Robin Cook - Terminal

“Evidently not.”

“What about Oncogen?”

“She said she didn’t mention it because we’d told her not to discuss it with anyone.”

“Good for her,” Sean said.

“Why would these people be up here talking to Mom?” Brian asked. “The Rombauer guy told her he represented the Forbes Cancer Center. He said that they routinely look into their employees for security reasons. Have you done anything to suggest you’re a security risk?”

“Hell, I’ve only been here for a little over twenty-four hours,” Sean said.

“You and I know of your penchant to provoke discord. Your blarney would try the patience of Job.”

“My blarney is nothing compared to your blather, brother,” Sean teased. “Hell, you’ve made an institution of it by becoming a lawyer.”

“Since I’m in a good mood, I’ll let that slam slide,” Brian said. “But seriously, what do you think is going on?”

“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Sean said. “Maybe it’s like the man said: routine.”

“But neither guy seemed to know about the other,” Brian said. “That doesn’t sound routine to me. And the first man left his card. I have it right here. It says: Tanaka Yamaguchi, Industrial Consultant.”

“Industrial consultant could mean anything,” Sean said. “I wonder if his involvement is somehow related to the fact that a Japanese electronics giant called Sushita Industries has invested heavily in Forbes. They’re obviously looking for some lucrative patents.”

“Why can’t they stick to cameras, electronics, and cars?” Brian said. “They’re already screwing up the world’s economy.”

“They’re too smart for that,” Sean said. “They are looking toward the long term. But why they would be interested in my association with piss-ant Immunotherapy, I haven’t the foggiest.”

“Well, I thought you should know,” Brian said. “It’s still a little hard for me to believe you’re not stirring things up down there, knowing you.”

“You’ll hurt my feelings talking like that,” Sean said.

“I’ll be in touch as soon as the Franklin Bank comes through for Oncogen,” Brian said. “Try to stay out of trouble.”

“Who, me?” Sean asked innocently.

Sean dropped the receiver into the cradle as soon as Brian said goodbye.

“Have you changed your mind again?” Janet asked with obvious frustration.

“What are you talking about?” Sean questioned.

“You told your brother that you weren’t sure you wanted to stay,” Janet said. “I thought we’d decided to go for it.”

“We had,” Sean said. “But I didn’t want to tell Brian about the plan. He’d worry himself sick. Besides, he’d probably tell my mother and who knows what would happen then.”

“That was very nice indeed,” Sterling told the masseuse. She was a handsome, healthy Scandinavian from Finland, dressed in what could have passed for a tennis outfit. He gave her an extra five-dollar tip; when he’d made the arrangements for the massage through the Ritz’s concierge, he’d already included an adequate tip in the charge added to his account, but he’d noticed she’d gone over the allotted time.

While the masseuse folded her table and gathered her oils, Sterling pulled on a thick white terrycloth robe and slipped off the towel cinched around his waist. Dropping into the club chair near the window he lifted his feet onto the ottoman and poured a glass of the complimentary champagne. Sterling was a regular visitor at Boston’s Ritz Carlton.

The masseuse called a goodbye from the door, and Sterling thanked her again. He decided he’d ask for her by name the next time. A regular massage was one of the expenses Sterling’s clients had learned to expect. They’d complain on occasion, but Sterling would merely say that they could accept his terms or hire someone else. Invariably they’d agree because Sterling was extremely effectively at the service he performed: industrial espionage.

There were other, more sanitized, descriptions for Sterling’s work such as trade counsel or business consultant, but Sterling preferred the honesty of industrial espionage, although for propriety’s sake, he left it off his business card. His card merely read: consultant. It didn’t read “industrial consultant” as did the card he’d seen earlier that day. He felt the word “industrial” suggested a limitation to manufacturing. Sterling was interested in all business.

Sterling sipped his drink and gazed out the window at the superb view. As usual, his room was on a high floor overlooking the magical Boston Garden. As the sunlight waned, the park’s lamps lining the serpentine walkways had blinked on, illuminating the swan boat pond with its miniature suspension bridge. Although it was early March, the recent cold snap had frozen the pond solid. Skaters dotted its mirrored surface, weaving in effortless, intersecting arcs.

Raising his eyes, Sterling could see the fading dazzle of the gold-domed Massachusetts State House. Ruefully he bemoaned the sad fact that the legislature had systematically destroyed its own tax base by enacting short-sighted, anti-business legislation. Unfortunately Sterling had lost a number of good clients who’d either been forced to flee to a more business-oriented state or forced to leave business altogether. Nevertheless, Sterling enjoyed his trips to Boston. It was such a civilized city.

Pulling the phone over to the edge of the table, Sterling wanted to finish work for the day before he indulged in dinner. Not that he found work a burden. Quite the contrary. Sterling loved his current employ, especially considering that he didn’t have to work at all. He’d trained at Stanford in computer engineering, worked for Big Blue for several years, then founded his own successful computer chip company, all before he was thirty. By his middle thirties he was tired of an unfulfilling life, a bad marriage, and the stultifying routine of running a business. First he divorced, then he took his company public and made a fortune. Then he engineered a buyout and made another fortune. By age forty he could have bought a sizable portion of the State of California if he’d so desired.

For almost one year he indulged himself in the adolescence he felt he’d somehow missed. Eventually, he got extremely bored with such places as Aspen. That was when a business friend asked him if he would look into a private matter for him. From that moment on, Sterling had been launched on a new career which was stimulating, never routine, rarely dull, and which utilized his engineering background, his business acumen, his imagination, and his intuitive sense for human behavior.

Sterling called Randolph Mason at home. Dr. Mason took the call from his private line in his study.

“I’m not sure you will be happy about what I’ve learned,” Sterling said.

“It’s better I learn it sooner rather than later,” Dr. Mason responded.

“This young Sean Murphy is an impressive young fellow,” Sterling said. “He founded his own biotechnology company called Immunotherapy while a graduate student at MIT. The company turned a profit almost from day one marketing diagnostic kits.”

“How’s it doing now?”

“Wonderfully,” Sterling said. “It’s a winner. It’s done so well that Genentech bought them out over a year ago.”

“Indeed!” Dr. Mason said. A ray of sunshine entered the picture. “Where does that leave Sean Murphy?”

“He and his young friends realized a considerable profit,” Sterling said. “Considering their initial investment, it was extremely lucrative indeed.”

“So Sean’s no longer involved?” Dr. Mason asked.

“He’s completely out,” Sterling said. “Is that helpful?”

“I’d say so,” Dr. Mason said. “I could use the kid’s experience with monoclonals, but not if he’s got a production facility behind him. It would be too risky.”