Terminal (A Medical Thriller)

March 2

Tuesday, 6:15 A.M.

When Tom Widdicomb awoke at 6:15 to begin his workday, Sean Murphy had already been on the road for several hours, planning on reaching the Forbes Cancer Center by mid-morning. Tom did not know Sean, and had no idea he was expected. Had he known that their lives would soon intersect, his anxiety would have been even greater. Tom was always anxious when he decided to help a patient, and the night before he’d decided to help not one but two women. Sandra Blankenship on the second floor would be the first. She was in great pain and already receiving her chemotherapy by IV. The other patient, Gloria D’Amataglio, was on the fourth floor. That was a bit more worrisome since the last patient he’d helped, Norma Taylor, had also been on the fourth floor. Tom didn’t want any pattern to emerge.

His biggest problem was that he constantly worried about someone suspecting what he was doing, and on a day that he was going to act, his anxiety could be overwhelming. Still, sensitive to gossip on the wards, he’d heard nothing that suggested that anyone was suspicious. After all, he was dealing with women who were terminally ill. They were expected to die. Tom was merely saving everyone from additional suffering, especially the patient.

Tom showered, shaved, and dressed in his green uniform, then went into his mother’s kitchen. She always got up before he did, insistent every morning as far back as he could remember that he should eat a good breakfast since he wasn’t as strong as other boys. Tom and his mother, Alice, had lived together in their close, secret world from the time Tom’s dad died when Tom was four. That was when he and his mother had started sleeping together, and his mother had started calling him “her little man.”

“I’m going to help another woman today, Mom,” Tom said as he sat down to eat his eggs and bacon. He knew how proud his mother was of him. She had always praised him even when he’d been a lonely child with eye problems. His schoolmates had teased him mercilessly about his crossed eyes, chasing him home nearly every day.

“Don’t worry, my little man,” Alice would say when he’d arrive at the house in tears. “We’ll always have each other. We don’t need other people.”

And that was how things worked out. Tom had never felt any desire to leave home. For a while, he worked at a local veterinarian’s. Then at his mother’s suggestion, since she’d always been interested in medicine, he’d taken a course to be an EMT. After his training, he got a job with an ambulance company but had trouble getting along with the other workers. He decided he would be better off as an orderly. That way he wouldn’t have to relate to so many people. First he’d worked at Miami General Hospital but got into a fight with his shift supervisor. Then he worked at a funeral home before joining the Forbes housekeeping staff.

“The woman’s name is Sandra,” Tom told his mother as he ran his dish under the faucet at the sink. “She’s older than you. She’s in a lot of pain. The ‘problem’ has spread to her spine.”

When Tom spoke to his mother, he never used the word “cancer.” Early in her illness, they’d decided not to say the word. They preferred less emotionally charged words like “problem” or “difficulty.”

Tom had read about succinylcholine in a newspaper story about some doctor in New Jersey. His rudimentary medical training afforded an understanding of the physiologic principles. His freedom as a housekeeper allowed him contact with anesthesia carts. He’d never had any problem getting the drug. The problem had been where to hide it until it was needed. Then one day he found a convenient space above the wall cabinets in the housekeeping closet on the fourth floor. When he climbed up and looked into the area and saw the amount of accumulated dust, he knew his drug would never be disturbed.

“Don’t worry about anything, Mom,” Tom said as he prepared to leave. “I’ll be home just as soon as I can. I’ll miss you and I love you.” Tom had been saying that ever since he had gone to school, and just because he’d had to put his mother to sleep three years ago, he didn’t feel any need to change.

IT WAS almost ten-thirty in the morning when Sean pulled his 4×4 into the parking area of the Forbes Cancer Center. It was a bright, clear, summer-like day. The temperature was somewhere around seventy, and after the freezing Boston rain Sean felt he was in heaven. He’d enjoyed the two-day drive, too. He could have made it faster, but the clinic wasn’t expecting him until late that day so there’d been no need. He spent his first night in a motel just off 195 in Rocky Mount, North Carolina.

The next day had taken him deep into Florida where the depth of spring seemed to increase with every passing mile. The second night had been spent in perfumed delight near Vero Beach, Florida. When he asked the motel clerk about the wonderful aroma in the air he was told it came from the nearby citrus groves.

The last lap of the journey turned out to be the most difficult. From West Palm Beach south, particularly near Fort Lauderdale and into Miami, he fought rush-hour traffic. To his surprise even eight-laned 195 coagulated into a stop-and-go mess.

Sean locked his car, stretched, and gazed up at the imposing twin bronzed, mirrored towers of the Forbes Cancer Center. A covered pedestrian bridge constructed of the same material connected the buildings. He noted from the signs that the research and administration center was on the left while the hospital was on the right.

As Sean started for the entrance, he thought about his first impressions of Miami. They were mixed. As he’d come south on 195 and neared his turnoff, he’d been able to see the gleaming new downtown skyscrapers. But the areas adjacent to the highway had been a melange of strip malls and low-income housing. The area around the Forbes Center, which was situated along the Miami River, was also rather seedy although a few modern buildings were interspersed among the flat-roofed cinder block structures.

As Sean pushed through the mirrored door, he thought wryly about the difficulty everyone had given him about this two-month elective. He wondered if his mother would ever get over the traumas he’d caused her as an adolescent. “You’re too much like your father,” she’d say, and it was meant as a reproach. Except for enjoying the pub, Sean felt little similarity with his father. But then he had been presented with far different choices and opportunities than his father ever had.

A black felt sign stood on an easel just inside the door. Spelled out in white plastic letters was his name and a message: Welcome. Sean thought it was a nice touch.

There was a small lounge directly behind the front door. Entrance into the building itself was blocked by a turnstile. Next to the turnstile was a Corian-covered desk. Behind the desk sat a swarthy, handsome Hispanic man dressed in a brown uniform complete with epaulets and peaked military-style hat. The outfit reminded Sean of a cross between those seen in Marine recruitment posters and those seen in Hollywood Gestapo movies. An elaborate emblem on the guard’s left arm said “Security” and the name tag above his left pocket proclaimed that his name was Martinez.

“Can I help you?” Martinez asked in heavily accented English.

“I’m Sean Murphy,” Sean said, pointing to the welcome sign.

The guard’s expression did not change. He studied Sean for a beat then picked up one of several telephones. He spoke in rapid, staccato Spanish. After he hung up he pointed to a nearby leather couch. “A few moments, please.”

Sean sat down. He picked up a copy of Science from a low coffee table and idly flipped the pages. But his attention was on Forbes’ elaborate security system. Thick glass partitions separated the waiting area from the rest of the building. Apparently the guarded turnstile provided the only entrance.

