MindField

by D S Kane

  This time, he was sure that Lucessi wouldn’t hang up. He was pretty sure Lucessi wouldn’t try to backtrace the call, since they had already established that Lucessi would work with Randall. He punched in Lucessi’s number.

  “Yeah. What now?”

  “Mr. Lucessi, I’ve just heard that your friend Frederico Santos has retired. Did you know this?”

  “Huh? Where’d you find this out?”

  “I have sources. You must realize that if this is true, I’m now your only source of income. I believe this should cement our business relationship. Yes?”

  The silence went on and on, but Randall was willing to wait much longer. Finally, Lucessi replied. “Yeah.”

  “Good. I have a client in Los Altos, California. They’re looking for venture funding for a startup that plans to manufacture a product I would love to be able to purchase. Owning a chunk of the company would be even better. I know you love to negotiate deals. I’m prepared to offer them six million for one-third ownership as a seed round. I’ll send you documents and a reading list on how the process works. You have six days to call me back when you have learned how to do this. Oh, and remember, it is vital that they know you aren’t a United States citizen and that you live in Paraguay.”

  “But I am a United States citizen.”

  “Lie. You’re good at that. It’s one of the reasons I chose you.”

  Randall terminated the call, ready to watch the process from afar. If Lucessi performed to spec, there were fifty more prospective deals he had ready to cook.

  Chapter 5

  Stanford University Student Union,

  Palo Alto, CA

  September 12, 10:40 a.m.

  Glen Sarkov smiled as he read the email. Then he rose from his seat in the student cafeteria and did a little happy dance. Other students nearby gave him just a glance, then went back to their own notebook computers. Glen read the email from the venture capitalist several times more, looking to see if there was an escape clause that might make this moment less joyous, but, no, there was no caveat. The VC was making an outright offer to fund his startup company.

  His first date with Ann Sashakovich had been much more than pleasant. But last night when they met for dinner and a movie, he was just another student with big plans. Now, this very second, he’d become someone who might become a serious player in the startup world.

  In short, his life was suddenly wonderful. He wanted to share the moment with someone. He punched Ann’s phone number into his cell and waited.

  “Sashakovich here.”

  “It’s Glen. I just got an email from a venture capitalist. I got an offer of a seed round.”

  “Glen? You got what? Wow. Congrats. Want to celebrate?”

  “Oh, yeah. How about after class at your favorite restaurant.”

  “Mmm. Okay. Either Yucca De Lac or Dynasty. You make the call. My last class ends at 5 p.m.”

  “Okay. I’ll meet you at the cafeteria.”

  Now Glen felt doubly happy. He read the email yet again, preparing himself for the next step in the process. The VC stated that his interest was dependent on a meeting with Glen, where, if all went as hoped, they would sign papers. The seed round would cost Glen one-third of his company. The amount the company would net was six million dollars, and Glen and his cofounders would have to produce a prototype before they had spent one million of the cash. Hard, but certainly possible. Glen called his cofounders on a conference call and relayed the news to them.

  The first step would be finding them an office that had access to a next-door laboratory. He guessed that either an incubator or a private space of at least five hundred square feet would be the minimum that would work. He’d seen a few spaces in Sunnyvale that were big enough.

  * * *

  “So, tell me how this all happened.” Ann sat back into to plush chair in the main dining room of Yucca De Lac, a Hong Kong-style restaurant.

  Glen grinned back, obviously enjoying his opportunity to share such good fortune. “We had an assignment in the startup business management course I’m taking. We were told to find and convince an angel or venture capitalist to meet face-to-face about funding our final project for the course. We were given a list of twenty people who might be more willing to meet, having a formal relationship with Stanford. But I decided on several others who are totally independent from the university, since those seemed to be more interested in nanotech medicine projects.”

  Ann frowned. “So how did you get their interest without even meeting face-to-face?”

