'No, it is most emphatically not,' said Art, leaning forward. 'Particularly not in this case. Not only would it be extremely unprofessional, it would be disloyal to the firm. I've spoken to Gil about this case specifically, and he shares my concerns.'
I swallowed. 'OK,' I said. 'I understand.'
Art leaned back in his big chair. 'We're going to try to keep you out of this deal as much as possible, Simon, but in such a small office it's impossible to keep you entirely in the dark. Besides, that's not the way we work here.' He smiled briefly. 'But anything you do hear, you keep to yourself, OK?'
'I understand,' I repeated. I noticed he hadn't mentioned the presentation that afternoon. Well, if he wasn't going to, neither would I.
'Good. And can you tell Daniel to come in and see me, please?'
So dismissed, I left Art's office.
10
BioOne's building was a small, gleaming, high-tech block just behind its big brothers, Genzyme and Biogen, and within shouting distance of the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. Kendall Square was a prestigious location for a biotech company. Art, Jerry Peterson, and Enever had thought it money well spent. Daniel, who had crunched the numbers, said the rent played havoc with BioOne's expenses. But no one cared. Once BioOne had a treatment for Alzheimer's on the market, the dollars would flow in from all over the world.
John and I had made our way there together, and we were a couple of minutes late. The security was conspicuous: uniformed guards in the entrance lobby, a card-reader on every door, and fearsome signs announcing restricted access to just about everything. We were issued with temporary ID badges and ushered through to a reception area where a small group of people was waiting. There was Gil, Art, Ravi, Daniel and a small prim woman of about forty with short dark hair and very large glasses. Lynette Mauer, the firm's largest investor.
Like many other venture capitalists, Revere Partners didn't invest its own money, but managed a series of funds, each one of which was supposed to last ten years. We had finished investing the first three, and we were planning to raise a fourth fund in the new year. The money for these funds was raised from institutional investors such as insurance companies, pension funds, or family foundations. Revere charged an annual fee for the work and took a twenty per cent cut of any profits. Lynette Mauer was Chief Investment Officer for the Bieber Foundation, a substantial family trust that was the biggest investor in our funds. Gil had no doubt brought her along to see our star investment at first hand.
When Art saw me he frowned. He whispered something to Gil who was sitting next to him. Gil glanced at me, and the two of them had a brief exchange of words, Gil's hand resting on Art's arm. I stood in the middle of the reception area not knowing what to do. Gil noticed my confusion.
'Hello, Simon, John. Take a seat. We're just waiting for Jerry Peterson and Dr Enever. You've met Lynette Mauer. Lynette, John Chalfont, Simon Ayot, two of our excellent associates.'
Mauer smiled in a friendly way, and Gil's charm dispelled the moment of awkwardness. But it was clear Art hadn't wanted me there. Tough.
A smartly dressed woman approached us and led us all through a series of corridors, flashing her identity card at winking green lights on the way. We passed silent workers in ones or twos, walking swiftly and purposefully in well-ironed shirts or pristine white coats. Corridors branched off to left and right, presumably leading to laboratories where mysterious biochemical processes were set in action. It was a far cry from the glorified hut where Lisa did her stuff for Boston Peptides. Eventually we reached a door marked DR THOMAS E. ENEVER, TECHNICAL DIRECTOR. The woman knocked, opened the door, and showed us in.
Two men greeted us. One I recognized. He had silver hair and a young fresh face, and wore an open-necked shirt and slacks, every inch the successful Route 128 entrepreneur. Jerry Peterson, BioOne's chairman and Art's old buddy.
The other man was tall and thin. What was left of his hair was oiled back over a shining brown forehead. He had a long narrow face, etched with deep downward sloping lines. He was wearing a bow-tie festooned with tiny balloons. The implied jollity was at odds with his dour expression. Dr Enever, I presumed.
Gil made the introductions, explaining that Mauer was there to understand a bit more about Revere's most important investment. Jerry Peterson ushered her across the large office to a group of chairs and sofas, and sat everyone down. There were enough seats for all of us. The smartly dressed woman produced a tray of coffee cups and filled them all up.
