Terminal

“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.