A Girl Betrayed (A Leah Mason suspense thriller Book 2)

by Russell Blake

  Patrick nodded almost imperceptibly. “Rayansh, nice to see you. How are you enjoying the show? Anything interesting with our competitors?”

  “I haven’t been to their booths yet. But I heard your presentation. It was quite impressive.”

  Patrick’s eyes narrowed. Rayansh was the company’s technology director and rarely had anything positive to say; his pessimism was one of the reasons he had been a successful project manager with the two Fortune 500 companies he’d worked for before accepting Patrick’s offer. When the little man led with flattery, Patrick immediately suspected a body blow to come.

  He wasn’t disappointed.

  “It would have been more impressive if any of it was achievable in the time frame you articulated,” Rayansh said.

  Patrick grinned. “That’s why I have you and your team. I have nothing but faith in you.”

  “Did you read the report I sent you on Wednesday?”

  Patrick sighed. “I’ve been busy preparing for the show. But I promise I’ll read it when we return to headquarters.”

  “I can save you some time. We have serious thermal issues with some of the components, and radiation levels are unacceptable after the system gets too hot. It will require a redesign, at minimum, and possibly different processors – which will significantly impact both the cost and the production schedule.”

  Patrick’s expression didn’t change. “Maybe we engineer that as rev 2.0? An improvement to the first generation?”

  Rayansh shook his head. “The problems are too significant. We need considerably more time to see if we can rig something so that the current design will at least function. As it is, after eight hours of continual use, no lab in the world would approve it for use on humans – never mind the secondary dosing anyone operating the system might receive day after day.”

  Patrick waved the comment away. “I’m sure you’ll come up with something. But we have to make our drop dead date, Rayansh. Any sort of announcement of a significant delay will kill the stock price. And with lockups coming off…that would affect all of us.”

  “Some more than others,” Rayansh grumbled.

  Patrick shot him a look, and the corner of his mouth curled upward. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about your compensation. I’m not sure you’re adequately valued by your original package. I’ve been thinking about it a lot, and I’m going to ask the board to increase your options by a third.”

  Rayansh’s eyes widened, and he swallowed a knot that had formed in his throat. What Patrick was suggesting amounted to a small fortune for the technology director. Patrick waited until he was sure the smaller man had absorbed the news, and continued. “But of course, if something delays us, those options will suffer…markedly.” He paused. “Why don’t you think about workarounds we can do in order to satisfy the labs? There has to be some way to set the systems up so they operate within tolerances – at least for the testing.”

  Rayansh perfectly understood what Patrick was proposing; he wanted him to fiddle the code so that the scanner appeared to be performing appropriately. Of course there were ways to make it appear to be compliant for a short endurance run, but that wouldn’t solve the core problem with the design, nor the risk it posed for travelers after a full day’s use. Since most of the scanners would be operating eighteen to twenty-four hours a day, what Patrick was proposing was nothing less than fraud.

  The engineer considered refusing, but he remembered his wife and young daughter. The money from the larger options grant would be the difference between being wealthy and being the technology equivalent of the worker bee, never rich enough to venture off on his own to start something that would propel him to the next level, always dependent on the whims of a huckster like Patrick.

  Patrick seemed to sense the battle Rayansh was fighting, because he stepped closer and put a hand on his shoulder – a gesture the little man instinctively hated, and an invasion of his personal space.

  “Do what you need to do. If you want the reward, you need to take risks. That’s the American way. There’s no free lunch.”

  Patrick removed his hand and checked his Cartier watch, signaling to Rayansh that the discussion was at an end. Rayansh got the message and mumbled something about needing to get going, and walked off in the direction of the bathrooms. Patrick watched him depart from out of the corner of his eye and frowned. If the scanner really had significant problems, there was a lot more at stake than just a few more months of non-productivity. If they stumbled out of the gate on their first product, any orders would be canceled, and the markets would pummel them ruthlessly. Patrick understood the drill. The little engineer was living in a technological neverland where money was an abstract. But Patrick knew better. Money was the lifeblood of the company, and if the investors coming off lockup took one in the teeth because of a problem, Patrick would be finished – he’d never be able to get another company off the ground, and as the stock sold off, Ravstar wouldn’t be able to collateralize its credit lines, which would result in a slow death spiral that would end in bankruptcy.

