Robin Cook - Terminal

“Very sorry,” Hiroshi said with a nervous smile. He bowed deeply.

“Quite all right,” Sean said, feeling an irresistible urge to bow back. “It was my fault. I should have looked through the window before opening the door.”

“No, no, my fault,” Hiroshi insisted.

“It truly was my fault,” Sean said. “But I suppose it is a silly argument.”

“My fault,” Hiroshi persisted.

“Were you coming in here?” Sean asked, pointing back into his lab.

“No, no,” Hiroshi said. His smile broadened. “I’m going back to work.” But he didn’t move.

“What are you working on?” Sean asked, just to make conversation.

“Lung cancer,” Hiroshi said. “Thank you very much.”

“And thank you,” Sean said by reflex. Then he wondered why he was thanking the man.

Hiroshi bowed several times before turning and climbing the stairs.

Sean shrugged and walked back to his lab bench. He wondered if the movement he’d seen originally had been Hiroshi, perhaps through the small window in the stairwell door. But that would mean Hiroshi had been there all along, which didn’t make sense to Sean.

As long as his concentration had been broken, Sean took the time to descend to the basement to seek out Roger Calvet. Once he found him, Sean felt uncomfortable talking to the man whose back deformity prevented him from looking at Sean when he spoke. Nonetheless, Mr. Calvet managed to isolate a group of appropriate mice so that Sean could begin injecting them with the glycoprotein in hopes of eliciting an antibody response. Sean didn’t expect success from this effort since others at the Forbes Center had undoubtedly tried it already, yet he knew he had to start from the beginning before he resorted to any of his “tricks.”

Back in the elevator Sean was about to press the button for the fifth floor when he changed his mind and pressed six. He wouldn’t have guessed it of himself, but he felt isolated and even a bit lonely. Working at Forbes was a distinctly uncomfortable experience, and not simply because of the bevy of unfriendly people. There weren’t enough people. The place was too empty, too clean, too ordered. Sean had always taken the academic collegiality of his previous work environments for granted. Now he found himself needing some human interaction. So he headed for the sixth floor.

The first person Sean encountered was David Lowenstein. He was an intense, thin fellow bent over his lab bench examining tissue culture tubes. Sean came up to his left side and said hello.

“I beg your pardon?” David said, glancing up from his work.

“How’s it going?” Sean asked. He reintroduced himself in case David had forgotten him from the day before.

“Things are going as well as can be expected,” David said.

“What are you working on?” Sean asked.

“Melanoma,” David answered.

“Oh,” Sean said.

The conversation went downhill from that point, so Sean drifted on. He caught Hiroshi looking at him, but after the stairwell incident Sean avoided him. Instead he moved on to Arnold Harper who was busily working under a hood. Sean could tell he was doing some kind of recombinant work with yeast.

Attempts at conversation with Arnold were about as successful as those with David Lowenstein had been. The only thing Sean learned from Arnold was that he was working on colon cancer. Although he’d been the source of the glycoprotein Sean was working with, he didn’t seem the least interested in discussing it.

Sean wandered on and came to the glass door to the maximum containment lab with its No Entry sign. Cupping his hands as he’d done the day before, he again tried to peer through. Just like the previous day, all he could see was a corridor with doors leading off it. After glancing over his shoulder to make sure no one was in sight, Sean pulled open the door and stepped inside. The door shut behind him and sealed. This portion of the lab had a negative pressure so that no air would move out when the door was opened.

For a moment Sean stood just inside the door and felt his pulse quicken with excitement. It was the same feeling he used to get as a teenager when he, Jimmy, and Brady would go north to one of the rich bedroom communities like Swampscott or Marblehead and hit a few houses. They never stole anything of real value, just TVs and stuff like that. They never had trouble fencing the goods in Boston. The money went to a guy who was supposed to send it over to the IRA, but Sean never knew how much of it ever got to Ireland.

When no one appeared to protest Sean’s presence in the No Entry area, Sean pushed on. The place didn’t have the look or feel of a maximum containment lab. In fact, the first room he looked into was empty except for bare lab benches. There was no equipment at all. Entering the room, Sean examined the surface of the counters. At one time they had been used, but not extensively. He could see some marks where the rubber feet of a countertop machine had sat, but that was the only telltale sign of use.

Bending down, Sean pulled open a cabinet and gazed inside. There were a few half-empty reagent bottles as well as assorted glassware, some of which was broken.

“Hold it right there!” a voice shouted, causing Sean to whirl around and rise to a standing position.

It was Robert Harris poised in the doorway, hands on his hips, feet spread apart. His meaty face was red. Dots of perspiration lined his forehead. “Can’t you read, Mr. Harvard Boy?” Harris snarled.

“I don’t think it’s worth getting upset over an empty lab,” Sean said.

“This area is off limits,” Harris said.

“We’re not in the army,” Sean said.

Harris advanced menacingly. Between his height and weight advantage, he expected to intimidate Sean. But Sean didn’t move. He merely tensed. With all his street experience as a teenager, he instinctively knew what he’d hit and hit hard if Harris threatened to touch him. But Sean was reasonably confident Harris wouldn’t try.

“You are certainly one wiseass,” Harris said. “I knew you’d be trouble the moment I laid eyes on you.”

“Funny! I felt the same way about you,” Sean said.

“I warned you not to mess with me, boy,” Harris said. He moved within inches of Sean’s face.

“You have a couple of blackheads on your nose,” Sean said. “In case you didn’t know.”

Harris glared down at Sean and for a moment he didn’t speak. His face got redder.

“I think you are getting entirely too worked up,” Sean said.

“What the hell are you doing in here?” Harris demanded.

“Pure curiosity,” Sean said. “I was told it was a maximum containment lab. I wanted to see it.”

“I want you out of here in two seconds,” Harris said. He stepped back and pointed toward the door.

Sean walked out into the hall. “There are a few more rooms I’d like to see,” he said. “How about we take a tour together?”

“Out!” Harris shouted, pointing toward the glass door.

Janet had a late morning meeting with the director of nursing, Margaret Richmond. She used the time from Sean’s wake-up call until the moment she had to leave to take a long shower, shave her legs, blow-dry her hair, and press her dress. Although she knew her job at the Forbes hospital was assured, meetings such as the one she was anticipating still made her nervous. And on top of that, she was still anxious about Sean’s potential for heading back to Boston. All in all she had plenty of reason to be upset; she had no idea what the next few days would bring.

Margaret Richmond was not what Janet anticipated. Her voice on the telephone had conjured up an image of a delicate, slight woman. Instead, she was powerful and rather severe. Yet she was still cordial and businesslike, and conveyed to Janet a sincere appreciation for Janet’s coming to the Forbes hospital. She even gave Janet her choice of shifts. Janet was pleased to opt for days. She had assumed she’d have to start on nights, a shift she disliked.