Since security was all too frequently neglected in health care institutions, Sean was favorably impressed and said as much to the guard.

“There are some bad areas nearby,” the guard replied but didn’t elaborate.

Presently a second security officer appeared, dressed identically to the first. The turnstile opened to allow him into the lounge.

“My name is Ramirez,” the second guard said. “Would you follow me, please.”

Sean got to his feet. As he passed through the turnstile he didn’t see Martinez press any button. He guessed the turnstile was controlled by a foot pedal.

Sean followed Ramirez for a short distance, turning into the first office on the left. “Security” was printed in block letters on the open door. Inside was a control room with banks of TV monitors covering one wall. In front of the monitors was a third guard with a clipboard. Even a cursory glance at the monitors told Sean that he was looking at a multitude of locations around the complex.

Sean continued to follow Ramirez into a small windowless office. Behind the desk sat a fourth guard who had two gold stars attached to his uniform and gold trim on the peak of his hat. His name tag said: Harris.

“That will be all, Ramirez,” Harris said, giving Sean the feeling he was being inducted into the army.

Harris studied Sean who stared back. There was an almost immediate feeling of antipathy between the men.

With his tanned, meaty face, Harris looked like a lot of people Sean had known in Charlestown when he was young. They usually had jobs of minor authority that they practiced with great officiousness. They were also nasty drunks. Two beers and they’d want to fight about a call a referee had made on a televised sporting event if you suggested you disagreed with their perception. It was crazy. Sean had learned long ago to avoid such people. Now he was standing across the desk from one.

“We don’t want any trouble here,” Harris was saying. He had a faint southern accent.

Sean thought that was a strange way to begin a conversation. He wondered what this man thought he was getting from Harvard, a parolee? Harris was in obvious good physical shape, his bulging biceps straining the sleeves of his short-sleeved shirt, yet he didn’t look all that healthy. Sean toyed with the idea of giving the man a short lecture on the benefits of proper nutrition, but thought better of the idea. He could still hear Dr. Walsh’s admonitions.

“You’re supposed to be a doctor,” Harris said. “Why the hell are you wearing your hair so long? And I’d hazard to say that you didn’t shave this morning.”

“But I did put on a shirt and tie for the occasion,” Sean said. “I thought I was looking quite natty.”

“Don’t mess with me, boy,” Harris said. There was no sign of humor in his voice.

Sean shifted his weight wearily. He was already tired of the conversation and of Harris.

“Is there some particular reason you need me here?”

“You’ll need a photo ID card,” Harris said. He stood up and came around from behind the desk to open a door to a neighboring room. He was several inches taller than Sean and at least twenty pounds heavier. In hockey Sean used to like to block such guys low, coming up fast under their shins.

“I’d suggest you get a haircut,” Harris said, as he motioned for Sean to pass into the next room. “And get your pants ironed. Maybe then you’ll fit in better. This isn’t college.”

Stepping through the door Sean saw Ramirez look up from adjusting a Polaroid camera mounted on a tripod. Ramirez pointed toward a stool in front of a blue curtain, and Sean sat down.

HARRIS CLOSED the door to the camera room, went back to his desk, and sat down. Sean had been worse than he’d feared. The idea of some wiseass kid coming down from Harvard had not appealed to him in the first place, but he hadn’t expected anyone looking like a hippie from the sixties.

Lighting a cigarette, Harris cursed the likes of Sean. He hated such liberal Ivy League types who thought they knew everything. Harris had gone through the Citadel, then into the army where he’d trained hard for the commandos. He’d done well, making captain after Desert Storm. But with the breakup of the Soviet Union, the peacetime army had begun cutting back. Harris had been one of its victims.

Harris stubbed out his cigarette. Intuition told him Sean would be trouble. He decided he’d have to keep his eye on him.

WITH A new photo ID clipped to his shirt pocket, Sean left security. The experience didn’t mesh with the welcome sign, but one fact did impress him. When he’d asked the reticent Ramirez why security was so tight, Ramirez had told him that several researchers had disappeared the previous year.

“Disappeared?” Sean asked with amazement. He’d heard of equipment disappearing, but people!

“Were they found?” Sean had asked.

“I don’t know,” Ramirez had said. “I only came this year.”

“Where are you from?”

“Medellín, Colombia,” Ramirez had said.

Sean had not asked any more questions, but Ramirez’s reply added to Sean’s unease. It seemed overkill to head security with a man who acted like a frustrated Green Beret and staff it with a group of guys who could have been from some Colombian drug lord’s private army. As Sean followed Ramirez into the elevator to the seventh floor his initial positive impression of Forbes security faded.

“Come in, come in!” Dr. Randolph Mason repeated, holding open his office door. Almost immediately Sean’s unease was replaced by a feeling of genuine welcome. “We’re pleased to have you with us,” Dr. Mason said. “I was so happy when Clifford called and suggested it. Would you like some coffee?”

Sean acquiesced and was soon balancing a cup while sitting on a couch across from the Forbes director. Dr. Mason looked like everyone’s romantic image of a physician. He was tall with an aristocratic face, classically graying hair, and an expressive mouth. His eyes were sympathetic and his nose slightly aquiline. He seemed the type of man you could tell a problem to and know he’d not only care but he’d solve it.

“The first thing we must do,” Dr. Mason said, “is have you meet our head of research, Dr. Levy.” He picked up the phone and asked his secretary to have Deborah come up. “I’m certain you will be impressed by her. I wouldn’t be surprised if she were soon in contention for the big Scandinavian prize.”

“I’ve already been impressed with her earlier work on retroviruses,” Sean said.

“Like everyone else,” Dr. Mason said. “More coffee?”

Sean shook his head. “I have to be careful with this stuff,” he said. “It makes me hyper. Too much and I don’t come down for days.”

“I’m the same way,” Dr. Mason said. “Now about your accommodations. Has anyone discussed them with you?”

“Dr. Walsh just said that you would be able to provide housing.”

“Indeed,” Dr. Mason said. “I’m pleased to say that we had the foresight to purchase a sizable apartment complex several years ago. It’s not in Coconut Grove, but it’s not far either. We use it for visiting personnel and patients’ families. We’re delighted to offer you one of the apartments for your stay. I’m certain you will find it suitable, and you should enjoy the neighborhood as it’s so close to the Grove.”

“I’m pleased I didn’t have to make my own arrangements,”

Sean said. “And as far as entertainment is concerned, I’m more interested in working than playing tourist.”