  There was no way that could be allowed to happen. Patrick’s net worth was currently that of a small country, but it was all on paper, tied up in the company’s stock. A hit to Ravstar was an existential threat to everything he’d worked for.

  One way or another, the scanner would ship on time. Whatever it took, he would see to that. If Rayansh couldn’t take them across the finish line, he would find someone who could. Technologists of his caliber were interchangeable, as far as Patrick was concerned, rather like mechanics. If Rayansh got cold feet, he’d simply hire another wire head to make the trains run on time.

  Because there was no way Patrick was returning to scrabbling for a living. Not at his age, after having a hit with Ravstar. He’d tasted the good life and found it suited him.

  Nothing was going to stand in his way.

  Chapter 6

  Palo Alto, California

  Richard Davenport swiveled his chair away from the floor-to-ceiling window of his office at the most prestigious address on Sand Hill Road and addressed the young man waiting in his doorway.

  “Yes, Doug. What is it?” he asked.

  “Sorry to bother you. But I wanted to bring you up to date on one of our portfolio companies. We’ve had a hitch with Terra.”

  Richard’s eyes narrowed. Terra Megatrends was one of the larger investments that Richard’s venture capital firm had made in the last few years, and one that he’d privately advised a number of his key investors they would see a massive return on shortly.

  “What kind of hitch?” Richard asked.

  Doug looked over his shoulder and stepped into the office, pulling the door closed behind him. He approached Richard’s desk and sat in one of the two chairs facing it.

  “The liquidity event. There’s going to be a delay.”

  Richard’s stare bored into Doug, one of the junior partners in the firm, who was chartered with managing some of the portfolio companies.

  “Don’t talk in generalities,” Richard snapped. “What exactly happened? I thought the next funding round was a lock.”

  “Yes, well, everyone did. But apparently the lead in this round has more questions and is uncomfortable with the new valuation, given the balance sheet and the book of business.”

  “That’s crap, and we both know it.” Valuation rounds before a company went public or were sold were largely vehicles to increase the perceived value. Richard’s fund had invested one hundred million dollars at a four-hundred-million-dollar valuation, and the latest round was to be at ten times that amount – a significant increase, if not a home run, which would normally be more like fifty to a hundred times the money. But home runs came few and far between, and most investments either failed to perform or offered a nominal return. Terra was shaping up to be a home run if a buyer for the company could be found, but so far no suitors had come to the table. In the meantime, the company was burning money, and Richard had arranged for the latest round to k
eep the doors open for another six months. The two hundred million dollars still to be raised was essential to the company’s continued operations.

  “I’m not disagreeing,” Doug said. “But they want to have a call with you to discuss the book.”

  “The delay’s a negotiating tactic,” Richard snarled. “What a bunch of pricks. I’ll remember this before I ever let them in on another deal.”

  Doug didn’t say anything. Richard’s temper could be volatile, and Doug didn’t want to risk becoming the target of his ire.

  Richard took an audible breath and nodded. “When do they want to talk?”

  “Tomorrow at ten.”

  Richard tapped his fingers on the desktop before nodding again. “Okay. Set it up. And get me the newest term sheet so I can familiarize myself with the numbers.”

  “Will do.”

  A rap at the door interrupted them. Richard’s secretary poked her head in, a worried expression on her face.

  “Yes, Colleen?” Richard asked.

  “I’m sorry, sir. But Marco Santini is here.”

  Richard’s eyebrows rose. “He is? Is he on my calendar?”

  “No, sir. He said he was in the neighborhood and wanted to drop by.”