I looked round Enever's office. It was large and tried to combine serious scientist with international business executive. There were shelves with thick books whose titles were made up of words of more than ten letters. Periodicals and magazines were neatly filed. A large whiteboard was adorned with gibberish in tiny script. But there was also a big executive desk, a corner-office view of Kendall Square with a glimpse of the river, and a suite of executive armchairs. There was even some executive art, although somehow I doubted Enever had chosen it.
Jerry Peterson cleared his throat. 'Before I hand over to Thomas here, I'd just like to say that I'm real excited by this opportunity, and I know when he's spoken to you you'll be real excited too. In neuroxil-5, this company has a blockbuster drug, a world-beater. But people often ask me what else we have in the pipeline. The acquisition of Boston Peptides and its anti-Parkinson's drug, BP 56, will give us an exciting new prospect to talk about for the future. Thomas.'
Enever smiled thinly, as he sat stiffly in one of his armchairs.
Art caught his attention. 'Thomas, before you start, I wonder if you could just explain to Lynette here what neuroxil-5 does, and how it is progressing.'
'Why certainly,' said Enever, smiling thinly at Gil and Mauer. 'Alzheimer's disease is a complicated illness that no one really understands at the moment.' His accent was a hybrid of American and his native Australian. 'It strikes with increasing frequency as people get older. Over a period of many years, Alzheimer's kills millions of brain cells. At first the effect is too small to be noticed. Then the patient begins to forget small things, then larger things until they forget their own name, or the faces of their family. Eventually the body forgets how to function, and the patient dies. It's a horrible disease, for the sufferer who becomes increasingly confused by the world around him, and for the sufferer's family, who see their loved one's personality disappear with their memory.'
I remembered Carl's story about a woman at the Alzheimer's clinic whose husband had lost his smile, and his fear that that would happen to Aunt Zoë.
'There are a number of processes that develop in the brain of an Alzheimer's patient,' Enever went on. 'The pathways of one of the brain's neurotransmitters become blocked. A twisted plaque builds up in certain parts of the brain releasing molecules known as free radicals that attack the brain cells. Then the brain cells themselves become flooded with calcium. The result of all this is that the brain cells die, although it's hard to tell what is cause and what is effect. Most treatments focus on one or other of these processes.'
Enever's face was animated, as he talked fluently and coherently.
'But these are the symptoms, not the cause. What we have managed to do is identify a gene that, at a certain stage in a patient's life, begins to emit messages to the body that set in train these various effects. These messages are carried by molecules of ribonucleic acid or RNA. We have developed a molecule that neutralizes the RNA emitted by this gene, thus preventing the Alzheimer's from developing further. This is neuroxil-5.'
'So the patient is cured?' Mauer asked.
'Not exactly. Once the brain cells are dead, we can't resurrect them. But we can prevent the death of more brain cells, and hence slow down or even stop the progression of the disease.'
'And how many Alzheimer patients are there?'
'It's difficult to say. The government estimates there are four million in the US alone. They figure the cost to society at about eighty billion dollars a year. And of course those numbers will grow
as other medical advances allow people to live longer and the population as a whole ages.'
'That's a huge market.'
Enever twitched a smile. This time his eyes smiled too. 'Billions of dollars.'
Lynette Mauer paused, blinking through her glasses. Gil shifted in his seat, unsure whether she was about to say something, or if he could safely interrupt. Eventually, she spoke. 'Couldn't you give this drug to people with the Alzheimer's gene to prevent them from developing the disease? You know, almost a vaccine?'
Another smile. 'You're very perceptive,' Enever said. 'I couldn't possibly comment.'
God. I could see what Lynette Mauer was driving at. BioOne really could be worth billions if they were able to sell neuroxil-5 to any fifty-year-old who was worried about developing Alzheimer's in old age. I was pretty sure I hadn't heard Art mention that prospect for the company. It was obviously something Enever had up his sleeve for the future.
'And how is the drug progressing?' Mauer asked.