  “I sent them the first page of the business plan’s executive summary plus a summary page of the projected financials. I was hoping for interest in a face-to-face. That’s all. You can’t imagine how surprised I am.”

  “Do you have a copy of the email with you? Can I see it?”

  Glen reached into his jacket pocket and produced a printed copy of the email he’d received. He carefully unfolded it and passed it to Ann.

  She took it in her hands with the reverence one might show for a newly discovered ancient religious manuscript. She scanned the words, looking for hidden meanings. “My mom was once very rich. She was a member of an angel group at NYU’s Stern Graduate School of Business. I’ve seen letters like this in her files at our home in Washington DC. This reads like one of the ones she’d sent to a couple of cancer cure companies.”

  The waiter arrived with their food.

  Ann sniffed the aroma wafting from the roast duck sliders she’d ordered for them. “Yum. This smells like heaven.” She passed the letter back to Glen and picked up one of the sliders.

  Glen used his chopsticks to hoist a xiao long bao to his mouth. He gently sucked the soupy mix from the dumpling, then tasted a corner of the Shanghai dumpling and smiled. “Nothing beats soul food for a celebration.”

  They ate in silence, passing smiles between them.

  Glen leaned across the table, bringing their faces just a few inches away. He kissed her briefly, no more than the brushing of their lips for a moment. “Now that we’ve kissed, there won’t be that awkward moment later on.” He smiled, and to his joy, Ann smiled back.

  The waiter returned with a tureen of hot and sour soup.

  “So, what will you do if you get funded? Won’t you have to leave Stanford?”

  Glen shrugged. “I might be able to take classes at night, but it’ll take me longer if I’m not attending full time. I’m really not yet sure.”

  Ann’s eyes stared at the table, away from Glen.

  His jaw dropped a bit. “Are you really worrying about me?”

  “Maybe.”

  Glen couldn’t hide the smile that flashed and then disappeared. “I’ll still want to see you. Even if I’m not a student anymore.”

  Ann nodded, her head filling with questions for which there was no answer. If he’s going to be a startup guy, will that make him more arrogant? How will it affect the demands on his time? Will I have to compete with the startup for his time? The questions were endless.

  Chapter 6

  Supermax Prison,

  16 miles southwest of Las Vegas, NV

  September 12, 4:10 p.m.

  Frederick Hunter sat in a corner of his tiny cell, trying to stanch the blood seeping from him. He’d collapsed after one of the prisoners shivved him in the gut in the exercise yard. He suspected that if he’d let one of the guards see the wound, they’d have finished the job. His attackers would try again. And even uninjured, he was short and not in good shape.

  Hunter had been a doctor in his pre-lockup days. His medical practice ended when he’d operated on a patient while drunk. To make their lives possible, his wife had encouraged him to help her rob the local savings and loan. Yes, he’d been a drunkard, a fact that the prosecution had used to make his conviction on a charge of murder a slam dunk. He remembered that day, a day filled with lies and blood. His wife’s blood.

  When he’d arrived home, he heard loud voices coming from the bedroom. He thought it was his wife argui
ng with their daughter. Ingrid was an alcoholic. The two of them, Ingrid and Frederick were a matched pair, he thought. Laura, their daughter might also end up an alcoholic with two drunkard parents. He remembered sighing as he walked through the front door and headed toward the bedroom. And as he entered, he saw the scene that would forever end his life as a free man. Another man lay next to his wife, naked. His wife was also naked, but she lay on the floor, her neck pulsing blood. Laura held a blood-covered shard of glass in her hand, and she was plunging it repeatedly into the dead man.

  Frederick grabbed Laura and tried to calm her. He talked to her. “Please, Laura. Let me have that sharp piece of glass before you cut yourself.” She seemed to suddenly become aware of what she was doing. She dropped the glass.

  “Good.” He made his decision. “Go to your room. Right now, go. Take off your dress and wash yourself in the shower. Then dry yourself and get dressed. Don’t come out of your room until I tell you it’s safe.”