“Everyone should have a balance in life,” Dr. Mason said. “But rest assured, we have plenty of work for you to do. We want your experience here to be a good one. When you go into practice we hope you will be referring us patients.”

“My plan is to remain in research,” Sean said.

“I see,” Dr. Mason said, his enthusiasm dimming slightly.

“In fact, the reason I wanted to come here…” Sean began, but before he could complete the statement, Dr. Deborah Levy walked into the room.

Deborah Levy was a strikingly attractive woman with dark olive skin, large almond-shaped eyes, and hair even blacker than Sean’s. She was stylishly thin and wore a dark blue silk dress beneath her lab coat. She walked with the confidence and grace of the truly successful.

Sean struggled to get to his feet.

“Don’t bother to get up,” Dr. Levy said in a husky yet feminine voice. She thrust a hand at Sean.

Sean shook Dr. Levy’s hand while balancing his coffee in the other. She gripped his fingers with unexpected strength and gave Sean’s arm a shake that rattled his cup in its saucer. Her gaze bore into him with intensity.

“I’ve been instructed to say welcome,” she said, sitting across from him. “But I think we should be honest about this. I’m not entirely convinced your visit is a good idea. I run a tight ship here in the lab. You’ll either pitch in and work or you’ll be out of here and on the next plane back to Boston. I don’t want you to think…”

“I drove down,” Sean interrupted. He knew he was already being provocative, but he couldn’t help himself. He didn’t expect such a brusque greeting from the head of research.

Dr. Levy stared at him for a moment before continuing. “The Forbes Cancer Center is no place for a holiday in the sun,” she added. “Do I make myself clear?”

Sean cast a quick glance at Dr. Mason who was still smiling warmly.

“I didn’t come here for a holiday. If Forbes had been in Bismarck, North Dakota, I would have wanted to come. You see, I’ve heard about the results you’ve been getting with medulloblastoma.”

Dr. Mason coughed and moved forward in his seat, placing his coffee on the table. “I hope you didn’t expect to work on the medulloblastoma protocol,” he said.

Sean’s gaze shifted between the two doctors. “Actually, I did,” he said with some alarm.

“When I spoke with Dr. Walsh,” Mason said, “he emphasized that you have had extensive and successful experience with the development of murine monoclonal antibodies.”

“That was during my year at MIT,” Sean explained. “But that’s not my interest now. In fact, I feel it is already yesterday’s technology.”

“That’s not our belief,” Dr. Mason said. “We think it’s still commercially viable and will be for some time. In fact, we’ve had a bit of luck isolating and producing a glycoprotein from patients with colonic cancer. What we need now is a monoclonal antibody in hopes it might be an aid to early diagnosis. But, as you know, glycoproteins can be tricky. We’ve been unable to get mice to respond antigenically, and we’ve failed to crystallize the substance. Dr. Walsh assured me you were an artist when it comes to this kind of protein chemistry.”

“I was,” Sean said. “I haven’t been doing it for some time. My interest has changed to molecular biology, specifically oncogenes and oncoproteins.”

“This is just what I feared,” Dr. Levy said, turning to Dr. Mason. “I told you this was not a good idea. We are not set up for students. I’m much too busy to babysit a medical student extern. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must get back to my work.”

Dr. Levy got to her feet and looked down at Sean. “My rudeness is not meant to be personal. I’m very busy, and I’m under a lot of stress.”

“I’m sorry,” Sean said. “But it is difficult not to take it personally since your medulloblastoma results are the reason I took this elective and drove all the way the hell down here.”

“Frankly, that’s not my concern,” she said, striding toward the door.

“Dr. Levy,” Sean called out. “Why haven’t you published any articles on the medulloblastoma results? With no publications, if you’d stayed in academia, you’d probably be out looking for a job.”

Dr. Levy paused and cast a disapproving look at Sean. “Impertinence is not a wise policy for a student,” she said, closing the door behind her.

Sean looked over at Dr. Mason and shrugged his shoulders. “She was the one who said we should be honest about all this. She hasn’t published for years.”

“Clifford warned me that you might not be the most diplomatic extern,” Dr. Mason said.

“Did he now?” Sean questioned superciliously. He was already beginning to question his decision to come to Florida. Maybe everybody else had been right after all.

“But he also said you were extremely bright. And I think Dr. Levy came on a bit stronger than she meant. At any rate she has been under great strain. In fact we all have.”

“But the results you’ve been getting with the medulloblastoma patients are fantastic,” Sean said, hoping to plead his case. “There has to be something to be learned about cancer in general here. I want desperately to be involved in your protocol. Maybe by looking at it with fresh, objective eyes I’ll see something that you people have missed.”

“You certainly don’t lack self-confidence,” said Dr. Mason. “And perhaps someday we could use a fresh eye. But not now. Let me be honest and open with you and give you some confidential information. There are several reasons you won’t be able to participate in our medulloblastoma study. First, it is already a clinical protocol and you are here for basic science research. That was made clear to your mentor. And second of all we cannot permit outsiders access to our current work because we have yet to apply for the appropriate patents on some of our unique biological processes. This policy is dictated by our source of funding. Like a lot of research institutions, we’ve had to seek alternate sources for operating capital since the government started squeezing research grants to everything but AIDS. We have turned to the Japanese.”

“Like the Mass General in Boston?” Sean questioned.

“Something like that,” Dr. Mason said. “We struck a forty-million-dollar deal with Sushita Industries, which has been expanding into biotechnology. The agreement was that Sushita would advance us the money over a period of years in return for which they would control any patents that result. That’s one of the reasons we need the monoclonal antibody to the colonic antigen. We have to produce some commercially viable products if we hope to continue to receive Sushita’s yearly payments. So far we haven’t been doing too well in that regard. And if we don’t maintain our funding we’ll have to shut our doors which, of course, would hurt the public which looks to us for care.”

“A sorry state of affairs,” Sean said.

“Indeed,” Dr. Mason agreed. “But it’s the reality of the new research environment.”

“But your short-term fix will lead to future Japanese dominance.”

“The same can be said about most industries,” Dr. Mason said. “It’s not limited to health-related biotechnology.”

“Why not use the return from patents to fund additional research?”

“There’s no place to get the initial capital,” Dr. Mason said. “Well, that’s not entirely true in our case. Over the last two years we’ve had considerable success with old-fashioned philanthropy. A number of businessmen have given us hefty donations. In fact, we are hosting a black-tie charity dinner tonight. I would very much like to extend an invitation to you. It’s at my home on Star Island.”

“I don’t have the proper clothes,” Sean said, surprised at being invited after the scene with Dr. Levy.

