MindField

by D S Kane

  Ann’s voice was soft with the anguish she still felt. “My roommate, Laura, just left with her suitcase. I get the feeling she isn’t coming back. She said I was crazy.”

  Glen stared at Ann. “What did you do?”

  “I tried to talk her out of leaving school and moving out of the country with her sudden boyfriend. Your funding source. Frank Lucessi of InTelQ.”

  Glen sat at the edge of Ann’s bed. It looked to Ann as if he were having trouble processing the information she’d just delivered. “Your roommate and my venture capitalist. Now, that is crazy.”

  Ann shook her head. “It makes no sense to me.” She looked directly at his eyes. “Did you actually sign and deliver the contracts?”

  Glen shrugged. “Yeah. So I’ll also be leaving my dorm room.”

  “What are your first steps?”

  “I’ll be looking for an office site for MindField and an apartment for myself. So, I’ll still be in the neighborhood.”

  Ann shook her head. “Yeah.” I guess, really, I’m the only sane one. So now it makes sense that she called me crazy. You can’t let crazy people decide who’s crazy and who’s sane.

  She turned away from Glen. Maybe I should tell Mom about what’s happened on my end. She decided to call Cassie and give her a sitrep.

  * * *

  At the airport, after they had checked their suitcases, Frank’s cell buzzed. He turned away from Laura and scanned the cell’s screen: Robert Randall. “Lucessi.”

  “Frank, this is Robert Randall. Congratulations on completing your first assignment. I’ll have another for you in a few days. Until then, you can have some time off to refresh. Oh, and I’d advise you to learn a bit more about the venture capital business. Seems you made a few mistakes with one of yours. MindField, I think it’s called. I’ll send you a reading list. For your completed work, I’ve wired your account a total of forty-eight thousand dollars. Enjoy your time off.”

  Frank hadn’t had a chance to speak. He turned off his phone and shook his head.

  Laura asked, “Who was that?”

  “Just business.” Frank sat in one of the seats at the gate and tried to think how his world had so completely changed in just three short weeks.

  * * *

  Jon Sommers completed reading the last of the ebooks on venture capital that Cassie had sent to his cellphone. He’d written a set of cheat sheets, just in case. Now he was ready to call the first of the nineteen remaining names that Lee, Cassie, and he had thought might be most likely to help them snare the venture capitalist responsible for the carnage of the Mossad operatives.

  He practiced his speech for nearly an hour before pulling his phone from his pocket. He took a deep breath to calm himself and smiled in an attempt to push a friendly demeanor into his consciousness. Then he called candidate number four, Daniel Tremain, CEO of StarClaims.com. “Hello, Daniel. My name is Jon Sommers. You don’t know me, but I’m interested in helping you and your startup, StarClaims.”

  “Well, I’ve never heard of you. Be brief, I’m on my way to a meeting.”

  Jon read from his script: “I represent Abah Investments, an Israeli venture capital aggregator. I’ve read your firm’s profile and it looks like you’re developing an AI product that might have military applications. If you’re interested, I’d like to pursue finding investors for your startup. We at Abah represent several angel capital firms, some corporations, and a few government entities.”

  “Angels? An aggregator? What’s an aggregator? How do you approach the process?”

  Jon smiled. The hook was set. “So, I assume you haven’t yet obtained a seed round. Do you have a current business plan?”

  “Yes. We’re looking for funding to produce proof of concept.”

  Jon read the next portion of his script. “How much would be necessary for you to produce a viable product?”

  “A half mil.”

  Jon thought. “So what’s your estimated pre-money?”

  “One hundred twenty mil.”

  Jon did his own set of calculations. “So you’re assuming that you can retain about fifty percent ownership after funding your seed round.”

  “No. I’m assuming we’ll continue to hold seventy percent.”

  Jon tried the calculations again. They didn’t add up. “Are you firm on holding that percentage?”

  “Mr.… uh, Sommers, is it? Well, as you know, every deal has negotiable parameters. What would you like to see?”

