By eleven, I was back at the trade show.
I found Walt standing, with arms folded at his side like a sergeant major watching the troops go by. Had I been a potential customer, I’d probably have walked on by, but let’s not digress onto the dos and don’ts of body language when manning an exhibition stand. “Ah,”
Walt said, “the man of mystery. Coffee?”
I accepted, thanked him for last night, and watched a jaded-looking John Wardley emerging from somewhere. “John is feeling a little unwell this morning, aren’t you, John?”
Wardley nodded. “I need to visit the men’s room. I might be gone a while.”
“Go ahead, young man,” Walt said. “What goes down either comes back up or goes further down. Whichever route it chooses, it’ll come out one hell of a lot quicker than it went in.” He turned to me. “Told you, didn’t I?”
He handed me a plastic cup of coffee, and I thanked him for last night. “But I’ve still got a few questions,” I said. “Do you mind?”
He swirled coffee around his teeth. “Go ahead.”
I asked him about David Solomon’s research, and Walt then got technical. It was all about new drugs for viral infections like influenza, about how viruses evolved and changed their genetic makeup so quickly it was difficult to keep up with new vaccines and treatments. It was about a type of research he called “gain of function” research. GOF, as he called it. GOF research enabled you to deliberately change the genetic make-up of bacteria and viruses to see how they then behave. “It’s controversial,” he told me, “but very common.”
“Did you know Solomon’s girlfriend?” I asked him.
“No, but Josh Ornstein spoke to her after he disappeared. Why don’t you ask Josh? You should probably talk to him anyway. Phone numbers are on my business card. Call him. He’s away a lot, but you can probably track him down.”
“How cooperative will he be?”
“He’s OK. I should tell him about you anyway. I owe it to the company.”
I thanked Walt again and wandered outside but put off calling Josh Ornstein. Instead, following an idea I’d had earlier that morning, I phoned Hong Kong.
***
Kay Choon was a friend and an old client from earlier times.I called his mobile in Hong Kong, and instantly recognised his strong Hong Kong accent. After the usual pleasantries, I told him I needed a favour. He had no idea what it was, but he was more than happy to oblige.
“You remember that baby food scandal when I was in HK? The supplier was a competitor of yours, right? Did they ever solve the mystery?”
Choon knew exactly what I was talking about. “Ah, Ching Seng,” he said. “The public health people were investigating Sun Foods who made the product. They got nowhere. Why do you ask?”
I’d already got what I wanted - the name Ching Seng had been missing from my mental filing system. “Who owns Ching Seng?” I asked.
“It used to be Ed Ling,” Choon said. “Eddie sold out to an Arab company and got more than he thought the company was worth. The guy who bought it was here a while back. Mohamed something. I read somewhere it’ll become part of the Shah Corporation, whatever that is.”
“The Shah Corporation?” I repeated it for my own benefit. “What’s the Arab company planning to do with Ching Seng?”
Choon didn’t know. “I’d change its name,” he said, as if that wasn’t all he’d change. “You called me just for that, Mark? What are you up to? Something connected with the Arab?”
“I thought you might help, Choon, and you just have. Thanks for that.”
It was interesting information, so I returned to the exhibition to check out Livingstone Pharmaceuticals, knowing I was still running on hunches. But hunches are far more professional than whims. Whims come from emotion. Hunches depend on experience.
I’d seen one of the two men talking to a small group of delegates at the Livingstone stand the night before in the bar. Greg O’Brian, the boss, wasn’t one of them, so I loitered until the visitors had moved and then walked in.
The taller of the two introduced himself. “Sam Marshall,” he said.
“Pleased to meet you, Dr . . . uh . . . Dr Stevens. Where are you from, sir?”
I stuck to my story. “Kuala Lumpur,” I said. Then, “I wanted a word with Greg O’Brian. Is he here?”
“Sure, sitting in on the proceedings. Should be here any minute. Can I help you, meantime?”