  She walked down the hall. He heard her bedroom door close, and then a minute later, he heard the shower come on.

  He examined the room. He could imagine a story where he had murdered them both after finding them in bed. Frederick modified the bodies to fit this new story, and then washed Laura’s fingerprints off the glass shard. He dipped the shard in each corpse’s blood, then wiped some of each body’s blood on his clothing. He cut into his palm with the shard, so it would appear he had injured himself while stabbing each of the cheating lovers.

  “Oh, Ingrid. I suspected you were having an affair. I could still love you and hope to earn back your love. I’m so sorry.” He picked up the telephone with his bloody hand and dialed 911. When the operator asked what his emergency was, he said, “I want to report two murders. I just killed my wife and her lover, in my house. I’m calling from there.”

  There was no way he could let Laura’s life go down the drain. As he waited for the police to arrive, his thoughts focused on his daughter.

  Now, nine years later, he was sure he’d made the correct decision.

  * * *

  Frank Lucessi passed through customs at San Francisco Airport with no problems. His business partner had done what he’d promised. He first rented a car and then drove south into Silicon Valley. He’d heard of it, of course, but had never actually been there. Robert Randall had sent him a blind text, indicating the clients he would meet with, the hotels he would stay at, and everything else Frank would need to know to complete his tasks.

  The Best Western in Mountain View was unremarkable in every way. Frank rolled his suitcase through the door of his tiny room and looked around. Supposed to be a rich venture capitalist, and this is what they give me?

  He pulled his handwritten notes from his pocket. Randall had told him to commit everything to memory and then delete the text he’d sent. Frank had tried memorizing everything but the text was over eight thousand words, much too long. Frank had handwritten crib notes onto paper so he could spend more time trying to cram it all into his memory. He reread instructions on the questions he should ask the entrepreneurs, and how to respond to their questions. Fifteen more minutes with the papers and he folded them, then walked to his rental car. According to Randall, the first person on his list was a thirty-two-year-old tech cofounder working at an internet security startup. Then, later in the afternoon, he’d meet with a Stanford University student whose company was looking for a seed round. Over the next three days he was to meet seven entrepreneurs and hand out checks for roughly twelve million dollars.

  Frank started the engine and drove out from the parking lot. Easy work, but he’d need to file reports with Randall and he’d worried about this. He decided to use his cellphone to tape each meeting, then write the reports from his recordings before he erased them. What could go wrong?

  * * *

  Laura Hunter hurried from her last class of the day. Medieval Art History was the driest course on her schedule and the two cups of coffee she’d downed in the Student Union cafeteria before class had worn off. She had a paper to write and headed back for more coffee. All the tables were filled, some partially and most totally. She found a table where only one other seat was taken. She took the seat farthest from him. He appeared to be much older than the other students on the campus. Short, dark, curly hair, slightly chubby, a vintage gray pinstripe business suit, but no necktie. Faculty or administration, she wondered.

  He was also drinking coffee and reviewing some handwritten notes. She could tell that he wasn’t aware of her presence. She decided not to draw him into a conversation.

  When he finally looked up and saw her, he seemed to be surprised. His eyes bugged, then narrowed. “Uh, sorry. I just needed a place to sit while I review some notes.”

  She smiled and nodded. “You aren’t a student.”

  “Uh, yes. I—”

  She reexamined him. His posture was too aggressive to be one of the Stanford elite. “You’re not faculty or admin either.”

  He sat in silence for a few seconds. She waited. Then he said, “I’m not associated with the university in any way. I’m here to meet with a student about a business deal. I’m Frank Lucessi.”

  “Laura Hunter. Pleased to meet you. And, yes, I’m a student. What’s your business?”

  “I’m a venture capitalist.”

  Laura’s nose twitched. “You do tech stuff.”

  “Pretty much.”

  “Which firm?”

  “Ah, it’s InTelQ. We’re from Paraguay.”

