Thinking there was nothing to lose, Larry phoned the WHO again.
Giving his US Embassy Nigeria credentials, he demanded to speak to someone in authority. “Preferably the director general,” he said. “This is important.”
Finally, he was told to phone back in an hour to speak to Joseph Musa. Then he had to hold on until Musa was tracked down. After some half-hearted attempts to be nice, Larry went on the attack.
“That’s all very well, Mr Musa, but what would you say if I suggested that what we have here is blatant criminality? And what would you say if I suggested a conspiracy to deliberately spread a virus far worse than SARS or MERS with no known cure or vaccine but with the intention of deliberately wiping out hundreds, thousands, or perhaps millions of people? If it was a country doing this to another, it would be called a declaration of war or genocide. But, if it is a private company doing it because they had a treatment or a vaccine ready to launch to make huge profits from, then what would you call it? Good business?”
Musa, alarmed at being spoken to like this, took a deep breath. “I would call it a very unlikely scenario, Dr Brown. Where is your evidence? And what company would have the resources to do such a thing, let alone be so secretive and unethical as to do it? And anyway, it is not the role of the WHO to investigate criminal activity.”
“OK, Mr Musa. Let me describe another scenario. Infectious disease researchers and virologists are fond of saying that microbes do not respect barriers. So, who makes the rules to control researchers who might be tempted to go the extra mile and deliberately engineer a virus for so-called experimental reasons? Does your organisation, the World Health Organisation, take a position on that? Does it set any standards? Does it have an opinion? Do you have an opinion?”
“We have had discussions.”
“Where? When? What were the conclusions? I’ve looked, and I can’t find them.”
“It’s very sensitive, Dr Brown. We have to be careful. We do not publish everything.”
“Yes, but don’t you have responsibilities as well, especially a responsibility to protect people? Isn’t that precisely what the WHO
was set up to do?”
“Yes, of course, and as I’ve said, we do discuss the matter.”
“With whom? And is it behind closed doors?”
“Dr Brown, we’re very grateful to you for bringing this matter to our attention, but I’m not able to explain what we do or how on the telephone. I suggest you talk to the relevant US authorities.”
Larry was not ready to be fobbed off. “But this type of research is taking place, Mr Musa. It’s common. It’s widespread. There are scientists out there right now changing and modifying viruses for so-called gain of function experiments. What I am asking you for is information on the controls placed on someone or an organisation wanting to create a new human virus just for the intellectual challenge. Where are the regulators? What exactly has been put in place to stop an individual or a criminal organisation from engineering such a virus, having a vaccine or drug already available and then releasing the virus to make a huge profit?”
In the end, Larry got nowhere with his discussion, but what he heard was an insinuation that there were things he couldn’t possibly understand because his job only involved promoting American businesses.
“I’ll ensure your views are brought to the attention of the director general, Dr Brown. I know she is very grateful for the information on the Nigerian case you provided.”
***
With his mind full of visions of arrest and incarceration for involvement in bioterrorism, Kevin decided to take a walk.
Late afternoon sunshine was playing on the grassy banks of Clifton Downs as he headed towards the steep slope down into the Avon Gorge. The sun was even warm enough for him to remove his Liverpool FC sweater, he bought an ice cream and then headed towards Brunel’s famous suspension bridge.
As he was walking, Tunji phoned but apologised for having hit a wrong button. Nearing the bridge, he found a wooden bench to sit and finish his ice cream. Then his phone rang again. “What now, Tunji?”
he said before recognising the sort of short silence you get with an overseas call. Then: “Is that Kevin Parker?”
“Fuck” Kevin dropped his ice cream, she sticky mess slid down his shirt. Should he switch off or say it was a wrong number?
On the other end of Kevin’s phone, I tried to appear friendly.
“Kevin?”
Kevin readying himself to run: “Yes?”
“Hello mate. My name’s Mark Dobson. I need some help.” I was using my gentle voice - the one I’d use with my grandmother if I still had one. “I’m English and work for an American company. We have to earn a crust somehow, don’t we?” Our checks had been thorough so it was also my poor, working class voice because according to Colin Kevin had had a Liverpool social housing upbringing and around thirty siblings. The tactic seemed to work.
“I teach economic history,” Kevin said.
I turned the gentle tone down several notches. “I recently logged onto your Malthus Society website. It was very interesting, but something caught my eye.”
Kevin’s stomach probably churned, but I couldn’t keep up this fantasy for too long. I needed to get to the point. “Does the screen name Solomon mean anything to you?”
“Uh, yes,” he replied, as if reconsidering his plan to run.
“He or she worries me. Do you know much about him – or her?”
“I knew nothing until two days ago,” Kevin replied.
I hoped that if he thought this was a straw floating past his sinking body, he should at least try to grasp it. “And what happened two days ago?”
“He posted something. A friend of mine then checked him out.”
“So, it’s a he. What did you find out?”
“Who you are?”
“Listen, Kevin,” I said. “Trust me. I’m a professional investigator of industrial crime. If you know something, please tell me.”
There was a silence, and I hoped he wouldn’t put the phone down. We knew where he lived anyway, so nothing was lost. “Are you English?” he asked.
What that had I to do with it, I didn’t know, but if it made him feel comfortable then so be it. “Sure,” I said. “I even support Liverpool football club.”
If that triggered concerns that I already knew far more about him than he did about me then so be it. It worked. Kevin had questions of his own. He wanted to know about the American company. I told him it did medical research. No names. It was confidential.
“What’s their problem?”
I told him they’d lost some virus samples and also some of their research scientists. “One of them was a guy called David Solomon.”
That clinched it. He softened like a piece of warm plasticine. He spilled more beans and in less than five minutes, we were on first-name terms - Kevin and Mark. I was a hero who was spilling his own beans. Then, for the first time, I heard the name Mohamed El Badry and about a Chelsea flat and my suspicious mind was already wondering if El Badry was, in fact, Mohamed Kader.
“David Solomon is a nutcase,” Kevin said.
I thought I already knew that but another opinion was useful. “Why?”
“His views are extreme. The Malthus Society and myself, in particular, advocate action to persuade governments to take
population control seriously. We do not advocate or support implementation of population control methods that have not been adequately debated and agreed. We might be impatient, but we do not do anything without some sort of democratic accountability,”
Kevin said it as if reading from lecture notes. He went on: “He wrote in one article, ‘Unless we want to destroy everyone, we must have an effective drug or vaccine available to protect the essential ones.’ And he recently posted about a so-called day of reckoning.”
“That’s exactly what I thought, Kevin. So will you help me?”
I first got a full description of Tunji’s meeting with Mohamed El Badry. Then: “A friend of Tunji’s works at the American Embassy in Nigeria. A doctor working at the embassy was the one who reported the Nigerian cases to the WHO. His name is Larry Brown.”
Things were coming together nicely, but the battery on Kevin’s phone was nearly exhausted. In the seconds left, I told him I’d call again, and that I’d also talk to Larry Brown. “Can we meet?” he asked, as if he wanted to shake my hand and fall on his knees before me.
“Yes,” I said, “we need to, but right now, I’m in Bangkok.”