Jack Reacher 01 - Killing Floor

bank, cash management. He knew how to get hold of cash. So he arranged to obtain one-dollar bills from banks, malls, retail chains, supermarkets, racetracks, casinos, anywhere he could. It was a big job. They needed a lot of them. They’re using bank checks and wire transfers and bogus hundreds and they’re buying in genuine one-dollar bills from all over the U.S. About a ton a week.”
    Finlay stared across at me. Nodded. He was beginning to understand.
    “A ton a week?” he said. “How many is that?”
    “A ton in singles is a million dollars,” I said. “They need forty tons a year. Forty million dollars in singles.”
    “Go on,” he said.
    “The trucks bring them down to Margrave,” I said. “From wherever Hubble sourced them. They come in to the warehouse.”
    Finlay nodded. He was catching on. He could see it.
    “Then they got shipped out again in the air conditioner cartons,” he said.
    “Correct,” I said. “Until a year ago. Until the Coast Guard stopped them. Nice new fresh boxes, probably ordered from some cardboard box factory two thousand miles away. They packed them up, sealed them with tape, shipped them out. But they used to count them first, before shipping them.”
    He nodded again.
    “To keep the books straight,” he said. “But how the hell do you count a ton of dollar bills a week?”
    “They weighed them,” I said. “Every time they filled a box, they stuck it on a scale and weighed it. With singles, an ounce is worth thirty bucks. A pound is worth four hundred and eighty. I read about all that last night. They weighed it, they calculated the value, then they wrote the amount on the side of the box.”
    “How do you know?” he said.
    “The serial numbers,” I said. “Showed how much money was in the box.”
    Finlay smiled a rueful smile.
    “OK,” he said. “Then the boxes went to Jacksonville Beach, right?”
    I nodded.
    “Got put on a boat,” I said. “Got taken down to Venezuela.”
    Then we fell silent. We were approaching the warehouse complex up at the top of the old county road. It loomed up on our left like the center of our universe. The metal siding reflected the pale dawn. Finlay slowed. We looked over at the place. Our heads swiveled around as we drove past. Then we swung up the ramp onto the highway. Headed north for Atlanta. Finlay mashed the pedal and the stately old car hummed along faster.
    “What’s in Venezuela?” I asked him.
    He shrugged across at me.
    “Lots of things, right?” he said.
    “Kliner’s chemical works,” I said. “It relocated there after the EPA problem.”
    “So?” he said.
    “So what does it do?” I asked him. “What’s that chemical plant for?”
    “Something to do with cotton,” he said.
    “Right,” I said. “Involving sodium hydroxide, sodium hypochlorite, chlorine and water. What do you get when you mix all those chemicals together?”
    He shrugged. The guy was a cop, not a chemist.
    “Bleach,” I said. “Bleach, pretty strong, specially for cotton fiber.”
    “So?” he said again.
    “What did Bartholomew’s guy tell you about currency paper?” I asked him.
    Finlay inhaled sharply. It was practically a gasp.
    “Christ,” he said. “Currency paper is mostly cotton fiber. With a bit of linen. They’re bleaching the dollar bills. My God, Reacher, they’re bleaching the ink off. I don’t believe it. They’re bleaching the ink off the singles and giving themselves forty million sheets of genuine blank paper to play with.”
    I grinned at him and he held out his right hand. We smacked a high five and whooped at each other, alone in the speeding car.
    “You got it, Harvard guy,” I said. “That’s how they’re doing it. No doubt about that. They’ve figured out the chemistry and they’re reprinting the blank bills as hundreds. That’s what Joe meant. E Unum Pluribus. Out of one comes many. Out of one dollar comes a hundred dollars.”
    “Christ,” Finlay said again. “They’re bleaching the ink off. This is something else, Reacher. And you know what this all means? Right now, that warehouse is stuffed full to the ceiling with forty tons of genuine dollar bills. There’s forty million dollars in there. Forty tons, all piled up, waiting for the Coast Guard to pull back. We’ve caught them with their pants down, right?”
    I laughed, happily.
    “Right,” I said. “Their pants are down around their ankles. Their asses are hanging out in the breeze. That’s what they were so