Green Kills

by Avi Domoshevizki

  Green Kills

  Avi Domoshevizki

  Green Kills/ Avi Domoshevizki

  Copyright © 2015 Avi Domoshevizki. All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No parts of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the permission, in writing, of the author.

  Translated from Hebrew by Yaron Regev

  Editor of the Hebrew edition: Amnon Jackont

  Copyediting of the English edition: Julie MacKenzie of Free Range Editorial

  Contact: avidomoshevizki@gmail.com

  Table of contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

  To my Dear Parents

  Where large sums of money are concerned, it is advisable to trust nobody.

  (Agatha Christie)

  The true mystery of the world is the visible, not the invisible.

  (Oscar Wilde)

  Prologue

  New York, September 6, 2012, 8:30 AM

  Overly fancy offices had always filled Ronnie with a sense of unease. He was a man of deeds, not of appearances. The reception area of the venture capital fund he had entered cried out, “There’s money here, and lots of it.” Above the receptionist’s desk hung a painting from Matisse’s dancer series, and Ronnie had no doubt it was an original. He couldn’t shake the feeling that the receptionist was chosen because of her skinny ballerina look as well.

  The phone in his pocket vibrated. He fished it out and read: I’ll bet you whatever you want that she’s hot. He didn’t have to see the sender’s name. It was Gadi. Ever since Ronnie had moved to the United States, the two of them had felt like separated twins. They spoke on the phone daily, shared the details of their lives with one another, and mainly missed each other terribly.

  The receptionist fixed a pair of green, questioning eyes on him.

  “My name is Ronnie Saar. I’m here to see David Lammar.”

  “Follow me, please.” She smiled as if she’d been waiting all morning for his arrival.

  He followed her perfect rear end to a conference room with clear glass walls proudly meant to declare: “Transparency and business integrity are the name of the game.” Ronnie knew from experience that the declaration was completely unfounded.

  “David, the managing partner, will join you in a moment,” she remarked with the professional indifference of a flight attendant. “Would you like something to drink? Something cold, perhaps? Coffee?”

  “A glass of water please.”

  “Perrier or Evian?”

  “It doesn’t matter. Whatever you like best.”

  “I prefer Evian.”

  “Evian will be perfect,” Ronnie hurried to answer, careful to maintain his companion’s level of seriousness.

  The young woman leaned forward, keeping her long legs stretched. With robotic efficiency, she took out a bottle of Evian water from an office refrigerator hidden within a cabinet. She removed the bottle cap with a swift unscrewing motion and poured Ronnie half a glass. The half empty bottle was placed to his left, in the center of a copper foil coaster embossed with the logo of one of the fund's portfolio companies.

  “He’ll be here soon,” she promised and tiptoed out while tugging at the hem of her pencil skirt.

  Ronnie took a sip of the water. He couldn’t taste any difference between the fancy bottled water and regular tap water and smiled with irony as he recalled how, during his military service, the mere knowledge of available water would bring about indescribable pleasure. Then he fished the telephone from his pocket once more and sent Gadi a message: Hot indeed. But like many other things in this office, completely fake. He left the phone next to him and, as was his custom, allowed his eyes to wander about and investigate, etching in his mind each and every detail in the room.

  The company’s logo, an image of a four-armed woman at its center with the name of the fund displayed above her head: Visions Partners LLC, was engraved on the glass wall in front of him. He liked the symbolic usage of Lakshmi, the Hindu goddess of wealth and prosperity. It had a touch of sophistication, as well as a wink and a nod to the vast Indian market. Plaques and trophies — tombstones, as the bankers are proud to call them — of every imaginable shape and color sat on low mahogany chests against the glass walls. Each proudly displayed the name of a company belonging to the fund and the amount invested in it. Additional plaques boasted the names of other companies and the amounts at which they had been sold. Ronnie had a memento just like that at home, somewhere in the attic. It had been given to him by the bankers who had led the sale of his company to Johnson & Johnson two years ago. They’d earned more than eight million dollars from the sale, while Ronnie had received a Plexiglas trophy engraved with the name of his company, the buyer’s name, and a quite inconceivable number beneath them — four hundred and eighty million dollars. It was the day on which his life had changed. From a penniless kibbutz member who lived off of scholarships and often settled for one meal a day — he instantly became a millionaire who never needed to be worried about having livelihood challenges again.

  Ronnie shifted his gaze to the Matisse dance painting beyond the glass partition.

  “I see the painting has piqued your interest,” he heard a voice to his right say. “My rivals accuse me of a tendency for ostentation. Those who know me better realize that I simply have a weak spot for beautiful things.”

  Ronnie rose from his seat.

  “David Lammar.” The man extended his hand.

