“Gil . . . ?”

“Yes, David?”

“Quicksilver is mostly into developing . . . not drugs but medical products. Is that right?”

“Medical technology. It’s more correct to think of it as a biotech firm that has grown in related directions.”

“As I understand it, Quicksilver owns numerous patents for bioprinting technology.”

“That’s right. Many, many patents.”

“I’m not sure I understand what bioprinting is.”

“It involves bioinks. They contain cells and collagen and other stuff to print layers of artificial tissues, even organs, especially capillaries. Before Ephraim and Renata, capillaries were almost impossible to print.”

“Sounds like sci-fi.”

“It’s not. Quicksilver also has key patents on processes to recellularize donor organs before they’re transplanted.”

“Give it to me in English.”

“I’m trying my best. It’s a little Greek to me, too. The way I understand it—they strip the cells out of an organ, say a kidney or a heart, and repopulate it with new cells from the person receiving the transplant. Far less chance of the organ being rejected.”

The grounds beyond the window now appeared less like a park, more like a cemetery where flat plaques marked the graves.

Gurion said, “Organs once unsuitable for transplant can now be used. The decellularized organ is like a natural scaffold for the new cells. Bioprinting is maybe more important because applications of the technology are . . . well, stunning, revolutionary. Some people think certain biotech developments, like those related to AI, are a little Frankenstein, but that’s just ignorance. This science has great potential to alleviate human suffering.”

Turning from the window, David harked back to something that the attorney had said earlier. “They were tortured? For a fact?”

Looking toward where the bed had most likely stood, Gurion clamped his lower lip between his teeth as if to bite back a strong wave of emotion. His pale-blue eyes glimmered with unshed tears. When he spoke, his voice was steady but strained. “I’m the one who found them. My wife and I were invited for Sunday brunch at ten thirty. Just the four of us. Renata and Ephraim loved to cook. They could lay out quite a spread, just the two of them, no help from staff. They usually started on it at five in the morning, making a big production of it, but always having fun, the two of them like chefs on some lighthearted Home and Garden Channel cooking show.”

The attorney fell silent and seemed lost in grim thought, and David said, “The press reported they were stabbed to death.”

“That’s what the FBI wanted to say. Keep the truth for court if there’s ever a prosecution.”

“What was done to them? The torture, I mean.”

“I’ve told no one. Not even my wife.”

“If you’re constrained by the FBI or you’d just rather not—”

“It’s all right,” Gurion said. “If you’re going to consider writing about them, you need to know. What they suffered.”

Shamed by his ongoing deception, David waited.