He walked to the middle of the room and turned to face them, his arms outspread. “Since you are interested in my home, I’ll tell you that it began when my father traced our lineage back to Henry Clerke, a rich lawyer in the early sixteen hundreds. Clerke joined two houses together to create Restoration House in Rochester, Kent. My father fancies he lived a past life in that house. He’s visited many times over the years, and indeed, is a close friend of the current owner. His bedroom—the King’s Bedchamber—and this room, are exact replicas. The rest of the house is quite modern. You are correct: the house is my father’s. He conceived and built it.” He paused, waiting for what? Praise? Applause?
Sherlock obliged him. “A fascinating story, Dr. Maddox.”
Connie pointed to the portraits covering the walls. “Are these people any relation to you, Dr. Maddox?”
“I believe Mr. Clerke simply bought many of the original portraits to fill the walls of Restoration House, so no one knows who they are. My father never concerned himself with finding out. It was enough for him that they were in Restoration House for them to be here as well.” He waved a hand toward a gilt chair. “It won’t break, go ahead, sit down and ask your questions.” He looked down at his watch.
The chair was surprisingly comfortable. Sherlock said, “Dr. Maddox, on Monday afternoon a baby was stolen from the maternity ward of Washington Memorial Hospital. His name is Alex Moody. One of the cars the kidnappers used was traced to this neighborhood. A white delivery van. We’ve learned that your company, Gen-Core Technologies, owns six such white vans.”
Lister blinked at her, the worry beads stilled in his hands. “Many companies use vans, Agent Sherlock. Why would you come here to point that out?”
Connie said, “We know you’re not directly involved with managing all your company’s vans, Dr. Maddox. This is a large property, and it’s possible one of the vans might be kept here. Would you mind if we looked around, perhaps checked your garage?”
“Don’t be absurd. Of course you may not go traipsing around my property.”
Sherlock said, “Perhaps then we can get your permission to check your fleet of white vans at Gen-Core, see if one is missing?”
“Not without a warrant, Agent. If you are concerned one of our vans was used illegally, I’ll have to contact our lawyers, let them start an internal investigation.”
Connie pulled up photos of the man and woman who’d kidnapped Alex Moody from the hospital. “Do you know either of these people, Dr. Maddox?”
Lister felt his heart kettledrum. Of course they’d have photos of Burley and Quince from the hospital videos, but Quince had assured him they’d been very careful changing vehicles, so how had they spotted the white van? He forced himself to look at the two photos on the agent’s cell phone. He shook his head. “Sorry, I’ve never seen either of these people in my life.”
Sherlock watched the worry beads quicken between his fingers. She smiled. “Dr. Maddox, we’ve discovered an interesting coincidence. Sylvie Vaughn is the daughter of one of your employees, Hannah Fox. Ms. Vaughn is also one of Kara Moody’s best friends, the mother of the stolen baby. We saw Ms. Vaughn’s car outside. We’d like to speak with her and her mother.”
Lister said, “I fear that you will get neither of your wishes. As I told you, my father isn’t well and cannot be disturbed. Sylvie is out on the boat with her mother.” He looked down at a thin Piaget watch yet a second time. “They won’t be back for several hours. Sylvie always takes her to the Inner Harbor, for dinner at Marvin’s.”
Sherlock pulled up a photo of John Doe. “Tell me if you know this man.”
He shook his head and looked bored, but the worry beads gave him away, threading faster and faster through his fingers. “I’m sorry, Agent, I’ve never seen this man in my life, either. Who is he?”
“Did you hear about the crazy man who burst into a house in Georgetown on Sunday?”
“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.”
Dr. Zyon eyed him with some interest. “It was developed as an antifungal agent at first, which is how that bacterium uses it, but nowadays it’s used mostly as an immunosuppressive to prevent organ rejection.”
“Dr. Zyon, I really need to know what work you did on that drug, and why.”
Zyon crossed his arms and cocked his head to one side. “Tell me why the FBI wants to know about a drug that prevents organ rejection.”
“I will, but humor me, Doctor.”
Savich had sparked his interest, he saw it. Dr. Zyon looked thoughtful. “I recall Dr. Lister Maddox, our founder’s son, asked us to synthesize about a dozen chemical variants of rapamycin—congeners, we call them—in the hope we would find one that was less toxic, or bind it with a broader class of cellular receptors. I remember Dr. Maddox was particularly interested in the effects of those compounds on tissue aging.”
“And what did you find?”
“Some of the congeners showed promising results in our tissue cultures. They rejuvenated muscle and fat cells, some of the aging, senescent cells in the cultures died off, and even stem cell function improved. But when we moved on to testing laboratory mice, we had to quit.”
“Why?”
“It’s not a big mystery. The congeners we tested proved too toxic, particularly to the nervous system and bone marrow. We stopped then because there’s only so far a pharmaceutical company can venture into basic research like that. We survive by developing drugs we can sell, and being old isn’t a reimbursable medical condition. None of the insurance companies are set to pay for any such drug, and so extended work in an area like anti-aging isn’t in our financial interest. Even Dr. Maddox had to agree.”
Dr. Zyon paused and waved his plump hands. “Time to pay up, Agent Savich. What is this all about? I don’t understand your interest in these anti-aging experiments. Aren’t you young enough already?”
“Dr. Zyon, I asked you about this class of drugs because there’s a young man in a coma right now at Washington Memorial Hospital. They don’t understand why he’s in a coma, but they did find a drug in his bloodstream that’s similar to sirolimus, but not known to them. Can you tell me how that drug could have ended up in his bloodstream?”
Dr. Zyon shook his head. “No, no, that’s impossible. You would have to verify the drug in the young man’s system is indeed one of the compounds we actually developed here.”
“And if it were verified?”
