by Terry Morgan
CHAPTER 12
In Nairobi, Philippe had arrived at the Oakwood Hotel by 6.15, three quarters of an hour before his appointment with the mysterious caller.
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 looked out of place and as it seemed to specialise in organising safaris for tourists. Philippe sat in the corner listening to conversations to try to get a fix on the cost of various safari packages. One group was wanting to go climbing, but thinking that Mara was unlikely to want to climb Mount Kilimanjaro, he dismissed it and focussed on the relevant costs of two day and four day safaris to the Masai Mara instead.
By 7pm, though, he was getting anxious as no-one had yet approached him about the job interview. By 7.15pm he started to stroll around the small lobby and finally went to ask the receptionist if anyone had asked to speak to him. It was then that he felt the tap on his shoulder.
"Monsieur Fournier?"
Philippe jumped and turned, a little nervously, to find a man in a suit holding out his hand apparently expecting it to be shaken. Philippe said, "Yes," and took hold of the hand whilst looking into a slightly tanned face with a large smile across it.
"Shall we go up to the bar and balcony," said the man and, without waiting, led the way. "The Oakwood is typical old Kenya, I think," the man said as Philippe followed behind.
The small balcony next to the bar was a great vantage point to watch the Nairobi street life below. Looking towards the Stanley Hotel and the Thorn Tree Cafe, Philippe took the seat next to the small table he was directed to and looked around him. The tanned face man was ordering drinks.
"Whisky," he said to the barman. "You take ice?"
"Uh, yes," said Philippe, a complete stranger to anything stronger than Kenyan Tusker. Cider had been his favourite when at Reading University but only because he liked apples. Meanwhile, the man sat down across the table, loosened his tie and sat back. "I told you I'd recognise you," he said, still smiling. "So you are interested in a 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. The Faculty of Biological Sciences."
"And you obtained a PhD, I understand." The accent may have been slightly French but Philippe did not question it.
"Yes, sir, on molecular virology, molecular pathogenesis and evolution and mechanisms of virus structure and replication - especially Coronavirus and arenavirus infection. I studied under Doctor Mark Cavendish, sir."
"That is very important Philippe. I, also, am an expert on Coronaviruses but what the fuck are arenaviruses?"
The language was now Americanised French or something similar, but Philippe only heard the word fuck. He was surprised by it being used during an interview but one of the senior researchers at Reading had been prone to mix his sentences with expletives so he decided not to let this put him off.
"Well sir, it is complicated. Do you want me to explain in some detail?"
"Yes, go ahead, Philippe. Ah, here is the whisky - sante."
"Well," Philippe began, "Arenaviruses have a bisegmented 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.............."
"OK, Philippe, I see you know your arenaviruses - boire - drink your whisky - sante."
"Thank you," Philippe put his glass to his lips and sipped. It was like drinking fire.
"So, time for a career move, then, Philippe." The man peeled off his tie completely and then took his jacket off, hung it over the back of his chair and pulled out a mobile phone. He then looked out over the balcony towards the Stanley Hotel opposite. "One minute, Philippe. I need to make a call." With that the man got up and walked away leaving Philippe staring at the empty chair with the discarded red tie and jacket. While he waited, Philippe tried his drink again and wondered, briefly, if Mara liked whisky. He hoped not.
But Philippe was pleased that the man pronounced his name so well and not Fillip like so many Kenyans and British. The man suddenly returned and Philippe jumped out of his fleeting dream.
"Well," the man said. "The job is yours if you want it. You'll work for two of our senior scientists at our new laboratory. Private company. Funding is 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 a 'e' at the end and then held up his thumb and first finger to make a perfect circle. "Are you interested? Do you have 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, a tour of the laboratory even. "Uh, yes," he said, trying to think up sensible questions as fast as he could but also hanging onto the word superb pronounced just as a Frenchman would. Everything sounded superbe. "How much will I be paid?"
"You'll be paid seventy five thousand dollars a year plus a bonus if all goes well. All living expenses."
Philippe's eyes widened. "Uh, is the laboratory far from here?"
"We will arrange transport. But 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 at 8pm tomorrow night. Come with a suitcase as if going away for a long weekend. And bring your passport. Ca va?"
"Oui. Yes, sir."
"And one last thing. Don't tell anyone just yet. Plenty of time to notify your friends and family. It's the company policy - ne t'inquiète pas!"
"Yes, sir."
Philippe left in a dream. It was only at midnight as he was going over and over the interview in his sleepless mind that it struck him. He had no idea who the man was or what the company was called. But he now remembered the man's French accent so perhaps he was being recruited by a French company. And why the need for a passport? Perhaps he would be going to France for training. Philippe was both nervous and excited but he couldn't recall the man's face.
