He nodded. Thought about it. Drummed his long fingers on the wheel.
`E Unum Pluribus,’ he said. `It’s a reversal of the US motto. So we can assume it means out of one comes many, right?’
`Correct,’ I said. `And what’s unique about American banknotes, compared to any other country in the world?’
He thought about it. He was thinking about something so familiar he wasn’t spotting it. We drove on. Shot past the stand of trees on the left. Up ahead, a faint glimmer of dawn in the east.
`What?’ he said.
`I’ve lived all over the world,’ I said. `Six continents, if you count a brief spell in an air force weather hut in Antarctica. Dozens of countries. I’ve had lots of different sorts of paper money in my pocket. Yen, deutschmarks, pounds, lire, pesos, wons, francs, shekels, rupees. Now I’ve got dollars. What do I notice?’
Finlay shrugged.
`What?’ he said.
`Dollars are all the same size,’ I said. `Fifties, hundreds, tens, twenties, fives and ones. All the same size. No other country I’ve seen does that. Anywhere else, the high-value notes are bigger than the small-value notes. There’s a progression, right? Anywhere else, the one is a small bill, the five is bigger, the ten is bigger and so on. The biggest value bills are usually great big sheets of paper. But American dollars are all the same size. The hundred-dollar bill is the same size as the onedollar bill.’
`So?’ he asked.
`So where are they getting their paper from?’ I asked him.
I waited. He glanced out of his window. Away
from me. He wasn’t getting it and that was irritating him.
`They’re buying it,’ I said. `They’re buying the paper for a buck a sheet.’
He sighed and gave me a look.
`They’re not buying it, for God’s sake,’ he said. `Bartholomew’s guy made that clear. It’s manufactured up in Dalton and the whole operation is as tight as a fish’s asshole. They haven’t lost a single sheet in a hundred and twenty years. Nobody’s selling it off on the side, Reacher.’
`Wrong, Finlay,’ I said. `It’s for sale on the open market.’
He grunted again. We drove on. Came to the turn onto the county road. Finlay slowed and swung left. Headed north toward the highway. Now the glimmer of dawn was on our right. It was getting stronger.
`They’re scouring the country for one-dollar bills,’ I said. `That was the role Hubble took over a year and a half ago. That used to be his job at the 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 cheques and wire transfers and bogus hundreds and they’re buying in genuine one-dollar bills from all over the US. 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.’