Final Venture

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 5 6, 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 Zoe.

'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 bio tech 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've 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.

I was worried about her. I had known Frank's death would fall very hard on her, and I had done my best to give her all the support I could. But work was getting at her as well. The timing was terrible. She seemed to be almost physically ill – tired, with headaches, and that dreadful look of despair. She had completely overreacted to the toaster burning her muffin. And it had been unlike Lisa to fly off the handle when I had told her about the take-over. It made no sense to blame me. But with all the pressure she was under, her outburst was hardly surprising. Perhaps she just felt that she had to blame someone for everything that was happening to her, and I was the easiest and safest choice.

Until now, when things had gone wrong, we had been able to rely on each other for support. Of course, nothing had tested us quite like the events of the past week, but I had hoped we would be able to deal with Frank's death together. It now looked as if things might not work out that way.

Well, Lisa needed me more than ever now. I would try to do everything I could to help her, and just put up with any moodiness on her part.

'Hey, slow down, Simon!' Kieran called behind me. 'I had a heavy night last night.'

'Sorry,' I shouted back. I had sped up without realizing it, so I reduced my pace to a more sedate thirty strokes per minute or so. 'That better?'

'That's fine. We'll win the Olympics next weekend, if that's OK with you.'

We glided along steadily, sliding underneath the graceful bridges spanning the Charles.

'Simon?' he called.

'Yes?'

'A bunch of the boys are getting together on Tuesday at the Red Hat. Do you want to come along?'

'I don't know. There's a lot going on at home.'

'Oh, come on. It'll be good for you.'

He was probably right. 'OK,' I said. 'I'll be there.'

But as we turned and headed for home, one other worry nagged me all the way back to the boathouse. Would Lisa tell Henry Chan about the BioOne take-over? Although I'd told her it was confidential, she hadn't acknowledged me. But I could trust Lisa. Couldn't I?

She arrived home at about five, looking exhausted.

'Hi, Simon.' She smiled and kissed me.

'Hi. How are you?'

'Tired. Very tired.' She took off her coat, and threw herself on to the sofa. She closed her eyes for a moment.

'I brought you some flowers.' I went into the kitchen and brought out some irises I had picked up on the way back from the river. She liked irises.

'Thank you,' she said, giving me a quick kiss. She disappeared into the kitchen, and returned with the flowers arranged in a tall vase, which she placed on her desk. 'Simon?'

'Yes?'

'I'm sorry I was so horrible to you yesterday.'

'That's OK.'

'No, it's not. I don't want us to become one of those snappy couples. I don't know why I did it, but I'm sorry.'

'You're under a lot of pressure,' I said. 'I understand.'

'I guess that must be it.' She sighed. 'I just feel hollow inside, like I'm empty. And then suddenly something seems to boil up somewhere in here,' she put her hand on her chest, 'and I feel like I want to shout and scream, or else just cry and cry. I have to work really hard to keep it all in. I've never felt like this before.'

'Something like this has never happened to you before,' I said. 'And I hope it won't happen again.'

She smiled up at me. 'Will you forgive me?'

'Of course.'

She looked at her watch. 'If we go now, do you think we might get into Olive's?'

I smiled. 'We could try'

'Come on, then.'

Olive's was an Italian restaurant in Charlestown. It didn't take reservations, but we made it before the six o'clock rush, and were seated at a corner of one of the large wooden tables. As always, it was crowded, with lots of noise, warmth and excellent food.

We ordered, and surveyed the commotion around us.

'Remember the first time we came here?' said Lisa.

'Of course I do.'

'Do you remember how much we talked? They kept on trying to throw us out, so they could give the table to someone else, and we wouldn't go.'

'I do. And we missed the first half of that Truffaut film.'

'Which was crap anyway.'

I laughed. 'I'm glad you admit that now!'

I suddenly realized Lisa was staring at me. 'I'm so glad I met you,' she said.

It was the right thing to say. I smiled at her. 'And I'm really glad I met you.'

'You're nuts,' she said.

'No I'm not. You've done so much for me since we've been together.'

'Like what?'

'Oh, I don't know. You've pulled me out of myself, encouraged me to show my feelings, made me happy.'

'You were a tight-assed Brit when I met you,' she conceded.

It was true. And to some extent I probably still was. But Lisa had helped me escape from my old life in England, from parents who hated each other and wanted me out of the way, and from the ever-present traditions of Marlborough, Cambridge and the Life Guards, with their inescapable rules of how you should behave, how you should think, how you should feel.

'And I'm really sorry I've been such a pain,' she said.

'Forget it. You've had a really bad week.'

'It's funny. It sort of comes in waves. Thinking about Dad. One moment I'm fine and the next I feel awful. Like right now I…' She paused, and a tear ran down her cheek. She tried to smile. 'I was going to say I feel fine now, but look at me.' She sniffed. 'I'm sorry, Simon. I'm just a mess.'

