Gromyko was early too, and he was standing by the fountain. He wore loafers and loose white trousers and a band-collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up. He was looking at the bronzes- three dancing maidens- and at the water that rose and fell between their elegant arms, and his blond hair shone in the sunlight. The Ukrainian Jay Gatsby. He walked toward me and his movements were precise but also graceful and relaxed. His canted gray eyes were as cold as ever.
“You are more than prompt, Mr. March,” he said.
“It’s a nice morning.”
Gromyko nodded. “And the gardens are particularly nice in this season.” We walked slowly down the path, flanked by vast beds of tulips, and a little of yesterday’s heat seemed to come up at us from the soil. “I walk here every morning, but spring mornings are the best.” Gromyko saw my surprise and a smile disturbed his pale features. “It is not a long walk, Mr. March, I live just over there.” He pointed south and east.
“Not in Jersey?”
Gromyko snorted a little. “No, not in New Jersey,” he said. He came to a stop by a stone bench and put a foot on its edge and folded his arms across his chest. “And now business. You said last night that you wished to consult me.” I nodded. “And you recall that I operate on a quid pro quo basis, yes?”
“I recall.”
“And when the time comes that I require payment?” Gromyko fixed his gray eyes on me, and despite the sunlight a chill spread through my limbs.
“I pull my weight,” I said. “Within reason.”
Gromyko smiled a little. “Always within reason, Mr. March.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves here. I haven’t asked you anything and you haven’t answered. So it remains to be seen how much help you can be.”
Gromyko smiled again, patiently this time, as if at a quarrelsome child. “I am at your disposal,” he said quietly.
“That day in the garage, you weren’t surprised when I told you I was working a missing persons case. And you didn’t press me about it. You didn’t ask who was missing, or much of anything else.”
The little smile stayed on Gromyko’s face. “No, I did not.”
“I think that was because you already knew who I was looking for.”
A nod. “I did.”
“Because I wasn’t the first person to come looking for this guy and wanting to talk to Gilpin. Someone else had been there before me.”
Gromyko’s smile widened slightly. “Someone much less… civilized, Mr. March.”
“Stevie,” I said.
Gromyko shrugged. “I do not recall his name. He was a bodybuilder, impolite and stupid- an unfortunate combination.”
“But he worked for Marty Czerka?” A look of disdain came and went across Gromyko’s face, and he nodded. “How did you meet?” I asked.
“He accosted Gilpin outside the office, but failed to notice that two of my men were with him at the time. They sent Gilpin upstairs and called me.”
“And you questioned him- somewhat vigorously.” Gromyko said nothing. “And he told you… what?”
“Everything he knew. Which was very little.”
“But he told you he was working a missing persons case.”
Gromyko nodded again. “Yes. He was looking for Gilpin’s half brother, Gregory Danes,” he said.
“And he also told you who his client was?” I held my breath waiting for the answer.
“Yes, he told me that too,” Gromyko said.
“And?”
“And now we agree that I have been helpful to you, yes, Mr. March?” His eyes narrowed again and caught mine. The breeze picked up and blew around a heavy scent of topsoil.
“We agree.”
“Just so we are not ahead of ourselves,” Gromyko said, and he smiled icily. “Jeremy Pflug. His client is named Jeremy Pflug.” Gromyko spelled it for me.
“Who is he?”
He shook his head. “Google him, Mr. March; you will find out all you need to know.”
“You don’t know anything more about him than that?”
Gromyko sighed. “I satisfied myself that Stevie was telling me what he believed was true. And Gilpin assured me that he has nothing to do with his brother, and that he knows nothing of this Pflug. And Gilpin knows better than to lie to me. So I satisfied myself that this matter did not concern me.
“My business is growing rapidly, Mr. March, and it is demanding of my time. Where no clear need or benefit exists, I do not meddle in the affairs of others- a practice you would be wise to consider.” Gromyko straightened and checked his watch. “If there is nothing else…?”
“When did you have this talk with Stevie?”
“Some time ago- ten days, perhaps, before your visit.”
“Any more signs of a tail since your man saw that blue van?”
“No,” he said, and looked at his watch again. “And now I must go.” His pale face was expressionless.
“Thank you,” I said.
He nodded slowly. “Indeed,” he said, and he turned and went south, into the Italian garden. I watched him walk past the line of crab apple trees and pause near the Vanderbilt Gate. The willowy blond woman unfolded herself from a bench and drifted across the garden to join him. She was just his height, and she leaned into him and took his hand and whispered something in his ear. Gromyko nodded at whatever she said, and the blond woman clutched his arm and kissed him. A swatch of laughter, high and girlish, fluttered across the garden like a leaf. And then they were through the gate and out of sight.
I sat on the stone bench and listened to the distant traffic sounds and thought for a while about the bargain I had struck with Gromyko. I wondered what he would ask in return for his favor and when he would ask it, and if our ideas about what was within reason would be even remotely similar. And what I would do if they weren’t. And what he would do. I shook my head. It was pointless to speculate now, pointless to worry; the deal was done and I had a name. When the time came, I’d pull my weight- one way or another- but right now I had a name. The sun was warm on my shoulders and the bench was warm beneath me, and in a minute or two the frost seeped from my arms and legs.
I walked across the park to 96th Street, and caught a subway downtown. The Brill offices were still quiet. Neary was clean-shaven, clear-eyed, and blue-suited, and only mildly surprised to see me. I shut the office door.
“There’s nothing yet on Stevie,” he said.
“Don’t worry about it. I’ve got a name.”
“From who?” he asked.
“From somebody reliable.”
“Somebody who’s currently in one piece?”
“He was the last time I saw him.”
Neary smiled a little. “I’m relieved. What’s the name?”
“Jeremy Pflug.” I spelled it for him, as Gromyko had for me. “No one I’ve heard of, but Google will reportedly tell us all we need to know.”
Neary rolled over to his keyboard. “All we need to know for free, anyway, but it’s a place to start. Drag a chair over.”
We were at it for two hours, at first on Google, then on a variety of subscription services, and finally in a proprietary Brill database. It may not have been everything there was to know about Jeremy Pflug, but it was enough- and it was strange.
If you believed the overheated prose on the Web site of Scepter Intelligence, the company he had founded and of which he was president and chief executive, Jeremy Pflug was a larger-than-life character, a unique hybrid of Sir Richard Burton, Wild Bill Donovan, and the hero of a very thick paperback thriller.
According to his corporate bio, Pflug was in his late forties, Ivy educated, and a polyglot, with graduate degrees in economics and international affairs. He was a veteran of the U.S. Navy, where he had been a lieutenant commander and served with Special Forces teams. After the navy, he did stints as a war correspondent, a CIA analyst, and a bond trader, all as prelude to founding Scepter. His hobbies included sailing, caving, and martial arts. There was no mention of his favorite color.