Terminal

by Robin Cook

  Sean poked his head into various labs. He was soon disappointed. He’d been expecting a futuristic lab, superbly designed and filled with state-of-the-art technology. Instead he saw basic rooms with the usual equipment. Claire introduced him to the four people they came upon in one of the labs: David Lowenstein, Arnold Harper, Nancy Sprague, and Hiroshi Gyuhama. Of these people only Hiroshi expressed any more than a passing interest in Sean. Hiroshi bowed deeply when introduced. He seemed genuinely impressed when Claire mentioned that Sean was from Harvard.

  “Harvard is a very good school,” Hiroshi said in heavily accented English.

  As they continued down the corridor, Sean began to notice that most of the rooms were empty.

  “Where is everybody?” he asked.

  “You’ve met pretty much the whole research staff,” Claire said. “We have a tech named Mark Halpern, but I don’t see him at the moment. We don’t have many personnel presently, although word has it that we are about to start expanding. Like all businesses, we’ve been through some lean times.”

  Sean nodded, but the explanation did little to allay his disappointment. With the impressive results of the medulloblastoma work, he’d envisioned a large group of researchers working at a dynamic pace. Instead, the place seemed relatively deserted, which reminded Sean of Ramirez’s unsettling remark.

  “Down in security they told me some of the researchers had disappeared. Do you know anything about that?”

  “Not a lot,” Claire admitted. “It was last year and it caused a flap.”

  “What happened?”

  “They disappeared all right,” Claire said. “They left everything: their apartments, their cars, even their girlfriends.”

  “And they were never found?” Sean asked.

  “They turned up,” Claire said. “The administration doesn’t like to talk about it, but apparently they are working for some company in Japan.”

  “Sushita Industries?” Sean asked.

  “That I don’t know,” Claire said.

  Sean had heard about companies luring away personnel, but never so secretly. And never to Japan. He realized it was probably just another indication that times were changing in the arena of biotechnology.

  Claire brought them to a thick opaque glass door barring further progress down the corridor. In block letters were the words: No Entry. Sean glanced at Claire for an explanation.

  “The maximum containment facility is in there,” she said.

  “Can we see it?” Sean asked. He cupped his hands and peered through the door. All he could see were doors leading off the main corridor.

  Claire shook her head. “Off limits,” she said. “Dr. Levy does most of her work in there. At least when she’s in Miami. She splits her time between here and our Basic Diagnostic lab in Key West.”

  “What’s that?” Sean asked.

  Claire winked and covered her mouth as if she were telling a secret. “It’s a minor entrepreneurial spin-off for Forbes,” she said. “It does basic diagnostic work for our hospital as well as for several hospitals in the Keys. It’s a way of generating some additional income. The trouble is the Florida legislature is giving us some trouble about self-referral.”

  “How come we can’t go in there?” Sean asked, pointing through the glass door.

  “Dr. Levy says there is some kind of risk, but I don’t know what it is. Frankly, I’m happy to stay out. But ask her. She’ll probably take you in.”

  Sean wasn’t sure Dr. Levy would do him any favors after their initial meeting. He reached out and pulled the door open a crack. There was a slight hiss as the seal was broken.

  Claire grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?” She was aghast.

  “Just curious to see if it was locked,” Sean said. He let the door swing shut.

  “You are a trip,” she said.

  They retraced their route and descended another floor. The fifth floor was dominated by a large lab on one side of the corridor and small offices on the other. Claire took Sean into the large lab.

  “I was told that you would have this lab for your use,” Claire said. She switched on the overhead lights. It was an enormous room by the standards of the labs Sean was accustomed to work in at both Harvard and MIT where fights for space among researchers were legendary for their acrimony. In the center was a glass-enclosed office with a desk, a telephone, and a computer terminal.

  Sean walked around, fingering the equipment. It was basic but serviceable. The most impressive items were a luminescence-spectrophotometer and a binocular microscope to detect fluorescence. Sean thought he could have some fun with those instruments under the right circumstances, but he didn’t know if the Forbes provided the right environment. For one thing, Sean realized that he’d probably be working in this large room alone.