“I’ll come back,” I said and left to loiter again close by.
Ten minutes later, I saw O’Brian ushering a small group of doctors towards the Livingstone stand and so from a safe distance, I took my first look of the man who was to affect me, Virex, and others for quite a while.
I put his age at late fifties or early sixties. He was as tall as me, at nearly six feet, but I’m quite slim. O’Brian was not overweight, but he was a much bigger build than me. He was dressed in an expensive dark suit, white shirt, blue tie, and a pair of shiny black shoes. His hair was long, straight, and grey, and was gelled back from his forehead without a parting.
Eventually, the visitors moved away, and judged by the hand shaking and big smiles between O’Brian and his two staff, O’Brian had just made a sale and needed to show the younger men how it was all done.
I saw my chance and walked over. “Mr O’Brian?”
“Yeh?” O’Brian said with his smile still lingering. “Can I help you?”
He didn’t offer to shake my hand.
The accent was recognisable, and with a name like that, perhaps I should have guessed already. O’Brian was Irish American.
I began with the bullshit I’d dreamed up whilst loitering. “I’ve been hearing a lot about your company, Mr O’Brian,” I said. “I’m currently in KL, Kuala Lumpur, you know, and was wondering if you could help me in some way. I’m leaving for Nairobi soon on a teaching secondment to the university. Someone told me you were setting up there, and I was wondering if there was a chance of some cooperation.
I need to give students some work experience in microbiology. All expenses paid, so it’d cost you nothing. Anything you could offer would be very welcome.”
It’s bad practice to elaborate when you’re already lying through your teeth so I stopped there to check the reaction.
“Who told you that?” O’Brian said somewhat rudely. “And what’s your business?”
I ignored the rudeness. “Bacteriology,” I said. “We’re keen to work on reciprocals. You know the kind of stuff Kenyan students to get to work in KL, etcetera.” Aloud, it sounded pompous, but I’d said it now. There was no turning back. Clearly, though, O’Brian was not in the least bit interested. Frankly speaking, I didn’t care a toss either.
“I dunno,” he said, already distracted by something or other over my right shoulder.
He took a step backwards so I knew I was annoying him but I’d already figured that in. “Anyone else who might help me?”
He sniffed like a man accosted by an inferior being but then groped inside a top pocket and withdrew a business card. He didn’t hand it to me but gave it to Marshall. “Here, Sam. Write down Luther’s name and phone number and give it to this guy, will you? I need to go.”
He didn’t say another word but wandered away, delivering a clear message to everyone that that’s how to deal with time-wasters.
O’Brian had far more better things to do than talk to some English prat from Kuala Lumpur. But I’d got a name Luther Jasman and another lead. And I’d met Greg O’Brian, summed him up, and thankfully, not even had to shake his hand.
I left the conference, found a nice pink-and-purple taxi and from it called Colin in the office in London.
***
“Colin, it’s me - 007. I need your help,” I said.“I’m eating my breakfast.”
“My apologies. What sort of sandwich is it today? Let me guess.
Salmon and cucumber? Egg and cress? Ham and cheese?”
“As it happens, it’s avocado and prawn mayonnaise. What’s up, Jinx?
Have you solved Charles Brady’s problem? Can we bill him?”
“I need some information on a Kuwaiti Company. The usual stuff—
subsidiaries, associated companies, and such like. Also, they have something going in Nairobi and Hong Kong. Any information on the guy at the top would be useful. The name is Mohamed Kader, so that’ll be a challenge, like checking on Smiths and Browns. Can you make a start now? I’ll email you some more information right away as I can sense you’re not where you should be at this time of day.”
“That’s all very considerate of you, Jinx. And very astute if I may say so. I’m actually strolling past Marble Arch. Can you imagine it? I’m trying to avoid being mown down by buses and cyclists in helmets and Lycra.”
“All I can imagine is you munching on a sandwich, Colin. Just get back to the office, will you? The world can’t stop just because you’re feeling hungry.”