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“Of course not. I have no interest in local news in Washington, D.C.”
“This is that man. He’s currently in a coma at Washington Memorial Hospital.”
Connie picked it up. “Someone tried to murder him Monday night. We’re asking you about him because it turns out he’s closely connected to Kara Moody as well. He’s her baby’s father. Would you know anything about it, Dr. Maddox?”
“Look, Agents, I’ve been patient, I’ve listened to your questions, tried to remain civil. I do not see why you would think we would allow a white van you’re looking for, into the Willows. I do not know why you would believe I’ve met any of those people. I want you to leave now. I will be calling my lawyers. I’m sure they’ll want any further communication to go through them.”
He turned and walked straight out of the seventeenth-century salon, across the modern entrance hall, directly to the front door. He opened it, and stood aside, waiting like a doorman for them to leave.
“Thank you for your time, Dr. Maddox,” Sherlock said as she walked past him.
Lister didn’t say anything. He nodded to Cargill, who hurried to follow them through the front door.
He waited until they’d left, then said, “Cargill, you will never allow those two agents in again.”
“No sir,” Cargill said. He wanted to ask what he should do if they returned with a warrant, but knew enough to keep his mouth shut.
55
BADECKER-ZIOTEC PHARMACEUTICALS
SUBSIDIARY OF GEN-CORE TECHNOLOGIES
BALTIMORE, MARYLAND
LATE WEDNESDAY AFTERNOON
Savich parked the Porsche in the visitor’s slot right in front of the main entrance to Badecker-Ziotec. It sat on the far edge of the Gen-Core Technologies main campus, three modern utilitarian glass-and-steel buildings, none of them with the architectural prestige of the Gen-Core Technologies headquarters a quarter-mile distant. He walked into a utilitarian space that held one tall fake palm tree and a large curving counter with two women seated behind it, working on computers. One of the women whose name tag identified her as Millicent Flowers looked up and smiled at him.
“You’re FBI Agent Savich?”
He nodded, handed her his creds.
She rose, handed back his creds. “I’m Millicent Flowers. Follow me, Agent Savich. I’ll take you to Dr. Zyon.”
They got off on the second floor and walked down a wide sterile hallway to a door with an embossed plaque: DIRECTOR OF RESEARCH. She knocked, waited, knocked again.
Savich heard a man’s annoyed huff from inside. Ms. Flowers said, “He’s not really rude, just off exploring another part of the universe.” She gave him a big smile. The door opened and an older rotund man not taller than five foot four stood in front of Savich, glaring up at him. He looked like he’d just gotten out of bed, with wrinkled clothes and bedhead hair. He wore thick-lensed glasses with no frames and he was frowning ferociously. “Am I supposed to know you?”
Ms. Flowers said before Savich could introduce himself, “Dr. Zyon, you remember, Special Agent Savich of the FBI is here to speak to you? We discussed it. You agreed.”
Savich stuck out his hand. “A pleasure to meet you, sir. Thank you for taking the time to speak to me.”
Zyon wore no rings on his small plump hands. Savich saw the pads of his fingers were scarred from burns, perhaps from chemicals. Had one of his experiments gone awry?
Zyon left him in the doorway, walked to the middle of an office that held an ancient desk covered with state-of-the-art computer equipment, a single desk chair, and a simple metal chair for visitors. Zyon was evidently a man with no time or desire for meetings or visitors. Savich saw a half-dozen diplomas, awards, commendations on the walls, and a photo taken with Zyon standing next to President Clinton. He looked puffed up and quite pleased with himself, and a foot shorter. So he had a little vanity, good to know.
Zyon stopped in front of his desk, turned and looked Savich up and down. “You’re big. I always wanted to be as big as you but it never happened. If I agreed to talk to you then I guess I don’t have
a choice, so come in, come in. Flowers, you can go away.”
Millicent Flowers gave Savich another warm smile, Dr. Zyon a tolerant nod, and left them to it.
“I won’t waste your time, Dr. Zyon. I’m here because your CEO confirmed your company conducted research on drugs similar to sirolimus.”
“Sirolimus? Yes, we did, about three years ago. But it was a wasted investment, never got to human testing. I don’t suppose you know sirolimus was first called rapamycin when it was discovered on Rapa Nui—Easter Island as it’s more commonly called. That’s where they found a bacterium that produces it.”
“Yes, I read that.”
