The Getaway (Sam Archer 2) (31 page)

Satisfied, he returned to the couch and lay back, closing his eyes, the pistol in his hand with the safety on. He heard the deep breathing of the mother and daughter from the bed. He glanced over and saw Katic fast asleep, her dark brown hair behind her head, her
jaw
-
li
ne
and neck sleek and feminine.

He watched her for a few moments longer, then closed his own eyes.

And within a minute he was asleep.

EIGHTEEN

The next morning, Archer was the first to wake. He opened his eyes and found himself staring at the ceiling, his back flat on the couch, still in his t-shirt, jeans and shoes. In his right hand, the Sig was resting on the couch on its side, but it was ai
med straight at the door.

He rose, stretching, and checked the bed. He saw Katic and Jessie still snuggled together, fast asleep amongst the folds of the clean white sheets. He smiled. He figured Katic was the type like himself who would be up at sunrise, getting in a run or a gym session before she started her day, but the events of last night had clearly knocked her body for six. He watched them both for a moment, then glanced at the clock on the bed-side table. The sunlight pouring in through the gap in the curtains already told him it was morning, another beautiful day in the city, and the red digits on the clock told him it was 9:29 am. He realised it was Sunday. He was supposed to be heading back to the
UK
today. His flight took off in eleven hours. But there was a hell of lot they’d have to face before he could even think about getting on that plane.

Yawning, he moved to the bathroom as quietly as he could and used the facilities, flushing the toilet and brushing his teeth with the complimentary white hotel brush and paste. He laid the pistol on the marble counter as he brushed and rinsed out his mouth. He examined his reflection in the mirror. He looked tired, but he’d seen himself look a lot worse. He smoothed down his hair, then remembered his phone and took the pieces out of his pocket, sliding the battery back into the slot on the back and reattaching the rear cover. He turned it on. After a few moments, a small phone came up in the left corner of the display. He had a voice message. Archer
pushed the button and listened.

It was from Sanderson, the FBI Assistant Director. Cobb must have given him the number. He had a deep voice, a neutral American accent, non-regional. He said he’d just arrived in town and it was around 5 am, and that he was going to get his head down for a few hours then would meet at 10 am wherever Archer wanted. The message ended. Archer appreciated the gesture. Sanderson and Cobb must have been good friends, or he must have really owed Cobb to drive up here so late at night. Right now, he and Katic needed all the help they could get, and Sanderson was the perfect man to help them. Archer tried to call him back, but there was no answer. He let it ring through to the answering machine and left a message, telling the man to meet him on the 8
th
Floor Marriott Hotel bar at 10. He hung up and took out the battery again,
then moved back into the room.

Katic and Jessie were still asleep. Archer grabbed a pen and paper from the desk by the television and scribbled
Gone to meet FBI A.D. Back soon x
on the pad, just under the red hotel logo, address and contact details
.
He laid it on the couch where he had been sleeping and grabbed his navy-blue over-coat. Swinging it over his shoulders, he checked the chamber on the Sig by pulling back the top-slide gently. He saw the copper-coloured gleam of a bullet in the pipe, confirming it was loaded. He made sure the safety was on, and tucked the gun into the pocket of his coat. He grabbed the key-card, and taking the latch off the door, quietly slipped out of the room, pulling the door shut behind him as softly as he could.

He stood in the corridor, still for a moment, checking each side. The place was pretty quiet. Down the far end, he saw a family of five troop out of a room and make their way towards the elevators. He waited where he was, watching them. The father of the group pushed the button and they stepped into one of the capsules and the doors shut, probably headed upstairs for the restaurant on the 48
th
Floor and a view of the
Manhattan
morning as they enjoyed a Sunday morning breakfast. Archer walked down the corridor. The coat’s deep pockets meant he could look like he had his hands stuffed in there, but actually was holding a pistol in his right hand. It meant he could be armed and ready to fire, and if Siletti and O’Hara got the drop on him he would have something of his own to answer with. The odds were already stacked against him but the Sig would even the playing field if he got cornered.

Arriving by the elevators, he pushed a button with an arrow facing down printed on the white panel, and a set of doors opened instantly behind him. He walked over and stepped inside and pushed the button for 8. After a brief pause, the doors slid shut and the capsule moved d
own.

He looked out of the glass behind him and saw the lobby far below, gradually increasing in size as the elevator took him down thirteen levels. Looking down, he realised any guests who were afraid of heights would probably leave this hotel more stressed than when they arrived. It certainly was an overwhelming view, a clever and artistic design, but not for sufferers of vertigo, that was for sure.

A few seconds later the elevator arrived on 8, and once the doors opened, Archer stepped out. Suddenly, it was far busier around him. He saw the giant bar was straight ahead of him, the rest of the 8
th
floor a concourse with shops and conference rooms. There were people passing him from each direction and he joined the flow, moving up a couple of steps and entering the large bar area.

The bar was big. Very big. It occupied about a third of the entire 8
th
floor. It was split into two halves. The floor on this side was all polished marble, dark green with white swirls and whorls. To his immediate left was the main bar itself. It was circular, surrounded by a series of white chairs, televisions mounted above the rows and rows of different liquor bottles, showing the news headlines and weather reports for the day. He was glad to see that neither his face nor any mention of the Garden heist was on the screen. But some footage and a headline suddenly flicked onto the television th
at made him stop in his tracks.