“We thought of that,” Dr. Mason said. “We’ve made arrangements with a tux rental service. All you have to do is call in your sizes, and they will deliver to your apartment.”

“That’s very thoughtful,” Sean said. He was finding it difficult to deal with this on-again, off-again hospitality.

Suddenly the door to Dr. Mason’s office burst open and a formidable woman in a white nurse’s uniform rushed in, planting herself in front of Dr. Mason. She was visibly distressed.

“There’s been another one, Randolph,” she blurted out. “This is the fifth breast cancer patient to die of respiratory failure. I told you that…”

Dr. Mason leapt to his feet. “Margaret, we have company.”

Recoiling as if slapped, the nurse turned to Sean, seeing him for the first time. She was a woman of forty, with a round face, gray hair worn in a tight bun, and solid legs. “Excuse me!” she said, the color draining from her cheeks. “I’m terribly sorry.” Turning back to Dr. Mason, she added, “I knew Dr. Levy had just come in here, but when I saw her return to her office, I thought you were alone.”

“No matter,” said Dr. Mason. He introduced Sean to Margaret Richmond, director of nursing, adding, “Mr. Murphy will be with us for two months.”

Ms. Richmond shook hands perfunctorily with Sean, mumbling it was a pleasure to meet him. Then she took Dr. Mason by the elbow and steered him outside. The door closed, but the latch didn’t catch, and it drifted open again.

Sean could not help but overhear, especially with Ms. Richmond’s sharply penetrating voice. Apparently, another patient on standard chemotherapy for breast cancer had unexpectedly died. She’d been found in her bed totally cyanotic, just as blue as the others.

“This cannot go on!” Margaret snapped. “Someone must be doing this deliberately. There’s no other explanation. It’s always the same shift, and it’s ruining our stats. We have to do something before the medical examiner gets suspicious. And if the media gets ahold of this, it will be a disaster.”

“We’ll meet with Harris,” Dr. Mason said soothingly. “We’ll tell him he has to let everything else slide. We’ll tell him he has to stop it.”

“It can’t go on,” Ms. Richmond repeated. “Harris has to do more than run background checks on the professional staff.”

“I agree,” Dr. Mason said. “We’ll talk to Harris straight away. Just give me a moment to arrange for Mr. Murphy to tour the facility.”

The voices drifted away. Sean moved forward on the couch hoping to hear more, but the outer office remained silent until once again the door burst open. Guiltily he sat back as someone else dashed into the room. This time it was an attractive woman in her twenties dressed in a checkered skirt and white blouse. She was tanned, bubbly, and had a great smile. Hospitality had refreshingly returned.

“Hi, my name’s Claire Barington.”

Sean quickly learned that Claire helped run the center’s public relations department. She dangled keys in front of his face, saying: “These are to your palatial apartment at the Cow’s Palace.” She explained that the center’s residence had gotten its nickname in commemoration of the size of some of its earlier residents.

“I’ll take you over there,” Claire said. “Just to make certain it’s all in order and you’re comfortable. But first Dr. Mason told me to give you a tour of our facility. What do you say?”

“Seems like a good idea to me,” Sean said, pulling himself up from the couch. He’d only been at the Forbes Center for about an hour, and if that hour were any indication of what the two months would be like, it promised to be a curiously interesting sojourn. Provided, of course, he stayed. As he followed the shapely Claire Barington out of Dr. Mason’s office, he began seriously considering calling Dr. Walsh and heading back to Boston. He’d certainly be able to accomplish more there than here if he was to be relegated to busywork involving monoclonal antibodies.

“This, of course, is our administrative area,” Claire said as she launched into a practiced tour. “Henry Falworth’s office is next to Dr. Mason’s. Mr. Falworth is the personnel manager for all non-professional staff. Beyond his office is Dr. Levy’s. Of course, she has another research office downstairs in the maximum containment lab.”

Sean’s ears perked up. “You have a maximum containment lab?” he asked with surprise.

“Absolutely,” Claire said. “Dr. Levy demanded it when she came on board. Besides, the Forbes Cancer Center has all the most up-to-date equipment.”

Sean shrugged. A maximum containment lab designed to safely handle infectious microorganisms seemed a bit excessive.

Pointing in the opposite direction, Claire indicated the clinical office shared by Dr. Stan Wilson, chief of the hospital’s clinical staff, Margaret Richmond, director of nursing, and Dan Selenburg, hospital administrator. “Of course, these people all have private offices on the top floor of the hospital building.”

“This doesn’t interest me,” Sean said. “Let’s see the research areas.”

“Hey, you get the twenty-five-dollar tour or none at all,” she said sternly. Then she laughed. “Humor me! I need the practice.”

Sean smiled. Claire was the most genuine person he’d met so far at the Center. “Fair enough. Lead on!”

Claire took him over to an adjacent room with eight desks manned by busy people. A huge collating copy machine stood off to the side busily functioning. A large computer with multiple moderns was behind a glass enclosure like some kind of trophy. A small glass-fronted elevator that was more like a dumbwaiter occupied another wall. It was filled with what appeared to be hospital charts.

“This is the important room!” Claire said with a smile. “It’s where all the bills are sent for hospital and outpatient services. These are the people who deal with the insurance companies. It’s also where my paychecks come from.”

After seeing more of administration than Sean would have liked, Claire finally took him downstairs to see the laboratory facilities which occupied the middle five stories of the structure.

“The first floor of the building has auditoriums, library, and security,” Claire droned as they entered the sixth floor. Sean followed Claire down a long central corridor with labs off either side. “This is the main research floor. Most of the major equipment is housed here.”

Sean poked his head into various labs. He was soon disappointed. He’d been expecting a futuristic lab, superbly designed and filled with state-of-the-art technology. Instead he saw basic rooms with the usual equipment. Claire introduced him to the four people they came upon in one of the labs: David Lowenstein, Arnold Harper, Nancy Sprague, and Hiroshi Gyuhama. Of these people only Hiroshi expressed any more than a passing interest in Sean. Hiroshi bowed deeply when introduced. He seemed genuinely impressed when Claire mentioned that Sean was from Harvard.

“Harvard is a very good school,” Hiroshi said in heavily accented English.

As they continued down the corridor, Sean began to notice that most of the rooms were empty.

“Where is everybody?” he asked.

“You’ve met pretty much the whole research staff,” Claire said. “We have a tech named Mark Halpern, but I don’t see him at the moment. We don’t have many personnel presently, although word has it that we are about to start expanding. Like all businesses, we’ve been through some lean times.”

