Counterfeit

Chapter 7

Matt was beginning to regret he ever got into this. The new clothes he was wearing were not as comfortable as the soft shirt and well-worn vest he was used to. The gun they gave him felt more like a toy or something a lady would carry. They had taken his own clothes away – Quartermaine had told him that something as simple as a strange manufacturer's label in a coat or shirt could give the whole game away. They even gave him some shiny short leather boots instead of his trail worn cowhide ones. If Kitty could only see him now, he sighed to himself.

It was to be his final training session; he was down in the print shop in the basement of the treasury. The man who was responsible for the process was Milton Carney, he was about 50 years of age and had a stooped stance from spending endless hours watching over the printing press. There was a young apprentice there also, a kid barely out of his teens Dillon thought. The apprentice's name was Willie Taylor and he was supposed to be responsible for keeping the inks for the printer filled, and making sure there was enough paper available to keep the process going. He had a surly attitude and Carney was always having to tell him to keep up.

"Young men of today don't know how to work," he complained to the lawman.

Today he was demonstrating how the printing press worked, and how to find the plates and remove them from the machine.

Just two more days to go until Matt could begin his assignment in earnest, He was not especially looking forward to it, but the sooner he got started the sooner he would finish. These last two days were set aside for him to learn about John Henry Weeks. He had been given several sheets of paper with hand written notes about the man whose place he was to take. He had read and done his best to learn them. Now he was sitting in a room with Brooks, Quartermaine and another man he was never introduced to. They fired questions at him, addressed him as Weeks or John and occasionally as Matt or Dillon. The trick was to respond to the correct name and forget his own. It was more difficult than he could have imagined. He kept running his finger under the uncomfortable, unfamiliar collar around his neck.

"Mr. Weeks," it was Brooks speaking, "you cannot keep doing that, it will give you away, these are supposed to be clothes you wear every day of your life and are comfortable in. The men you will be dealing with are always on the look out for the law and will spot any little detail that is not perfect."

Dillon got to his feet and paced the room a time or two.

"Look maybe I am just not cut out for this line of work." He ran his hand through his hair, and was surprised to find that he was sweating. "Give me a bank robber to track or a murderer to take down, something where I can be myself and use the skills I have developed. This is something I am not cut out for."

Brooks took a deep breath.

"Listen Marshal, we need your help. We need someone with the skills you have, and the physical strength to carry out this mission. We have no one left in the service who can do it. By the time we train someone new it could be too late. We need you."

Brooks was patient and understood what the man in front of him was going through, he wanted to give him time, but time was limited. The real Weeks was scheduled to meet with Mendoza in two days and someone had to be there to play that role. He watched in silence as Dillon paced the room a few more times. He could only imagine what the man was going through. Here was someone who was used to enforcing the law with his strength, his skill with a gun, everything was direct and out in the open. This was going to be totally different. Trying to play the role of another person, being away from the life he was used to, wearing strange clothes and using subterfuge instead of facing the problem head on, none of this could be easy for him. He wanted to give him time to adjust – but time was something he did not have.

As for Dillon – he was tired of being inside buildings – not seeing the sun or feeling the wind. He felt almost imprisoned and missed the freedom to come and go as he pleased, that he had in Dodge. The only time he went outside was to and from the house where he and Quartermaine were staying, and then it was always before the sun came up, or in the evening darkness. He understood the need to stay hidden, who knew where the counterfeiters had eyes watching who was coming and going? But he could not live like this for long, he felt trapped and caged with no control over his life. Finally he got his frustration back under control and Brooks watched with satisfaction as the tall man sat back down at the desk and the questions started once more.

At last it was over. Matt figured he knew as much about paper currency as he was ever likely to need. Milton Carney had been a good teacher, he explained the linen based paper on which the bills were printed, the special green ink used on the reverse side of the bills – which earned them the name of 'greenbacks' - and how to look for various seals and serial numbers on the face of the notes. The printer had a collection of old bills – some genuine and some counterfeit that he used to explain what his student should be looking for. Although Carney was never told the purpose of this education – or the identity of his student, on the last day as Matt was leaving, he shook his hand and looking him in the eye said, "I take pride in the job I do here. It irks me to think of others out there trying to copy it, and if it is not stopped there will be serious consequences for the people of this nation. I don't know who you are – and I don't want to, but I wish you well and hope I have helped in some small way in the job you are about to do."

Matt thanked him and left, passing the apprentice in the outer office on his way out.

TBC