by Dov Nardimon
“You’re completely out of your mind!”
“Why? We both know our combined virus is the right formula. The mice have pretty much verified it for us. No mouse died of our hybrid.”
“Even so, this is completely unorthodox. It might be dangerous, and no one will acknowledge the results. And anyway, forget it. I won’t have you risking yourself like that.”
“You’re right, it’s unorthodox; but that precisely will be our biggest advantage. Succeeding in a short cut like that will send out a clear message of how hugely confident we are in the cure, and we’ll have a line of investors wooing us. And most importantly, we’ll save precious time which we have no way of funding.”
“And if the trial fails?”
“Then you’ll get rid of an annoying partner and have the entire company to yourself with no one to criticize you,” said Eddie, smiling and looking away from the road at Reuben, who looked utterly shocked.
“Stop this nonsense. What are you, a Shi’i suicide bomber? We’ll come up with the money.”
“That means you don’t believe in our serum.” Eddie challenged him.
“I won’t think about it, and you shouldn’t even talk about it anymore.”
They got back to the company and the conversation ended, but the idea that emerged on a night of loneliness and desperation kept nagging at Eddie’s mind. Reuben knew Eddie wasn’t joking and that he had to get the money they needed before Eddie went ahead with his insane idea.
I’ll stop being so picky like Eddie about the personality of the investors, he thought. I have to get the money before I lose Eddie and the company.
Chapter 29
Many of science’s biggest discoveries and inventions have been purely accidental, the result of mistake or oversight such that no one could possibly have planned or predicted. As it turned out, that was exactly what happened at Ebocell-Tech.
During every workday the virus-infected tissues would be examined and probed in sealed, clear boxes that had an opening for two latex gloved hands. Each night the company workers stuck to an important protocol—taking every precaution to ensure the infected tissues and mice were collected and stored in sealed compartments. They were working under the assumption that the empty work stations had no live viruses in them, since Ebola, by nature, is parasitic and cannot sustain itself without a live tissue host. The Ebola virus cannot live in the open air, but even so—just to be on the safe side—every morning, the lab technicians would check the empty compartments where the infected tissues had been kept the previous day. One morning, Leonid discovered a live collection of Ebola virus cells at the bottom of a compartment that had no live tissues in it. This caused a panic at the company. Eddie instructed everyone to wear hazmat suits and masks. They spent the entire day combing every room to ensure no living viruses were anywhere else but in that one compartment. By evening time they were able to relax, but the mystery remained unsolved.
Eddie gathered his staff and held an in-depth inquiry, trying to retrace what actions were performed in that specific compartment the previous day, minute by minute. It was almost midnight when the following facts became clear: in the morning, live tissue containing the Congo Ebola and the Reston Ebola were placed in the compartment as part of a routine experiment. Close by and with no buffer, Sasha was conducting an experiment with his electromagnetic power supply. The radiation penetrated the glass compartment and created a chain reaction which rendered the Ebola virus durable and airborne for at least one whole night.
“This is an astonishing event,” said Eddie. “This goes against every known theory. It’s a tremendous scientific breakthrough, but an extremely dangerous one. We’re going to have to analyze the process fully and see if it can be recreated.”
For long weeks the staff worked tirelessly to crack the scientific puzzle that held the potential of great danger. The possibility of Ebola spreading by air could cause a worldwide epidemic that had no known vaccine or cure. They all knew that they could not take any risks and put themselves or others in danger. They had to solve the mystery, even though it meant making an expensive deviation from their original course. The team repeated an experiment over and over in which the two Ebola types were used, and Sasha exposed the tissues to different measures of radiation. Eventually they succeeded in recreating the process and found that a very specific degree of electromagnetic radiation prompted the aggressive Congo Ebola to take over the passive Reston and use it as a sort of substitute for live tissue on which to live in complete symbiosis.
“What we have here warrants publishing. This is the type of discovery PhD student fantasize about,” said Eddie excitedly.
“Only trouble is it doesn’t help our goals.” Reuben tried to curb his enthusiasm. “And in the meantime we’ve lost over a month and have even less money. . .”
“You’re right, but we simply had to get to the bottom of this. This process has the potential to be extremely dangerous. We have to make this public and report to the Ministry of Health or maybe even the Ministry of Defense. I mean, we know there have been attempts to use the Ebola as biological weapon. They only failed because it couldn’t be made airborne. If anyone finds out about what we’ve done here, they could use it for war and terrorism.”
They spent the whole day debating what they should do, and finally Eddie agreed with Reuben they should not publish it at all. They decided to simply make no mention or speak of it to anyone. Eddie was forced to admit that Reuben was right.
“If we report this to the Ministry of Defense,” he said, “they will put all of our work on hold and stop us from proceeding with our research until their inquiry is complete. It’ll destroy the company! We can’t report this to anyone, and we have to make sure none of the employees have a copy of the procedure description.”