  “Where are all the reagents and things?” he asked.

  Claire motioned for Sean to follow, and they descended another floor where Claire showed him the supply room. As far as Sean was concerned, this was the most impressive area he’d seen so far. The supply room was filled with everything a molecular biological lab would need. There was even a generous selection of various cell lines from the NIH.

  After cursorily touring through the rest of the lab space, Claire led Sean down to the basement. Scrunching up her nose, she took him into the animal room. Dogs barked, monkeys glared, and mice and rats skittered about their cages. The air was moist and pungent. Claire introduced Sean to Roger Calvet, the animal keeper. He was a small man with a severe hunchback.

  They only stayed a minute and as the doors closed behind them, Claire made a gesture of relief. “My least favorite part of the whole tour,” she confided. “I’m not sure where I stand on the animal-rights issue.”

  “It’s tough,” Sean admitted. “But we definitely need them. For some reason mice and rats don’t bother me as much as dogs or monkeys.”

  “I’m supposed to show you the hospital too,” Claire said. “Are you game?”

  “Why not?” Sean said. He was enjoying Claire.

  They took the elevator back to the second floor and crossed to the clinic by way of the pedestrian bridge. The towers were some fifty feet apart.

  The second floor of the hospital housed the diagnostic and treatment areas as well as the ICU and the surgical suites. The chemistry lab and radiology were also there along with medical records. Claire took Sean in to meet her mother, who was one of the medical librarians.

  “If I can be of any assistance,” Mrs. Barington said, “just give me a call.”

  Sean thanked her and moved to leave, but Mrs. Barington insisted she show him around the department. Sean tried to be interested as he was shown the Center’s computer capabilities, the laser printers, the hoist they used to bring charts up from the basement storage vault, and the view they had over the sleepy Miami River.

  When Claire and Sean got back to the corridor, she apologized.

  “She’s never done that,” she added. “She must have liked you.”

  “That’s just my luck,” Sean said. “The older set and the prepubescent are taken by me. It’s the women in between I have trouble with.”

  “I’m sure you expect me to believe that,” Claire said sarcastically.

  Sean was next treated to a rapid walk through the modern eighty-bed hospital. It was clean, well designed, and apparently well staffed. With its tropical colors and fresh flowers, it was even cheerful despite the gravity of many of the patients’ illnesses. On this leg of the tour, Sean learned that the Forbes Cancer Center had teamed up with the NIH to treat advanced melanoma. With the powerful sunshine, there was a lot of melanoma in Florida.

  With the tour completed, Claire told Sean it was time for her to lead him over to the Cow Palace and see that he got settled. He tried to suggest he’d be fine, but she wouldn’t hear of it. With strict orders to stay close, he followed her car out of the Forbes Cancer Center and headed south on Twelfth Avenue. He drove carefully, having heard that most people in Miami carry p
istols in their glove compartments. Miami has one of the world’s highest mortality rates from fender-bender accidents.

  At Calle Ocho they turned left, and Sean glimpsed the rich Cuban culture that has placed such an indelible mark on modern Miami. At Brickell they turned right and the city changed again. Now he drove past gleaming bank buildings, each an open testament to the financial power of the illicit drug trade.

  The Cow Palace was not imposing to say the least. Like so many buildings in the area, it was two stories of concrete block with aluminum sliding doors and windows. It stretched for almost a block with asphalt parking in both the front and the back. The only attractive thing about the place was the tropical plantings, many of which were in bloom.

  Sean pulled up next to Claire’s Honda.

  After checking the apartment number on the keys, Claire led the way upstairs. Sean’s unit was halfway down the hall at the back. As Claire struggled to get the key into the lock, the door directly opposite opened.

  “Just moving in?” a blond man of about thirty asked. He was stripped to the waist.

  “Seems that way,” Sean said.

  “Name’s Gary,” the man said. “Gary Engels from Philadelphia. I’m an X-ray tech. Working nights, looking for an apartment by day. How about you?”

