Kevin’s depression had not improved.
He’d relied on Tunji for somewhere to sleep that night, and now he was relying on an eighty-year-old second-hand bookshop owner and retired biology teacher.
He took the Tube from Tunji’s place and sat nursing his laptop and thinking about what Tom had said about politicians and, in particular, their local member of Parliament.
“I warned you, Kevin. She’s a waste of space. You’ll get nowhere. If you’re having a problem getting free IVF treatment, she’s good because she’s had it herself, but don’t expect her to be of any use to you. She’ll probably phone social services mental health team after you’ve left and ask them to check you out. Not only that, but her PA will be listening outside the door and will call her mobile just as you’re getting going just to ruin everything. No, you come with me, Kevin. We’ll do things properly and have a chat with Lord Peterson.
If there’s anyone who’ll know what strings to pull, it’ll be Bill.”
Kevin met Tom at Paddington Station and, for the first hundred yards, learned all there was to know about genetically altered grapeseed oil.
Then they reached the stairs. “Give me a hand, Kevin. Why don’t they have floors that lower like on the buses?”
Kevin had once been to the Houses of Parliament with a group of students but Tom seemed to know exactly where to go and what to do. With his stick in one hand and a buff-coloured folder in the other, he made a few enquiries, asked someone to phone Lord Peterson to say they’d arrived, and then they waited, Tom on a chair and Kevin standing.
The current chairman of the House of Lords Science and Technology Committee, Lord William Peterson, Bill to Tom, was younger than Kevin had imagined. Perhaps it was his mental image of men called Lord, but all politicians looked young these days.
Introductions over, Peterson led the way. “I’ve reserved a space in Portcullis House,” he said as they walked. “You look as sprightly as ever, Tom. How long is it since we last met? Don’t tell me—two years. I was in Bristol and couldn’t possibly have missed visiting the bookshop.”
With security and other formalities over, they finally settled in a corner of a large room clearly meant for large committee meetings. A tray of coffee and biscuits was ready, waiting for them. Kevin looked around. Tom put his folder on the table.
“So, science and biology still run thick and fast in your old veins, Tom? And what’s all this about research on viruses needing better controls? Don’t we do enough?” Peterson asked.
“Nothing like enough.” Tom replied. He sat back, placing his hands firmly on the table in front of him. The folder, at least for the moment, was irrelevant.
“Malthus Society, Bill,” he began. “Remember we once chatted about it? We’re the dedicated followers of a fashion that never really faded away - innocent fans and groupies of Thomas Malthus, Paul Ehrlich, and others who once spoke the truth and nothing but the truth but got ignored. And they still get ignored partly because they got tired of wasting their own voices but because politicians are only interested in
getting re-elected and are afraid to both discuss and act on any of the genuine challenges that face the human race.
“I’m a founding member of the Malthus Society, Bill. Kevin here started it and runs its website. Don’t ask me about websites because I haven’t a clue, but it’s got a membership running into thousands. It has attracted its fair share of nutcases over the years, but there’s one nutcase who’s causing us a big headache and making Kevin here look more than a bit depressed at present.
“The nutcase is a fellow called David Solomon. He’s English but worked for an American biotech company, and his hobby was very similar to Kevin’s and mine. He studied human population growth and its effects on world economies and the environment, exactly the sort of stuff I’ve researched since the fifties and sixties. But he was also one of these clever virologists who can unpick a virus as if it’s a piece of knitting, remove a stitch or two, or even sew in a few new ones in the form of protein molecules and then sit back and play around to see if their new-fangled virus has any useful characteristics.
I’m sure you’ve heard the phrase gain of function research. It sounds perfectly harmless but as a biologist, I call it bloody dangerous if it’s in the wrong hands.
“Solomon’s other great achievement is that he’s radicalised himself so much over overpopulation that for lack of a suitable word, I’d call him a bio-terrorist.”
Kevin was, for the first time in a week, relaxing. He’d always liked talking to Tom, but when Tom was in the mood, he’d become a highly entertaining and eloquent speaker enhanced by a shaking fist and pointing finger.
“What’s more, Bill, Solomon is not a patient man. Having waited in vain for politicians to act he’ll go it alone. In that respect, he’s a bit like Kevin here, but Kevin is a history teacher, not a molecular biologist. Whereas normal terrorists might use a gun or a bomb, Solomon has a much more powerful weapon - a virus.”
Peterson stirred. “Where is Solomon?”
Kevin spoke. “We’ve no idea.”
“I see. So, what’s his plan?”
It was Kevin’s turn and his next few words turned into another of his passionate speeches during which he explained everything he knew.
He mentioned Larry, Colin, and me, and when he finally stopped, Tom nodded at him. That meant he’d done OK.
But now, it was Peterson’s turn, and he took a deep breath, as if he was still not convinced that he wasn’t listening to a nutcase.
“So,” he said, “what you’re describing so passionately is some sort of conspiracy to spread a virus created by a scientist who wants to kill a few billion of us, but that for him to succeed, he’s looking for money.
Have I put it in a nutshell?”
Kevin nodded but it wasn’t good enough for Tom. “Bill, my friend, you’re using the wrong tense. He’s not looking for money. He’s found it. He’s got backing from a company run by a bunch of crooks, one of who is wanted by the FBI. What’s more, he’s ready to move. Now.”
“I see,” Bill Peterson said. “Well, that certainly puts a different perspective. So, it’s urgent.”
“Very urgent is the word, Bill. We need some action. The question is who can stop this terrorist before he releases his bomb and who could act right now to stop this virus travelling around in a consignment of refrigerated bananas or freshly cut flowers or in a box marked Urgent Medical Supplies?”
Peterson leaned forward. “If I didn’t know you better, Tom, I’d have thought you were a nutcase and thrown you out.”
“That’s precisely why I’m here with Kevin,” Tom replied. “If he came alone dressed in his Liverpool sweater, you’d have thrown him out.”