The discovery kept bothering Eddie, and he wouldn’t let go. He questioned whether or not their decision to keep it quiet was ethically right. He knew they possessed the control over the potential for global destruction, and the responsibility attached to this possession wouldn’t allow him to relax. He kept asking himself if he should report it to some governmental institutional or scientific authority, but he always returned to the logical conclusion that any such institute might make the discovery public and the temptation to develop it into a powerful weapon would be uncontrollable.
I should have destroyed the material, not kept it in that safe. Now that the company is moving from Be’er Ya’acov to Ness Ziona and Reuben and I have been abducted en route to Japan, Sasha and Leonid can take the safe, load it to a truck, and escape with it, Eddie thought to himself, still trying to figure out who took them and why. But something about that hypothesis didn’t make sense. Why would Sasha and Leonid plan for us to be kidnapped when between them they already have all the knowledge and information they need?
Suddenly, the lights in his room went out and his train of thought was interrupted. He hadn’t come to any conclusions and kept tossing and turning in bed for a long while, trying to think of other things. He closed his eyes and saw Rose. She looked angry and sad. He was startled awake when he suddenly remembered he hadn’t responded to her last letter. She wrote to him when he was on his deathbed, and he only discovered it on his office computer when he returned from the hospital. He read it over and over again until he knew it by heart, but still didn’t know how to answer.
Dear Eddie,
It’s been several months since the last time I wrote to you. You respected my wishes and haven’t called, and I appreciate that. Do you ever think of me?
I’ve spent the last six months busy with the daily routines of managing the farm. This was the only place I could recuperate from all the turmoil I’ve had—leaving you and losing my father and Benjamin. I thought I found my ultimate peace of mind, the way I always did coming to Africa every winter. But as it turns out, what was right once isn’t true anymore.
For the past few weeks I’ve been feeling lonely and lacking purpose, and I don’t know why this
is happening to me. Why something that was good for me three years ago isn’t anymore.
So much has changed since Benjamin and my father were killed. The responsibility for the farm is entirely on my shoulders. It’s no longer a temporary episode that offers me an escape, but an ongoing routine that never ends. I love the way of life on the farm, but there’s a big gap in my heart that cannot be fulfilled—and it’s been that way since I left you. I find myself going through the day-to-day chores here while all the while talking to you in my head, telling you everything that’s happening, consulting with you, answering in your place, and arguing with your answers.
Every night before sleep, I sit out on the terrace with a cup of tea. It’s so quiet here at night, and I listen to the orchestra of crickets and wildlife from afar. I look up at the stars through the thatched roof and try to spot one that you might be seeing at the same time. And although we’re on opposite sides of the equator, I send out to that one constant star that you must see as well everything I’ve been through during the day. I wait and wait for it to twinkle back to me to send me some kind of response from you, and although I know it makes no sense I’m disappointed when that doesn’t happen.
Do you feel me doing that? Do you even have time to gaze at the stars or are your eyes so used to searching for viruses in microscopes they can’t even see the beauty of the night’s sky? I miss you Eddie. I want to be with you, and I’m willing to do that in any part of the world you see fit because without you my life is incomplete. Please give me a sign.
Love, Rose.
Eddie stared at the ceiling. No star was twinkling there, only the fire detector with the hidden camera.
He looked up and whispered, “If only you sent that letter a week earlier, then maybe I wouldn’t have gone for that near-suicidal move. If only I’d have known that was how you felt, I wouldn’t have gotten to that desperate place that drove me to lose control and surrender to the temptation of being with Ronit.”
This realization made him feel so disappointed with himself, and the more he thought about it, the angrier he got. Angry at Rose for being capricious; for hopping between Zimbabwe, England, and Israel; for coming and going as she pleased; and for toying with his emotions and thinking he was going to wait for her no matter what.
Then he checked himself and thought, I’m out of order. I’ll have to apologize to her when I write back. It took him a moment to realize he might never get that chance; he might not make it out of this alive.
Day Three
Chapter 30
Two full days and nights had passed—something Eddie and Reuben were able to keep track of by meal times. Eddie tried to assess what everyone back home in Israel must be thinking about their disappearance—his parents, Ronit, and Mickey, their new partner. They had made plans to talk to Mickey from Japan every day to stay updated about the move to Ness Ziona and assist with advice about the layout of the equipment. Eddie assumed someone must already have called the hotel in Japan were they were meant to be staying and found out they had never checked in. That bothered him more than being held captive did. It hurt him to think about his parents who were probably worried sick about him, and about Ronit, who would be concerned for both Reuben and himself. He felt this helplessness, this inability to do anything about any of this, was slowly but surely driving him mad.
Mickey is our only hope, he thought to himself. That vile person knows powerful people all over the world. I’m sure he’s used his contacts by now, and that there are people looking for us. That was how Eddie managed to cheer himself up a bit despite the depressing realization that with all the friends he had he was pinning his hopes on Mickey of all people.
Motty Cohen, owner of Investron Boutique Investments, was the one who introduced Eddie and Reuben to Mickey. An economist by education, Motty used to work as a mid-level clerk in a large bank’s investment center. At the age of thirty-five and just as the hi-tech bubble was reaching what was then considered to be its peak, Motty decided to retire and start his own investment bank. He didn’t have the financial means, but he had two other things that were just as important in the world of venture funds: excellent connections with investors and very impressive showmanship.
