Final Venture

'What about me?' I pushed him.

He took a deep breath. 'It did cross my mind when the police asked all those questions about you. But it didn't make sense to me when I thought about it. To tell you the truth, Simon, the whole subject is something I'd rather not think about.' He swallowed. 'I liked Frank. We did a lot of work together. I just can't believe…' He paused. 'He was a good guy, you know. A great guy. He wasn't just a good venture capitalist. He was a great person. Kind, generous, smart, honourable. But you know all that. I'm going to miss him.' He tailed off.

I was a little surprised by his emotional reaction to my questions. But I had been thinking about Frank's death too much in terms of what it meant to me and Lisa. There was genuine sadness at Revere that I was in danger of ignoring. I decided not to push him any further.

'The police said that Frank phoned you the day he died?'

'That's right.'

'What about?'

For a moment John looked confused. 'Oh… a deal we were working on.'

'What was that?'

'Um… Smart Toys, I think it was. Yes, that's right. He called me asking for some information. I had the papers at home. When I called him back a bit later, there was no reply. We all know why, now.'

Frank must have called John just after I had left. I tried to remember if I had seen any sign that Frank was working on a deal. I couldn't, but that didn't mean anything. 'Did he say anything about my visit?'

'No,' said John. 'It was strictly business. Get the information and call him back.'

'I see,' I said.

John and I looked at each other uncomfortably for a second or two, and then he turned back to his work.

I turned to mine. But something wasn't quite right with what John had said. I dug through the agendas for recent Monday morning meetings, and found the one for October 12. There was a section at the back labelled 'Dead Deals'. There all the deals that were being worked on that had been turned down in the previous week were listed, together with the date they were killed. Sure enough, there it was: Smart Toys, up-market toy retailer, FC, 10/8.

Frank had killed the deal on 8 October, the Thursday before he died. There had been no reason to work on it over a weekend.

I glanced up at John who was absorbed in a phone conversation. He had lied to me. And to the police. Why?

I decided not to confront him, at least not yet.

I had work to do. I attacked my e-mails. Amongst the dross was one from Jeff Lieberman. I opened it curiously. It said some of his firm's managing directors were interested in investing in Net Cop, and could Craig and I meet them that afternoon?

I was just mulling the message over when the phone rang.

It was Craig. 'Hey, Simon. Have you checked your e-mail?'

'I'm just looking at it now.'

'Good news or what?'

I hesitated. I hated to dampen Craig's spirits, but it was important we keep a sense of perspective. 'It's nice, Craig. But don't get your hopes up. Even if we do get in another couple of hundred thousand, we're still a long way off the three million we need.'

'Yeah, but these guys are investment bankers, right? I mean Bloomfield Weiss is one of the biggest investment banks in the world. They got to have dough.'

'I'm sure they have, Craig. But they're unlikely to want to put all of it into Net Cop. Jeff said we're just talking about these people as individuals here. It's not the firm's capital they're putting up.'

'We still go see them, right?'

'I'm not sure. I mean I don't know whether it's worth going all that way at this late stage. Maybe we should try some European telcos or something.'

'Simon, there's no one else to try. If these guys don't put up, then there's no Net Cop to save.'

'OK, Craig. In that case we go.' I looked at my watch. 'I'll see you at the airport for the one o'clock shuttle.'

Bloomfield Weiss's offices loomed over little more than an alley, just off Wall Street. Boston had some big buildings downtown, but New York's were huge. We were dropped off outside a fifty-storey black monstrosity, with the words 'Bloomfield Weiss' in small gold lettering just above the entrance.

A high-speed lift propelled us up to the forty-sixth floor, where we waited in a plush reception area for Jeff Lieberman. After some discussion, we had decided that Craig should wear his usual uniform of T-shirt and jeans. At least then he'd look like the brilliant computer geek he was, rather than a musclebound construction worker in his Sunday best. Although it was a 'dress-down' Friday, none of the investment bankers looked quite like Craig. But then he was wearing his favourite T-shirt, the black one with the dumbbells on it.

Jeff met us, in a suit, and took us through a warren of corridors to a conference room. From the window I could look over the shoulder of a neighbouring block to glimpse the shimmering grey of New York Harbor.

More suits came in. Or more strictly they were shirts: half of them wore identical heavy white oxford shirts with bright ties, while the other half wore expensive polo shirts and slacks in honour of Friday. Craig was nervous. So was I. With the exception of Jeff, these were men in their forties and fifties, well-groomed, powerful men of money. Where Revere doled out the odd million here and there, Bloomfield Weiss sent billions spinning round the globe twenty-four hours a day. Not that I was intimidated or anything.

They dealt us a hand each of business cards, and then Jeff deferred to a tiny man named Sidney Stahl.

'So, Craig. Jeff's given me the red-herring bullshit. Tell me what you really do. You got ten minutes.'

His voice was thick and gruff, the New York equivalent of what Craig's might sound like in twenty years. I could see Craig found it reassuring.

'Sure,' he said, and he began talking. The Bloomfield Weiss hotshots were entranced.

Forty-five minutes later, there was a knock at the door, and a worried looking young man in a nice suit caught Stahl's eye.

'OK, OK,' he said. 'Sorry, Craig. I gotta stop you there.' He turned to look at the assembled group. 'I'm in. What about you guys?'

Heads nodded all round the table, with a mixture of deference and bravado. If Sidney thought it was a good risk, then so did the others.

Stahl stood up. 'You tell a good story Craig. I like you. You've got our money, but only if you and Jeff can agree on a deal. I don't think you'll find him a pushover.'

Craig and I shook Sidney Stahl's hand, and he left the room, followed by everyone but Jeff.

Jeff grinned at me over the table. 'I bet you didn't think it would be that easy, huh?'

I smiled broadly back. 'What was all that about? That's not the kind of investment committee you get in venture capital.'

'That's the point,' said Jeff. 'It's a kind of informal investment club of some of the big-hitters in the firm, with Sidney being the biggest hitter of them all. The idea is they invest in deals that are too small for Bloomfield Weiss to place with clients or do themselves. It's a kind of macho thing. Who's willing to put up their own money for a big risk.'

'So I noticed,' I said.

'But don't knock it,' said Jeff. 'These guys have had some spectacular home runs.'

'Um, there is one thing we didn't cover,' I said.

'Only one?' said Jeff.

'How much are we talking about?'

'How much do you need?'

My eyes flashed up at Jeff. 'Three million dollars.'

'Then I guess we're talking about three million dollars.'

Craig was ecstatic on the flight back. He gave himself and me a blow-by-blow commentary of what had happened, as though he still couldn't quite believe it. Jeff had hammered out a tough deal. The Bloomfield Weiss syndicate would end up with a large chunk of the company, Craig would keep a chunk, and Revere's holding would be diluted. Jeff would have a place on the board.

According to the investment agreement, the deal still needed Revere's approval, so the final word had to be left to them. But it looked very much as though Craig would get to build his prototype. And with working silicon, funding would come in from resellers like Luxtel and Ericsson. Net Cop was going to work.