Terminal

by Robin Cook

  “Fair amount,” Mark said. “Several Ph.D.s who’d originally been here at Forbes were supposed to go to Key West, but they left instead. Their absence left Dr. Levy with a burden. She’s had to pick up the slack. I think Forbes is having trouble replacing them.”

  “Tell her I’d like to talk to her when she comes back,” Sean said. He wasn’t interested in the Forbes’s recruiting problems.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing I can do?” Mark said.

  For a second Sean toyed with the idea of talking with Mark about Hiroshi’s behavior, but decided against it. He had to speak to someone in authority. There wasn’t anything Mark would be able to do.

  Frustrated that he could get no satisfaction for his anger, Sean started back toward his lab. He was almost to the stairwell door when he thought of another question for Mark.

  Returning to his tiny office, Sean asked the tech if the pathologists over in the hospital cooperated with the research staff.

  “On occasion,” Mark said. “Dr. Barton Friedburg has coauthored a number of research papers that require a pathologic interpretation.”

  “What kind of guy is he?” Sean asked. “Friendly or unfriendly? Seems to me that people fall into one camp or the other around here.”

  “Definitely friendly,” Mark said. “Besides, I think you might be confusing unfriendly with being serious and preoccupied.”

  “You think I could call him up and ask him a few questions?” Sean asked. “Is he that friendly?”

  “Absolutely,” Mark said.

  Sean went down to his lab, and using the phone in the glass-enclosed office so he could sit at a desk, he phoned Dr. Friedburg. He took it as an auspicious sign when the pathologist came on the line directly.

  Sean explained who he was and that he was interested in the findings of a biopsy done the day before on Helen Cabot.

  “Hold the line,” Dr. Friedburg said. Sean could hear him talking with someone else in the lab. “We didn’t get any biopsy from a Helen Cabot,” he said, coming back.

  “But I know she had it done yesterday,” Sean said.

  “It went south to Basic Diagnostics,” Dr. Friedburg said. “You’ll have to call there if you want any information on it. That sort of thing doesn’t come through this lab at all.”

  “Who should I ask for?” Sean asked.

  “Dr. Levy,” Dr. Friedburg said. “Ever since Paul and Roger left, she’s been running the show down there. I don’t know who she has reading the specimens now, but it’s not us.”

  Sean hung up the phone. Nothing about Forbes seemed to be easy. He certainly wasn’t about to ask Dr. Levy about Helen Cabot. She’d know what he was up to in a flash, especially after she heard from Ms. Richmond about his looking at Helen’s chart.

  Sean sighed as he looked down at the work he was doing trying to grow crystals with the Forbes protein. He felt like throwing it all into the sink.

  FOR JANET, the afternoon seemed to pass quickly. With patients coming and going for therapy and diagnostic tests, there was the constant tactical problem of organizing it all. In addition, there were complicated treatment protocols that required precise timing and dosage. But during this feverish activity Janet was able to observe the way patients were divided among the staff. Without much finagling she was able to arrange to be the nurse assigned to take care of Helen Cabot, Louis Martin, and Kathleen Sharenburg the following day.

  Although she didn’t handle them herself, she did get to see the containers the coded drugs came in when the nurses in charge of the medulloblastoma patients for the day got the vials from Marjorie. Once they’d received them, the nurses took them into the pharmacy closet to load the respective syringes. The MB300 drug was in a 10cc injectable bottle while the MB303 was in a smaller 5cc bottle. There was nothing special about these containers. They were the same containers many other injectable drugs were packaged in.

  It was customary for everyone to have a mid-afternoon as well as a mid-morning break. Janet used hers to go back down to medical records. Once there she used the same ploy she’d used with Tim. She told one of the librarians, a young woman by the name of Melanie Brock, that she was new on the staff and that she was interested in learning the Forbes system. She said she was familiar with computers, but she could use some help. The librarian was impressed with Janet’s interest and was more than happy to show her their filing format, using the medical records’ access code.

