by D S Kane
Chapter 7
Stanford University campus,
Palo Alto, CA
September 13, 8:22 a.m.
When Laura saw the out-of-place man in the cafeteria the next morning, she smiled and said hello.
His face brightened. “Oh, hi.” He lifted his coffee cup and smiled at her.
“Whatcha doing here?” She placed her tray at his table and sat across from him.
“I have another meeting here today with the student I met yesterday.”
“You mean Glen? He’s my roommate’s boyfriend.”
“Really? Well he has a bright future. I want to fund his startup.”
What’s this man’s name? She frowned into her coffee cup. Finally, she knew she’d have to ask. “I forgot your name.”
“Frank. Frank Lucessi.”
“Where are you from, Mr. Frank Lucessi?”
He seemed to take a rather long time before being ready to speak again. “Actually, I’m from Paraguay. But business takes me to America frequently.”
“I’ve never been to Paraguay.” She wrinkled her brow. “What’s it like?”
Again, he took even longer this time. “Um, it’s just another place. A little like northern California, but hotter and more humid.”
Laura decided to do a little research on Paraguay. She finished her coffee, tossed her wrapped sandwich into her book bag and rose again. “It’s been a pleasure making your acquaintance.”
Frank thought about Laura and realized he found her desirable. She reminded him of all the women he’d wanted to date before he became wealthy. When he was just a street hustler. Before he had anything to offer. “Wait. Please.”
She remained standing. “Yes?”
“I’ll be spending another week here. I’m alone. May I take you to dinner?”
Laura thought for a few seconds before replying. She’d never had anyone express interest in her before. “Sure.”
He passed her a business card. She scribbled her name and phone number on its back and exchanged that card for a fresh one of his. He smiled. “I’ll call you tomorrow afternoon. Think of a place where you’d like to go for dinner tomorrow.”
“Sure.” She pocketed the card and walked toward the exit.
* * *
Glen Sarkov would be arriving in a few minutes. Frank Lucessi reviewed his notes one more time, so as to be sure not to make another mistake. He’d felt lonely since he left his base of operations in Paraguay, He closed his eyes for just a second, enjoying the afterglow of meeting a young woman. He was at least fifteen years older than her, but he was certain he could make the difference in years seem like a non-issue.
His eyes were still closed, a smile on his lips, when he heard a male voice with a Russian accent: “Mr. Lucessi. Have you rethought your bid on MindField?”
Frank’s eyes popped open. “Yes. Please accept my apologies. It was jet lag. The original offer stands. Six million for one-third ownership.”
Glen smiled back. “Do you have the contracts?” He pulled his pen from his jacket pocket.
* * *
At the Student Union cafeteria, Ann and Glen sat across a table from each other. “No, not really. But, I mean, what’s the difference if I didn’t do any research about Lucessi’s venture capital firm? Sure we took shortcuts. From what I’ve seen in Silicon Valley, everyone does. No one has time for product testing anymore. We all let our beta customers do the real grunt work. And in this environment where everyone needs to be first to market, who has time to research investors? They’ve got the money and they want to invest. Isn’t that enough?”
Ann felt like Glen was setting himself up for a big disappointment. He was taking big chances with his tiny, vulnerable startup. She decided to get a better view of what had happened at the meeting with the venture capitalist before she offered advice. “What happened next?”
Glen smiled. “So, then he says, do you want to show these to your attorney before you sign them?” Glen leaned across the cafeteria table, bringing his face closer to Ann’s.
She stifled the impulse to move back when he penetrated her personal space. “So, do you have the papers?” She frowned slightly. “You didn’t sign them without showing them to one of the startup attorneys, did you?”
Glen reached into the oversized pocket of his sport jacket and pulled the papers out. “Do you know any of them?”
She nodded. “My mom uses a guy from the Corporate Law Group. Paul Marotta in Burlingame. He might take a percentage of ownership in lieu of a corporate check. Did you incorporate yet?”