  “Med student,” Sean said as Claire finally opened the door.

  The apartment was a furnished one-bedroom with a full kitchen. Sliding glass doors led from both the living room and the bedroom to a balcony that ran the length of the building.

  “What do you think?” Claire asked as she opened the living-room slider.

  “Much more than I expected,” Sean said.

  “It’s hard for the hospital to recruit certain personnel,” Claire said. “Especially high-caliber nurses. They have to have a good temporary residence to compete with other local hospitals.”

  “Thank you for everything,” Sean said.

  “One last thing,” Claire said. She handed him a piece of paper. “This is the number of the tux rental place that Dr. Mason mentioned. I assume you’ll be coming tonight.”

  “I’d forgotten about that,” Sean said.

  “You really should come,” Claire said. “These affairs are one of the perks for working at the Center.”

  “Are they frequent?” Sean asked.

  “Relatively,” Claire said. “They really are fun.”

  “So you’ll be there?” Sean asked.

  “Most definitely.”

  “Well then, maybe I’ll come,” he said. “I haven’t worn a tux too many times. It should be entertaining.”

  “Wonderful,” Claire said. “And since you might have trouble finding Dr. Mason’s home, I don’t mind picking you up. I live in Coconut Grove just down the way. How about seven-thirty?”

  “I’ll be ready,” Sean said.

  HIROSHI GYUHAMA had been born in Yokosuka, south of Tokyo. His mother had worked in the U.S. Naval base, and from an early age Hiroshi had been interested in America and Western ways. His mother felt differently, refusing to let him take English in school. An obedient child, Hiroshi acquiesced to his mother’s wishes without question. It wasn’t until after her death when he was at the university studying biology that he was able to take English, but once he began he displayed an unusual proficiency.

  After graduation Hiroshi was hired by Sushita Industries, a huge electronics corporation that had just begun expanding into biotechnology. When Hiroshi’s supervisors discovered how fluent he was in English, they sent him to Florida to supervise their investment in Forbes.

  Except for an initial difficulty involving two Forbes researchers who refused to cooperate, a dilemma which had been handled expeditiously by bringing them to Tokyo and then offering them enormous salaries, Hiroshi had faced no serious problems during his tenure at Forbes.

  Sean Murphy’s unexpected arrival was a different story. For Hiroshi and the Japanese in general any surprise was disturbing. Also, for them, Harvard was more of a metaphor than a specific institution. It stood for American excellence and American ingenuity. Accordingly Hiroshi worried that Sean could take some of Forbes’s developments back to Harvard where the American university might beat them to possible patents. Since Hiroshi’s future advancement at Sushita rested on his ability to protect the Forbes investment, he saw Sean as a potential threat.

  His first response had been to send a fax via his private telephone line to his Japanese supervisor. From the outset the Japanese had insisted they be able to communicate with Hiroshi without going through the Center switchboard. That had been only one of their conditions.

  Hiroshi had then called Dr. Mason’s secretary to ask if it would be possible for him to see the director. He’d been given a two o’clock appointment. Now, as he ascended the stairs to the seventh floor, it was three minutes before the hour. Hiroshi was a punctilious man who left little to chance.

  As he entered Mason’s office, the doctor leapt to his feet. Hiroshi bowed deeply in apparent respect though in reality he did not think highly of the American physician, believing Dr. Mason lacked the iron will necessary in a good manager. In Hiroshi’s estimation, Dr. Mason would be unpredictable under pressure.

  “Dr. Gyuhama, nice of you to come up,” Dr. Mason said, motioning toward the couch. “Can we get you anything? Coffee, tea, or juice?”

  “Juice, please,” Hiroshi replied with a polite smile. He did not want any refreshment but did not care to refuse and appear ungrateful.

  Dr. Mason sat down across from Hiroshi. But he didn’t sit normally. Hiroshi noticed that he sat on the very edge of his seat and rubbed his hands together. Hiroshi could tell he was nervous, which only served to lower further Hiroshi’s estimation of the man as a manager. One should not communicate one’s feelings so openly.

