`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 centre of our universe. The metal siding reflected the pale dawn.
Finlay slowed. We looked over at the place. Our heads swivelled 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 fibre.’
`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 fibre. 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 worried about. That’s why they’re panicking.’
Finlay shook his head. Grinned at the windshield.
`How the hell did you figure this out?’ he asked.
I didn’t answer right away. We drove on. The highway was hoisting us through the gathering sprawl of Atlanta’s southern edge. Blocks were filling up. Construction and commerce were busy confirming the Sunbelt’s growing strength. Cranes stood ready to shore up the city’s southern wall against the rural emptiness outside.
`We’re going to take this one step at a time,’ I said. `First of all, I’m going to prove it to you. I’m going to show you an air conditioner box stuffed with genuine one dollar bills.’
`You are?’ he said. `Where?’
I glanced across at him.
`In the Stollers’ garage,’ I said.
`Christ’s sake, Reacher,’ he said. `It got burned down. And there was nothing in it, right? Even if
there was, now it’s got the Atlanta PD and fire chiefs swarming all over it.’
`I’ve got no information says it got burned down,’ I said.
`What the hell are you talking about?’ he said. `I told you, it was on the telex.’
`Where did you go to school?’ I asked him.
`What’s that got to do with anything?’ he said.
`Precision,’ I said. `It’s a habit of mind. It can get reinforced by good schooling. You saw Joe’s computer printout, right?’
Finlay nodded.
`You recall the second-to-last item?’ I asked him.
‘Stollers’ garage,’ he said.