“Yes, we each put in three hundred in cash, so we have all that done.”
Ann wondered who Glen had used for a corporate attorn ey. “So you have an attorney?”
“Not exactly. We read some Google webpages and incorporated ourselves.”
Ann restrained the urge to reach across the table and throttle him. She was sure that not having a real attorney to do the work would bite him. She wondered if Glen would listen to her advice. “Not good. Really not good.” She looked at the contracts. There were several paragraphs that looked nasty on the first page. She scanned the remaining pages. “Glen, this is bad. We’ll have to fix this.”
He looked like a child caught stealing cookies. “How bad is it?”
Chapter 8
Stanford University campus,
Palo Alto, CA
September 13, 9:32 a.m.
Laura read the text off her cellphone:
Tomorrow night at 6:30. Where shall we go and where can I pick you up?
Frank.
She grinned. What’s the most exclusive local place to eat? She searched her phone for “high end restaurants, Palo Alto, CA.”
A long list popped up onto the screen:
Evvia Estiatorio (Greek)
Pampas (Brazilian)
Saint Michael’s Alley (Californian)
Zola Restaurant (French)
Tamarine Restaurant & Gallery (Vietnamese)
Sundance The Steakhouse
Baumé (French)
The Sea by Alexander’s Steakhouse
Bird Dog (Californian)
Crepevine (Creperie
She examined all the photographs on the listing page. All looked attractive, and so did the descriptions of the food. Then she wondered what Frank would like. She decided on Pampas, since it was South American, and that was close to Frank’s home base. An easy choice.
She looked at her wristwatch. Time for class. There was still some of the coffee in her cup. She gulped it down as she exited the cafeteria.
* * *
Daniel Strumler stood on the stage and tapped the microphone. He scanned the audience of over seven thousand people and suppressed his smile, making him appear more angry than pleased. “Welcome to the Indianapolis City Stadium.”
He had to stop for nearly thirty seconds as the crowd applauded, drowning out his voice. As the cheering finally died off, he spoke again. “Thank you all. Remember that it all works only if you vote in the first week of November.”
Once again the audience applauded. While he waited to speak, his thought drifted for a moment about what he would do if he really was elected president. And, he thought, winning the election would depend on the skills of the Russian intelligence group that was his special hacking team. How good are they? Then, as he remembered that the Russian president held a set of highly embarrassing and criminal videos of Strumler during his last trip to Moscow, his demeanor changed from merely angry to a state of palpable rage. “I promise that if I’m elected, my first act in office will be to roll back every one of the executive actions that Hernandez had signed into law. He deserves to be locked up!”
More cheering, followed by the crowd screaming, “Lock him up! Lock the fool up!”
This time Strumler smiled for real. Carl Hernandes had lost control of the Congress, the Senate, and many of the governors’ mansions across the center of the country. His popularity was rising, but not high enough to affect the upcomi
ng election. As a result, Strumler’s popularity was finally rising from under thirty percent to nearly fifty-two percent. And with only six weeks until the election, it was finally looking good for Strumler.
* * *
Glen Sarkov sat at the head of the table in the Student Union’s common area. Samantha Trout, MindField’s chief financial officer, Harvey Kalinsky, the chief technical officer, and Ford Bane, the senior vice president of sales and marketing, were all displeased and showing it.
Sam spoke first. “Glen, my bank account is empty. If I’m to buy textbooks for this semester, I can’t invest any more. Where the fuck am I going to find six hundred dollars more?”
Harvey and Ford both nodded.
Ford asked, “Same here. Is there any other way?”
Glen frowned and shook his head. “’Fraid not. We need to hire an attorney, and in addition to stock, they’ll want us to pay the incorporation fees. Seems we bolloxed it up the first time. We’re going to need a total of at least fifteen hundred total, but to resolve all the issues, twenty-five hundred would be safer.”