  “I can offer you a set of investors for fifty-one percent ownership. The shares will be held by Abah on behalf of its member investors. I can offer the half mil. Of course, we’ll have to read your business plan, meet to kick the tires, and then, if it all looks good, we could arrange to have you sign papers in less than a week. Are you interested?”

  “Yes. Send me your contact details and I’ll email a current copy of the business plan.”

  Jon sent a text of the email address for “Sommers at Abah.” He smiled as he terminated the call.

  He looked at his list of prospects and read the description of the fifth name on his list. Once again, he entered the phone number and started his next call. By the time the afternoon ended, Jon had signed up four of the remaining fifteen from their list of nineteen candidates. He wasn’t sure if this would be enough to discover who had murdered the Mossad team, but it would have to do.

  Chapter 19

  Sultana Restaurant,

  1149 El Camino Real, Menlo Park, CA

  September 16, 7:54 p.m.

  The restaurant Glen had chosen claimed to offer “a tasty menu of authentic Turkish cuisine.” It was decorated to look like the inside of a tent, with images of roses on the wallpaper.

  Ann tapped her fingers on the table where she sat waiting for Glen. Is he my boyfriend? We’ve only kissed and it didn’t light me up. Why am I so protective? He’s more like a best friend, or maybe even a brother. Worse, he’s a distraction from my studies. Damn, I need to figure this out. The door opened and Glen entered, looking around for her, and smiling when he caught her eyes.

  Glen sat across the table from her. He reached across and took her hand in his. “What a long day. I found suitable office space. Tomorrow the team and I will begin moving in. I bought secondhand office furniture from a local place, computers from Fry’s, and office supplies from OfficeMax. By the end of tomorrow, we’ll be productive.” He gleamed back. “How was your day, Ann?”

  “Okay I guess. Order the lahmacun. It’s like a Turkish version of pizza. Delicious.” She stared at him, trying to decide if this was the right time for “the relationship” discussion. “Glen, I like you. A lot. But I’m not sure about what we expect from each other, and I’d like to talk about that. With you. Now.”

  Glen’s expression showed he felt surprise. “Um, okay.”

  “Who are we to each other? How do you feel about me?”

  Glen took a deep breath. “I’m not sure. I mean, I like you a lot, too.”

  The waiter arrived and handed them menus. Before he examined the menu, Glen said, “lahmacun” to the waiter.

  Ann said, “The same, for me. We’ll decide on entrées in a few minutes.”

  The waiter nodded and turned, then walked away. Soon, he returned with round slices of flat-baked dough topped with minced lamb, parsley, onion, and tomatoes, served with fresh tomatoes on the side.

  Glen sniffed the lahmacun. He nodded. “Should we decide on what we’re eating before having so serious a conversation?”

  She sighed. “Whatever.”

  Silence reigned, with them each staring at the other.

  The waiter returned and Ann ordered the imam bayildi, made of roasted eggplant stuffed with tomatoes and onions, and served with rice.

  Glen went with the lamb divan, consisting of ground lamb and beef kebab rolled in lavash bread, topped with melted mozzarella cheese, and served with sautéed spinach and garlic yogurt.

  As they ate, Ann returned to the relationship discussion with a single word
: “Well?”

  Glen looked at the food in front of him. “Delicious.”

  “No. Not the food. Us. Is there an ‘us’?”

  Glen remained silent for a few seconds. Ann wondered what he was thinking. Finally, he said, “I’d like there to be an ‘us.’”

  Ann nodded. “So, Glen, when will we kiss again?”

  He reached across the table and touched her lips with his. “After dinner. My apartment.”

  Ann nodded. “Okay then.”

  * * *

  At the airport, Frank asked for her passport and examined it. He handed her a visa, and said, “This is for you. I have a friend in the government who can do almost anything.”

  When the aircraft took off on the first leg of its journey to Paraguay, Frank placed his arm around Laura’s shoulder. She felt the pressure as the aircraft lifted off the runway at SFO as a comforting gesture. She still wasn’t sure if she had made the right decision, leaving her old life behind. She didn’t know if she was prepared to face an unknown future.

  But his hand, compressed by the pressure of the aircraft climbing into the sky, quickly became an annoyance for her. She shifted in her seat, but his arm remained firmly across her back. “Frank, this is uncomfortable. Please remove your hand.”

