Lee Child - Killing Floor

At first I concentrated on paper problems. Kelstein had said that paper was the key. He and Bartholomew had provided a long appendix about paper. It expanded on what he’d told me face to face. The cotton and linen fibers, the chemical colorant, the introduction of the red and blue polymer threads. The paper was produced in Dalton, Massachusetts, by an outfit called Crane and Company. I nodded to myself. I’d heard of them. Seemed to me I’d bought some Christmas cards made by them. I remembered the thick heavy card and the creamy rag envelopes. I’d liked them. The company had been making currency stock for the Treasury since 1879. For over a century, it had been trucked down to Washington under heavy guard in armored cars. None had ever been stolen. Not a single sheet.

Then I flipped backward from the appendix and started looking at the main text. I piled Hubble’s little library on his desk. Trawled through it all again. Some things I read twice, three times. I kept diving back into the untidy sprawl of dense articles and reports. Checking, cross-referencing, trying to understand the arcane language. I kept going back to the big red Senate report. There were three paragraphs I read over and over again. The first was about an old counterfeiting ring in Bogotá, Colombia. The second was about a much earlier Lebanese operation. The Christian Phalangists had teamed up with some Armenian engravers during an old civil war. The third was some basic stuff about chemistry. Lots of complicated formulas, but there were a few words I recognized. I read the three paragraphs time and time again. I wandered through to the kitchen. Picked up Joe’s blank list. Stared at it for a long time. Wandered back to the dark quiet den and sat in a pool of light and thought and read halfway through the night.

IT DIDN’T PUT ME TO SLEEP. IT HAD EXACTLY THE OPPOSITE effect. It woke me up. It gave me a hell of a buzz. It left me shaking with shock and excitement. Because by the time I had finished, I knew exactly how they were getting their paper. I knew exactly where they were getting it from. I knew what had been in those air conditioner boxes last year. I didn’t need to go up to Atlanta and look. I knew. I knew what Kliner was stockpiling at his warehouse. I knew what all those trucks were bringing in every day. I knew what Joe’s heading had meant. E Unum Pluribus. I knew why he’d chosen that reversed motto. I knew everything, with twenty-four hours still to go. The whole thing, from beginning to end. From top to bottom. From the inside out. And it was one hell of a clever operation. Old Professor Kelstein had said the paper was unobtainable. But Kliner had proved him wrong. Kliner had found a way of obtaining it. A very simple way.

I jumped up from the desk and ran down to the basement. Wrenched open the dryer door and pulled my clothes out. Dressed hopping from foot to foot on the concrete floor. Left the towel where it fell. Ran back up to the kitchen. Loaded up my jacket with the things I was going to need. Ran outside, leaving the splintered door swinging. Ran over the gravel to the Bentley. Started it up and threaded it backward down the drive. Roared off down Beckman and squealed a left onto Main Street. Gunned it through the silent town and out beyond the diner. Howled another left onto the Warburton road and pushed the stately old car along as fast as I dared.

The Bentley’s headlights were dim. Twenty-year-old design. The night was patchy. Dawn was hours away and the last of the trailing storm clouds were scudding across the moon. The road was never quite straight. The camber was off and the surface was lumpy. And slick with storm water. The old car was sliding and wallowing. So I cut the speed back to a cruise. Figured it was smarter to take an extra ten minutes than to go plowing off into a field. I didn’t want to join Joe. I didn’t want to be another Reacher brother who knew, but who was dead.

I passed the copse of trees. It was just a darker patch against the dark sky. Miles away, I could see the perimeter lights of the prison. They were blazing out over the night landscape. I cruised past. Then for miles I could see their glow in the mirror, behind me. Then I was over the bridge, through Franklin, out of Georgia, into Alabama. I rushed past the old roadhouse Roscoe and I had been in. The Pond. It was closed up and dark. Another mile, I was at the motel. I left the motor running and ducked into the office to rouse the night guy.

“You got a guest called Finlay here?” I asked him.

He rubbed his eyes and looked at the register.

“Eleven,” he said.

The whole place had that night look on it. Slowed down and silent and asleep. I found Finlay’s cabin. Number eleven. His police Chevy was parked up outside. I made a lot of noise banging on his door. Had to keep banging for a while. Then I heard an irritated groan. Couldn’t make out any words. I banged some more.

“Come on, Finlay,” I called.

“Who’s there?” I heard him shout.

“It’s Reacher,” I said. “Open the damn door.”

There was a pause. Then the door opened. Finlay was standing there. I’d woken him up. He was wearing a gray sweatshirt and boxer shorts. I was amazed. I realized I had expected him to be sleeping in his tweed suit. With the mole-skin vest.

“What the hell do you want?” he said.

“Something to show you,” I told him.

He stood yawning and blinking.

“What the hell time is it?” he said.

“I don’t know,” I said. “Five o’clock, six, maybe. Get dressed. We’re going somewhere.”

“Going where?” he said.

“Atlanta,” I said. “Something to show you.”

“What something?” he said. “Just tell me, can’t you?”

“Get dressed, Finlay,” I said again. “Got to go.”

He grunted, but he went to get dressed. Took him a while. Fifteen minutes, maybe. He disappeared into the bathroom. Went in there looking like a normal sort of a guy, just woken up. Came out looking like Finlay. Tweed suit and all.

“OK,” he said. “This better be damn good, Reacher.”

We went out into the night. I walked over to the car while he locked his cabin door. Then he joined me.

“You driving?” he said.

“Why?” I said. “You got a problem with that?”

He looked irritable as hell. Glared at the gleaming Bentley.

“Don’t like people driving me,” he said. “You want to let me drive?”

“I don’t care who drives,” I said. “Just get in the damn car, will you?”

He got in the driver’s side and I handed him the keys. I was happy enough to do that. I was very tired. He started the Bentley up and backed it out of the lot. Swung east. Settled in for the drive. He went fast. Faster than I had. He was a hell of a good driver.

“SO WHAT’S GOING ON?” HE SAID TO ME.

I looked across at him. I could see his eyes in the glow from the dash.

“I figured it out,” I said. “I know what it’s all about.”

He glanced back again.

“So are you going to tell me?” he said.

“Did you call Princeton?” I asked him.

He grunted and slapped the Bentley’s wheel in irritation.

“I was on the phone for an hour,” he said. “The guy knew a hell of a lot, but in the end he knew nothing at all.”

“What did he tell you?” I asked him.

“He gave me the whole thing,” he said. “He was a smart guy. History postgrad, working for Bartholomew. Turns out Bartholomew and the other guy, Kelstein, were the big noises in counterfeiting research. Joe had been using them for background.”

I nodded across at him.

“I got all that from Kelstein,” I said.

He glanced over again. Still irritable.

“So why are you asking me about it?” he said.

“I want your conclusions,” I told him. “I want to see where you got to.”