'The clinical trials are going excellently at the moment, although as you know, they are double blinded, which means we won't have a real idea of the results until the trials are completed next year. I'm afraid I can't go into anything more specific. We take confidentiality very seriously here at BioOne. But provided the trials don't throw up any problems, and frankly I don't expect them to, neuroxil-5 will be on the market by the end of next year.'
'Thank you, Dr Enever,' Art said. 'Now, perhaps you can tell us something about Boston Peptides.'
Enever launched into a similar description of BP 56. He was enthusiastic about its prospects for treating Parkinson's disease, but somehow managed to imply that the drug itself had been developed by accident. Then Jerry talked about the deal itself, and Daniel handed round his figures.
They showed strong revenues for BP 56 starting in year seven. As Lisa had always told me, biotechnology is a long-term business.
'How are you going to integrate Boston Peptides into your business?' Ravi asked.
'That won't be a problem,' said Enever. 'We're really just buying the drug. Many drugs are discovered like this, more or less by accident, but they need professional guidance to get them to market.' I stiffened. I didn't like this.
'Although Boston Peptides does have a very exciting new treatment for Parkinson's disease, it doesn't have the capital or the infrastructure or, quite frankly, the management expertise to develop this treatment to its full potential.'
My colleagues tensed. Art threw me a worried glance. I didn't like this at all.
I knew I should keep my mouth shut, but I couldn't. 'Management expertise?' I asked as innocently as I could. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Art's glance turn into a glare.
'Yes. There are very few scientists who are able to take a drug all the way through from the discovery stage to marketing. At BioOne we are fortunate that we have people who can do that.' Meaning Enever himself, I assumed. 'Boston Peptides has a different culture. Less rigorous, less disciplined.'
'So you will have to make changes at Boston Peptides?'
'Oh, undoubtedly. We'll have to let some scientists go. They've done their part, now it's time for others to take over.'
Done their part! Lisa had devoted many years of her life to BP 56, as had her colleagues, and Enever was planning to shuffle them off before they had had a chance to see the fruit of their work. I did not like this man.
Art stepped in with a question about synergies or paradigm shifts or something. I fumed.
Although it was Friday, Lisa didn't return home until after nine again. She looked shattered.
She turned on the television, and said she didn't want any supper. So I cooked myself an omelette and ate it at the kitchen table.
Just as I was finishing, she came in.
'Hi,' I said. 'Change your mind about supper?'
She ignored me and put a muffin in the toaster.
Are you going into the lab tomorrow?' I asked her.
She sighed. 'Yes. And Sunday too. I've no choice. There's so much to get done.'
I was worried that she was working too hard. Perhaps the work was helping her deal with her father's death, taking her mind off him. But she didn't look good at all. Her face was pinched into an expression of fatigue and cold despair.
'How are you feeling?'
'I feel really bad, Simon,' she snapped. 'My father's dead, I'm tired, my head hurts, and I just wish I was someone else someplace else.'
I shut up, finished my omelette, and fled from the silence to the chatter of the television in the living room.
I heard a cry from the kitchen. 'Damn!' A pause. 'Damned piece of shit toaster!' and then a crash.
I rushed through to see Lisa scowling at our toaster, which was lying on its side against a wall, smoke pouring out of it.
'What's the matter?'
'That stupid toaster's a piece of crap.' Lisa was shaking with anger. 'It's burned the damned muffin!'
I pulled the plug out of the wall socket, and looked in the toaster. The muffin was indeed stuck. I grabbed a knife and forced it out, sending the blackened bread spinning across the kitchen counter. I turned to see Lisa trying to hold back tears, her face red.
'I'm sorry, Simon,' she said.
I put my arms around her, and she buried her head in my shoulder. She began to sob.
I held her tight.
'It's only a stupid toaster,' she said.
'Shhh. Don't worry about it.'
She broke away. 'I need a tissue.' She fetched one, and blew her nose. 'I'm OK now.
'Are you sure?'
'Yeah. Stupid toaster,' she mumbled, with a half-smile.
