Robin Cook - Terminal

“What do they want you to do?” she asked.

“Busywork as far as I’m concerned,” Sean said. “They want me to try to make a monoclonal antibody to a specific protein. Failing that, I’m to crystallize it so that its three-dimensional molecular shape can be determined. It will be a waste of my time. I’m not going to be learning anything. I’d be better off going back to Boston and working on my oncogene project for my dissertation.”

“Maybe you could do both,” Janet suggested. “Help them with their protein and in return get to work on the medulloblastoma project.”

Sean shook his head. “They were very emphatic. They are not about to change their minds. They said the medulloblastoma study had moved into clinical trials, and I’m here for basic research. Between you and me, I think their reluctance has something to do with the Japanese.”

“The Japanese?” Janet questioned.

Sean told Janet about the huge grant Forbes had accepted in return for any patentable biotechnology products. “Somehow I think the medulloblastoma protocol is tied up in their deal. It’s the only way I can explain why the Japanese would offer Forbes so much money. Obviously they expect and intend to get a return on their investment someday — and probably sooner rather than later.”

“This is awful,” Janet said, but her response was personal. It had nothing to do with Sean’s research career. She’d been so consumed by the effort of coming to Florida that she’d not prepared herself for this kind of reversal.

“And there’s another problem,” Sean said. “The person who gave me the chilliest reception happens to be the director of research. She’s the person I directly report to.”

Janet sighed. She was already trying to figure how to undo everything she had done to get her down to the Forbes Center in the first place. She’d probably have to go back on nights at Boston Memorial, at least for a while. Janet pushed herself out of the deep armchair where she’d been sitting and wandered over to the sliding door. Coming to Florida had seemed like such a good idea to her when she’d been in Boston. Now it seemed like the dumbest thing she’d ever thought of.

Suddenly Janet spun around. “Wait a minute!” she said. “Maybe I have an idea.”

“Well?” Sean questioned when Janet remained silent.

“I’m thinking,” she said, motioning for him to be quiet for a moment.

Sean studied her face. A few moments ago she’d looked depressed. Now her eyes sparkled.

“Okay, here’s what I think,” she said. “Let’s stay here and look into this medulloblastoma business together. We’ll work as a team.”

“What do you mean?” Sean sounded skeptical.

“It’s simple,” Janet said. “You mentioned that the project had moved into clinical trials. Well, no problem. I’ll be on the wards. I’ll be able to determine the treatment regimens: the timing, the dosages, the works. You’ll be in the lab and you can do your thing there. That monoclonal stuff shouldn’t take all your time.”

Sean bit his lower lip as he gave Janet’s suggestion some thought. He had actually considered looking into the medulloblastoma issue on the sly. His biggest obstacle had been exactly what Janet would be in a position to provide, namely clinical information.

“You’d have to get me charts,” Sean said. He couldn’t help but be dubious. Janet had always been a stickler for hospital procedures and rules, in fact for any rules.

“As long as I can find a copy machine, that should be no problem,” she said.

“I’d need samples of any medication,” Sean said.

“I’ll probably be dispensing the medicine myself,” she said.

He sighed. “I don’t know. It all sounds pretty tenuous.”

“Oh, come on,” Janet said. “What is this, role reversal? You’re the one who’s always telling me I’ve lived too sheltered a life, that I never take chances. Suddenly I’m the one taking the chances and you turn cautious. Where’s that rebel spirit you’ve always been so proud of?”

Sean found himself smiling. “Who is this woman I’m talking to?” he said rhetorically. He laughed. “Okay, you’re right. I’m acting defeated before trying. Let’s give it a go.”

Janet threw her arms around Sean. He hugged her back. After a long moment, they looked into each other’s eyes, then kissed.

“Now that our conspiracy has been forged, let’s go to bed,” Sean said.

“Hold on,” Janet said. “We’re not sleeping together if that’s what you mean. That’s not going to happen until we have some serious talk about our relationship.”

“Oh, come on, Janet,” Sean whined.

“You have your apartment and I have mine,” Janet said as she tweaked his nose. “I’m serious about this talk business.”

“I’m too tired to argue,” Sean said.

“Good,” Janet said. “Arguing is not what it’s going to take.”

At eleven-thirty that night, Hiroshi Gyuhama was the only person in the Forbes research building except for the security man whom Hiroshi suspected was sleeping at his post at the front entrance. Hiroshi had been alone in the building since nine when David Lowenstein had departed. Hiroshi wasn’t staying late because of his research; he was waiting for a message. At that moment he knew it was one-thirty in the afternoon the following day in Tokyo. It was usually after lunch that his supervisor would get the word from the directors regarding anything Hiroshi had passed on.

As if on cue, the receiving light on the fax machine blinked on, and the LCD flashed the message: receiving . Eagerly Hiroshi’s fingers grasped the sheet as soon as it slid through. With some trepidation he sat back and read the directive.

The first part was as he’d expected. The management at Sushita was disturbed by the unexpected arrival of the student from Harvard. They felt that it violated the spirit of the agreement with the Forbes. The directive went on to emphasize the company’s belief that the diagnosis and treatment of cancer would be the biggest biotechnology/pharmaceutical prize of the twenty-first century. They felt that it would surpass in economic importance the antibiotic bonanza of the twentieth century:

It was the second part of the message that dismayed Hiroshi. It mentioned that the management did not want to take any risks, and that Hiroshi was to call Tanaka Yamaguchi. He was to tell Tanaka to investigate Sean Murphy and act accordingly. If Murphy was considered a threat, he was to be brought to Tokyo immediately.

Folding the fax paper several times lengthwise, Hiroshi held it over the sink and burned it. He washed the ashes down the drain. As he did, he noticed his hands were trembling.

Hiroshi had hoped the directive from Tokyo would have given him peace of mind. But it only left him even more agitated. The fact that Hiroshi’s superiors felt that Hiroshi could not handle the situation was not a good sign. They hadn’t said it directly, but the instruction to call Tanaka said as much. What that suggested to Hiroshi was he was not trusted in matters of crucial importance, and if he wasn’t trusted, then his upward mobility in the Sushita hierarchy automatically was in question. From Hiroshi’s perspective he’d lost face.

Unswervingly obedient despite his growing anxiety, Hiroshi got out the list of emergency numbers he’d been given before coming to Forbes over a year ago. He found the number for Tanaka and dialed. As the phone rang, Hiroshi felt his anger and resentment for the Harvard medical student rise. If the young doctor-to-be had never come to Forbes, Hiroshi’s stature vis-à-vis his superiors would never have been tested this way.

A mechanical beep followed a message in rapid Japanese urging the caller to leave his name and number. Hiroshi did as he was told, but added he would wait for the call back. Hanging up the phone, Hiroshi thought about Tanaka. He didn’t know much about the man, but what he did know was disquieting. Tanaka was a man frequently used by various Japanese companies for industrial espionage of any sort. What bothered Hiroshi was the rumor that Tanaka was connected to the Yakusa, the ruthless Japanese mafia.