  “Ronnie Saar. Pleased to meet you.” The handshake was firm and lasted about three seconds, enough time to create the impression of personal attention, yet not ingratiating or sticky.

  David sat by Ronnie’s side and angled his chair toward him. “As you would imagine, we’ve researched you quite a bit, and I have to admit we were very impressed by what we found. What we weren’t able to find was just as impressive. I understand you served in a secret Israeli army unit, and you’re still on reserve duty even though you live in the United States. Is that correct?”

  “I don’t see how this has anything to do with the matter I’ve come here to discuss,” answered Ronnie, attempting to subdue the resistance rising in him toward this intrusion. “Yes, I served in the Israeli army and yes, I still do my duty for my country by serving my quota of reserve days. But since then I’ve also finished a
PhD in biological engineering at MIT and founded a successful company that was acquired by J&J. I think that’s what I have to sell, not one mysterious story or another from the time I was eighteen.”

  “You’re right,” David said with a forced smile. “I just want to make sure you weren’t a professional assassin or something of that nature.”

  Ronnie didn’t answer.

  “OK, let’s drop the subject,” David said, drawing out his words and using the time to prepare the next topic of conversation. “We in the fund believe that your area of specialty, the medical market, will become the next big thing in the coming years. We’ve decided to recruit in advance a top-notch team, experts in this particular field, in order to strategically strengthen our next fund.”

  “Your next fund?” Ronnie was surprised.

  “Yes, we’ve been running our second fund for the last two years. A year or two from today we plan on starting to raise funds for our third one.” David went silent and following a brief pause added, “I hope you realize everything we’re discussing must remain in this room. Consider yourself having signed a nondisclosure agreement.”

  Ronnie nodded his agreement.

  “As you can see,” David said, gesturing toward the tombstones commemorating deals, “we’ve had quite a few successes. So far, we’ve earned our first fund’s investors five times their initial investments,[1] and we’ve still to exhaust the profit potential. The fund’s portfolio contains at least five additional promising companies that may in themselves double or triple the profits returned to investors.” David smiled, allowing the impressive information to sink in. “Regarding the second fund, I can tell you that in our last annual meeting with the fund’s investors, which took place about a month ago, we hinted to them that based on information we now have, the second fund may outshine the performance of the first one.” He casually poured himself some water from the bottle standing in front of Ronnie and drank slowly.

  “The third fund, which, as I’ve already mentioned, we’ll begin to raise money for in about two years, will be in a league of its own. This time we intend to raise eight hundred million dollars. This requires, of course, a different level of organizational preparation,” his voice rose with restrained enthusiasm, “and this is why you’re here, with me. If you prepared yourself for a job interview, I’ll have to disappoint you. There’ll be no interview. We simply want you. Assuming we can agree on the terms, you can start tomorrow.”

  David paused, indicating with a gesture that it was Ronnie’s turn to speak. He knew exactly what he was about to hear. Ninety-eight percent of the interviewees, no matter how brilliant, slapped infantile smiles on their faces and thanked him with banal responses such as, “I promise I won’t let you down.”

  But Ronnie remained calm and matter-of-fact. “Thank you for the trust you and the other partners are placing in me, but before I can respond to the offer, it’s important for me to know more about the course of the career I can expect while working for the fund.”

  “A good point.” David hid his embarrassment behind a compliment. “You’ll start as a senior associate[2] in the current fund. If you prove yourself in the course of the next two years, you’ll be promoted to the position of partner in the next fund. You do realize, of course, this is an unusually fast promotion in our field. On the other hand, if you aren’t good enough — perhaps ‘good’ is not the right word to use, ‘brilliant and committed’ may better describe our requirements — then less than two years from now our ways shall part. We’ve had three senior associates in the first fund, all Harvard graduates. None of them are still with us today. They were very good, I must admit, but not exceptionally excellent. It’s all or nothing. That’s our philosophy. All or nothing,” he repeated quietly.

  “Indeed a fast promotion track, and thank you for presenting the less attractive route,” Ronnie replied evenly. “How would you like to proceed?”

  “Do you have interviews with other funds?” asked David.

  “Three more. I’ve done my second interview at two of them and was invited for a final meeting at both. With the third one I’ve passed a human resources interview and was invited to meet the senior partners.”

  “Which funds, if I may ask?”

  “I’d rather not provide that information. None of the funds have made me an offer, and perhaps won’t do so in the future, therefore I see no point in sharing their names at this stage,” answered Ronnie calmly, looking at David’s manicured hands, which he felt had delved too deeply into his life.

