by Terry Morgan
CHAPTER 55
It had been a while since I had spoken to Walt Daniels at Biox, but there was still one thing I needed. Verbal descriptions of David Solomon and Guy Williams were one thing but good colour photos were something else. Somehow, I felt I was closing in on something and wanted to be able to recognise them. Back once more in Cairo and Maria having gone home, I phoned Walt in Boston.
With no questions asked, Walt obliged and by next morning I had an email with photos attached. Both photos, I decided, were trimmed, full face shots probably taken at a staff function somewhere. I already knew that Solomon was tall, six foot. The photo now showed him with short with very light, fair hair and looking much younger than his forty years. Guy Williams I knew to was short, stocky, five foot six or so and the photo showed him with a mop of thick black hair. With the photo of Jan de Jonge from Colin and a clear picture of Mohamed Kader and Greg O'Brian, in my mind it was enough.
I set off in the rented Toyota before dawn the next morning. I was alone this time but retraced the route back down south to Beni Suef. By seven thirty I was sitting in the car in the Majid industrial area with the sun rising behind clumps of palms on the flat, eastern horizon into a cloudless, pale blue sky.
I had already worked out where I would park. From the shade of one of the other smaller factory units, I had a good view of the whole length of the Shah building. With a pair of binoculars and a digital camera with a decent lens bought in the souk the night before and a 6 pack of water bottles, potato crisps and chocolate bars on the back seat, I was ready for the sort of day-long stake out I often use.
The two cars and van from the day before were no longer there, so several people must have been there and then left. But I didn't have to wait long for some action.
At eight thirty, a mini bus arrived, the driver unlocked the wire gate and drove in, past the reception area and stopped outside in the loading bay area. The driver got out and opened the sliding, passenger door. Three men emerged, one unlocked the double doors of the loading bay and all three went inside. But it was quite clear to me, from the way they were dressed that they matched Jimmy's description of those he had seen in Nairobi. These were also, probably, Pakistani.
Ten minutes later, three cars arrived and this time drew up outside the reception area.
I wound down the tinted window of the Toyota, picked up the binoculars and watched four men emerge. Three of them were white, of European or American appearance and one was black. All were casually dressed in trousers and open-necked shirts. They stood and chatted and one of the white men lit a cigarette. I switched to the camera, took a couple of shots, then watched them walk slowly to the main reception door. One of the white men unlocked it and all of them went inside.
No sooner had they gone inside when another saloon car drove in through the main gate - a white Toyota similar to mine. It stopped next to the other three cars and three men emerged. From my distance it was difficult to see detail, but these three looked Egyptian. I took a few more photos and then watched them go inside.
Then I settled myself once more but the heat inside the car was building. With no wish to sit with the engine and air-conditioning running, I drank a can of Fanta, breakfasted on a bar of melting chocolate and looked at the photos I'd just taken. One might just have been Guy Williams and another Jan de Jonge but I was far from certain. None of them looked like David Solomon but that was to be expected - Solomon, from what we now knew from his Malthus posting, was probably in Thailand. As for the black one and the others, I had no idea who they were.
It was almost midday when the next vehicle arrived - a truck hauling a twenty foot container. All three of the Pakistanis emerged, one directed the truck driver to the loading bay at the side, the others opened doors and waited for the truck to reverse up to the bay. From what I could see through the binoculars, boxes were being unloaded. Then a forklift truck appeared and carried a large, shiny, stainless steel tank onto the driveway and left it there, glinting in the hot sun.
Now I can be quite masochistic at times. The painful, self punishment imposed by uncomfortable stake-outs is bearable to a point as it's what I sometimes need to do. But if I was an employee of some European or American company with health and safety posters stuck everywhere or an office worker with the Department Health and Social Security I'd have been quite entitled to say enough is enough, down tools and walk out. But I'm a self employed bloke who earns his crust doing this sort of thing. But I admit I was now very hot. My underwear felt as if I'd wet myself. But, the fact is, every drop of water I had drunk was seeping through my skin. It was never going to emerge through its normal exit point. The cars' temperature gage showed an outside temperature of 41C. Inside it was probably 141C. I was desperate for a long drink of cold water, but was hanging on to the last bottle of warm stuff just in case and was really glad I'd already eaten the chocolate. But I still did not want to attract attention by sitting in the car with its engine and air-conditioning running.
