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!”