Harvey said, in a voice just above a whisper, said, “I may have a way. I have to find out if it’s legal. So, give me a day.”
Everyone nodded at Harvey. Glen knew Harvey was the master of shortcuts.
Each rose from the table and left the common area.
* * *
Ann’s cell buzzed in her pocket and she plucked it out. She scanned the screen and smiled. Avram Shimmel was her godfather. “Hello, big guy. It’s been months. How are you?” She remembered how each had saved the other’s life multiple times. Her successful attempt to thwart the CypherGhost by hack his aircraft’s flight control system many months ago had been just one of the many times she’d helped him.
“Ach, good. And you?”
“Classes are my life. Right now, I’m on my way to advanced calculus. I assume this isn’t just a call to touch base. How can I help?”
“Ann, I may need a hacker for an op we’re planning. You won’t be in any danger. And, I’ll ask your mother’s permission before I give you more details. Interested?”
Ann frowned. Avram had been one of Cassie’s partners before he took a job heading the United Nations Paramilitary Force, a tactical “peacekeeping” squad with fewer than two thousand soldiers. He was nearly a giant, six-foot-seven or -eight, and huge in every other way. He had saved Cassie’s life a few years back.
“Only if it won’t take me away from school.”
Shimmel remained silent for several seconds. “Okay. Jon Sommers will be contacting you if Cassie lets me borrow you.”
Ann said, “I’ll be looking forward to working with Jon. Bye.” She wondered what Avram would want from her. Jon was someone she liked and respected, so that soothed her thought of the inherent dangers in all of Avram’s military ops.
Chapter 9
Twenty-ninth floor,
United Nations Secretariat Building,
330 East 44th Street, New York, NY
September 13, 1:48 p.m.
Avram Shimmel ended the conversation with Cassandra.
When he assured her that Ann would be working under non-official cover with the United Nations, Cassie had objec-ted. “If you want to borrow her, you’ll need to provide her with official cover. None of this black-ops shit. She’s just over eighteen years old. Can you do that?”
Avram sighed. “Okay. Consider it done. Send me electronic copies of her high-school and college transcripts, a copy of her birth certificate, and a copy of her driver’s license. Thanks, Cassie.”
He terminated the call and looked at the wall clock. Jon Sommers had the office next to his but Jon’s office hours started later and went further into the evening. Avram fetched a cup of coffee and walked to the video conference room.
He flicked a switch and nearly one hundred screens depicting ongoing operations from around the globe buzzed to life.
Jon knocked on Avram’s office door. Avram smiled and motioned him to enter. He beckoned Sommers to sit in a chair adjoining his. Jon grinned at his friend. “So, what is it this time?” Jon scribbled text into his notebook.
Avram shrugged. He touched the screen of his own notebook and one of the screens on the wall changed its view to an overhead view of terrain. “We recorded this two days ago. A suspect entered our safe house in Sunnyvale. When he left, two of our operatives had been murdered. Samuel Meyer asked me to look into this.”
“What, exactly is ‘this’?” Jon looked at his friend.
“The Mossad’s captive venture capital firm, the Ness Ziona, noticed that a new weapons tech they had developed appeared on InTelQ’s website. InTelQ is the CIA’s captive venture capital firm. The Mossad sent a team out to determine if the specifications of the InTelQ weapon had originated with the Ness Ziona, but two things happened. First, the team couldn’t find any trace of the American entrepreneurs who supposedly received the funding to develop the tech. The cofounding team had simply disappeared. So, they took the next step, backstopping two coverts into American entrepreneurs and renting a house for them in Sunnyvale, California. The covert operatives pitched InTelQ for funding. They received the cash and provided InTelQ with a product—a product the Ness Ziona had developed and lent the Mossad. Two days later, they were set up as a murder-suicide. The video we’re watching is the outside of the house. After it finishes, we’ll see the video from inside the house. Seems their murderer managed to loop the video cam on the inside, although he wasn’t able to defeat the offsite backup recording. I fear that an American venture capital firm is killing the entrepreneurs after they provide funding for product development. The cofounders are murdered, as soon as they have produced a product.”