  “Discretion is an important quality in our industry,” David muttered, half mockingly. “What I’m about to offer you was agreed upon by all the partners.[3] We don’t believe in dragging our feet. As I stated, we’ve done our homework and researched you; now all that remains is to finalize the terms.” He glanced at his watch, and with perfect timing the door opened and an Asian-looking man peeped inside and announced, “David, the call starts in two minutes.” Ronnie recognized him from the photos on the fund’s website — Henry Chen, the second senior partner in the fund and the one who’d established it along with David.

  David rose from his seat. “Excuse me for a moment, I need to make a short telephone call to the managing partner of the Fidelity fund. We’re closing a joint investment round with him in one of our portfolio companies. This will take five minutes tops. OK?” He did not wait for a reply and left the room.

  Ronnie followed David’s chubby figure walking quickly beyond the glass wall, and wondered if they were trying to hint they knew about the interview he had with Fidelity the day before. He was flattered by the wooing gestures but decided that unless an especially tempting offer was presented when the meeting resumed he would avoid providing an immediate answer.

  He left his seat, went to the hidden refrigerator from which the receptionist had taken the Evian, and fished out another one. Through the transparent wall, he could see a displeased expression developing on her face. He sent her a smile, indicating with exaggerated stage-acting movements that David had drunk the water intended for him. She returned a smile.

  David kept his word. Precisely five minutes later, Ronnie saw his plump belly making its way back to the conference room. As if they’d never stopped their conversation, he said, “At this stage, we’re willing to offer you two percent of the second fund’s profits, in spite of the fact it is already in a progressive stage of its life cycle. I assume you realize this number will likely translate into ten million dollars or more for your share. Obviously, should you become a partner in the next fund, your share in that fund would be significantly higher. I believe there’s no need to stress to you that this is an exceptionally generous offer.”

  Ronnie wondered why David and his partners were so determined to have him in their midst. “This is indeed a generous offer,” he agreed with a flat voice.

  “Additionally, you will receive a three hundred and sixty thousand dollar annual salary. A number that makes it rather easy to calculate the monthly salary. Needless to say, once you’re a partner, your salary will also be significantly upgraded.”

  David stopped talking and leveled his gaze at Ronnie, awaiting his reply.

  “It’s way more than I expected your initial offer to be and a little more than what I thought I’d actually get, following a long and laborious negotiation process,” Ronnie admitted. “I appreciate your offer very much, but before I’m able to accept it, I’d like to meet with the rest of the staff members. I believe I’ll work here for a long while, and they’ll be the people I’ll spend most of my time with. Would you like to set up another time for these meetings?”

  “I’d have been surprised if you hadn’t asked for such meetings,” said David, and a little smile fluttered on his lips. He took a piece of paper from his pocket and handed it to Ronnie. “This is the timetable for your meetings today with Henry Chen, the partner with whom I built the fund, with George Epidorus, the partner leading of the telecom investments, and with Stephen Doshen, the partne
r responsible for our software investments. At the same time, I’ll ask human resources to draft the contract, and if my partners are to your liking, I believe we’ll be able to sign before the end of the day.” David set down the paper, extended his hand to Ronnie, and following a brief shake, left the room without adding a single word.

  Chapter 1

  New York, February 20, 2013, 1:30 PM

  A grim view of Manhattan was visible through the glass wall in Ronnie’s 29th floor office on Sixth Avenue. The weather had persisted in its gloominess for a week. The dark skies refused to yield rain but at the same time were determined to prevent any sunbeams from illuminating the crowded avenue below. His experiences since he had begun his employment with the fund had served to awaken a slight sense of dreariness in him as well. For almost six months he’d been suffocating in this prison house of capitalism: two tables, two chairs, two cabinets installed under two enclosed bookstands and two slaves, willingly locked up in a single room — slaves daily pitted against each other by their masters.

  Ronnie turned his back on the city and shifted his gaze to Roy Hilbert III, with whom he shared the office. Like every person who had ever laid eyes on Roy, Ronnie determined that Hilbert’s parents must have had a great relationship with the almighty —the man possessed perfect genes. Roy boasted an impressive mane of blond hair, parted with mathematical accuracy right in the middle of his forehead. Ronnie was willing to bet that fixing his hairdo deprived his office mate of at least half an hour of sleep each morning. His straight, noble nose was set with irksome precision between a pair of blue eyes, and he possessed a Kirk Douglas-like furrowed chin. Roy fussed over his attire with the same air of seriousness with which he added the title “the third” to his name each time he introduced himself. His meticulously pressed shirts matched in color the endless variety of chinos, which, he never failed to mention, had been special-ordered from Italy. But, just like every natural element presuming perfection, Roy had a weakness, well known by everyone but himself: He was completely humorless. He’s so full of himself, there’s no room left inside for a sense of humor, Ronnie had recognized the problem as early as the first week of their acquaintance.