
Then he rose and walked to the exit and left.
Outside on the street and out of sight of Farrell, Arch
er walked fast up 7th, headed uptown.
We had some inside help.
Oh shit, shit, shit.
Someone in Gerrard’s team had flipped. That’s why Farrell and his crew had been so successful. That’s why Gerry was bashing his head against a brick wall trying to build a case against them. It all made sense.
And whoever they were, they were the ones who killed his father. Farrell had just confirmed it. A Federal agent murdered by another Federal agent. That’s why he’d left his service weapon at his apartment. He hadn’t been expecting any trouble.
Archer kicked an empty box as he walked up the street, cursing, worried. This whole thing had just been flipped upside down. Gerry had mentioned there were five agents plus himself in his team. Archer didn’t know any of their names, or anything about them. He couldn’t just walk down to Federal Plaza and claim that one of them was on the take or file a complaint. He needed Gerry’s help and he needed it now.
He swore. The only good thing Farrell had said in there was that he had severed communications with the Federal rat. Otherwise the moment Gerrard finished briefing his squad, whoever was dirty would most likely call Farrell and tell him the game was up. He’d said whoever the rat was needed to protect their own identity, so maybe they’d warn them off, tell them where the feds would be, or just tell them to bail on this job.
And depending on what Gerrard told his team, Farrell would know that Archer was the one who passed on the information.
He suddenly ducked into a Cosi coffee shop on 7th Avenue, just before 37th, and headed straight through the café for the bathroom. He moved into the toilet and locked the door, and pulled his phone from his pocket, trying to stay calm. He dialled Gerrard’s number and lifted it to his ear.