Blue Moon (Jack Reacher #24)(106)

“What two things?”

“The first is the pornography. All your different websites.”

“That’s what you’re here for?”

“Two very specific and very personal requirements,” Reacher said again. “The first is the porn.”

“It’s a sideline, man.”

“Erase it. Delete it. Whatever the word is.”

“All of it?”

“Forever.”

“OK,” Trulenko said. “Wow. I guess I could do that. Mind me asking, is this some kind of moral crusade?”

“What part of our process so far strikes you as moral?”

Trulenko didn’t answer. Reacher walked over and stood next to him. Barton and Hogan stood back. Trulenko stepped up to the bench. Reacher said, “Tell us what you got here.”

Trulenko pointed. He said, “The first two are social media. A constant stream of made-up stories. Which also go to the bullshit websites, all of which are dumb enough to believe every word. They also go to the TV networks, only some of which are dumb enough. The third is identity theft. The fourth is miscellaneous.”

“What’s the fifth?”

“The money.”

“Where’s the porn?”

“Number four,” Trulenko said. “Miscellaneous. It’s a sideline.”

“Go for it,” Reacher said. “Task number one.”

The others crowded around. In truth their knowledge was rudimentary. From the consumer end only. But Trulenko didn’t know that. Their scrutiny seemed to keep him on the straight and narrow. He typed long streams of code. He answered yes, yes, and yes, to all kinds of are-you-sure questions. Text marched across the screen. Eventually it stopped.

Trulenko stood back.

“It’s gone,” he said. “The content is a hundred percent securely deleted, and the domain names are back for sale.”

No one objected.

“OK,” Reacher said. “Now get on five. Show us the money.”

“Which money?”

“All the liquid assets.”

“So that’s what you’re here for.”

“Makes the world go round.”

Trulenko took a step to his right.

“Wait,” Reacher said. “Stay on four for a moment. Show us your own bank account.”

“Not relevant, man. I got nothing to do with these guys. They’re entirely separate from me. I came here from San Francisco.”

“Show us anyway. Apply the impeccable logic.”

Trulenko was quiet a beat.

Then he said, “My business was a limited liability corporation.”

“You mean everyone else took a bath, except you.”

“My personal assets were protected. That’s the point of the corporate structure. It encourages entrepreneurship. It encourages risk taking. That’s where the glory is.”

“Show us your personal assets,” Reacher said.

Trulenko paused another beat. Then he arrived at the inevitable conclusion. He seemed to be a pretty quick and decisive thinker. Possibly influenced by his long association with computers. He stepped up again and typed and clicked. Soon the screen redrew. A soothing color. A list of numbers. Maxim Trulenko, checking account, balance four million dollars.

Maria Shevick had pawned her mother’s rings for eighty bucks.

“Leave that screen open,” Reacher said. “Shuffle along to number five. Show us what Gregory had.”

Trulenko shuffled along. He typed and clicked. The screen redrew. He said, “This is the only liquid account. Petty cash, in and out.”

“How much is in there at the moment?”

Trulenko looked.

He said, “Right now twenty-nine million dollars.”

“Add your money to it,” Reacher said. “Send Gregory a wire.”

“What?”

“You heard. Empty out your bank account and move the money to Gregory’s.”

Trulenko didn’t answer. Didn’t move. He was thinking. Fast, like he could. Within seconds he was at the acceptance stage. Reacher could see it in his face. Better to walk out broke than not walk out at all. Could be worse. He was quickly at home with the notion. Like one broken leg was better than both.

He stepped back to four and typed and clicked. Yes, yes, and yes to the are-you-sure questions. Then he stepped back. The balance on four pinged down to zero. On five it bumped up to thirty-three million.

“Now type in these numbers,” Reacher said. He recited Aaron Shevick’s bank account details from memory. Learned days before, ahead of the trip to the bar. The man with the prison tattoo thinks you’re Aaron Shevick. You have to go get our money for us. Eighteen thousand nine hundred dollars, on that occasion.

I’m pretty much a round-figures guy.

Trulenko read the numbers back.

All good.

Reacher said, “Now wire the money.”

“How much?

“All of it.”

“What?”

“You heard. Empty out Gregory’s bank account and move the money to the account I just gave you.”

Trulenko paused again. The point of no return. His personal assets were about to disappear out from under his control. But one broken leg was better than both. He typed and clicked. Yes, yes, and yes. He stood back. The balance on the screen pinged down to zero. Thirty-three million dollars set out on a journey.