If he were a cowboy hed ram a truck through the glass and bring all hell down on his head.
Or go in with guns and watch futilely as security screens slammed downproviding there were security screens. But even if he were able to get behind the counter there was no guarantee hed have easy access to the strongroom. It would take time and patience to get cooperation or understanding from the frightened bank staff, and even then someone might trip an alarm. If the safe were on a time lock and the manager shut it at the first sign of trouble, it was all over, no access to the money inside unless he blasted or drilled through, or waited twenty-four hours for the locks to release again.
Still using the newspaper as cover, Wyatt left the milk bar and ambled across the street. An empty bus bellowed away from a bus-stop in the distance. A church bell rang out somewhere; it sounded electronic. He could smell toast and supposed that people lived in flats behind or above the shopfronts.
There were no doors or windows in the wall facing the side street. The inside wall was shared with a remainder bookshop. That left the rear of the bank.
Wyatt walked on. The side wall stretched for twenty-five metres and he came to a small courtyard carpark. A sign read KEEP CLEAR AT ALL TIMES. There was one door in the back wall, solid, made of steel, and one small, barred window set high up in the wall. Then Wyatt heard a toilet flushing and knew they had a permanent guard on the premises.
He idled past the little courtyard, reading the sports pages. A minimum of three men, himself and two others, preferably with a fourth man to drive them out of there, though Wyatt had been let down by drivers in the past. They got twitchy and drove into lampposts, they turned up in vehicles that belonged in a wreckers yard, they didnt turn up at all. If they could somehow get a reliable vehicle into that courtyard, they could load the money via the rear entrance to the bank.
Then Wyatt wandered back the way hed come. He paused outside the parking area and bent to tie his shoelaces. There were two rubbish bins and a number of empty cartons stacked in one corner. Otherwise there was space for only one vehicle and it was designated manager only in white stencilled paint on the wall facing it.
Wyatt knew how they were going to do it.
Twenty-three
He went back to the city and called Anna Reid. Meet me outside the Gallery in an hour.
I could have other plans, she said airily. I might be going out for the afternoon.
There were things about her, about any sort of involvement with someone, that he didnt understand. Either you are or you arent. Which is it?
Her voice changed, growing old and tired. Forget I said it. Just an old teasing habit I should have outgrown by now. But next time try asking instead of telling.
This was baffling to Wyatt. They had a job to do and nothing about it was geared to a normal life. He was unused to games and this kind of intrigue anyway. He made an effort: I need to see you, to discuss the job, but Id also like to see you.
She laughed. Fair enough. See you at three.
An hour to kill. Wyatt walked across the Victoria Bridge and leaned for a while on the railing at mid-river. A paddle-steamer passed under him, crammed with people pointing cameras at the city, the South Bank buildings. One man aimed a video camera up at the bridge; Wyatt jerked back from the railing, continued down the slope to the State Gallery. Inside the Gallery he sat on a leather bench and listened to a trio saw away on a cello and violins. Then he left and made for the museum. He didnt notice the right whale model suspended by wires, its recorded song, the displays of historic machines. His head was telling him the story of the hit on the TrustBank branch and the objects around him had the impermanence of images and jingles on a television screen.
The woman who found him on the lawn outside the Gallery was dressed for a Sunday afternoon in a hot country and Wyatt had begun to back away before her voice claimed him. Hey, its only me.
He had seen Anna Reid unclothed and clothed in costly dresses. This time she wore sunglasses, shorts, sandals and a sleeveless shirt, and she looked small and touristy. She sat next to him, drawing her knees to her chest. In the bright light of day her skin was taut and luminous, the colour of mild tea. Wyatt wanted to stretch out with her like lovers anywhere on a riverbank and once again he felt the disjunction between a normal life and the kind of life that hed made for himself.
She made it easy for him, pushing him onto his back. She leaned over him on her elbow. Youve seen it?
He nodded.
Can you do it?
There are some things I want you to find out. One, the managers home address. Two, there will be time locks on the strongroom: I need to know what time theyll open.
A couple of students sat near them. They carried pads and had been sketching in the Gallery. Lets walk, Anna said.
She led him across the pedestrian bridge to the theatres opposite the Gallery. A banner flapped in the wind, advertising a Sondheim musical. They walked by the waters edge. In 1988 this part of the river had been the Expo site. Now bike paths and footpaths crossed it, isolating islands of trees, fountains, shrubbery, outdoor cafes, a Thai temple, a manufactured beach with golden sand and palm trees.
They talked. Ill need three extra men, Wyatt said.
I can get them.
Ill need to meet them, the sooner the better.
My place, eight oclock. Ill make sure theyre available.
He stopped her. Not your place. Youre not thinking it through clearly. Somewhere neutral.
She flushed, her nostrils flaring.
Wyatt clasped her shoulders. Youre taking it personally. Dont. If were going to work together you have to be as good as I am. Im teaching you what I know, not criticising you. Do you understand?
After a while she nodded abruptly.
Okay. Think of a place.
She looked away, then swung back to face him again. The Londona down-market motel, a place where no- one asks questions.
Where is it?
Out on the Ipswich Road.
Arrange it with the others. Ill see you there at eight.
He watched her walk away. He sat in the sun for a while, then went back across the river and moved his things from the Victoria Hotel to the YMCA.
At seven oclock that evening he hailed a cab, getting out several blocks short of the London Motel. He walked the rest of the way and for the next forty-five minutes watched the place from a bus-stop on the other side of the street. The three men arrived separately and alone. Anna let them in.
At ten minutes past eight he crossed the street. The motel room was square and functional, a double bed dressed in shades of brown, thick curtains, two cigarette-scorched orange vinyl chairs.
Wyatt shook hands with each man, assessing them mentally. The man called Phelps was built like a wardrobe but he moved easily. His size would come in useful for what Wyatt had in mind. Riding was different: small, sinewy, his eyes wary. He looked quick; hed have good reflexes, a dangerous heat.
Know anything about guns?
Riding nodded.
Shotgun or handgun?
Riding seemed to understand the question. Depends what youve got in mind. For crowd control, a shotgun. It scares people, it makes a loud noise and scatters a lot of damage around if you do have to use it. For close, fast work Id use a handgun.
Good.
Wyatt turned to the third man, Pike, and saw a problem. Pike had dead white skin, lifeless brown hair badly cut, and fleshy red lips that he liked to lick. There was an air of smothered misery about him.