At one o'clock, though. there was, once more, action at the front. All the men who had arrived together earlier suddenly emerged through the front door, stood chatting for a while and the smoker lit up again. Three of them, two white men, including the smoker and the black man, piled into one of the cars. The other three went back inside.
I started the Toyota, felt the first waft of refrigerated air pass over my face in five hours and waited for them to drive past where I was parked. I followed them as they drove back in the direction of Beni Suef. But then they suddenly turned off the main road in the direction of the river. I followed them through a dusty village of flat roofed houses, a coffee shop, some small shops selling vegetables and general groceries and then into an area of big, new, more modern villas set behind concrete walls with high, iron gates. Suddenly, without warning, the River Nile appeared on my right. Between rows of palm trees, it shimmered in the still, midday sun. A boat with pure white sails drifted south close to the shore, but still the car in front kept going, northwards.
But then it slowed down almost to a walking pace. I stopped and pulled into the shade of a tree to watch The car then turned right between more trees and disappeared. I followed once again.
And there, laid out amongst flowering shrubs and green lawns with sprinklers casting rainbows of light amongst the greenery was The River View Hotel - a quiet place of unexpected luxury that I had certainly not expected to find.
A nice place to bring Anna, I thought as I parked the Toyota car almost next to the empty Peugeot that had just carried the three members of the Shah team.
I got out. First I checked the wetness still clinging to my armpits and groin, then I closed the car door and walked up some tiled steps into the cool, darker lobby. A young bell boy or porter in smart uniform asked if I had any luggage. I said no.
What I found inside was also a surprise - white marble, tiled floors, a wide spiral stairway and groups of American, Japanese and European tourists either stood fanning themselves, sat chatting or quietly reading travel brochures and books on Egyptian history and antiquities. It had not struck me that the area had become a stopping off point for luxury Nile cruises. But this, it seemed was where they came ashore before continuing on down to Aswan or returning to Cairo.
In my light grey slacks and white shirt I found I fitted in far better than I had feared although I probably looked as if I'd just emerged, full dressed, from a sauna. I stood for a moment, allowing my eyes to adjust to the relative darkness of the interior and my wet body to benefit a little from the hotel air conditioning. A curved, marble archway, edged by more ferns and flowers, marked the entrance to the restaurant. I walked through the archway and on my left was a bar and a waiter in a neat black and white uniform taking orders.
I spotted a seat by a corner table, wandered over to it and sat down. Then I ordered a gin and tonic and two glasses of ice cold mineral water. I gulped one down and then watched the twenty or so others who were sat around or stood at the bar.
Th
e three men I had just followed were already relaxing at a table by the window overlooking the lawn. The black man was talking. The others nodded. The smoker talked. They laughed. The other white man, the shorter one had his back to me. The short black ponytail fixed high up on his head was held in some sort of band. He wore an expensive bright blue silk shirt with what looked like a flowery pattern. The black man was now looking around the bar. The third man, the smoker was listening to something the pony tail was saying. He nodded, took a drink from a glass of beer and sat back.
I knew immediately that I had found Jan de Jonge.
So who was the black one? Could it be Larry's friend, the French national from Nairobi who had only just gone missing?
And the pony tail? I needed him to turn around but it looked like Guy Williams with longer hair than in the photograph.
The waiter came and asked if I wanted lunch and I declined but ordered another glass of iced mineral water instead. It came and I then picked it up and walked over to the three men. They saw me coming. Without asking I sat down on the empty fourth chair surrounding their table. They looked at me and then they looked at each other.
"Mr De Jonge?" I said and looked at the smoker. From this distance, a metre, I knew I was right. De Jonge stared at me but before there was time to reply my eyes moved to the black one.
