In Nairobi, Philippe was at the Oakwood Hotel by 6:15 p.m., three quarters of an hour before his appointment.
Meeting people like this was not something Philippe was used to, although he knew where the Oakwood Hotel was. Sandwiched between some high-rise buildings, it specialised in organising safaris for tourists, so he sat at the corner listening to someone wanting to
climb Mount Kilimanjaro. He wondered if Mara might like that but dismissed it. He’d never liked heights.
By 7:00 p.m., he was getting anxious as no one had yet approached him about the job interview. At 7:15 he went to reception and felt a tap on his shoulder. “Monsieur Fournier?”
Philippe turned, and found himself shaking the hand of a man in a suit with a crooked-looking smile. “We’ll go up to the balcony,” said the man and, without waiting, led the way.
The small balcony next to the bar was known as a great vantage point for watching Nairobi’s Street life below. Looking towards the Stanley Hotel and the Thorn Tree Cafe, Philippe took the seat he was directed to and looked around. The man was already ordering drinks.
“Whisky,” he said to the barman.
Philippe was a stranger to anything stronger than Kenyan Tusker.
He’d grown to like cider at Reading University but only because he liked apples. The man sat down opposite. “So, you’re interested in the job?”
“Yes, sir,” said Philippe. “Perhaps,” he added, trying not to show too much early enthusiasm.
“You studied at a place called Reading, right?”
“Yes, sir,” Philippe said, watching two tumblers of whisky and another containing ice cubes arrive on the table.
“Where you obtained a PhD.”
“Yes, sir. Virology, molecular pathogenesis and evolution and mechanisms of virus structure and replication, especially coronavirus and arenavirus infection. I studied under Dr Mark Cavendish, sir.”
The man was staring at him and, at the same time, dropping ice into his whisky. He took a mouthful and wiped his lips. “Very interesting, Philippe. What the fuck are arenaviruses?”
The man’s accent was, Philippe thought, a bit like Larry’s American but with a touch of French but he was surprised by the word fuck.
One of the lecturers at Reading had been prone to mix sentences with expletives, so he decided not to let this put him off. And anyway, he himself had sworn and lost his cool earlier that day. “Well, sir,” he said, “do you want me to explain arenaviruses in some detail?”
The man leaned back. “Sure. Why not. I got time. Go ahead. Drink up. Sante.”
Philippe took a dainty sip. “Well,” he began, “Arenaviruses have a bi-segmented negative-strand RNA genome, which encodes four viral proteins: GP and NP by the S segment and L and Z by the L segment.
These four proteins possess multiple functions in infection, replication, and release of progeny viruses from infected cells. The small ring finger protein, Z protein, is a matrix protein that plays a central role in viral assembly and budding and—”
“OK, Philippe. Enough. I see you know your arenaviruses, but time for a career move, eh?” The man loosened his tie, removed his jacket, hung it over the back of his chair, and pulled out a mobile phone.
“One minute, Philippe. I need to make a call.” He walked away, leaving Philippe staring at the empty chair with the discarded jacket.
While he waited, Philippe sipped his drink again and wondered if Mara liked whisky. He hoped not. But he was pleased that the man pronounced Philippe so well and not Phillip or Phil, like so many Kenyans and British.
The man suddenly returned and sat down. “Well,” he said, “the job’s yours if you want it. You’ll work for two of our senior scientists at our new laboratory. Private company. Funding no problem. Virology, infectious diseases, that sort of thing - you know, you’ve done it before. Pioneering research, a new laboratory, and the facilities are superb.”
He pronounced superb as if it had an “e” at the end like a Frenchman and help up his thumb and first finger to make a perfect circle. “Are you interested? Any questions?”
Philippe was overwhelmed by how quick it was. He’d expected a much longer interview, perhaps a second or even a third interview, aptitude testing, and a tour of the laboratory even. Then he remembered his blue screen of death. “Uh, yes,” he said. “How much will I be paid?”
“Seventy-five thousand dollars a year, plus a bonus if all goes well.
All living expenses.”
Philippe’s eyes widened. “Is the laboratory far from here?”
“We will arrange transport. You’ll live on site. Luxury villa.”
Philippe thought about Mara. Surely, he’d get weekends off. And a luxury villa? With a swimming pool perhaps?
“Can you start immediately?”
“Uh, yes, sir.”
“Good. I’ll pick you up here this time tomorrow night. Come with a suitcase enough for a long weekend. And bring your passport. Ca va?”
“Oui. Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”
“And don’t tell anyone. Understand? Plenty of time to notify friends and family. Company policy. No sweat and no worries. Ne t’inquiète pas! OK?”
“Yes, sir.”
Philippe left in a dream. It was after midnight when he realised that he had no idea who the man was or what the company was called. He thought perhaps he was being poached by a French company to work in France, which would explain why he needed his passport. Philippe was both nervous and excited, but he couldn’t even recall the man’s face.
***
In London, it was clear to Kevin that Tunji had a hangover. He was also too hung up about being monitored by a Big Brother somewhere for any meaningful phone conversation.
“If the CIA and MI6 are on your trail, Tunji, then we’d better meet in secret. I assume you’re not doing anything else today, and as you’ve already had your eighteen-hour sleep, how about a pint or two at the One Tun, Tottenham Court Road. Use a tortuous route from Barnet via Glasgow or Cardiff. That’ll throw them off. By the way, it’s your turn to pay.”