  Left on her own after Melanie’s introduction, Janet called up all patients with the T-9872 designator which she’d used to pull up current medulloblastoma cases on the ward’s work station. This time, Janet got a different list. Here there were thirty-eight cases on record over the last ten years. This list did not include the five cases currently in the hospital.

  Sensing a recent increase, Janet asked the computer to graph the number of cases against the years. In a graph form, the results were rather striking.

  LOOKING AT the graph, Janet noted that over the first eight years there had been five medulloblastoma cases, whereas during the last two years there had been thirty-three. She found the increase curious until she remembered that it had been in the last two years that the Forbes had had such success with its treatment. Success sparked referrals. Surely that accounted for the influx.

  Curious about the demographics, Janet called up a breakdown by age and sex. Sex showed a preponderance of males in the last thirty-three cases: twenty-six males and seven females. In the earlier five cases there had been three females and two males.

  When she looked at ages, Janet noted that in the first five cases there was one twenty-year-old. The other four were below the age of ten. Among the recent thirty-three cases Janet saw that seven cases were below the age of ten, two between the ages of ten and twenty, and the remaining twenty-four were over twenty years of age.

  Concerning outcome, Janet noted that all of the original five had died within two years of diagnosis. Three had died within months. In the most recent thirty-three, the impact of the new therapy was dramatically apparent. All thirty-three patients were currently alive, although only three of them were nearing two years after diagnosis.

  Hastily, Janet wrote all this information down to give to Sean.

  Next Janet randomly picked out a name from the list. The name was Donald Maxwell. She called up his file. As she went through the information, she saw that it was rather abbreviated. She even found a notation that said: Consult physical chart if further information is needed.

  Janet had become so absorbed in her investigative work, she was shocked when she glanced at her watch. She’d used up her coffee break and then some, just as she had that morning.

  Quickly she had the computer print out a list of the thirty-eight cases with their ages, sexes, and hospital numbers. Nervously, she went over to the laser printer as the sheet emerged. Turning from the printer, she half expected to find someone standing behind her, demanding an explanation. But no one seemed to have taken notice of her activities.

  Before heading back to her floor, Janet sought out Melanie for one quick and final question. She found her at the copy machine.

  “How do I go about getting the hospital chart of a discharged patient?” Janet asked.

  “You ask one of us,” Melanie said. “All you have to do is provide us with a copy of your authorization, which in your case would come from the nursing department. Then it takes about ten minutes. We keep the charts in the basement in a storage vault that runs beneath both buildings. It’s an efficient system. We need access to them for patient care purposes, like when the patients come for outpatient care. Over in administration they need access to them for billing and actuarial purposes. The charts come up on dumbwaiters.” Melanie pointed to the small glass-fronted elevator set into the wall.

  Janet thanked Melanie, then hurried out to the elevator. She was disappointed about the authorization issue. She couldn’t imagine how she would arrange that without completely giving herself away. She hoped Sean would have an idea.


  As she pressed the elevator button impatiently, Janet wondered if she would have to apologize for again extending her break. She knew she couldn’t keep doing it. It wasn’t fair, and Marjorie was bound to complain.

  STERLING WAS extremely pleased with the way the day was proceeding. He had to smile to himself as he rose up in the paneled elevator of the Franklin Bank’s home office on Federal Street in Boston. It had been a sublime day with minimal effort and maximum gain. And the fact that he was being handsomely compensated for enjoying himself made it all that much more rewarding.

  The luncheon at the Ritz had been heavenly, especially since the maître d’ had been accommodating enough to bring a white Meursault down from the main dining room wine cellar. Sitting as close as he had to Tanaka and his guest, Sterling had been able to hear most of their conversation from behind his Wall Street Journal.

  Tanaka’s guest was a personnel executive from Immunotherapy. Since the buyout, Genentech had left the company largely intact. Sterling did not know how much money was in the plain white envelope that Tanaka had placed on the table, but he did notice that the personnel executive had slipped it into his jacket in the blink of an eye.

