Robin Cook - Terminal

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 pistols 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.”