  Richard frowned. “Did he say why?”

  She shook her head. “Do you want me to tell him you’re busy?”

  “No. Give me a minute, and then show him in. We’re just finishing up.”

  Colleen left, and Richard threw Doug a concerned look. “You think he might have gotten wind of the Terra problem?” Richard asked.

  “Negative. I just got off the phone with them. This is new.”

  “Okay. Thanks for filling me in,” Richard said, his tone dismissive. Doug stood and made for the door.

  “I’ll get you the book shortly.”

  “Send it via email.”

  “Done.”

  Richard waited until the younger man had left, and stood, gazing out through the window at the parking lot below filled with expensive sedans and SUVs. Sand Hill Road was home to some of the most influential VC firms in the world, and even though Richard’s fund was small by comparison, at a half billion under management, he reveled at the prestige of the address and the power he wielded. Richard was insignificant by Silicon Valley money standards, but he’d clawed his way up from nothing and he was doing well for his age, given his humble start in life.

  He ran his fingers through his hair and smoothed his shirt. Marco Santini was one of the larger general partners, a hedge fund manager with a reputation as ruthless, playing both the long and short side, and often willing to publicly air his grievances with his short bets, usually to their detriment. Richard liked him on a personal level; the man’s charisma and chutzpah made him fun to be around, and his no-BS manner was refreshing after the effete attitudes of so many of the guys running serious money on the West Coast.

  Colleen returned with Marco, who was six feet one, gym-hardened, and perennially tanned. His mop of black hair curled above a pair of calculating blue eyes that never stopped scanning his surroundings.

  “Richard! How hangs it, big man?” Marco boomed, moving toward Richard’s desk with his hand out.

  “All work, no play. You know how it goes,” Richard replied, shaking his hand.

  Marco dropped into one of the chairs, and Richard took his seat behind the desk. Marco leaned forward with a grin. “So what do you have on your schedule for the afternoon?”

  “I…why?” Richard asked.

  “I was thinking of grabbing a quick lunch and heading out to the golf course for a few rounds. Your clubs in your truck?”

  Richard stalled. “Of course. But…I need to check my schedule…”

  Marco laughed and waved at the air. “Nonsense. Just tell everyone you had an important off-site meeting. You’re the boss. You can do whatever you want.”

  “I wish it worked like that,” Richard said.

  “It does today.” Marco tilted his head and glanced over Richard’s shoulder at the lot. “What’s the latest on Terra? We rich yet?”

  Richard laughed humorlessly. “You must be psychic. I just heard that we’re going to be stalled on the next round, at least for a little while. Whether the valuation suffers remains to be seen.” Richard paused, trying to read Marco’s expression. Surprisingly, he didn’t look annoyed.

  “Yeah, well, that’s the game, right? I’m sure you’ll core them a new one. If it takes a little longer, so be it. It ain’t over till it’s over.”

  Richard relaxed imperceptibly. “That’s a healthy reaction. As you know, sometimes these deals take on a life of their own…”

  Another hand wave. “Don’t sweat it. How about Ravstar? That looking done?”

  Marco had brought Ravstar to Patrick right after he’d opened the fund, and it was the other big hit in the portfolio. Marco was heavy in the stock, both as an investor in Richard’s VC partnership and, once it had gone public, with his hedge fund.

  “It’s on track. Patrick’s out talking it up. I expect good news shortly, based on everything he’s been telling me.”

  “He’s a flimflam man, but damn if he isn’t good at it. I’m glad to hear they’re on track.” Marco looked out the window. “Now, how about lunch and some golf? You’re buying the food since you dropped bad news on me about Terra.”

  Richard smiled. “Seems the least I can do.”

  “That’s right. Gotta keep your investors happy.” He looked at Richard’s pants and polo shirt. “Least you’re dressed for it. You got some shoes in your ride, too?”

  “Of course.”