  “What can I do for you?” Dr. Mason asked.

  Hiroshi smiled again, noting that no Japanese would be so direct.

  “I was introduced to a young university student today,” Hiroshi said.

  “Sean Murphy,” Dr. Mason said. “He’s a medical student at Harvard.”

  “Harvard is a very good school,” Hiroshi said.

  “One of the best,” Dr. Mason said. “Particularly in medical research.” Dr. Mason eyed Hiroshi cautiously. He knew Hiroshi avoided direct questions. Mason always had to try to figure out what the Japanese man was getting at. It was frustrating, but Mason knew that Hiroshi was Sushita’s front man, so it was important to treat him with respect. Right now it was apparent that he had found Sean’s presence disturbing.

  Just then, the juice arrived and Hiroshi bowed and said thank you several times. He took a sip, then placed the glass on the coffee table.

  “Perhaps it might be helpful if I explain why Mr. Murphy is here,” Dr. Mason said.

  “That would be very interesting,” Hiroshi said.

  “Mr. Murphy is a third-year medical student,” Dr. Mason said. “During the course of the year third-year students have blocks of time which they can use to choose an elective and study something that particularly interests them. Mr. Murphy is interested in research. He’ll be here for two months.”

  “That’s very good for Mr. Murphy,” Hiroshi said. “He comes to Florida during the winter.”

  “It is a good system,” Dr. Mason agreed. “He’ll get the experience of seeing a working lab in operation, and we’ll get a worker.”

  “Perhaps he’ll be interested in our medulloblastoma project,” Hiroshi said.

  “He is interested,” Dr. Mason said. “But he will not be allowed to participate. Instead he will be working with our colonic cancer glycoprotein, trying to crystallize the protein. I don’t have to tell you how good it would be for both Forbes and Sushita if he were able to accomplish what we’ve so far failed to do.”

  “I was not informed of Mr. Murphy’s arrival by my superiors,” Hiroshi said. “It is strange for them to have forgotten.”

  All at once, Dr. Mason realized what this circuitous conversation was about. On
e of Sushita’s conditions was that they review all prospective employees before they were hired. Usually it was a formality, and where a student was concerned, Dr. Mason had not given it a thought, particularly since Murphy’s stay was so temporary.

  “The decision to invite Mr. Murphy for his elective happened rather quickly. Perhaps I should have informed Sushita, but he is not an employee. He does not get paid. Besides, he’s a student with limited experience.”

  “Yet he will be entrusted with samples of glycoprotein,” Hiroshi said. “He will have access to the recombinant yeast that produces the protein.”

  “Obviously he will be given the protein,” Dr. Mason said. “But there is no reason for him to be shown our recombinant technology for producing it.”

  “How much do you know about this man?” Hiroshi asked.

  “He comes with a recommendation from a trusted colleague,” Dr. Mason said.

  “Perhaps my company would be interested in his resumé,” Hiroshi said.

  “We have no resumé,” Dr. Mason said. “He’s only a student. If there had been anything important to know about him, I’m confident my friend Dr. Walsh would have informed me. He did say that Mr. Murphy was an artist when it came to protein crystallization and making murine monoclonal antibodies. We need an artist if we are going to come up with a patentable product. Besides, the Harvard cachet is valuable to the clinic. The idea we have been training a Harvard graduate student will not do us any harm.”

  Hiroshi got to his feet and, with his continued smile, bowed, but not as deeply nor for as long a period as when he’d first come into the office. “Thank you for your time,” he said. Then he left the room.

  AFTER THE door clicked behind Hiroshi, Dr. Mason closed his eyes and rubbed them with his fingertips. His hands were shaking. He was much too anxious, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d aggravate his peptic ulcer. With the possibility of some psychopath killing metastatic breast cancer patients, the last thing he needed was trouble with Sushita. He now regretted doing Clifford Walsh the favor of inviting his graduate student. It was a complication he didn’t need.