Sean nodded, but the explanation did little to allay his disappointment. With the impressive results of the medulloblastoma work, he’d envisioned a large group of researchers working at a dynamic pace. Instead, the place seemed relatively deserted, which reminded Sean of Ramirez’s unsettling remark.

“Down in security they told me some of the researchers had disappeared. Do you know anything about that?”

“Not a lot,” Claire admitted. “It was last year and it caused a flap.”

“What happened?”

“They disappeared all right,” Claire said. “They left everything: their apartments, their cars, even their girlfriends.”

“And they were never found?” Sean asked.

“They turned up,” Claire said. “The administration doesn’t like to talk about it, but apparently they are working for some company in Japan.”

“Sushita Industries?” Sean asked.

“That I don’t know,” Claire said.

Sean had heard about companies luring away personnel, but never so secretly. And never to Japan. He realized it was probably just another indication that times were changing in the arena of biotechnology.

Claire brought them to a thick opaque glass door barring further progress down the corridor. In block letters were the words: No Entry. Sean glanced at Claire for an explanation.

“The maximum containment facility is in there,” she said.

“Can we see it?” Sean asked. He cupped his hands and peered through the door. All he could see were doors leading off the main corridor.

Claire shook her head. “Off limits,” she said. “Dr. Levy does most of her work in there. At least when she’s in Miami. She splits her time between here and our Basic Diagnostic lab in Key West.”

“What’s that?” Sean asked.

Claire winked and covered her mouth as if she were telling a secret. “It’s a minor entrepreneurial spin-off for Forbes,” she said. “It does basic diagnostic work for our hospital as well as for several hospitals in the Keys. It’s a way of generating some additional income. The trouble is the Florida legislature is giving us some trouble about self-referral.”

“How come we can’t go in there?” Sean asked, pointing through the glass door.

“Dr. Levy says there is some kind of risk, but I don’t know what it is. Frankly, I’m happy to stay out. But ask her. She’ll probably take you in.”

Sean wasn’t sure Dr. Levy would do him any favors after their initial meeting. He reached out and pulled the door open a crack. There was a slight hiss as the seal was broken.

Claire grabbed his arm. “What are you doing?” She was aghast.

“Just curious to see if it was locked,” Sean said. He let the door swing shut.

“You are a trip,” she said.

They retraced their route and descended another floor. The fifth floor was dominated by a large lab on one side of the corridor and small offices on the other. Claire took Sean into the large lab.

“I was told that you would have this lab for your use,” Claire said. She switched on the overhead lights. It was an enormous room by the standards of the labs Sean was accustomed to work in at both Harvard and MIT where fights for space among researchers were legendary for their acrimony. In the center was a glass-enclosed office with a desk, a telephone, and a computer terminal.

Sean walked around, fingering the equipment. It was basic but serviceable. The most impressive items were a luminescence-spectrophotometer and a binocular microscope to detect fluorescence. Sean thought he could have some fun with those instruments under the right circumstances, but he didn’t know if the Forbes provided the right environment. For one thing, Sean realized that he’d probably be working in this large room alone.

“Where are all the reagents and things?” he asked.

Claire motioned for Sean to follow, and they descended another floor where Claire showed him the supply room. As far as Sean was concerned, this was the most impressive area he’d seen so far. The supply room was filled with everything a molecular biological lab would need. There was even a generous selection of various cell lines from the NIH.

After cursorily touring through the rest of the lab space, Claire led Sean down to the basement. Scrunching up her nose, she took him into the animal room. Dogs barked, monkeys glared, and mice and rats skittered about their cages. The air was moist and pungent. Claire introduced Sean to Roger Calvet, the animal keeper. He was a small man with a severe hunchback.

They only stayed a minute and as the doors closed behind them, Claire made a gesture of relief. “My least favorite part of the whole tour,” she confided. “I’m not sure where I stand on the animal-rights issue.”

“It’s tough,” Sean admitted. “But we definitely need them. For some reason mice and rats don’t bother me as much as dogs or monkeys.”

“I’m supposed to show you the hospital too,” Claire said. “Are you game?”

“Why not?” Sean said. He was enjoying Claire.

They took the elevator back to the second floor and crossed to the clinic by way of the pedestrian bridge. The towers were some fifty feet apart.

The second floor of the hospital housed the diagnostic and treatment areas as well as the ICU and the surgical suites. The chemistry lab and radiology were also there along with medical records. Claire took Sean in to meet her mother, who was one of the medical librarians.

“If I can be of any assistance,” Mrs. Barington said, “just give me a call.”

Sean thanked her and moved to leave, but Mrs. Barington insisted she show him around the department. Sean tried to be interested as he was shown the Center’s computer capabilities, the laser printers, the hoist they used to bring charts up from the basement storage vault, and the view they had over the sleepy Miami River.

When Claire and Sean got back to the corridor, she apologized.

“She’s never done that,” she added. “She must have liked you.”

“That’s just my luck,” Sean said. “The older set and the prepubescent are taken by me. It’s the women in between I have trouble with.”

“I’m sure you expect me to believe that,” Claire said sarcastically.

Sean was next treated to a rapid walk through the modern eighty-bed hospital. It was clean, well designed, and apparently well staffed. With its tropical colors and fresh flowers, it was even cheerful despite the gravity of many of the patients’ illnesses. On this leg of the tour, Sean learned that the Forbes Cancer Center had teamed up with the NIH to treat advanced melanoma. With the powerful sunshine, there was a lot of melanoma in Florida.

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.”

“Perhaps he’ll be interested in our medulloblastoma project,” Hiroshi said.

“He is interested,” Dr. Mason said. “But he will not be allowed to participate. Instead he will be working with our colonic cancer glycoprotein, trying to crystallize the protein. I don’t have to tell you how good it would be for both Forbes and Sushita if he were able to accomplish what we’ve so far failed to do.”

“I was not informed of Mr. Murphy’s arrival by my superiors,” Hiroshi said. “It is strange for them to have forgotten.”

All at once, Dr. Mason realized what this circuitous conversation was about. One of Sushita’s conditions was that they review all prospective employees before they were hired. Usually it was a formality, and where a student was concerned, Dr. Mason had not given it a thought, particularly since Murphy’s stay was so temporary.

“The decision to invite Mr. Murphy for his elective happened rather quickly. Perhaps I should have informed Sushita, but he is not an employee. He does not get paid. Besides, he’s a student with limited experience.”

“Yet he will be entrusted with samples of glycoprotein,” Hiroshi said. “He will have access to the recombinant yeast that produces the protein.”