  Marco sprang to his feet. “Then what are we doing in this dump when the sun’s shining? Let’s hit it. I’ll drive.”

  Richard punched a button on his desk phone. “Colleen? I’m going to be out most of the afternoon. Rearrange whatever I have on the calendar, please.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Marco grinned again. “You tapping that? She isn’t bad for an old broad.”

  “She’s twenty-three, Marco.”

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “I don’t crap in my own house.”

  Marco nodded. “Probably smart. I gotta take notes from you at some point. Might cut my expenses down if I didn’t have to settle with a girl every few months.”

  “Got to tighten the belt in lean times,” Richard agreed. Both men laughed. Marco was serious money rich, his hedge fund five billion that he admitted to. Richard had seen his latest toy, a Bentley convertible that had joined a stable of exotic cars, and knew that they would be treated like visiting royalty at the golf course Marco frequented. Richard on his best financial day aspired to be Marco on his worst.

  “All right. Let’s see if we can find some trouble before you have to run home to the little woman,” Marco said.

  “You talked me into it,” Richard agreed, suspecting lunch might consist of several cocktails and a quick stop at one of the strip clubs in the seedy end of the peninsula rather than golf. But Marco was right about one thing: Richard’s job was to keep his investors happy, and if he had to slum with Marco, he’d do it with a smile.

  Chapter 7

  Washington, D.C.

  A long line of limousines stretched down the block, waiting to disgorge their passengers at the entrance of the Four Seasons Hotel. Doormen in tuxedoes stood by the curb, helping the liveried and privileged from their cars and into the building. The majority of the arrivals were elegantly coiffed, bejeweled matrons accompanied by older men. The fundraiser to benefit a Caribbean island few could have found on a map was one of the hot tickets of the week, and the gossip columnists were sure to gab about who was there and who wasn’t.

  A famous ballet dancer, now in his late fifties but still possessed of boyish charm, escorted a reed-thin woman from a Mercedes stretch limo, she almost a foot taller than he. The paparazzi dutifully snapped photos as they paused on the red carpet, and after half a minute of basking in the media glow, he whisked her to the entrance,
where one of the brass and glass doors opened as if by magic to admit them.

  In the ground-floor ballroom, a jazz quartet was working through a popular standard over the buzz of conversation from the round tables, each with two waiters standing discreetly nearby to keep the patrons lubricated. The band finished up its number to a smattering of applause; the attendees were focused on seeing and being seen rather than enjoying the music. The room continued to fill as the fashionably late who’s who of the Washington Scene arrived with all the pageantry of royalty, guided to their tables by hosts with professional smiles and averted gazes.

  A heavyset man in his sixties approached a table near the stage, bearing a woman of roughly the same age on his arm, her cocktail dress shimmering in the light from the chandeliers and her bottle-blond hair artfully arranged to conceal the faint scars from her latest facelift. Three couples were already seated at the table, and they stood when the newcomers arrived. Introductions between the men were muted and brief, the women more animated as they beamed at each other with flinty eyes.

  A server arrived and took drink orders, and returned shortly thereafter with a gin martini and a double Scotch on the rocks. He set the fluted martini glass in front of the woman and was preparing to do the same when the man cut him off with a meaty hand.

  “That’s okay, kid. I’ll take it,” he said, removing the drink from the tray before the server could react. He downed a third of the tumbler in a swallow, ignoring the woman’s dark look, and then frowned when his cell phone keened from the jacket of his tuxedo.

  He placed the drink on the table and fumbled the phone from his pocket.

  “Yes?” he demanded. He listened for a long moment, eyes roaming over his tablemates before moving to his watch. “Who?” He hesitated. “Fine. Where?” He paused, glancing at his wife and shrugging, and then grunted and hung up.

  “What is it, Edward?” she asked.

  “I need to excuse myself for a few minutes, Lisa. Duty calls,” he said, taking another swallow of his drink before standing. “A new donor. I’ll be back shortly.” He stood and made for the ballroom exit.