"Philippe Fournier?"
I then looked at the pony tail. "Mr Williams? Guy Williams?"
The Dutch man had had a ten second advantage over his colleagues.
"Who are you?"
"I take it you are Jan De Jonge?"
There was no reply but the pony tail had now had time to think.
"What's going on?"
"Yes, what do you want?" the Dutchman said again looking as though he was about to get up and run.
"Steady." I raised my hand. "Take it easy. Just a few questions."
They all looked at me and then at each other as if there was some unresolved mistrust between them. The Dutchman in particular looked at the pony tail. There was another short silence.
"You know him?" The Dutchman asked his two colleagues.
"Never seen him before in my entire life," said the pony tail in a distinctly English accent. The black one shrugged.
"I need some help," I said and leaned forward. Then I looked around the bar as if I wanted to share a secret. "I hoped you might all be able to help me."
"What sort of help?" The pony tail asked.
"I mean no harm assuming none of you have done nothing wrong," I said, knowing full well that the Dutchman may well have been the one responsible for the theft of a million dollars worth of research material from his employer.
"So, how did you find me?" De Jonge said as if he was the only one I had just found.
"I followed you," I said and all three looked at each other again.
"The car that followed us from the highway?" the black one asked with a slight French accent.
"Further than that. From Shah Pharmaceuticals - your place of work."
"How do you know that? Who are you? Where are you from? Who sent you?" The pony tail was now getting anxious and his voice rose higher. His hands pressed on the arms of the chair, as if he was about to get up.
"As I said, just take it easy. I need to talk to all of you. I do not represent the law if that's what's bothering you." I paused and then repeated, "Can we talk?"
The waiter returned, looked concerned at the agitated state of the three potential diners, but told them their table was ready. The three men still seemed unsure of what to do.
"Can I suggest I join you at your table.," I said. "I've already eaten." I was referring to the liquid Snicker bars and cheese and onion crisps.
They continued to look at one another but then the pony tail got up, followed by the Dutchman and then Philippe Fournier. All four of us followed the waiter in a line, into the restaurant, like ducklings to the pond.
Once seated, the waiter flipped white napkins onto their laps and asked if the fourth guest may now wish to order. I declined. There was an embarrassed silence. Then I started again.
I looked at Jan de Jonge.
"Message from Mum and Dad," I said. "Zoe liked her necklace."
It was the test that Colin had suggested. Only De Jonge's mother and father would have known anything about a necklace and Zoe. I didn't have a clue about the significance but De Jonge clearly did. There was a stunned silence as he looked at me with his mouth ajar. "When did you see them?" he asked.
"I didn't," replied Daniel, "It's just a message."
"Do they know I'm here? How are they?"
"They don't know where you are. It’s my secret. As far as I know I'm the only person in the world who knows the three of you are here." I said it as if trying to settle their nerves. Philippe.Fournier looked embarrassed. The pony tail sat with his arms folded.
"But, just for the record. Am I right about your names?"
The Dutchman nodded without taking his eyes off me. The black Frenchman, Philippe Fourner said, "Yes, I am Philippe Fournier. I have only been here for a week. I am still learning."
The pony-tailed Englishman's response was different. "Clever of you, whoever you are. What do you want?"
"Help."
"Help? And what sort of help do you want?" Guy Williams sounded scathing.
"I'd like to know what you do at Shah Pharmaceuticals."
"Invasion of privacy - industrial secret - patents pending," Williams said. To me it was a scientist's response to a question that was, to all intents and purposes a business question. He sounded utterly naive.
"But why come out to this deserted spot to do research. Don't you get the resources in the UK or USA? Must miss a bit of the academic lifestyle?"
"None of your bloody business unless you give me a good reason. Anyway, how about coming clean yourself? Who the hell are you?"
"My name is Ian McCann. I’m an international commercial crime investigator. Private. Freelance, if you prefer the expression. English by nationality just like yourself, Mr Williams. Anything more you'd like to know?"