  She sat still, thinking for a few seconds. “Well, I’m an art history major. So, I’ll let you get ready for your meeting. But, if you don’t mind, I’d like to sit here since there aren’t many unfilled seats this time of day.”

  “Yes, sure.” With that last sentence, he went back to reading his scribbled notes.

  Soon, a male student that Laura had seen with Ann walked into the cafeteria, looked at the tables as if he was searching for someone specific, and walked over to their table. He nodded at Laura, then walked one more step and smiled at the venture capitalist. “Are you Frank Lucessi?”

  Lucessi nodded. “Yes. I’m with InTelQ. We can talk here if you like.”

  “I’m Glen Sarkov.” He extended his hand and Frank extended his. They shook.

  Laura looked at her coffee cup. Empty now. She had noted Glen’s exotic accent. Sounded Russian. She said to both of them, “Well, I’ve got to go. Nice meeting you, Mr. Lucessi. Nice seeing you again, Glen.”

  She got up and left them at the table. It was time for her to get to the student library where she could write her paper.

  * * *

  Frank Lucessi had been successful at three deals for Robert Randall so far. Three deals in two days. I’m one deal ahead of schedule. His standing orders were to close the deals while looking like he needed to be convinced by the entrepreneur that the startup in question was worth his own firm’s cash and consideration.

  He examined Glen Sarkov. The student wore upscale business casual clothing and spoke with a noticeable Russian accent. Frank imagined he must be related to some of the oligarchs who had migrated from Moscow to San Francisco in the Gorbachev-Yeltsin era. “Tell me about your startup. Why should we at InTelQ be interested? And, who are your team members?”

  Glen smiled before he spoke. Then he said, “I’m in the nanodevices program. I have a major in particle physics and I’ve discovered that new medical technology is too easily hacked. My team has developed a nano firewall that is physical in nature. It can be programmed to let only ‘desired’ telecomm signals pass between users and their ‘friends.’ The physical device can be inserted between the user and any comm signal. And, best of all, it can be set up to protect the physical body as well as the computer devices of a person.”

  Frank seemed to be confused. “How can a physical device act as a human shield?”

  Glen smiled again. “Ever hear of shear thickening fluid? STF? Invented by the US Army? Well, that was last generation. This new generation ca
n be painted on human skin.”

  Frank had no idea what Glen was speaking of, but he smiled back. “Aha. So how does this work?”

  “The molecules can be controlled by a computer device to set the STF to harden against certain signals, biohazards, or communication signals. That way, the STF itself cannot be hacked. The STF nanofield is programmed, then painted on the skin. It makes the user literally bulletproof, and any medical devices they wear become hack proof.” Glen waited, as if he had anticipated a question that Frank knew he should be asking.

  But, Frank hadn’t any idea what he should say. An awkward silence surrounded him. “Ah, sounds expensive. How much funding does your company need to produce a working prototype?”

  “Oh, almost nothing for that. We’ve already produced a prototype. We’re set to prove the tech to buyers. Our first target is the Department of Defense. We’ll need the investment round to go from prototype to final design, then manufacture and market. We’re asking for six million for a thirty-three percent ownership.”

  Frank’s mind went blank. He couldn’t remember how much to write the check for, but the percentage ownership seemed too low and the amount of cash seemed too high. He decided to trust his instincts. None of these deals was supposed to earn a minority share. “I can give you three million for fifty-five percent ownership.”

  Glen shook his head. “But we agreed to my amounts. I’ll need to talk your revised offer over with my cofounders.”

  Frank felt like this deal was slipping away. But he’d no idea what Randall had agreed to in his email messages with Sarkov. “Okay then. Speak with your team. Call me tomorrow morning. We can talk then.”

  Sarkov rose from his chair, a worried look on his face. He extended his hand, and they shook. In seconds he was gone, leaving Frank to search his notes to see how big an error he’d made.

  There it was: Glen Sarkov, MindField Technology, six million for fifty-point-one percent. He shook his head and left the cafeteria.