Now, despite all his efforts, Kevin had been sitting at the One Tun public house for nearly an hour before Tunji arrived. By then, Kevin was already onto his third pint. “I’d given you up, Tunji. Thought the CIA had got you.”
“Sorry, my man. Got delayed. Mine’s a pint - best bitter.”
They settled into the corner that Kevin had already made his own.
“Now then, what the bloody hell is going on with this guy Mohamed El Badry? I got interrogated like I was one of his staff last night. I never got to give the talk I’d spent hours preparing, and he seemed to know more about me than I did.”
“Ah, that’ll be me,” Tunji said. “I told him about the networks.”
“So much for your strict security measures then. You keep talking about being scared of Big Brother. I actually think you’ll find you’ve been talking directly to Big Brother himself. I reckon El Badry is Big Brother personified.”
“Fuck,” said Tunji. “But he’s keen to do something, Kev. He’s Action Man personified.”
“Yes, Tunji, but I still don’t fully understand what he’s up to or why, where he comes from or even the how, what or when. Do you?”
“He’s Big Shot personified. He has this business - pharmaceuticals -
with research places dotted all over. Worth a mega fortune. He’s got a company in Nigeria and Kenya – everywhere.”
“And how do you know all that?”
“He told me, Kev.”
“So why does Mr Big Shot personified come asking Small Shot Tunji Fayinka for all the details of the Malthus Society, chairman of which is a far bigger shot than you called Kevin Parker who you currently have the honour of sitting right next to. Answer me that, Tunji, please.”
“Clinical trials, man.”
Kevin looked at Tunji over the top of his beer glass. “I got wind of something along those lines last night. But you’re hardly going to give him the names of all twenty-eight members of the Nigerian Malthus Society for him to contact and ask if they’d be interested in helping his clinical trials, are you, Tunji?”
“Fuck sake, Kev. Show a bit of confidence in me.”
“Listen to me, Tunji. This is serious. If I recall El Badry’s words from last night, it went something like, ‘We have been working with Mr Fayinka to test out a few ideas.’ What the bloody hell was he talking about, Tunji?”
Tunji looked unexpectedly alarmed. “Fuck. I dunno. Search me, Kev.”
Kevin searched Tunji’s facial expression for signs of innocence but couldn’t make his mind up. “You know what El Badry then said? He said something like ‘Tunji has a lot to learn.’ Then something about the need for security because of problems with Islamic militants.”
“Ah yes, I mentioned it wasn’t easy moving around up there because of Boko Haram terrorists or whatever they call themselves these days.”
“And what the bloody hell has Boko Haram, or whatever they call themselves, got to do with it, Tunji? You see, I’m rapidly losing the plot here.”
“Boko Haram - the Islamic insurgents up in the north of Nigeria.
Don’t you read the Guardian anymore, Kev? He said he wanted to focus on the north to start with. He may even have already started.”
Kevin almost shouted. “He’s started already?”
“I don’t know, Kev. Sorry. But he seemed to have thought it all through. Very professional like.”
“You mean a professional eradicator of half a million of your fellow Nigerians?”
“It won’t be that many, Kev. He’s only at the testing stage.”
Kevin closed his eyes for a second and then put his beer glass down.
“Tunji, listen to me. What the bloody hell is he up to? Do we, or don’t we, know what he’s playing at? And who the fuck is he?”
“I admit there are a few gaps in our knowledge at present.”
“Gaps? A few gaps?” Kevin screamed, knocking his beer glass over with the last dregs trickling onto the floor. “Do you realise the seriousness of this? Yes, we’ve been demanding action for years, but we’ve always said we wanted action by legitimate governments, not by a fucking individual operating like he’s a terrorist who’s suddenly found a stock of nerve gas.”
“Yeh,” Tunji said.
“And when did you see him?” asked Kevin, trying desperately to stay calm.
“I got invited to his flat, Kev. Just like you. Nice place.”
“So, you beat a path to his luxury pad before me.” Kevin put his beer glass to his lips, but it was empty.
“Calm it, Kev. It’s nothing, man. All I did was tell him about the website, which he seemed to know about anyway, and that if he wanted any help, to leave a message and someone would get back to him.”
“Who, Tunji? How? How is he going to contact Malthus group activists without contacting me? I’m the only one who keeps tabs on names, and even I struggle to know who most of them are.”
“That’s it, Kev. That’s why he asked to see you. He needs contacts, not just Nigeria but anywhere.”
“What?” yelled Kevin. “Everywhere? Why does he need contacts?
What the bloody hell is he up to? Who the fuck is he? What does he
really want? Because I can tell you I came away last night one minute so excited I could shit myself thinking we’d at last found a threat we could use for direct action and the next minute coming out in a cold sweat because we, or mostly you, had given away so much that we risked losing all control to some Big Shot Arab who could, unlike you and me, probably pay over the odds for a ‘get out of jail’ card if it all went pear shaped.”
Kevin ran out of breath after that. He held out his empty glass. “Your bloody turn. Mine’s another pint. And order some lunch. I’ll have the steak pie.”