De Jonge's worried look grew more visible. Williams appeared sceptical and he sniffed. Philippe Fournier scratched his head as if it was all too complicated.
The Dutchman needed to double-check. "Commercial crime?"
"Yes. Why did you come out here, Jan. May I call you Jan?"
De Jonge looked away and was saved by the arrival of three prawn cocktails. All three looked at the food. Conversation ceased again.
"I don't have to sit here with some bloody, interfering stranger who's just walked in. I'm going back." Guy Williams stood up.
Philippe Fournier had just picked up his fork ready to tuck in but it hung there as if he was waiting for a decision.
"Where are you conducting your clinical trials?" I said and looked at Guy Williams.
Williams was visibly taken aback. "What clinical trials?" He sat down again.
"The trials on the treatment for the virus now known in some circles as TRS-CoV."
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"You don't know about the outbreak of TRS-CoV?"
"I'm a virologist. Sure I know. But what clinical trials on what treatment? "
"Let's start with the trials in Nigeria." I was testing him.
"We’re not doing any trials. It’s far too early."
"What about the trials in Thailand?"
"Thailand? There aren't any trials. What the bloody hell are you talking about?"
"OK, then let's start at the very beginning," I said. "Where did TRS-CoV come from?"
"And what the bloody hell do you know about respiratory viruses?" Williams said sneeringly.
"Enough to know that it's possible to engineer them for research purposes - so called gain-of-function - GOF - research. I understand this sort of research is done to identify combinations of mutations that could, for instance, allow an animal virus to jump to unprepared humans. By understanding the mutations, the t
hinking goes, you can prepare against a possible threat. Some say that GOF research is high risk."
"Yes, but there are strict controls."
"So such viruses can never escape?"
"No."
"Could someone steal a virus created by GOF research, nurture it, build huge stocks of it, release it?
"It's laughable."
"Do you have any TRS-CoV here?"
"No."
"Any other viruses?"
"Yes, but we know what we were doing."
"OK. The new antiviral treatments you are working on. How are they progressing?"
"Slow but we are making progress."
I was surprised I'd got an answer without a question about how I might know that was what they were doing. But Jan de Jonge suddenly got up. He was sweating. "Excuse me," he said. "I need the bathroom." I watched him go and turned to face Guy Williams again.
"You see, Guy - can I call you Guy? - I've become a bit of an amateur expert on viruses in the last few weeks. I can even explain how Tamiflu and Relenza work on influenza viruses, how drugs for HIV work. I've started to understand how clever you are at changing viruses just for the fun of it."
"It's not for the fun."
I knew I was being provocative. "OK," I said, "Then how about for the huge profits you can make out of it?"
"How about for improved health and wellbeing?"
Philippe Fournier was already finishing his prawn cocktail.
As this was going nowhere, I changed the question. "Why did you leave Biox?" I asked Williams..
"Opportunity knocked. Money was good. Nice location and improving every day. Look around you."
Then I changed tack again. "Where is David Solomon?"
I could immediately tell I'd touched another nerve.
"I don't know," Guy Williams said, more calmly. He came out here to help set it up. But he was closer to the management side than me. He moved on."
"To where?" I tried again.
"I really don't know,"
"Forgive me, Guy, but I think there are things going on here which you are totally unaware of. You are being used, exploited."
"Rubbish," said Guy Williams. "We're given a lot of freedom."
"What are the aerosol inhalers for?"
Williams now looked shocked. Was there no end to what this man knew?
"Tests," he said. "We need to improve our engineering for filling the pressurised canisters aseptically. It's not simple technology."
"And once you're happy with the engineering what will the inhalers be filled with?"
"Our new antiviral drug - the one we are developing here."
"And who is helping with the engineering side?"
"We have a small team of engineers from Pakistan."
I sat back in my chair and swallowed the final drops my third glass of mineral water. The waiter was clearing two dishes of untouched prawn cocktails and one that had been empty for several minutes.
"Lost your appetite, Guy? And where has Jan, gone? Did I touch a nerve?"
