“All the more reason for us to try to do something,” Janet said.
“You’re serious about this?” Sean asked.
“Absolutely,” Janet said.
“You know we’ll have to be resourceful,” Sean said.
“I know.”
“We’ll have to break a few rules,” he added. “Are you sure you can handle that?”
“I think so,” Janet said.
“And once we start, there’s no turning back,” Sean said.
Janet started to answer but the ringing of the phone on the desk startled them both.
“Who the hell could that be?” Sean wondered. He let it ring.
“Aren’t you going to answer it?” Janet asked.
“I’m thinking,” Sean said. What he didn’t say was that he was afraid it might be Sarah Mason. She’d called him that afternoon, and despite a temptation to aggravate Harris, Sean did not want any association with the woman whatsoever.
“I think you should answer it,” Janet said.
“You answer it,” Sean suggested.
Janet jumped to her feet and snatched up the receiver. Sean watched her expression as she asked who was calling. She showed no strong reaction as she extended the phone to him.
“It’s your brother,” she said.
“What the hell?” Sean mumbled as he pulled himself out of the couch. It wasn’t like his brother to call. They didn’t have that type of relationship, and they had just seen each other Friday night.
Sean took the phone. “What’s wrong?” he asked.
“I was about to ask you the same question,” Brian said.
“You want an honest answer or platitudes?” Sean asked.
“I think you’d better tell me straight,” Brian said.
“This place is bizarre,” Sean said. “I’m not so sure I want to stay. It might be a complete waste of time.” Sean glanced over at Janet, who rolled her eyes in exasperation.
“Something weird’s going on up here too,” Brian said. He told Sean about the two men who’d visited their mother, asking about Immunotherapy.
“Immunotherapy is history,” Sean said. “What did Mom say?”
“Not much,” Brian said. “At least according to her. But she got a bit flustered. All she said was that you and some friends started it.”
“She didn’t say we sold out?”
“Evidently not.”
“What about Oncogen?”
“She said she didn’t mention it because we’d told her not to discuss it with anyone.”
“Good for her,” Sean said.
“Why would these people be up here talking to Mom?” Brian asked. “The Rombauer guy told her he represented the Forbes Cancer Center. He said that they routinely look into their employees for security reasons. Have you done anything to suggest you’re a security risk?”
“Hell, I’ve only been here for a little over twenty-four hours,” Sean said.
“You and I know of your penchant to provoke discord. Your blarney would try the patience of Job.”
“My blarney is nothing compared to your blather, brother,” Sean teased. “Hell, you’ve made an institution of it by becoming a lawyer.”
“Since I’m in a good mood, I’ll let that slam slide,” Brian said. “But seriously, what do you think is going on?”
“I haven’t the slightest idea,” Sean said. “Maybe it’s like the man said: routine.”
“But neither guy seemed to know about the other,” Brian said. “That doesn’t sound routine to me. And the first man left his card. I have it right here. It says: Tanaka Yamaguchi, Industrial Consultant.”
“Industrial consultant could mean anything,” Sean said. “I wonder if his involvement is somehow related to the fact that a Japanese electronics giant called Sushita Industries has invested heavily in Forbes. They’re obviously looking for some lucrative patents.”
“Why can’t they stick to cameras, electronics, and cars?” Brian said. “They’re already screwing up the world’s economy.”
“They’re too smart for that,” Sean said. “They are looking toward the long term. But why they would be interested in my association with piss-ant Immunotherapy, I haven’t the foggiest.”
“Well, I thought you should know,” Brian said. “It’s still a little hard for me to believe you’re not stirring things up down there, knowing you.”
“You’ll hurt my feelings talking like that,” Sean said.
“I’ll be in touch as soon as the Franklin Bank comes through for Oncogen,” Brian said. “Try to stay out of trouble.”
“Who, me?” Sean asked innocently.
Sean dropped the receiver into the cradle as soon as Brian said goodbye.
“Have you changed your mind again?” Janet asked with obvious frustration.
“What are you talking about?” Sean questioned.
“You told your brother that you weren’t sure you wanted to stay,” Janet said. “I thought we’d decided to go for it.”
“We had,” Sean said. “But I didn’t want to tell Brian about the plan. He’d worry himself sick. Besides, he’d probably tell my mother and who knows what would happen then.”
“THAT WAS very nice indeed,” Sterling told the masseuse. She was a handsome, healthy Scandinavian from Finland, dressed in what could have passed for a tennis outfit. He gave her an extra five-dollar tip; when he’d made the arrangements for the massage through the Ritz’s concierge, he’d already included an adequate tip in the charge added to his account, but he’d noticed she’d gone over the allotted time.
While the masseuse folded her table and gathered her oils, Sterling pulled on a thick white terrycloth robe and slipped off the towel cinched around his waist. Dropping into the club chair near the window he lifted his feet onto the ottoman and poured a glass of the complimentary champagne. Sterling was a regular visitor at Boston’s Ritz Carlton.
The masseuse called a goodbye from the door, and Sterling thanked her again. He decided he’d ask for her by name the next time. A regular massage was one of the expenses Sterling’s clients had learned to expect. They’d complain on occasion, but Sterling would merely say that they could accept his terms or hire someone else. Invariably they’d agree because Sterling was extremely effective at the service he performed: industrial espionage.