“It would mean someone stole it from us, or at least stole the information about how to synthesize that particular compound. And then that someone gave it to the young man illegally.”
“Doctor, let’s say someone did steal your drug, how would they use it? What kind of testing would they do? You said you abandoned your research because the drugs were too toxic?”
“Since you’ve already put ethics aside, I have to say it depends on what they’re hoping to accomplish. I suppose they would give the drug in various doses to test subjects, evaluate them for toxicity and whether the drug is having the effects they’re hoping for. They might search for subjects who seem to tolerate the drug better, for whatever reason, and focus on that group for further study. Eventually they might give the drug in combination with others known to have a similar or synergistic effect. I have to say, the thought of anyone doing such a thing turns my stomach.”
Mine as well, Doctor, believe me. “Would these test subjects have to have a great many blood draws, enough to leave scars?”
“Possibly. Pharmaceutical research requires a great deal of blood testing, yes, often on a schedule after each dose is given. Even sizable volumes of plasma can be taken for harvesting, for testing, or for the immunoglobins or other proteins in the plasma that can be put to therapeutic use. Tell me why you ask.”
“Our John Doe—the man in the coma—has scars like that on his arms.”
Dr. Zyon stared at him. “I really don’t know what to say, Agent Savich. I will immediately begin a careful search of our computer records and our drug library for any evidence of tampering or unauthorized access. It sounds impossible.” Zyon shook his head. “I presume we will speak again?”
Savich smiled at the man he knew he could come to like, shook his hand. “You’ve given me a great deal to think about already, Dr. Zyon. Thank you for your time.” He walked to the door, turned back when Dr. Zyon said from behind him, “Agent Savich, everything you’ve told me is very disturbing. Can you tell me what you think has happened?”
“I’ll let you know when I’ve confirmed what I think, Dr. Zyon.”
When Savich stepped out of the elevator at the lobby, the two women at the counter were yelling.
“There’s a fire at the Annex!”
Savich ran out the door and toward billowing flames a hundred yards away. Sirens sounded in the distance. People were standing in small groups outside their buildings, staring. Savich saw a man and a woman in a white van driving slowly away, looking back at the fire. Savich stared at the driver, saw the face he’d seen on the hospital video, the face of Alex Moody’s kidnapper. The man looked back, met Savich’s eyes, and gunned the van. Savich drew his Glock and raced after it.
Savich aimed at the back tires and fired six rounds. The driver’s-side back tire exploded. The van swerved and hit a wire fence, tore through, and shot into a shallow water-filled ditch outside the compound. The van teetered, then landed back on its four tires. The rear doors flew open and Savich saw what looked like a freezer and medical equipment fall out the back. The man and woman burst out of the van, both of them carrying guns, and fired at him. It was the woman from the hospital video. Savich dove behind a can labeled REFUSE, flattened himself and fired back. He heard them yelling to each other, saw them running away from him, and from the van. He could have chased them but he had more important things to do. He called the Baltimore Field Office, spoke to SAC Jake Murphy. The local agents would find them. He dusted himself off, pulled out his cell, and called Sherlock.
56
THE WILLOWS
WEDNESDAY LATE AFTERNOON
Sherlock and Connie were standing by Sherlock’s Volvo when her cell rang. Sherlock held up a finger and listened to Dillon. When she punched off, she pumped her fist. “That’s it! We’ve got him!” She told Connie everything Dillon had found out from Dr. Zyon, and about Alex Moody’s kidnappers burning the Annex and the van they abandoned.
“Dillon believes Maddox held John Doe against his will in the Annex, used him as a test subject, and today he ordered the two kidnappers to burn the Annex and destroy what evidence he could. Luckily, all the research equipment and drugs they removed were in the van when they ran from Dillon. He’s on his way here now.”
The two agents stared at each other. Sherlock said, “We could wait, Connie, as Dillon suggested, but Alex Moody could be in that house. If Maddox finds out what’s happened, who knows what he’d do? Alex could be in imminent danger.”
Connie nodded, pulled her Glock, racked the slide. They raced back to the house.
Sherlock pounded on the door. “FBI! Open up. Now!”
They heard the security guard, Cargill, call out, “No, Dr. Maddox instructed me not to admit you. Call the Gen-Core Technologies lawyers, get an appointment!”
Sherlock was nearly ready to put her fist through the door.
“Things have changed, Cargill. We h
ave a legal right to enter. An FBI backup team is on its way. We don’t want to enter forcibly, but we will, if we have to. Open the door!”
Sherlock heard Lister Maddox’s voice, and then the door opened. Cargill stood there, tense, white-faced, his hand near the gun on his belt.
Connie got in his face, “Stand down, Cargill, take out your weapon and put it on the floor, then step back.”
Cargill looked back at Dr. Lister Maddox, standing on the bottom stair of the lavish staircase, one hand clutching the railing, the other his worry beads. He shouted, “Why did you come back? This is an outrage! There’s nothing for you here!”
Sherlock aimed her Glock at Maddox. “We’ll discuss that in a moment, Dr. Maddox, but first tell Cargill to take out his weapon and put it on the floor.”
“Very well, there’s no need for you to have your gun aimed at me or him. We’re not criminals. Cargill, do as she said.”
Cargill pulled a Beretta off his belt clip, leaned down, and placed it carefully on the entrance hall tile.
Connie picked up the Beretta, put it in her jacket pocket.
Sherlock said, “Dr. Maddox, you need to tell us now—is there anyone else in the house?”
“Well, of course. My father and his nurse, Hannah Fox, are upstairs in his bedroom. There may be a housekeeper or two. I’m not sure if they’ve left for the day.”
Sherlock said, “You said earlier that Hannah Fox and Sylvie Vaughn were out on your boat.”
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