It was a breaking news report. The screen was showing images from outside the Trump Hotel, sometime last night, lots of lights from both an ambulance and cameras flashing in the night as a black body-bag was wheeled out of the front entrance on a gurney, down the steps and into a waiting ambulance. He glanced at the headline under the footage.

FBI Special Agent found murdered in Trump Hotel.

He swallowed. He realised the report only made reference to Parker’s body, not Lock’s or Gerrard’s, which meant either no one had found the other two yet or Siletti and O’Hara had disposed of the bodies. He remembered what was in the trunk of Siletti’s car, the power saw, plastic bags and bricks, and shuddered. He thought of Gerry, his father’s old friend, and swallowed down his anger. He pictured the two men in his head, and made a silent promise. For them, he’d make sure Siletti and O’Hara would pay for everything they’d done.

Averting his gaze from the television, Archer saw that there were stools placed all the way around the circular bar with no one sitting on them yet. 9.30 am was a bit too early to start drinking. He walked on over the marble floor, past tables and chairs with the occasional person or pair sat there, drinking coffee, reading papers, or chatting with partners or colleagues. As he walked, Archer saw ten yards ahead that the marble suddenly changed into a carpeted area, the second portion of the bar. This place was busier. He saw a lot of businessmen and women in suits, engaged in meetings, drinking cups of coffee and discussing docum
ents or proposals placed on the tables in front of them
. Up ahead were long glass windows that ran all the way across
the walls
revealing the heart of
Times Square
. From where he was standing, Archer could see the tops of the billboards and advertisements below. McDonalds, Mamma Mia,
Chicago
and M+M’s.

The place was a good spot for meeting someone, especially in Archer’s case. It had a number of escape routes, and he would see trouble coming from a mile away. Anyhow, he wasn’t concerned about Sanderson. He had Cobb’s seal of approval and that was enough. He just didn’t want to turn and find Siletti and O’Hara standing there, trying to corner him off. Th
ere were a lot of people around
and he didn’t want to have to
pull the Sig and start firing.

He walked through the seating area and took up an empty chair to the left and near the window, side-on so he could both see the room and also couldn’t be approached from behind. A wa
itress walked over from the bar
and he asked her for a cup of tea. She nodded and moved away, stifling a smile at the combination of his request and English accent. Watching her go, he glanced over his left shoulder into
Times Square
and looked at a clock on one of the screens. It
told him the time was 9:45 am.

He looked back into the bar and the direction from which he’d just come, but couldn’t see anyone who looked
as if
they could be Sanderson or an FBI Assistant Director. With the Sig held in his hand, hidden in his pocket, he lean
t
back in the chair and waited.

He’d be here soon enough.

Ten minutes later, he clocked Sanderson from about sixty yards away. He was in his fifties,
probably
once fit but moving from the field to behind a desk had added
some
extra pounds to his waistline. He looked surprisingly fresh for a guy who’d been driving all night, but that was the way it was with
people
as high up as he was in the food chain. For men like him and Cobb, sleep was a luxury in the way that coffee and caffeine were a necessity. He was dressed in a black suit, white shirt and blue tie, smartly cut hair that
had once been
brown
but was now turning grey. He made Archer immediately too, and headed over. Archer rose to greet him, but looked behind the man at the same
time. No one had followed him.

Sanderson offered his hand. Archer let the Sig drop in his pocket and pulled his own hand, shaking it.

‘Bobby Sanderson.’

‘Sam Archer.’

‘Yeah, I knew your father. I’m sorry about what happened to him.’

Archer nodded.

‘Anyway, Let’s take a seat,’ Sanderson said.

The waitress from the bar approached again, having seen Sanderson arrive, and he ordered coffee, black, no sugar, no milk. Once she was
gone, he turned back to Archer.

‘Right. From the start, tell me everything. I already heard it from Timmy, but I want to hear it first hand from you.’

It took Archer ten minutes or so. He gave Sanderson every detail, as he had with Cobb
earlier
. He paused towards the beginning as the waitress returned with Sanderson’s coffee, but then he told him everything that had happened from the moment he got the call in London to them sitting right here, across from each other at the table.

Once he
'd
finished, he looked at Sanderson, gauging his response. The FBI Assistant Director didn’t move, looking straight back at him. Then he spoke.

‘Two words,’ he said. ‘Holy. Shit.’

‘Exactly.’

‘First of all, do not say a word to another person about anything you just told me. Understand?’

‘Yes.’

‘I mean it kid. I’m saying that for your own good. I’m an old friend of Timmy’s, but
there are
a lot of people out there who wouldn’t care if you end up locked in a jail cell for the rest of your life. Or worse. The FBI has to maintain its image. I don’t need to tell you how damaging this could be if word got out to the public.’

Archer nodded. ‘It stays with me. You have my word.’

‘
I’ll need more than that,’ he said. ‘But we’ll deal with that later.’

He drank from his coffee.

‘
I
manage the Security Division,’ he explained. ‘
But after Timmy called me last night, I pulled the files on the team up here. Their individual folders, the case files, the reports, the whole lot. I saw your father was sent up here to investigate.’

‘Yeah. It got him killed. That’s why I got involved. And they whacked Parker
for sure. Most likely
Lock and Gerry too.’

Sanderson thought for a moment
, then swore
.

‘
T
his doesn’t shock me as it should. People in
Washington
have been keeping a close eye on this team for a while. Let’s just say they haven’t been conducting themselves in a low-key manner. Before you lost contact with Agent Gerrard, did he tell you
what he did to get sent here?’