There were other, more sanitized, descriptions for Sterling’s work such as trade counsel or business consultant, but Sterling preferred the honesty of industrial espionage, although for propriety’s sake, he left it off his business card. His card merely read: consultant. It didn’t read “industrial consultant” as did the card he’d seen earlier that day. He felt the word “industrial” suggested a limitation to manufacturing. Sterling was interested in all business.
Sterling sipped his drink and gazed out the window at the superb view. As usual, his room was on a high floor overlooking the magical Boston Garden. As the sunlight waned, the park’s lamps lining the serpentine walkways had blinked on, illuminating the swan boat pond with its miniature suspension bridge. Although it was early March, the recent cold snap had frozen the pond solid. Skaters dotted its mirrored surface, weaving in effortless, intersecting arcs.
Raising his eyes, Sterling could see the fading dazzle of the gold-domed Massachusetts State House. Ruefully he bemoaned the sad fact that the legislature had systematically destroyed its own tax base by enacting short-sighted, anti-business legislation. Unfortunately Sterling had lost a number of good clients who’d either been forced to flee to a more business-oriented state or forced to leave business altogether. Nevertheless, Sterling enjoyed his trips to Boston. It was such a civilized city.
Pulling the phone over to the edge of the table, Sterling wanted to finish work for the day before he indulged in dinner. Not that he found work a burden. Quite the contrary. Sterling loved his current employ, especially considering that he didn’t have to work at all. He’d trained at Stanford in computer engineering, worked for Big Blue for several years, then founded
his own successful computer chip company, all before he was thirty. By his middle thirties he was tired of an unfulfilling life, a bad marriage, and the stultifying routine of running a business. First he divorced, then he took his company public and made a fortune. Then he engineered a buyout and made another fortune. By age forty he could have bought a sizable portion of the State of California if he’d so desired.
For almost one year he indulged himself in the adolescence he felt he’d somehow missed. Eventually, he got extremely bored with such places as Aspen. That was when a business friend asked him if he would look into a private matter for him. From that moment on. Sterling had been launched on a new career which was stimulating, never routine, rarely dull, and which utilized his engineering background, his business acumen, his imagination, and his intuitive sense for human behavior.
Sterling called Randolph Mason at home. Dr. Mason took the call from his private line in his study.
“I’m not sure you will be happy about what I’ve learned,” Sterling said.
“It’s better I learn it sooner rather than later,” Dr. Mason responded.
“This young Sean Murphy is an impressive young fellow,” Sterling said. “He founded his own biotechnology company called Immunotherapy while a graduate student at MIT. The company turned a profit almost from day one marketing diagnostic kits.”
“How’s it doing now?”
“Wonderfully,” Sterling said. “It’s a winner. It’s done so well that Genentech bought them out over a year ago.”
“Indeed!” Dr. Mason said. A ray of sunshine entered the picture. “Where does that leave Sean Murphy?”
“He and his young friends realized a considerable profit,” Sterling said. “Considering their initial investment, it was extremely lucrative indeed.”
“So Sean’s no longer involved?” Dr. Mason asked.
“He’s completely out,” Sterling said. “Is that helpful?”
“I’d say so,” Dr. Mason said. “I could use the kid’s experience with monoclonals, but not if he’s got a production facility behind him. It would be too risky.”
“He could still sell the information to someone else,” Sterling said. “Or he could be in someone else’s employ.”
“Can you find that out?”
“Most likely,” Sterling said. “Do you want me to continue on this?”
“Absolutely,” Dr. Mason said. “I want to use the kid but not if he’s some kind of industrial spy.”
“I’ve learned something else,” Sterling said as he poured himself more champagne. “Someone besides myself has been investigating Sean Murphy. His name is Tanaka Yamaguchi.”
Dr. Mason felt the tortellini in his stomach turn upside down.
“Have you ever heard of this man?” Sterling asked.
“No,” Dr. Mason said. He’d not heard of him, but with a name like that, the implications were obvious.
“My assumption would be he’s working for Sushita,” Sterling said. “And I know that he is aware of Sean Murphy’s involvement with Immunotherapy. I know because Sean’s mother told him.”
“He’d been to see Sean’s mother?” Dr. Mason asked with alarm.
“As have I,” Sterling said.
“But then Sean will know he’s being investigated,” Dr. Mason sputtered.
“Nothing wrong in that,” Sterling said. “If Sean is an industrial spy, it will give him pause. If he’s not, it will only be a matter of curiosity or at worst a minor irritation. Sean’s reaction should not be your concern. You should be worried about Tanaka Yamaguchi.”
“What do you mean?”