  “Huh? Yeah. Okay.”

  * * *

  Ann lay in Glen’s bed. He was gently snoring. She graded his performance in bed as “in need of improvement. Lots of improvement.” He took very little time to come to climax. Not long enough for me. Not enough foreplay, not enough time of intercourse. He moved too fast. After, she tried to calm herself. He’ll need lessons. Most men I’ve had sex with do. But now, he is my problem. She closed her eyes and focused on the dregs of yesterday. Soon, she was drifting into sleep.

  When Glen’s cellphone buzzed, she opened her eyes and forced herself from his bed. At first she thought it was an incoming call, but then as it buzzed on, she realized it was his wake-up alarm.

  He rolled over, nearly slamming one of his arms into her face.

  She flinched. “Hey! Watch it.”

  His eyes popped open. “Oh. Sorry.”

  She moved further away. Her clothes. Where were they? She scanned the room and saw they weren’t anywhere in his bedroom. She found her bra and panties on the floor in his living room. Her blouse and skirt were on the dresser. She grabbed the pieces as she found them and dressed. Then she walked into the hallway leading to the bathroom. She found him in the bathroom, so she waited outside until the sink was free. Neither spoke. She wondered if he felt as dissatisfied with their close encounter as she felt. I’ll have to talk to him about this soon. But when?

  * * *

  Robert Randall read the email and frowned. He’d drawn the short straw. The Director of National Intelligence had just added a new assignment to his portfolio. Randall would be in charge of delivering the daily intelligence threat assessment to one of the candidates running for president. He’d never met Daniel Strumler before, but had seen a few of the debates. Strumler was a rich, pompous idiot who had never run for office before. According to the latest polls, there was no chance he could win. Randall decided any time spent with Strumler was a waste of time, and he had more important things to do. But this assignment, from the DNI, was an order. Randall always obeyed orders.

  He sighed and called the DNI’s secretary. He asked for Daniel Strumler’s cell number, then called Strumler’s line and was connected. “Hello.” The voice was a female—either that or Strumler’s voice hadn’t changed yet. “Roxy Mills, assistant to Mr. Strumler.”

  “I’m Robert Randall, case officer at the CIA. The DNI assigned me to give Mr. Strumler his daily intelligence threat assessments. I’d like to schedule the first one for the day after tomorrow.”

  “Mr. Strumler is at a campaign event. He doesn’t have time for an assessment. Everyone already knows how intelligent he is.”

  Randall’s grin split his face. It was all he could do to keep from howling with laughter. “No, sweety. Spies. You know, the American version of James Bond. As I told you, I’m with the CIA. Again, I need to schedule Mr. Strumler’s first daily intelligence briefing. He needs to know what’s happening in the world. You know. Threats.”

  Apparently, Roxy was a dud. He waited. Finally: “I’ll give him your message. Is this the phone number you want him to dial?”

  “Yeah. Please have him return this call ASAP.” Randall ended the call. The DNI gave me a turd.

  * * *

  Sitting in his hotel room, Jon called Cassie on his cell. “Can you guys drop by the Stanford Student Union’s cafeteria? I need you both with me to discuss the strategy we’ll use when recruiting our entrepreneurs to work with us.”

  “Sure. Give me ten minutes to get Lee and find an Uber.”

  Jon retrieved his notebook from the hotel room’s safe and headed out the door to the elevator. Jon wondered if he should ask both Lee and Cassie to accompany him to all meetings with potential entrepreneurs. That way, he would have a better idea if he was succeeding or failing in his attempt to explain how what he needed was different from what a venture capitalist would expect at the point of making an investment.

  * * *

  Glen hadn’t even had a chance to say good morning to Ann before she hurried from his apartment. What was wrong? Hadn’t he been attentive and happy as they enjoyed each other’s bodies?

  He passed by the wall clock and realized he was late for his first class. Since he had paid for the semester, he felt he might as well attend every class he could, and take all his exams. If he remained in school through the end of the semester, he’d graduate with his MS in information systems. As he rushed through washing and dressing, his mind continued to wander. He thought about the rental office spaces he’d seen and the one he’d chosen for MindField. Then his thoughts returned to last night with Ann. Should I talk to her about what happened last night? What should I do?

