Little lady replied, “Since four hundred B.C., when Hippocrates discovered salicin in the bark of the willow tree.”
He stared at her a moment, and the smile died. “Right.” He walked away.
The company heads all agreed that one of their biggest problems was the me-too firms, the copycat houses that stole the formulas of successful products, changed the names and rushed them onto the market. It was costing the reputable drug firms hundreds of millions of dollars a year.
In Italy it was not even necessary to steal it.
“Italy is one of the countries that has no patent regulations protecting new drugs,” one of the executives told Elizabeth. “For a bribe of a few hundred thousand lire, anyone can buy the formulas and pirate them under another name. We spend millions of dollars on research—they walk off with the profits.”
“Is it just Italy?” Elizabeth asked.
“Italy and Spain are the worst. France and West Germany aren’t bad. England and the United States are clean.”
Elizabeth looked around at all these indignant, moral men and wondered if any of them was involved in the thefts of the patents of Roffe and Sons.
It seemed to Elizabeth that she spent most of her time in airplanes. She kept her passport in the top drawer of her desk. At least once a week there was a frantic call from Cairo or Guatemala or Tokyo, and within a few hours Elizabeth would find herself in a plane with half a dozen members of her staff, to cope with some emergency.
She met factory managers and their families in large cities like Bombay, and at remote outposts like Puerto Vallarta, and gradually Roffe and Sons began to take on a new perspective. It was no longer an impersonal mass of reports and statistics. A report headed “Guatemala” now meant Emil Nunoz and his fat, happy wife and their twelve children; “Copenhagen” was Nils Bjorn and the crippled mother with whom he lived; “Rio de Janeiro” was an evening spent with Alessandro Duval and his exquisite mistress.
Elizabeth kept in regular touch with Emil Joeppli. She always telephoned him on her private line, calling him at his little flat in Aussersihl in the evenings.
She was cautious even over the telephone.
“How are things going?”
“A little slower than I hoped, Miss Roffe.”
“Do you need anything?”
“No. Just time. I ran into a little problem but I think it’s solved now.”
“Good. Call me if you need anything—anything at all.”
“I will. Thank you, Miss Roffe.”
Elizabeth hung up. She had an urge to push him, to tell him to hurry, for she knew that her time with the banks was running out. She desperately needed what Emil Joeppli was working on, but pressing him was not the answer, and so she kept her impatience to herself. Elizabeth knew that the experiments could not possibly be completed by the time the bank notes were due. But she had a plan. She intended to let Julius Badrutt into the secret, take him into the laboratory and let him see for himself what was happening. The banks would give them all the time they needed.
Elizabeth found herself working with Rhys Williams more and more closely, sometimes late into the night. They often worked alone, just the two of them, having dinner in her private dining room at the office, or at the elegant apartment she had taken. It was a modern condominium in Zurichberg, overlooking the Lake of Zurich, and it was large and airy and bright. Elizabeth was mere aware than ever of the strong animal magnetism of Rhys, but if he felt an attraction for her, he was careful not to show it. He was always polite and friendly. Avuncular was the word that came into Elizabeth’s mind, and somehow it had a pejorative sound. She wanted to lean on him, confide in him, and yet she knew she had to be careful. More than once she had found herself on the verge of telling Rhys about the efforts to sabotage the company, but something held her back. She was not ready to discuss it with anyone yet. Not until she knew more.