I reached over and touched her hand. Despite the crowd, no one seemed to notice Lisa's distress. There was something about the barrage of noise in the restaurant that seemed to create walls around us, giving us our own little space of privacy.

She blew her nose, and the tears stopped. 'I wonder who killed him,' she said.

'Some burglar, probably. The house is pretty isolated. Maybe he thought he could get away with it in broad daylight and Frank surprised him.'

'I guess the police haven't got anywhere yet, or we'd have heard.'

'Oh, I didn't get a chance to tell you. Sergeant Mahoney came to see me a couple of days ago at the office.'

'What did he say?'

'He just asked me some questions about where I went after I left your father. Apparently your father spoke to John on the phone when I was walking on the beach. Mahoney wanted to try to confirm I was where I said I was.'

'Could you?'

'He hasn't found anyone who saw me. But I didn't get the impression he had made much progress in any direction. I think I'm still his number-one suspect.'

'Oh, Simon.' She squeezed my hand.

'Did you tell him about Helen's legal case?'

'Yes, I did. Why? Did he ask you about it?'

'Yes. He implied that it was convenient Frank had died, that now we can afford to fight the appeal. It makes me sick just thinking about it.'

'I'm sorry, Simon. He asked about money and whether we'd had any financial disagreements with Dad. I thought I should tell him the truth.'

I smiled at her. 'That's OK. I suspect it is best to tell the truth. Otherwise he'll catch us out, and it'll be even worse.'

'Don't worry, Simon. They haven't got any evidence.'

'Not hard evidence, no,' I said. 'But I have to admit, I am a bit worried.' The waiter brought a bottle of Chianti, and I poured us both a glass. 'Mahoney definitely has his sights on me. I wonder if it's because I'm British. Or rather because I served in Northern Ireland.'

'What do you mean?'

'He asked whether I had ever killed anyone. I said I had, in Ireland.'

Lisa shrugged. 'It's possible. He's obviously Irish. And even after the peace agreement, there must still be some strong pro-IRA feelings in this town.'

I sighed.

Lisa stole me a quick glance. 'Eddie thinks you did it.'

'No!' I was about to mutter something about what I thought of Eddie, and stopped myself just in time. In Lisa's eyes, Eddie could do no wrong. She had probably been reluctant to admit his suspicions to me. 'Well, he's wrong, isn't he?'

'Yes,' said Lisa. 'I know he is.' She looked at me, embarrassed. 'But I have to say in my darkest moments these last couple of days, I've wondered. You were there, you did have an argument with Dad, you do know how to use a gun, I'm going to inherit a lot of money. And the last person to see a murder victim alive is often the murderer.'

'Who says?'

'Eddie.'

Once again, I resisted telling Lisa what I thought of Eddie's idiotic theories. She didn't want to believe Eddie, she wanted to believe me. She was asking me for a reason.

'Lisa, you saw me when I came back from seeing Frank. Did I look like I'd just killed him?'

'No. No, of course not.' She smiled. 'Don't worry, Simon. I know you had nothing to do with it. Eddie's wrong, and I'm sorry I doubted you.'

Bloody Eddie. No doubt he felt guilty that he had got on with his father so badly in the years before he died. No doubt this self-recrimination had encouraged that basic human instinct to blame someone for his father's death, someone real, someone he knew and mistrusted. Me. Since the police seemed to be considering the possibility, and since I fitted into his half-baked ideas of criminology, I was the perfect candidate.

Lisa's closeness to her brother wasn't really surprising. He had always looked after her, and helped her through difficult times. I was grateful to him for having supported the woman I loved, but what I couldn't tolerate was him trying to turn Lisa against me.

The food came, and the conversation moved on. We didn't talk about Frank or Boston Peptides or BioOne for the rest of the evening. For a couple of hours we were as we had been before Frank's death. Eventually, they threw us out, and we decided to walk up the hill behind the restaurant to the Bunker Hill monument.

It was a warm evening for October, and we sat down under the tall obelisk, neatly hemmed in by black railings and crisply mown grass. We looked out over the Charles to the lights of Boston.

'I like it here,' I said.

'That's strange, considering it's where so many of the evil redcoats met their final destiny'

'At the hands of a bunch of violent tax-dodgers.'

'Not paying taxes is a fine American tradition,' Lisa said, 'and one that our wealthiest citizens are proud to follow.'

Anyway, wasn't the battle fought a few hundred yards from here?'

'Smart-ass.'

I smiled. I lay on my back, and looked up at the obelisk, tapering upwards into the night. 'No, seriously, things happened here hundreds of years ago. Wherever you walk in Boston you feel that. You can imagine the townspeople grazing their cows on the Common, or the clippers sailing into Boston Harbor. So many places in America have no history. Whatever was there before the latest strip mall was put up is obliterated, forgotten. But not here. As I said, I like it.'

Lisa kissed me. 'So do I'.