“Obviously he will be given the protein,” Dr. Mason said. “But there is no reason for him to be shown our recombinant technology for producing it.”

“How much do you know about this man?” Hiroshi asked.

“He comes with a recommendation from a trusted colleague,” Dr. Mason said.

“Perhaps my company would be interested in his resumé,” Hiroshi said.

“We have no resumé,” Dr. Mason said. “He’s only a student. If there had been anything important to know about him, I’m confident my friend Dr. Walsh would have informed me. He did say that Mr. Murphy was an artist when it came to protein crystallization and making murine monoclonal antibodies. We need an artist if we are going to come up with a patentable product. Besides, the Harvard cachet is valuable to the clinic. The idea we have been training a Harvard graduate student will not do us any harm.”

Hiroshi got to his feet and, with his continued smile, bowed, but not as deeply nor for as long a period as when he’d first come into the office. “Thank you for your time,” he said. Then he left the room.

AFTER THE door clicked behind Hiroshi, Dr. Mason closed his eyes and rubbed them with his fingertips. His hands were shaking. He was much too anxious, and if he wasn’t careful, he’d aggravate his peptic ulcer. With the possibility of some psychopath killing metastatic breast cancer patients, the last thing he needed was trouble with Sushita. He now regretted doing Clifford Walsh the favor of inviting his graduate student. It was a complication he didn’t need.

On the other hand, Dr. Mason knew he needed something to offer the Japanese or they might not renew their grant, irrespective of other concerns. If Sean could help solve the problem associated with developing an antibody to their glycoprotein, then his arrival could turn into a godsend.

Dr. Mason ran a nervous hand through his hair. The problem was, as Hiroshi made him realize, he knew very little about Sean Murphy. Yet Sean would have access to their labs. He could talk to other workers; he could access the computers. And Sean struck Dr. Mason as definitely the curious type.

Snatching up the phone, Dr. Mason asked his secretary to get Clifford Walsh from Boston on the line. While he waited, he ambled over to his desk. He wondered why he hadn’t thought of calling Clifford earlier.

Within a few minutes, Dr. Walsh was available on the phone. Dr. Mason sat while he talked. Since they’d spoken just the previous week, their small talk was minimal.

“Did Sean get down there okay?” Dr. Walsh asked.

“He arrived this morning.”

“I hope he hasn’t gotten into trouble already,” Dr. Walsh said.

Dr. Mason felt his ulcer begin to burn. “That’s a strange statement,” he said. “Especially after your excellent recommendations.”

“Everything I said about him is true,” Dr. Walsh said. “The kid is just short of a genius when it comes to molecular biology. But he’s a city kid and his social skills are nowhere near his intellectual abilities. He can be headstrong. And he’s physically stronger than an ox. He could have played professional hockey. He’s the type of guy you want on your side if there’s going to be a brawl.”

“We don’t brawl down here much,” Dr. Mason said with a short laugh. “So we won’t be taking advantage of his skills in that regard. But tell me something else. Has Sean ever been associated with the biotechnology industry in any way, like worked summers at a company? Anything like that?”

“He sure has,” Dr. Walsh said. “He not only worked at one, he owned one. He and a group of friends started a company called Immunotherapy to develop murine monoclonal antibodies. The company did well as far as I know. But then I don’t keep up with the industrial side of our field.”

The pain in Mason’s gut intensified. This was not what he wanted to hear.

Mason thanked Dr. Walsh, hung up the phone, and immediately swallowed two antacid tablets. Now he had to worry about Sushita learning of Sean’s association with this Immunotherapy company. If they did, it might be enough to cause them to break the agreement.

Dr. Mason paced his office. Intuition told him he had to act. Perhaps he should send Sean back to Boston as Dr. Levy had suggested. But that would mean losing Sean’s potential contribution to the glycoprotein project.

Suddenly Dr. Mason had an idea. He could at least find out all there was to know about Sean’s company. He picked up the phone again. This number he didn’t have his secretary dial. He dialed it himself. He called Sterling Rombauer.

TRUE TO her word, Claire showed up at Sean’s apartment at seven-thirty on the dot. She was wearing a black dress with spaghetti straps and long dangly earrings. Her brunette hair was pulled back at the sides with rhinestone-studded barrettes. Sean thought she looked terrific.

He wasn’t at all sure of his own outfit. The rented tux definitely needed the suspenders; the pants showed up two sizes too large and there hadn’t been time to change them. The shoes were also a half size too large. But the shirt and the jacket fit reasonably well, and he tamed his hair back on the sides with some hair gel he borrowed from his friendly neighbor, Gary Engels. He even shaved.

They took Sean’s 4×4 since it was roomier than Claire’s tiny Honda. With Claire giving directions, they skirted the downtown high rises and drove up Biscayne Boulevard. People of all races and nationalities crowded the street. They passed a Rolls Royce dealership, and Claire said that she’d heard most of the sales were for cash; people walked in with briefcases full of twenty-dollar bills.

“If the drug traffic stopped tomorrow, it would probably affect this city,” Sean suggested.

“The city would collapse,” Claire said.

They turned right on the MacArthur Causeway and headed toward the southern tip of Miami Beach. On their right they passed several large cruise ships moored at the Dodge Island seaport. Just before they got to Miami Beach, they turned left and crossed a small bridge where they were stopped by an armed guard at a gatehouse.

“This must be a ritzy place,” Sean commented as they were waved through.

“Very,” Claire answered.

“Mason does okay for himself,” Sean said. The palatial homes they were passing seemed inappropriate for a director of a research center.

“I think she’s the one with the money,” Claire said. “Her maiden name was Forbes, Sarah Forbes.”

“No kidding.” Sean cast a glance at Claire to be sure she wasn’t teasing him.

“It was her father who started the Forbes Cancer Center.”

“How convenient,” Sean said. “Nice of the old man to give his son-in-law a job.”

“It’s not what you think,” Claire said. “It’s quite a soap opera. The old man started the clinic, but when he passed away he made Sarah’s older brother, Harold, executor of the estate. Then Harold went and lost most of the foundation’s money in some central Florida land development scheme. Dr. Mason was a latecomer to the Center and only arrived when it was about to go under. He and Dr. Levy have turned the place around.”

They pulled into a sweeping drive in front of a huge white house with a portico supported by fluted Corinthian columns. A parking attendant quickly took charge of the car.

The inside of the house was equally impressive. Everything was white: white marble floors, white furniture, white carpet, and white walls.

“I hope they didn’t pay a decorator a lot of money for picking the colors,” Sean said.