“I’ve never met Tanaka,” Sterling said. “But I have heard a lot about him since we’re competitors of sorts. He came to the United States many years ago for college. He’s the eldest son of a wealthy industrial family, heavy machinery I believe. The problem was he adapted to ‘degenerate’ American ways a bit too easily for the family’s honor. He was swiftly Americanized and became too individualistic for Japanese tastes. The family decided they didn’t want him home so they funded a lavish lifestyle. It’s been a kind of exile, but he’s been clever to augment his allowance by doing what I do, only for Japanese companies operating in the U.S. But he’s like a double agent of sorts, frequently representing the Yakusa at the same time he’s representing a legitimate firm. He’s clever, he’s ruthless, and he’s effective. The fact that he’s involved means your Sushita friends are serious.”
“You think he was involved with our two researchers who disappeared and whom you found happily working for Sushita in Japan?”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” Sterling said.
“I can’t afford to have this Harvard student disappear,” Dr. Mason said. “That would be the kind of media event that could destroy the Forbes.”
“I don’t think there is a worry for the moment,” Sterling said. “My sources tell me Tanaka is still here in Boston. Since he has access to a lot of the same information as I, he must think Sean Murphy is involved in something else.”
“Like what?” Dr. Mason asked.
“I’m not sure,” Sterling said. “I haven’t been able to locate all that money those kids made when they sold Immunotherapy. Neither Sean nor his friends have any personal money to speak of, and none of them indulged themselves with expensive cars or other high-ticket items. I think they are up to something, and I believe Tanaka thinks so too.”
“Good God!” Dr. Mason said. “I don’t know what to do. Maybe I should send the kid home.”
“If you think Sean can help you with that protein work you told me about,” Sterling said, “then hold tight. I believe I have everything under control. I have made inquiries with numerous contacts, and because of the computer industry here, I’m well connected. All you have to do is tell me to remain on the case and continue paying the bills.”
“Keep on it,” Dr. Mason said. “And keep me informed.”
5
March 4
Thursday, 6:30 A.M.
Janet was up, dressed in her white uniform, and out of the apartment early since her shift ran from seven to three. At that time of the morning there was very little traffic on 195, especially northbound. She and Sean had discussed driving together but in the end decided it would be better if each had their own wheels.
Janet felt a little queasy entering the Forbes Hospital that morning. Her anxiety went beyond the usual nervousness associated with starting a new job. The prospect of breaking rules was what had her on edge and tense. She already felt guilty to a degree; it was guilt by intent.
Janet made it to the fourth floor with time to spare. She poured herself a cup of coffee and proceeded to familiarize herself with the locations of the charts, the pharmacy locker, and the supply closet: areas she would need to be familiar with to carry out her job as a floor nurse. By the time she sat down for report with the night shift going off duty and the day shift coming on, she was significantly calmer than she had been when she first arrived. Marjorie’s cheerful presence no doubt helped put her at ease.
Report was routine except for Helen Cabot’s deteriorating condition. The poor woman had had several seizures during the night, and the doctors said that her intracranial pressure was rising.
“Do they think the problem is related to the CAT scan–driven biopsy yesterday?” Marjorie asked.
“No,” Juanita Montgomery, the night shift supervisor, said. “Dr. Mason was in at three A.M. when she seized again, and he said the problem was probably related to the treatment.”
“She’s started treatment already?” Janet asked.
“Absolutely,” Juanita said. “Her treatment started Tuesday, the night she got here.”
“But she just had her biopsy yesterday,” Janet said.
“That’s for the cellular aspect of her treatment,” Marjorie chimed in. “She’ll be pheresed today to harvest T lymphocytes which will be grown and sensitized to her tumor. But the humoral aspect of her treatment was started immediately.”
> “They used mannitol to bring down her intracranial pressure,” Juanita added. “It seemed to work. She hasn’t seized again. They want to avoid steroids and a shunt if possible. At any rate, she’s got to be monitored carefully, especially with the pheresis.”
As soon as report was over and the bleary-eyed night shift had departed, the day’s work began in earnest. Janet found herself extremely busy. There were a lot of sick patients on the floor, representing a wide range of cancers, and each was on an individual treatment protocol. The most heartrending for Janet was an angelic boy of nine who was on reverse precautions while they waited for a bone marrow transplant to re-populate his marrow with blood-forming cells. He’d been given a strong dose of chemotherapy and radiation to wipe out completely his own leukemic marrow. At the moment he was completely vulnerable to any microorganisms, even those normally not pathogenic for humans.
By mid-morning, Janet finally had a chance to catch her breath. Most of the nurses took their coffee breaks in the utility room off the nurses’ station where they could put up their tired feet. Janet decided to take advantage of the time to have Tim Katzenburg show her how to access the Forbes computer. Every patient had a traditional chart and a computer file. Janet wasn’t intimidated by computers, having minored in computer science in college. But it still helped to have someone familiar with the Forbes system get her started.
When Tim was distracted for a moment by a phone call from the lab, Janet called up Helen Cabot’s file. Since Helen had been there less than forty-eight hours, the file was not extensive. There was a computer graphic showing which of her three tumors they had biopsied and the location of the trephination of the skull just above the right ear. The biopsy specimen was grossly described as firm, white, and of an adequate amount. It said that the specimen had been immediately packed in ice and sent to Basic Diagnostics. In the treatment section it said that she’d begun on MB-300C and MB-303C at a dosage of 100mg/Kg/day of body weight administered at 0.05 ml/Kg/minute.