Motty’s father was one of the greatest actors in Israel, and it appeared that Motty had inherited his father’s talent for acting. Apart from some school plays, Motty never had the chance to make use of his acting skills. Now that he was on his own path, he was finally able to benefit from his innate abilities and pull the wool over people’s eyes as he pleased.
Since his father hadn’t left him the kind of money that would allow for starting a real investment bank, Motty mortgaged his apartment and took out some loans and opened what he called his “investment boutique”. Not a bank or an investment banker as the super-brokers in the modern glass towers called themselves, but as he would put it, a small boutique that locates unique investments with huge upside potential that remain undiscovered by the big funds simply because they lack proper contacts.
“This niche,” as Motty would charmingly explain, “is where we target our boutique investments that will produce a huge upside, compared to investing via the traditional venture funds.”
Motty’s business strategy was based on a kind of upside-down logic: the big funds usually worked according to the herd principal—no fund ever ventured on a new hi-tech project on its own. When it came to the stage of substantial investments, several funds always came together. The stuffy little clerks in all the various funds would never dare take on exclusive responsibility. They always found a friend in another leading fund, and based on each other, they would enter a new investment relying on some guru—a manager of some bigger other fund that also bought in to the same investment.
“My sources are angels—people with money, outside the venture funds,” Motty would say. “People who have recognized the potential to make a profit by investing in the Hi Tech industry, but in no way pretend to understand it. They simply know that this type of investment would give them much higher returns than any orthodox investment the banks can offer them. Since I am not a regulated fund, I’m not restricted by a defined field of practice or by exercise dates. I can operate much more flexibly according to market variables.” Motty would recite his mantra that he practiced lengthily in front of the mirror before his transatlantic PR trip.
“And who do you have on your professional team?” the money angels would ask when Motty tried to milk them.
At his point Motty would look his victim confidently in the eye and provide a long and impressive list of well-known financial advisors, none of whom were actually on his team. Before he left the bank, Motty made sure to visit each and every one for a proper good-bye, and at the same chance would casually say, “When I come across a major deal, I’d like to consult you for a fee of course.”
The polite advisor would naturally reply, “You’re welcome to do that.” And that would be enough for Motty to mention them as one of his team members when meeting with potential investors.
Location was also one of Motty’s principles of marketing, so he made sure to have his offices in the right location—in Tel Aviv’s new city, the Diamond Exchange District in Ramat Gan. With the money he had borrowed, he rented three rooms that housed an attractive secretary and an accounting graduate who had to intern for a year on a meager salary at an accounting firm. Motty’s accountant loaned him the intern, thereby saving himself the costs of hiring him.
Mickey was one of Motty’s most active clients. The two men became real friends, and when Motty left the bank, they agreed to keep working together. Mickey gladly referred Motty to the family venture fund that was owned by the brother of his wife Suzy. Motty arrived at New Haven during his “opening tour” as the owner of Investron. Equipped with a list of top Jewish bankers that he had compiled back when he worked at the bank, Motty led a private road show between his previous wealthy clients from New York and Boston.
That was how he arrived at his first m
eeting with Erwin, Suzy’s brother, in October 1997. “I decided to drive down from New York to Boston to see the amazing fall colors,” said Motty. “It’s one of the most amazing sights a person can witness.” But for Motty it was no more than an excuse to justify being there. Suzy’s brother invited him to his home for a light lunch that Motty tried his best to drag out as much as possible.
“Give my best to Mickey and my sister,” Erwin said when they parted, and Motty now had another connection to use one day.
Motty had some interest in Ebocell-Tech but was apprehensive about making an investment without more investors coming along, just like the venture funds’ herd principle indicated. He wooed Eddie and Reuben for a while and introduced Mickey to them as an old friend and investment colleague. In this case Motty could make a small investment in Ebocell-Tech himself, which did not deter him from charging a small commission fee for making the introduction.
At a swanky cocktail party held by Motty’s little fund that was celebrating the first investment he managed to raise for a media company, Eddie and Reuben had a long conversation with Mickey and agreed to meet again soon. That didn’t happen so quickly. Eddie found Mickey’s arrogance deeply revolting and refused to meet with him again. Six months passed, and Reuben came to the conclusion he had to act despite Eddie’s resistance to save the company and perhaps even Eddie himself from the crazy move he was considering. He called Mickey who was extremely friendly and invited him to meet in the Herzliya Marina for lunch on his private yacht.
Yachts had become the nouveau riche’s must-have, and the Herzliya Marina became the favorite spot for the bubble profiteers. The marina was close to Israel’s little Silicone Valley in Herzliya Pituach. Those with new money could show off their wealth not only on weekends, but also during the week—the marina was a stone’s throw from their offices. The posh marina housed a huge variety of yachts. Some crossed the Mediterranean and other bigger ones even made it to the Atlantic. Some yacht owners didn’t even like the sea, but the status they had achieved made them follow the trend and have a yacht just sitting at the dock where everyone who was anyone was.