  The information Sterling overheard was interesting. Sean and the other founding partners had sold Immunotherapy in order to raise capital for a totally new venture. Tanaka’s informer wasn’t one hundred percent certain, but it was his understanding that the new company would also be a biotechnology firm. He couldn’t tell Tanaka its name or its proposed product line.

  The gentleman knew there had been a holdup in forming the new company when Sean and his partners realized they would be undercapitalized. The reason he knew this was because he’d been approached to move to the new company and he’d agreed, only to be informed that there would be a delay until sufficient funds could be raised. From the sound of the gentleman’s voice at this juncture, Sterling understood that the delay had engendered significant ill will between him and the new management.

  The final bit of information that the gentleman had delivered was the name of the bank executive at the Franklin who was in charge of the negotiation of the loan for additional start-up capital. Sterling was acquainted with a number of people at the Franklin, but Herbert Devonshire was not one of them. But that was soon to change since it was Herbert whom Sterling was presently on his way to see.

  The luncheon had also afforded Sterling an opportunity to observe Tanaka up close. Knowing a considerable amount about the Japanese character and culture, particularly in relation to business, Sterling was fascinated by Tanaka’s performance. Flawlessly deferential and respectful, it would have been impossible for an uninitiated American to pick up the clues that suggested Tanaka clearly despised his lunch companion. But Sterling immediately discerned the subtle signs.

  There’d been no way for Sterling to eavesdrop on Tanaka’s meeting with Herbert Devonshire. Sterling had not even considered it. But he wanted to know its location so that he would be able to suggest he did know the content when he spoke to Mr. Devonshire. Accordingly, Sterling had the limousine company’s president order Tanaka’s driver to call it in to him. The president had then relayed the information to Sterling’s driver.

  After being tipped off. Sterling had entered City Side, a popular bar in the south building of Faneuil Hall Market. There’d been a chance Tanaka might recognize him from lunch, but Sterling had decided to risk it. He wouldn’t be getting too close. He’d observed Tanaka and Devonshire from afar, noting their location in the bar and what they ordered. He also noted the time Tanaka had excused himself to make a call.

  Armed with this information, Sterling had felt confident confronting Devonshire. He’d been able to get an appointment for that afternoon.

  After a brief wait that he judged was designed to impress him with Mr. Devonshire’s busy schedule, Sterling was shown into the banker’s imposing office. The view was to the north and east, commanding a spectacular vista over the Boston Harbor as well as Logan International Airport in East Boston and the Mystic River Bridge arching over to Chelsea.

  Mr. Devonshire was a small man with a shiny bald pate, wire-rimmed glasses, and conservative dress. He stood up behind his antique partner’s desk to shake hands with Sterling. He couldn’t have been over five feet five by Sterling’s estimation.

  Sterling handed the man one of his business cards. They both sat down. Mr. Devonshire positioned the card in the center of his blotter and aligned it perfectly parallel with the blotter’s borders. Then he folded his hands.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Rombauer,” Herbert said, leveling his beady eyes at Sterling. “What can the Franklin do for you today?”

  “It’s not the Franklin I’m interested in,” Sterling said. “It’s you, Mr. Devonshire. I’d like to establish a business relationship with you.”

  “Our motto has always been persona) service,” Herbert said.

  “I shall come directly to the point,” Sterling said. “I’m willing to form a confidential partnership with you for our mutual benefit. There is information I need and information your superiors should not know.”

  Herbert Devonshire swallowed. Otherwise, he didn’t move.

  Sterling leaned forward to bring his eyes to bear on Herbert. “The facts are simple. You met with a Mr. Tanaka Yamaguchi this afternoon at the City Side Bar, not the usual business location, I’d venture to say. You ordered a vodka gimlet and then gave Mr. Yamaguchi some information, a service that while not illegal, is of questionable ethics. A short time later a sizable portion of the monies Sushita Industries keeps on deposit at the Bank of Boston was wire-transferred to the Franklin with you designated as the private banker involved.”

