Robin Cook - Terminal

As Sean started for the entrance, he thought about his first impressions of Miami. They were mixed. As he’d come south on I95 and neared his turnoff, he’d been able to see the gleaming new downtown skyscrapers. But the areas adjacent to the highway had been a melange of strip malls and low-income housing. The area around the Forbes Center, which was situated along the Miami River, was also rather seedy although a few modern buildings were interspersed among the flat-roofed cinder block structures.

As Sean pushed through the mirrored door, he thought wryly about the difficulty everyone had given him about this two-month elective. He wondered if his mother would ever get over the traumas he’d caused her as an adolescent. “You’re too much like your father,” she’d say, and it was meant as a reproach. Except for enjoying the pub, Sean felt little similarity with his father. But then he had been presented with far different choices and opportunities than his father ever had.

A black felt sign stood on an easel just inside the door. Spelled out in white plastic letters was his name and a message: Welcome. Sean thought it was a nice touch.

There was a small lounge directly behind the front door. Entrance into the building itself was blocked by a turnstile. Next to the turnstile was a Corian-covered desk. Behind the desk sat a swarthy, handsome Hispanic man dressed in a brown uniform complete with epaulets and peaked military-style hat. The outfit reminded Sean of a cross between those seen in Marine recruitment posters and those seen in Hollywood Gestapo movies. An elaborate emblem on the guard’s left arm said “Security” and the name tag above his left pocket proclaimed that his name was Martinez.

“Can I help you?” Martinez asked in heavily accented English.

“I’m Sean Murphy,” Sean said, pointing to the welcome sign.

The guard’s expression did not change. He studied Sean for a beat then picked up one of several telephones. He spoke in rapid, staccato Spanish. After he hung up he pointed to a nearby leather couch. “A few moments, please.”

Sean sat down. He picked up a copy of Science from a low coffee table and idly flipped the pages. But his attention was on Forbes’ elaborate security system. Thick glass partitions separated the waiting area from the rest of the building. Apparently the guarded turnstile provided the only entrance.

Since security was all too frequently neglected in health care institutions, Sean was favorably impressed and said as much to the guard.

“There are some bad areas nearby,” the guard replied but didn’t elaborate.

Presently a second security officer appeared, dressed identically to the first. The turnstile opened to allow him into the lounge.

“My name is Ramirez,” the second guard said. “Would you follow me, please.”

Sean got to his feet. As he passed through the turnstile he didn’t see Martinez press any button. He guessed the turnstile was controlled by a foot pedal.

Sean followed Ramirez for a short distance, turning into the first office on the left. “Security” was printed in block letters on the open door. Inside was a control room with banks of TV monitors covering one wall. In front of the monitors was a third guard with a clipboard. Even a cursory glance at the monitors told Sean that he was looking at a multitude of locations around the complex.

Sean continued to follow Ramirez into a small windowless office. Behind the desk sat a fourth guard who had two gold stars attached to his uniform and gold trim on the peak of his hat. His name tag said: Harris.

“That will be all, Ramirez,” Harris said, giving Sean the feeling he was being inducted into the army.

Harris studied Sean who stared back. There was an almost immediate feeling of antipathy between the men.

With his tanned, meaty face, Harris looked like a lot of people Sean had known in Charlestown when he was young. They usually had jobs of minor authority that they practiced with great officiousness. They were also nasty drunks. Two beers and they’d want to fight about a call a referee had made on a televised sporting event if you suggested you disagreed with their perception. It was crazy. Sean had learned long ago to avoid such people. Now he was standing across the desk from one.

“We don’t want any trouble here,” Harris was saying. He had a faint southern accent.

Sean thought that was a strange way to begin a conversation. He wondered what this man thought he was getting from Harvard, a parolee? Harris was in obvious good physical shape, his bulging biceps straining the sleeves of his short-sleeved shirt, yet he didn’t look all that healthy. Sean toyed with the idea of giving the man a short lecture on the benefits of proper nutrition, but thought better of the idea. He could still hear Dr. Walsh’s admonitions.

“You’re supposed to be a doctor,” Harris said. “Why the hell are you wearing your hair so long? And I’d hazard to say that you didn’t shave this morning.”

“But I did put on a shirt and tie for the occasion,” Sean said. “I thought I was looking quite natty.”

“Don’t mess with me, boy,” Harris said. There was no sign of humor in his voice.

Sean shifted his weight wearily. He was already tired of the conversation and of Harris.

“Is there some particular reason you need me here?”

“You’ll need a photo ID card,” Harris said. He stood up and came around from behind the desk to open a door to a neighboring room. He was several inches taller than Sean and at least twenty pounds heavier. In hockey Sean used to like to block such guys low, coming up fast under their shins.

“I’d suggest you get a haircut,” Harris said, as he motioned for Sean to pass into the next room. “And get your pants ironed. Maybe then you’ll fit in better. This isn’t college.”

Stepping through the door Sean saw Ramirez look up from adjusting a Polaroid camera mounted on a tripod. Ramirez pointed toward a stool in front of a blue curtain, and Sean sat down.

Harris closed the door to the camera room, went back to his desk, and sat down. Sean had been worse than he’d feared. The idea of some wiseass kid coming down from Harvard had not appealed to him in the first place, but he hadn’t expected anyone looking like a hippie from the sixties.

Lighting a cigarette, Harris cursed the likes of Sean. He hated such liberal Ivy League types who thought they knew everything. Harris had gone through the Citadel, then into the army where he’d trained hard for the commandos. He’d done well, making captain after Desert Storm. But with the breakup of the Soviet Union, the peacetime army had begun cutting back. Harris had been one of its victims.

Harris stubbed out his cigarette. Intuition told him Sean would be trouble. He decided he’d have to keep his eye on him.

With a new photo ID clipped to his shirt pocket, Sean left security. The experience didn’t mesh with the welcome sign, but one fact did impress him. When he’d asked the reticent Ramirez why security was so tight, Ramirez had told him that several researchers had disappeared the previous year.

“Disappeared?” Sean asked with amazement. He’d heard of equipment disappearing, but people!

“Were they found?” Sean had asked.

“I don’t know,” Ramirez had said. “I only came this year.”

“Where are you from?”

“Medellín, Colombia,” Ramirez had said.

Sean had not asked any more questions, but Ramirez’s reply added to Sean’s unease. It seemed overkill to head security with a man who acted like a frustrated Green Beret and staff it with a group of guys who could have been from some Colombian drug lord’s private army. As Sean followed Ramirez into the elevator to the seventh floor his initial positive impression of Forbes security faded.