Jon pulled his chair closer to the screen. “What do you intend to do if an American VC is actually doing this?”
Avram scratched his chin. “We need proof first. I think this will call for a setup of our own. We’ll need an entrepreneur who can interest them enough that they offer funding, and then we’ll need to catch them in the act.”
“Dangerous ground. Do you have an operative who can perform to spec?”
“No. We’ll need a pretender.”
“I assume that you’re showing me these videos for a good reason. What’s my role?”
Avram nodded. “You’re the spymaster on this one if you want it. Most of the action will take place in Northern California, in Silicon Valley. If you need a hacker, use Ann Sashakovich.”
Jon smiled. “I’ve been dormant too long. Count me in.
* * *
Glen sat in his apartment in Palo Alto, phone in hand, waiting to be taken off hold. He listened to elevator music and the repeating message about how important his call was.
Finally, he heard a voice. “Paul Marotta here.” The voice sounded friendly.
“My name is Glen Sarkov. We have a mutual friend, Ann Sashakovich. She suggested I call you about a startup company that I’m the CEO of. We need legal representation. Are you interested?”
“Maybe. Tell me more. What’s the intended industry and product?”
Glen smiled to himself. Maybe things would work out for MindField after all.
* * *
It was long after sunset, but the streets were bright from neon signs and streetlights. Laura looked around the restaurant as she entered. Frank had held the door for her, a perfect gentleman. Pampas was precisely what she’d hoped it would be. Casual to the nines, with stained polished wooden walls, tablecloths, and the smell of roasting meat.
They were led to a table by a black-gowned woman, and Frank pulled Laura’s chair out so she could be seated first.
She opened her menu and picked something that wasn’t too cheap or too expensive. When she looked across the table, Frank caught her eye and smiled. “You have excellent taste.”
Now it was her choice to smile. “Thanks. Tell me about where you live. I’ve never been outside this country.
Frank’s smile dropped off his face in a flash. It t
ook him nearly thirty seconds to finally speak. “Well, um, it’s just a small country with some small cities and a large number of ranches in its countryside.” He smiled again, but this time she could tell he felt uncomfortable.
Laura smiled back at him to try to put him at ease. Why is he being so vague?
* * *
Paul Marotta sat behind a large oak desk. The walls were covered with stock certificates from now-defunct corporations. He scanned the documents Glen had sent to him as email attachments. One of the documents in particular troubled him. It specified that in the event of the deaths or incapacity of all the cofounders, ownership of the patents and copyrights would be transferred immediately to the venture capital firm. He’d seen venture capitalists try to do this before. But there was also a “buyers’ remorse” clause that gave Glen and his cofounders forty-eight hours to renege on the contract. He read the time off his wristwatch and then shifted to the time field on the signatures page. There were still two hours left before the contracts were cast into stone.
Paul called Glen’s cellphone and hoped Glen would answer. It went directly to Glen’s voicemail.
* * *
Harvey Kalinsky examined the screen on his notebook and frowned. If he hit the Return key, he’d be breaking multiple laws, committing felonies. But if he did nothing, he wouldn’t have enough to protect his interest in MindField. He hesitated, but only for just a second.
The screen changed from the InTelQ server’s landing page to a white screen with black lines of source code. He read through page after page of code. He noted that the server appeared to be owned by the federal government. What the hell? He’d have to tell Glen and his team about this.
He found several lines that were his targets, and edited them to point to a new location, then accessed that location and changed the result to one that had InTelQ awaiting a decision from MindField’s cofounders on the offer they had extended. He then deleted the electronic copies of the contracts Glen and the others had signed. But, he had no access to the paper documents. Harvey wondered where the paper copies were being held, and if it was even possible to somehow snatch and destroy them.