We sat on the sofa in the sitting room, my arm around her. I was shaken. Lisa was perfectly capable of losing her temper, but never over something so minor. I wanted so desperately to comfort her, to smooth over everything that was tearing her up inside. I could tell she didn't want to talk about it, but at least she let me put my arm around her. We just sat there for a long time, the TV laughing emptily at us.
I would have liked to have stayed like that all evening, but I had to tell Lisa about the take-over, no matter what Art said. Once it was made public, she would know that I had kept the information from her. That would really make her angry, and with some justification. It wasn't a good time, but no time seemed like a good time these days.
So I summoned up my courage and took a deep breath. 'I heard some news today,' I said.
'Oh, yes?' Her eyes were fixed on the television in front of her.
'It's about Boston Peptides. But it's highly confidential. If I tell you, you mustn't mention it to anyone at work. They told me to keep it quiet. Even from you.'
Lisa turned to me. 'What is it?'
'BioOne is going to buy Boston Peptides.'
'No! Are you serious?'
I nodded.
'Jesus! Does Henry know?'
'I don't think so.'
'But you can't buy a biotech company without talking to the people first.'
'They've been negotiating directly with Venture First. I think the idea is to sweeten the management afterwards. Which means Henry, of course. And maybe you.'
'I can't believe it,' she said. 'We need the money, but BioOne!' She glanced at me sharply. 'I suppose Revere is behind this?' Anger was rising in her voice.
'I assume so.'
'How long have you known?'
'I found out this morning.'
'This morning?' her eyes narrowed with suspicion. 'You didn't tell them what I'd said about our cash problems, did you?'
'Of course not!'
'Because if you did, and if you're the reason I'm going to be working for BioOne . . .'
'Lisa, I didn't.' I could feel my own voice rising in anger. I fought to control it. 'Look. At least you'll have the resources to finish working on BP 56.'
'Yeah, but Thomas Enever will take all the credit, and I'll be lucky if I'm doing anything more than washing out test tubes. That man's awful, Simon. I'v
e heard all about him.'
'He can't be that bad,' I said, although from what I'd seen of him I feared perhaps he might be.
Lisa pulled away from me. 'You don't understand, do you? Everything I have worked for for the last four years has been sold out from under me to a total asshole. By my husband's firm, for God's sake!'
'Lisa . . .'
'I'm going to bed.'
With that she left me on the sofa, with the television's inane chatter, while she busied herself in the bathroom and bedroom.
I hadn't had a chance to tell Lisa what Enever had said about management rationalization. Given her mood, I was glad. Anyway, as I had thought about it that afternoon, I had decided there was little chance BioOne would be foolish enough to get rid of someone with Lisa's talent who knew more than anyone else in the world about BP 56. I waited half an hour, and then got undressed and crawled into bed. I could tell Lisa was still awake.
'Good night,' I said.
No response.
Usually, on those rare occasions when we fought, Lisa could soon be brought round. But that night I didn't even try.
Eventually I must have fallen into a deep sleep, because I awoke at a quarter to nine. Lisa was gone. To the lab presumably.
I pulled on my rowing gear and jogged down to the boathouse. I was five minutes late, and Kieran was waiting for me. He was a tall, rangy Irishman from Trinity College, Dublin whom I had met at business school. He was a good oarsman and most Saturday mornings we rowed pairs together. He had found himself a job at one of the many management consultancies in Boston.
'How are you, Simon?'
'I've probably been worse, but I don't remember it,' I said, as we slid the boat along the rack.
'I read about your father-in-law. I'm sorry.'
'Thanks.'
Kieran could tell I didn't want to talk, and knew to let it drop. 'Let's get this thing in the water.'
We threw the boat into the river, and I stepped in first. I was rowing stroke, Kieran bow. We soon set up a good rhythm. My muscles stretched and pulled, my heart pumped blood, oxygen and endorphins round my system, cool air flowed over my exposed skin and cool water underneath me. I began to relax. After ten minutes of concentrating on the rowing, my mind began to turn to Lisa.
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