The waiter returned and asked if they would like their main course now. I was still sitting back. Guy Williams looked at the waiter, "Sorry but something has cropped up. We need to go. Please put the bill on my account."
"Yes sir."
"So shall we sit and talk, Guy?" I tried a comforting tone as if I was the man's psychiatrist.
I led Guy Williams out of the restaurant and back to the lounge bar. Philippe Fournier followed behind and Jan de Jonge re-emerged from the hotel foyer. He still looked unsettled and nervous.
We found a corner table, I ordered coffee and started with an apology for interrupting their lunch. Then: "Philippe, can I ask you something first."
Philippe Fournier visibly jumped. "How long have you been here?"
"Ah, nearly two weeks."
"Who recruited you?"
"I don't know."
Guy William's look was one of incredulity. "You don't know, Philippe?"
"I never asked. The man phoned me, asked if I was interested in a better paid job. I said yes. Anything is better than working for a charity. I met him for an interview. I was offered a job. He said pack a case, bring my passport. I thought it was for security or I was going to Paris for training. Next minute I'm on a plane with him bound for Cairo. We got met in Cairo by a woman. I was given five thousand dollars in advance of my salary to cover what she called 'settling in expenses.' I was brought here by car. I started work on the virus cultures. Nice research laboratory, nice garden, nice villa we stay in. Better than the job in Nairobi. So far I like it."
"What did the man who interviewed you look like, Philippe?" I asked.
"I don't remember faces too well."
"Christ almighty," said Guy Williams.
"Did he look like this, Philippe?" I said and flicked open my mobile phone.
"Yes, that's him."
"His name is Dominique Lunneau," I said and looked at Guy Williams. "He works at the Shah Medicals site in Nairobi but he once worked in Lebanon. My information is that he has close links with the company's owner."
"What Shah Medicals site in Nairobi?" Guy Williams asked.
"It's similar to the Shah Medicals operations in Hong Kong and Singapore but bigger," I said. "Just wait, Guy, there's so much you don't know."
Guy Williams rubbed his chin and looked at me. I then turned to face Jan de Jonge. But I had no wish to go around in circles just to arrive at the one question I wanted to ask. I just asked him straight. "Jan, did you take some research material from your previous employer, Virex, without permission?"
Jan de Jonge looked at Guy Williams, then back at me. He took a deep breath.
"Yes," he said and the relief on the man's face was visible. "Am I likely to be prosecuted if I return to the US?"
I deliberately avoided the question for now. "Who did you give the material to?"
There was just the slightest hesitation. "David Solomon."
Guy Williams muttered, "Christ almighty," again.
"Did he promise to pay you for it?" I asked.
"No, but he said he was now working for a company in Egypt and could guarantee me a job with double the salary and better conditions."
"Anything else?"
"He'd pay a lump sum so I could settle my debts but only after I'd moved to Egypt and if......"
"If what?"
"If I could also obtain a virus sample from the Virex bio-safety laboratory.
"What?" cried Guy Williams. "Bloody hell, Jan."
"What was the virus?" Daniel continued.
"A modified Influenza virus we'd been working on."
"And you gave it to him?"
"Yes. I trusted him and he was only a kilometre away at Biox and Virex and Biox were working together, or so I thought. And David is an international expert in that field - written papers on the subject - lectured on it."
Guy Williams stood up. "Jesus Christ. What the fuck is going on here, Jan?"
For a moment, I deliberately downplayed it. "Are you happy here, Jan?"
"No. Frankly I want to go home but I've still not had the money Dave Solomon promised. I owe money - a lot - back in Holland. You didn't know that either Guy - sorry."
"Do any of you know who actually owns Shah Pharmaceuticals?" I asked and glanced at all three in turn.
"Yes," said Guy Williams, "An Arab company called Al Zafar. They have a chain of pharmaceutical businesses in the Middle East."
"And do you know the owner of Al Zafar?"
"A man called Mohamed Kader. He came here a year ago when we were just starting up. Rich man."