They were motioned through the house to a terrace overlooking Biscayne Bay. The bay was dotted with lights from other islands as well as hundreds of boats. Beyond the bay was the city of Miami shimmering in the moonlight.

Nestled in the center of the terrace was a large kidney-shaped pool illuminated from beneath the water. To its left was a pink and white striped tent where long tables were laden with food and drink. A calypso steel band played next to the house and filled the velvety night air with melodious percussion. At the water’s edge beyond the terrace was a gigantic white cruiser moored to a pier. Hanging from davits off the yacht’s stern was yet another boat.

“Here come the host and hostess,” Claire warned Sean, who’d been momentarily mesmerized by the scene.

Sean turned in time to see Dr. Mason guide a buxom bleached blonde toward them. He was elegant in a tuxedo that obviously was not rented and patent leather slippers complete with black bows. She was squeezed into a strapless peach gown so tight that Sean feared the slightest movement might bare her impressive breasts. Her hair was slightly disheveled and her makeup more suitable to a girl half her age. She was also clearly drunk.

“Welcome, Sean,” Dr. Mason said. “I hope Claire has been taking good care of you.”

“The best,” Sean said.

Dr. Mason introduced Sean to his wife, who fluttered heavily mascaraed lashes. Sean dutifully squeezed her hand, drawing the line at her expected kiss on the cheek.

Dr. Mason turned and motioned for another couple to join them. He introduced Sean as a Harvard medical student who would be studying at the Center. Sean had the uncomfortable feeling he was on display.

The man’s name was Howard Pace, and from Dr. Mason’s introduction, Sean learned that he was the CEO of an aircraft manufacturing company in St. Louis, and it was he who was about to make the donation to the Center.

“You know, son,” Mr. Pace said, putting his arm around Sean’s shoulder. “My gift is to help train young men and women like yourself. They are doing wonderful things at Forbes. You will learn a lot. Study hard!” He gave Sean a final man-to-man thump on the shoulder.

Mason began introducing Pace to some other couples and Sean suddenly found himself standing alone. He was about to snag a drink when a wavering voice stopped him. “Hello, handsome.”

Sean turned to face the bleary eyes of Sarah Mason.

“I want to show you something,” she said, grabbing Sean’s sleeve.

Sean cast a desperate glance around for Claire, but she was nowhere in sight. With resignation rare for him, he allowed himself to be led down the patio steps and out onto the dock. Every few steps he had to steady Sarah as her heels slipped through the cracks between the planking. At the base of the gangplank leading to the yacht, Sean was confronted by a sizable Doberman with a studded collar and white teeth.

“This is my boat,” Sarah said. “It’s called Lady Luck. Would you like a tour?”

“I don’t think that beast on deck wants company,” Sean said.

“Batman?” Sarah questioned. “Don’t worry about him. As long as you’re with me he’ll be a lamb.”

“Maybe we could come back later,” Sean said. “To tell the truth, I’m starved.”

“There’s food in the fridge,” Sarah persisted.

“Yeah, but I had my heart set on those oysters I saw under the tent.”

“Oysters, huh?” Sarah said. “Sounds good to me. We can see the boat later.”

As soon as he got Sarah back on land, Sean ducked away, leaving her with an unsuspecting couple who’d ventured toward the yacht. Searching through the crowd for Claire, a strong hand gripped his arm. Sean turned and found himself gazing into the puffy face of Robert Harris, head of security. Even a tux didn’t dramatically change his appearance, with his Marine-style crew cut. His collar must have been too tight since his eyes were bulging.

“I want to give you some advice, Murphy,” Harris said with obvious disdain.

“Really?” Sean questioned. “This should be interesting, since we have so much in common.”

“You’re a wiseass,” Harris hissed.

“Is that the advice?” Sean asked.

“Stay away from Sarah Forbes,” Harris said. “I’m only telling you once.”

“Damn,” Sean said. “I’ll have to cancel our picnic tomorrow.”

“Don’t push me!” Harris warned. With a final glare, he stalked off.

Sean finally found Claire at the table featuring oysters, shrimp, and stone crab. Filling his plate, he scolded her for allowing him to fall into the clutches of Sarah Mason.

“I suppose I should have warned you,” Claire said. “When she drinks she’s notorious for chasing anything in pants.”

“And here I thought I was irresistible.”

They were still busy with the seafood when Dr. Mason stepped to the podium and tapped the microphone. As soon as the crowd was silent, he introduced Howard Pace, thanking him profusely for his generous gift. After a resounding round of applause, Dr. Mason turned the microphone over to the guest of honor.

“This is a bit syrupy for my taste,” Sean whispered.

“Be nice,” Claire chided him.

Howard Pace began his talk with the usual platitudes, but then his voice cracked with emotion. “Even this check for ten million dollars cannot adequately express my feelings. The Forbes Cancer Center has given me a second chance at life. Before I came here all my doctors believed my brain tumor was terminal. I almost gave up. Thank God I didn’t. And thank God for the dedicated doctors at the Forbes Cancer Center.”

Unable to speak further, Pace waved his check in the air as tears streamed down his face. Dr. Mason immediately appeared at his side and rescued the check lest it waft out into the wine-dark Biscayne Bay.

After another round of applause, the formal events of the evening were over. The guests surged forward, all overcome with the emotion Howard Pace had expressed. They had not expected such intimacy from such a powerful person.

Sean turned to Claire. “I hate to be a drag,” he said. “But I’ve been up since five. I’m fading fast.”

Claire put down her drink.

“I’ve had enough as well. Besides, I’ve got to be at work early.”

They found Dr. Mason and thanked him, but he was distracted and barely realized they were leaving. Sean was thankful Mrs. Mason had conveniently disappeared.

As they drove back over the causeway Sean was the first to speak. “That speech was actually quite touching,” he said.

“It’s what makes it all worthwhile,” Claire agreed.

Sean pulled up and parked next to Claire’s Honda. There was a moment of awkwardness. “I did get some beer this afternoon,” he said after a pause. “Would you like to come up for a few minutes?”

“Fine,” Claire said enthusiastically.

As Sean climbed the stairs behind her he wondered if he’d overestimated his endurance. He was almost asleep on his feet.

At the door to his apartment, he awkwardly fumbled with the keys, trying to get the right one in the lock. When he finally turned the bolt, he opened the door and groped for the light. Just as his fingers touched the switch, there was a violent cry. When he saw who was waiting for him, his blood ran cold.

“EASY NOW!” Dr. Mason said to the two ambulance attendants. They were using a special stretcher to lift Helen Cabot from the Lear jet that had brought her to Miami. “Watch the steps!”

