Dunking Ink (2)

This operation dubbed ‘Dunking Ink’ started in September 2015 to last over six months. The Governor of MMA was frustrated however, President Libra’s written order was to empty the vaults, including a hidden reserve in a basement at the depot or the Bandèrigé compound, and relocate at the twenty-second floor. This was absurd and unethical, an unusual procedure never tried before but the President wouldn’t have it any other way.

The new prints of the Golden Fifty series carried via DHL courier could be delivered to no other place but MMA. The Governor claimed he got enough space to store the new stock and responsibly destroy the old. This idea of using a third floor and one that could not do without, just blew his mind.

The Governor of MMA could only visit to inspect the pallets of old banknotes with a permission from the Chairperson of the Economic Council. In other words, he was physically distanced from the money. Few pieces of furniture remained on the twenty-second floor. A large empty hall with glass panels covering four sides without a single partition barrier. A forklift deployed on this floor and one below in the basement parking area serving all vehicles entering this building. The elevator systems on the western side could be accessed with key cards.

On the 20^th floor, there were well equipped work stations, desks and chairs, highly automated, bank grade money counting machines, portables, sorter machines, ATMs and staffers wearing gloves and masks. An armed guard kept watch. Ledgers and bin cards maintained both manually and computerised. It seemed though there was a proficient practice of accountability applied in handling the money from a hub that came known to be responsible for defunct and destruction of the old currency that was introduced in 1983.

A single armour-plated truck with a small force was deployed to transport the old banknotes stacked in pallets. It took four months and forty runs to relocate the bulk of uncirculated banknotes of fourteen billion rufiya in various denominations. In small amounts and in slow progress, old money collected from the atolls and islands kept coming. In small amounts and in slow progress, old money was dispatched to Doonidoo to be destroyed in an incinerator. In small amounts and in slow progress, the Governor of MMA was responsible to see this entire stock got accumulated and destroyed.

Firal walked home. She passed the Sultan Park behind the defence offices when she puked involuntarily to her dress under the security cameras. Firal continued to walk trying not to show a sign. Not that she was aware of the cameras but to avoid being seen by someone. And someone always saw. She stole a look behind. There was nobody on the street in the morning light.

She reached home. Her mother-in-law stood by the gate. She swiftly passed through but her mother-in-law caught a whiff. Perhaps, she went jogging and turned up sweaty.

“What’s that smell?” asked her mother-in-law.

She shook her head holding breath.

“Spirits are haram to be consumed,” she said so.

Firal went in bit shaken.

Firal was raising three kids. Since their marriage crumbled, she couldn’t give that motherly love or attend to the kids; three fine boys. Sometimes she treated them harshly when they misbehaved. Good parenting slipped behind in a severed family. She worked at a bank and now covered her expenses working late at night.

She pulled out two thousand rufiya folded under her panties that Soda gave. She was worth so much. She dropped them on the table. Shook off her shoes and lay down in bed to fall asleep. It was the weekend.

Her husband, Moha, came home around twelve. Moha saw her sleeping in bed and simultaneously caught that smell hung in the room. He reached down and smelt her body. It came right from her breath.

He shook her, “Where have you been?”

She stirred, “Jogging.”

“You smell like a rat! What were you drinking?”

She realised she had not changed or washed. She got up from bed quickly, “I’m in period…”

“Liar!” he tried to grab her, “You boozed!”

She shook off, “Don’t touch me!” He slapped her in the face. Firal ran into the bathroom.

He saw the cash left on the table, “Where did you get this money?”

“That belongs to the bank,” Firal called from the bathroom.

He pulled his wallet and shook off two thousand rufiya in five hundred notes. He replaced the cash on the table and left the house.

Firal was spending the money. A few days later, she changed a five hundred note from the bank counter. When the money got deposited, they run a teller machine by a senior cashier. A five hundred note was detected as a fake. “Is your machine broken?” asked Rosa.

“No. It’s working properly,” replied Firal.

“Well then you did not run it. Let me check!” She dropped it into the slot of the machine at the counter and it got rejected as forged.

“I can’t believe it!” cried Firal.

“You must run them twice,” Rosa hung the note in the light with a gloved hand, “See! This is a counterfeit. Compare the digit with this authentic five hundred note bill. Every denomination has a different font to express the numeric. This banknote cannot bear a serial number beginning with D. It should be C. Only the old set printed by Bradbury Wilkinson and Company have D.”

“Who printed this?”

“It’s a fake! This is an imitation of a Thomas De La Rue which is the same company, of course, a different name, but the font and serial number don’t match.”

So, the matter absorbed under a security camera that recorded Firal changing a five hundred note from her own purse.

However, a day later she purchased perfume and toiletries from Cutesy where a five hundred got rejected. Then she began to think that money Soda gave was fake. She never used her mobile phone to call secret contacts and bank could be risky on this matter. Firal called from home, “You passed me counterfeit money. I got rejected twice, Soda!”

“How did that happen?” quizzed the cop.

“You tell me…”

“Bring me the money. I give you in hundreds.”

“I have only this 500 which got rejected.”

“Bring it to me tonight.”

“I can’t come. Hubby’s home. I will call you.”

Moha bugged the landline phone since she came home boozed. He listened to the tape and learnt the name though he failed to get the number because she deleted it. He was thrilled to find a way how to dupe her by telling her he’d be gone. He wore a crafty smile on his face when his mobile buzzed.

“Tonight,” informed the caller.

Moha’s expression changed completely as he put the mobile into his pocket.