"Have you heard of Livingstone Pharmaceuticals?"
"The name rings a bell," he said.
"How loudly does it ring?"
"I've heard of them - people in the States buy Livingstone indigestion tablets."
"Hardly a high tech biotechnology company, then. Did you know that Livingstone and Al Zafar, alias Shah Medicals, work together, co-operate, maybe have s
hares in each other's businesses? They have a network of distributors right across the Middle East, South East Asia and Africa. Then there is the Nairobi site and an office in Cairo. Do you know who owns Livingstone?"
"No bloody idea," said Williams. "Tell me."
"I'm not going to tell you his name but he's known to the FBI and other law enforcement agencies as a crook, a fraudster, an embezzler and worse. He's one of your ultimate bosses. One is Mohamed Kader and the third boss is probably David Solomon."
"I can't believe it. I've known Dave for years," Guy Williams said, "There's nothing wrong with him."
"How well did you know David Solomon, Guy?"
"Very well, we worked together for a long time."
"Did he have any hobbies, political leanings, strong opinions on anything in particular?"
"Yes, environmental issues. A lot of us shared the same type of views. As a biologist you get hung up about the destruction of the environment."
"Did he feel strongly enough about anything to want to actually do something?"
Guy Williams didn't need much time to think about it. "Yes, population control. He was an admirer of the biologist Paul Eyrlich and others but he thought Eyrlich had weakened his stance and wasn't determined enough to pursue his opinions into positive action. We often talked about it. We both belonged to a debating society at Boston University."
"The Malthus Club?" I asked.
"Bloody hell. Yes."
"So what would you say if I told you that I suspect David Solomon has created a new Influenza virus that could kill millions and that he plans to release it as part of a campaign deliberately aimed at reducing the world's population in numbers not seen since the Black Death?"
All three men, professional virologists in their own right, fell silent.
It was Jan de Jonge who spoke first.
"Warnings have often been made of an accident. But a deliberate campaign? Yes, he could do it," he said. "The virus I gave him is probably capable of it. We'd created it at Virex and Biox were also involved."
That comment was hugely significant. It answered my one main lingering question - the one I'd not got from Charles Brady. It explained the business relationship between Charles Brady of Virex and Josh Ornstein of Biox. And Larry would like this one. It would explain Josh Ornstein's questions to him about the Nigerian deaths.
"But no-one could do it alone," said Guy Williams, "Certainly not on that scale."
"But that's the point, Guy, he could. He has funds, he has access to an international network of distributors in just the right places to start such a campaign - in Africa, the Middle East, South East Asia - just the places he believes are overpopulated, overcrowded trouble spots. And there is someone else who shares David Solomon's views and this person is in the perfect position to deliver it. That person is your other boss, Mohamed Kader."
"Are you serious?" Guy Williams asked, at last showing signs that he was beginning to realise the feasibility of what I had been describing."
"I'm deadly serious," said Daniel. "So let me describe your other boss for you. The boss of Livingstone is a man whose sole interest is making money - lots of it. He's already made millions out of fraud and embezzlement. Funding David Solomon's little project and your place here in Beni Suef is small change. He'll then find ways to stash the profits in the Cayman Islands or somewhere else that's untouchable. But don't ever stand in his way. He's a nasty piece of work."
"But he can't make money by spreading a virus.." For the first time, Philippe Fournier had asked a question and the question made sense. The other two nodded.
I shook my head.
"Oh yes he can, Philippe. Your third boss has got something that he can sell at a huge profit margin - a treatment. First you spread the virus, then you sell the treatment. And if you get fed up selling the real thing or can't cope with the huge demand for it or it proves to be only marginally effective, what do you then do? You start selling counterfeit medicines."
Jan de Yong's complexion turned from red to an anaemic looking white.
"And how can they administer the treatment or spread the virus? Can I suggest the use of controlled dose inhalers? And who's working on the technology for these inhalers?"
I spread my arms wide inviting the obvious answer. "You are all implicated."