Dr. Mason was still dressed in his tuxedo. Margaret Richmond had called just as the party was ending to say that Helen Cabot was about to land. Without a second’s hesitation, Dr. Mason had jumped into his Jaguar.

As gently as possible the paramedics eased Helen into the ambulance. Dr. Mason climbed in after the gravely ill woman.

“Are you comfortable?” he asked.

Helen nodded. The trip had been a strain. The heavy medication had not completely controlled her seizures. On top of that they’d hit bad turbulence over Washington, D.C.

“I’m glad to be here,” she said, smiling weakly. Dr. Mason gripped her arm reassuringly, then got out of the ambulance and faced her parents, who had followed the stretcher from the jet. Together they decided that Mrs. Cabot would ride in the ambulance while John Cabot would ride with Dr. Mason.

Dr. Mason followed the ambulance from the airport.

“I’m touched that you came to meet us,” Cabot said. “From the look of your clothes I’m afraid we have interrupted your evening.”

“It was actually very good timing,” Mason said. “Do you know Howard Pace?”

“The aircraft magnate?” John Cabot asked.

“None other,” Dr. Mason said. “Mr. Pace has made a generous donation to the Forbes Center, and we were having a small celebration. But the affair was winding down when you called.”

“Still, your concern is reassuring,” John Cabot said. “So many doctors are distracted by their own agendas. They are more interested in themselves than the patients. My daughter’s illness has been an eye-opening experience.”

“Unfortunately your complaints are all too common,” Dr. Mason said. “But at Forbes it’s the patient who counts. We would do even more if we weren’t so strapped for funds. Since government began limiting grants, we’ve had to struggle.”

“If you can help my daughter I’ll be happy to contribute to your capital needs.”

“We will do everything in our power to help her.”

“Tell me,” Cabot said. “What do you think her chances are? I’d like to know the truth.”

“The possibility of a full recovery is excellent,” Dr. Mason said. “We’ve had remarkable luck with Helen’s type of tumor, but we must start treatment immediately. I tried to expedite her transfer, but your doctors in Boston seemed reluctant to release her.”

“You know the doctors in Boston. If there’s another test available, they want to do it. Then, of course, they want to repeat it.”

“We tried to talk them out of biopsying the tumor,” Dr. Mason said. “We can now make the diagnosis of medulloblastoma with an enhanced MRI. But they wouldn’t listen. You see we have to biopsy it regardless of whether they did or not. We have to grow some of her tumor cells in tissue culture. It’s an integral part of the treatment.”

“When can it be done?” John Cabot asked.

“The sooner the better,” Dr. Mason said.

“BUT YOU didn’t have to scream,” Sean said. He was still shaking from the fright he’d experienced when he’d flipped on the light switch.

“I didn’t scream,” Janet said. “I yelled ‘surprise.’ Needless to say, I’m not sure who was more surprised, me, you, or that woman.”

“That woman works for the Forbes Cancer Center,” Sean said. “I’ve told you a dozen times. She’s in their public relations department. She was assigned to deal with me.”

“And dealing with you means coming back to your apartment after ten at night?” Janet asked with scorn. “Don’t patronize me. I can’t believe this. You haven’t even been here twenty-four hours and you have a woman coming to your apartment.”

“I didn’t want to invite her in,” Sean said. “But it was awkward. She’d brought me here this afternoon, then took me to a Forbes function tonight. When we pulled up outside for her to get her car, I thought I’d try to be hospitable. I offered her a beer. I’d already told her I was exhausted. Hell, you’re usually complaining about my lack of social graces.”

“It seems strangely convenient for you to gain some manners just in time to bestow them on a young, attractive female,” Janet fumed. “I don’t think my being skeptical is unreasonable.”

“Well, you’re making more of this than it deserves,” Sean said. “How did you get in here, anyway?”

“They gave me the apartment two doors down,” Janet said. “And you left your sliding door open.”

“Why are they letting you stay here?”

“Because I’ve been hired by the Forbes Cancer Center,” Janet said. “That’s part of the surprise. I’m going to work here.”

For the second time that evening, Janet had Sean stunned. “Work here?” he repeated as if he hadn’t heard correctly. “What are you talking about?”

“I called the Forbes hospital,” Janet said. “They have an active nurses’ recruitment program. They hired me on the spot. They, in turn, called the Florida Board of Nursing and arranged for a temporary 120-day endorsement so I can practice while the paperwork is being completed for my Florida nursing license.”

“What about your job at Boston Memorial?” Sean asked.

“No problem,” Janet said. “They gave me an immediate leave of absence. One of the benefits of being in nursing these days is that we are in demand. We get to call the shots about our terms of employment more than most employees.”

“Well, this is all very interesting,” Sean said. For the moment that was all he could think of to say.

“So we’ll still be working at the same institution.”

“Did you ever think that maybe you should have discussed this idea with me?” Sean asked.

“I couldn’t,” Janet said. “You were on the road.”

“What about before I left?” Sean asked. “Or you could have waited until I’d arrived. I think we should have talked about this.”

“Well, that’s the whole point,” Janet said.

“What do you mean?”

“I came here so we can talk,” Janet said. “I think this is a perfect opportunity for us to talk about us. In Boston you’re so involved with school and your research. Here your schedule will undoubtedly be lighter. We’ll have the time we never had in Boston.”

Sean pushed off the couch and walked over to the open slider. He was at a loss for words. This whole episode of coming to Florida was working out terribly. “How’d you get here?” he asked.

“I flew down and rented a car,” Janet said.

“So nothing’s irreversible?” Sean said.

“If you think you can just send me home, think again,” Janet said, an edge returning to her voice. “This is probably the first time in my life I’ve gone out on a limb for something I think is important.” She still sounded angry, but Sean sensed she could also be on the verge of tears. “Maybe we’re not important in your scheme of things…”

Sean interrupted her. “It isn’t that at all. The problem is, I don’t know whether I’m staying.”

Janet’s mouth dropped open. “What are you talking about?” she asked.

Sean came back to the couch and sat down. He looked into Janet’s hazel eyes as he told her about his disturbing reception at the Center with half the people being hospitable, the other half rude. Most importantly, he told her that Dr. Mason and Dr. Levy were balking at allowing him to work on the medulloblastoma protocol.

“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.

When the phone rang a few minutes later, its raucous jangle sounded unnaturally loud in the silence of the deserted lab. Startled by it, Hiroshi had the receiver off the hook before the first ring had completed.

“Moshimoshi,” Hiroshi said much too quickly, betraying his nervousness.

The voice that answered was sharp and piercing like a stiletto. It was Tanaka.