  Herbert’s face blanched at Sterling’s words.

  “I have an extensive network of contacts throughout the business world,” Sterling said. He settled back in his chair. “I’d very much like to add you to this intimate, very anonymous, but stellar network. I’m certain we can provide each other with useful information as time goes by. So the question is, would you care to join? The only obligation is that you never, ever, disclose the source of any information I pass on to you.”

  “And if I choose not to join?” Herbert asked, his voice raspy.

  “I will pass on the information about you and Mr. Yamaguchi to people here at the Franklin who have some minor say in your future.”

  “This is blackmail,” Herbert said.

  “I call it free trade,” Sterling said. “And as for your initiation fee, I would like to hear exactly what you told Mr. Yamaguchi about a mutual acquaintance, Sean Murphy.”

  “This is outrageous,” Herbert said.

  “Please,” Sterling warned. “Let’s not allow this conversation to dissolve into mere posturing. The fact is, your behavior was outrageous, Mr. Devonshire. What I am asking is a small price to pay for the benefits you will accrue from landing such a customer as Sushita Industries. And I can guarantee I will be useful to you in the future.”

  “I gave very little information,” Herbert said. “Entirely inconsequential.”

  “If it makes you more comfortable to believe that, that’s fine,” Sterling said.

  There was a pause. The two men stared at each other across the expanse of antique mahogany. Sterling was happy to wait.

  “All I said was that Mr. Murphy and a few associates were borrowing money to start a new company,” Herbert said. “I gave no figures whatsoever.”

  “The name of the new company?” Sterling asked.

  “Oncogen,” Herbert said.

  “And the proposed product line?” Sterling asked.

  “Cancer-related health products,” Herbert said. “Both diagnostic and therapeutic.”

  “Time frame?”

  “Imminent,” Herbert said. “Within the next few months.”

  “Anything else?” Sterling asked. “I should add that I have ways of checking this information.”

  “No,” Herbert said. His voice had developed an
edge.

  “If I learn you’ve deliberately prevaricated,” Sterling warned, “the result will be as if you refused to cooperate.”

  “I have more appointments,” Herbert said tersely.

  Sterling stood up. “I know it is irritating to have your hand forced,” he said. “But remember, I feel indebted and I always repay. Call me.”

  Sterling took the elevator down to the ground floor and hurried over to his sedan. The driver had locked the doors and had fallen asleep. Sterling had to thump on the window to get him to release the rear locks. Once inside, Sterling called his contact at the FAA. “I’m on a portable phone,” he warned his friend.

  “The bird’s scheduled to leave in the morning,” the man said.

  “What destination?”

  “Miami,” the man said. Then he added: “I sure wish I was going.”

  “WELL, WHAT do you think?” Janet asked as Sean poked his head into the bedroom. Janet had brought Sean out to Miami Beach to see the apartment she’d rented.

  “I think it’s perfect,” he said, looking back into the living room. “I’m not sure I could take these colors for long, but it does look like Florida.” The walls were bright yellow, the rug was kelly green. The furniture was white wicker with tropical floral print cushions.

  “It’s only for a couple of months,” Janet said. “Come in the bathroom and look at the ocean.”

  “There it is!” Sean said as he peered through the slats of the jalousie window. “At least I can say I’ve seen it.” A narrow wedge of ocean was visible between two buildings. Since it was after seven and the sun had already set, the water looked more gray than blue in the gathering darkness.

  “The kitchen’s not bad either,” Janet said.

  Sean followed her, then watched as she opened cabinets and showed him the dishes and glassware. She’d changed out of her nurse’s uniform and had on her tank top and shorts. Sean found Janet incredibly sexy, particularly when she was so scantily clad. Sean felt himself at a distinct disadvantage with the way she was dressed, especially as she bent over showing him the pots and pans. It was difficult to think.