Andy McNab - Deep Black

'No.'

'When did he open the account?'

'September.'

'This September just gone?'

'Yep.'

While I was on a roll, I thought I might as well push my luck. 'OK, I'll sign him up by hand here and enter it in the database when the computer's back up. He wants to charge this to the card he uses at your store – hey, yeah, one moment, folks – sorry, Steffi, I'm holding up a whole line of customers here. Read me the credit-card number and expiration date?'

And she did. The weakest link in any security chain is always a human being.

It might not be so easy coming by the next piece of information. I wanted to check that Jerry owned the Jeep, but I didn't know the registration: all I knew was that the Cherokee had looked about three years old. I couldn't just phone the Department of Motor Vehicles and ask. At least, not directly.

I went to docusearch.com and akiba.com, but a plate check would take one business day. I went to the DMV site for Washington DC, and checked their criteria for releasing information. They protected the privacy of individuals by closely adhering to the Driver's Privacy Protection Act. Therefore, they would release driver's records only to the following requesters: driver, with proof of identity; driver's representative (for example, a spouse), with written authorization from the driver and a copy of the driver's proof of identification, bearing a discernible signature; law-enforcement representatives, with documentation showing driver's involvement in an investigation; government entities, as part of an established activity requiring records (for example, security clearances, investigations, and recruitment); attorneys, with written authorization from their client to obtain records; individuals or entities requesting information through the Freedom of Information Act; or insurance company representatives, with written authorization from the driver as part of an established investigation. That last one would do. The only problem was, requesters had to produce the client's name, date of birth, and driver's licence or social-security number – and they had to produce it in person.

When people don't have a reason to be suspicious, it's easy to gain their trust. Next thing I did, therefore, was a Google search for Chrysler and made a note of the head-office telephone number and address, and the same details for dealers in Buffalo and DC. I then did another to get the number for the Motor Vehicles Department in DC. After a five-minute wait – during which I was told I was a valued customer, my call was important to them and I was moving up the queue – I finally got through to a human.

'Hi, I'm calling from Kane Doyle, Chrysler dealership in Buffalo, New York. We got a vehicle recall problem with some 2001 Jeep Cherokees, and I have an ownership issue I hope you can help me with. See, we have a customer just moved from Buffalo to DC and I'm trying to work out if the recall is our responsibility or DC's. I'll give you his address, if you could just verify ownership?'

'I need some sort of-'

'No problem, I'll give you the number here, Kane Doyle, Delaware Avenue, and you can call us back?'

'No, that's OK, I guess. What're the details?' Nothing like the threat of extra workload to get a civil servant to change his mind.

I gave him Jerry's name and address. He hit a few keys. 'Yeah, Jeep Cherokee.'

'Year of registration?'

'2001.'

'That's right. Tell me, is he still on Buffalo plates, or has he reregistered for DC? If he's switched plates I'll get the DC guys to deal with it.'

'Still on Buffalo plates.'

'Ah, well, guess it's my baby, then. Look, thanks for your help.'

It was that simple. Jerry's car checked out.

I sat back and took a long gulp of monkey. The next part of the session was going to be very interesting and quite a lot dirtier.

Seven twenty. It would be dark soon. For once it was going to be an advantage that I hadn't done any washing in ages.

I picked my keys and cell off the kitchen worktop. As I turned towards the window and caught sight of his office on the other side of the Potomac, I thought about Ezra.

I thumbed in his voicemail, my very own 911 number he'd given me in case I needed some emergency shrinkage. I couldn't be arsed to go into the living room for the landline, and that, I thought, was a good sign of normality returning. If I'd still been his patient, he would have been proud of me.

Still looking out over the river, I pictured him doing the business with yet another in the long line of George's fruits, going through the same fucking pantomime. 'We must have complete trust between us. Blah-blah-fucking-blah.'

The voicemail gave me about a hundred options before I could talk. 'It's Nick. You probably know this already – George will explain if you don't – but I won't be coming any more. You're right about the suicide thing. I won't be taking the pills and jumping off the bridge, so no need to worry. And thanks, I suppose.'

I wasn't too sure how that felt but, fuck it, no more Ezra.

Thirty minutes later I was on the Metro, heading back to Chevy Chase. In a carrier-bag I had a pair of washing-up gloves and a torch.

The road was just as busy when I got out as it had been when Jerry waved me off, but now it was dark. The street-lights glinted on the slowly moving traffic. Washington's worker-bees had their heads down determinedly as they made their way home. Most of them just wanted to close the front door, get the telly on and throw something into the microwave. It was etched in their faces.

Jerry's apartment block was easy to find. Just before I got to it I took a turning to the left that brought me round the back, into their communal garden. I sat on a bench as if I belonged there, a resident taking some air before the microwave went ping. I looked along the line of windows on the first floor. Two had no blinds or curtains, very bright white walls and a bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. I could even see Chloe's mobile turning just above the window-ledge.

The door into the hallway was open. There was no movement. I minced round the rear of the building and found the unlit admin area, where the entire apartment block's garbage was stored in big dumpsters, awaiting collection.

I put on the rubber gloves and switched on the torch. It had been years since I'd done any dumpster diving. I always got out of one of these things smelling like shit, sometimes real shit, but it was worth it for what you could learn about a target if you were prepared to delve among the banana peel, coffee grounds and the odd dead cat in a bin-liner. Most people don't give much thought to the letters, phone bills, credit-card statements, medical prescription bottles and even workplace memos they discard.

The first thing I looked for was some cardboard boxes. I pulled them out and set them aside. If anyone challenged me, I'd say that a friend was moving and I was just looking for boxes to help him pack. If they persisted, I'd come clean and say I'd thrown my wedding ring in the trash in the heat of the moment, but now I'd patched things up and wanted it back before my wife found out. With luck, they'd even help me look.

People like me weren't the only ones with their heads in trash cans. Police departments around the country routinely trawled through garbage, and every kind of criminal from Mafia dons to petty embezzlers had had their convictions based, at least in part, on evidence gathered from their rubbish. Intelligence agencies had been doing it for years. After the Iranian revolution in '79, the new government had bands of students gluing together all the documents shredded by the previous lot. It took them four years.

I did a quick sift first, checking all see-through bags for disposable nappies or other baby items. Then I moved to black plastic ones, opening them one by one. An hour later, I found a bag that had come from Jerry and Renee's apartment. There was a letter from a clinic, saying that the whole family were now registered, and their medical cards were enclosed.