  He trotted across campus to his class. As he entered the auditorium, he could see that all the best seats were already taken. Glen found a seat where he’d not be seen by the professor at the lectern. He opened his notebook and logged into the class so he could record the lecture, and located the webpage where he could see the professor’s slides as the lecture progressed. One glance at his watch. He had little time before the professor would arrive. He sent a text to his cofounders listing the address of the property he’d selected yesterday and the move-in details. Instantly, all of them had replied. Three sent “K” emojis. Harvey said he’d visit the property today and examine the CAT-5e that the owner had preinstalled, before the end of the workday.

  As the professor stepped to the front of the room, Glen wondered again, what went wrong last night?

  * * *

  Before beginning his new post, Robert Randall had a few loose ends to attend to. He knew he couldn’t handle Strumler and still run InTelQ. He’d have to wind InTelQ down. And, since InTelQ was not really a CIA operation but his own private side business, his only problem would be to keep it totally off the books and hidden from his CIA employers. There was no way he could sell the stock he’d placed in Child Industries Associated, the corporation he’d formed for the op. He’d have to find another way to move the shares. He was sure he could sell them anonymously using Bitcoin.

  He reviewed his notes on each of the entrepreneurs in his startups, both the living and the dead. InTelQ now controlled fifty-seven companies with living cofounders, and eleven that had borne strategic fruit. The cofounders of those eleven were now deceased, courtesy of Alan Skorkin and “Skorkin Consulting.” He’d need to get the status of the remaining fifty-seven and determine if any of them had made an unnoticed discovery worth the effort of sending Skorkin to remove them from this earth. For that information, he needed Frank Lucessi to attend each company’s next round of board of directors’ meetings. He crafted a spreadsheet table in his notebook showing each one’s next board meeting and sequenced it into a schedule. He sent this table, named “Yo
ur_schedule_of_assignments.xls” to Lucessi’s cellphone.

  When Randall checked his email, there was a reply from Roxy Mills:

  Dear Mr. Randall,

  Mr. Strumler can see you next week on his private aircraft when it lands in Cleveland, Ohio, at 12:30 p.m on Thursday.

  Sincerely,

  Roxy Mills,

  Assistant to Mr. Strumler

  Randall frowned. He’d need more time to finish winding down his InTelQ operation before assuming his new presidential-advisor function.

  Chapter 20

  Lucessi compound, Areguá,

  45 minutes from Asunción, Paraguay

  September 17, 4:16 p.m.

  Laura Hunter clutched her visa and passport to her and dragged her rolling suitcase through the terminal. She met Pedro, her driver, at the Ascunción International Airport ticket counter, just as Frank told her. He said he’d be along soon, but had some business to complete in the city. Her driver escorted Laura to a black Hummer in the parking pavilion and drove them from the airport. She continued to look out the window of the Hummer at the forested land and one-lane road for about forty-five minutes until the driver took a slow turn over scattered potholes into Areguá, which appeared to her to be a laid-back town with a nice church and lake.

  The driver spoke. “Señorita Hunter, Areguá is home to many artists and writers who have set up nice galleries and museums. Outdoor street market selling colorful ceramics. You can visit the Museo del Mueble, Centro Cultural del Lago, and El Cantaro Almacén de Arte, The town is less than fifteen minutes from Señor Lucessi’s compound. I can drive you whenever you wish.”

  She felt a wave of discomfort rattle her stomach. What the hell am I doing? She rubbed her belly and grimaced. “Thank you, Pedro.”

  She could see his smile reflected in the rear-view mirror. Remote from the town, the compound looked like a prison, complete with barbed wire topping the masonry walls that surrounded two tile-roofed structures. As Pedro approached the gate, it opened for him. The Hummer passed through, and the gate closed. Laura saw uniformed guards carrying automatic weapons on the top of the walls. She was unprepared for life inside an armed compound. Her jaw dropped but just for a moment.