The Millionaires

52

“Brandt Katkin – nice to meet you,” he says as he shakes each of our hands.

“Jeff Liszt,” I say, using another name from the bank. Katkin looks down at my nametag, which says Lapidus.

“Sorry…” Charlie jumps in, exactly how we practiced. “Mr. Lapidus was running late, so we asked Mr. Liszt to join us instead…”

“No, of course,” Katkin says, too polished to show even a hint of annoyance. In the VC world of name-dropping and instant impressions, he’s well accustomed to the bait-and-switch. Leading us back to his office, he weaves through the corporate gray hallways. I’m in front, followed by Gillian. Charlie’s in back.

The further we move from reception, the quieter it gets. Scanning around, I try to check out individual offices, but quickly realize every door is closed.

“So has this always been a division of the Secret Service?” Charlie asks. He’s got his usual playful tone, but there’s no mistaking the anxiousness in his voice.

“I wouldn’t call us a division,” Katkin clarifies as we make a sharp left into his office. He’s wearing khakis, loafers, and a Doral golf shirt. The Miami three-piece suit. But the flat twang of his Minnesota accent makes him seem out of place. “It’s more of a partnership.”

Gillian and I take the two seats in front of Katkin’s enormous glass-top desk. Charlie steals a space on the contemporary black leather couch. The office is high-tech wannabe on a government-issue budget. In the corner, a black-lacquered credenza is covered with dozens of deal toys – the thank-you trinkets a company gives out when a big deal closes: a toy fire-engine, a fake syringe, a bookend shaped like a microchip. Typical business jockey. Directly above, there’s a framed certificate commemorating Katkin’s appointment as a Special Agent in the Secret Service. Charlie’s staring straight at it.

Partnership, my big fat behind, he signals.

I nod in agreement. Secret Service is Secret Service. Still, Katkin doesn’t seem to know us – which means, wherever they are, Gallo and DeSanctis are still keeping quiet.

“So how exactly does the fund work?” I stammer, trying not to panic.

“Don’t let the Secret Service part fool you,” Katkin says. “This is just the next step in R &D. With technology whizzing along at lightspeed, government agencies couldn’t keep up. As soon as we figured out one security system, another popped up in its place. CIA… FBI… everyone was at least five years behind the private market. The CIA opened In-Q-Tel to close the gap. Two years ago, we opened Five Points.

“It’s simple when you think about it,” he continues. “Why kill yourself trying to sprint against Silicon Valley, when you can let them line up at your door? It’s the beauty of the ballgame – every new idea needs money, even the illegal ones. And this way, we make it all work in our favor. For example, if a guy invents a bullet that slices through Kevlar, instead of letting him go to the black market, we buy it ourselves, figure out what makes it tick, and then outfit our agents with the appropriate countermeasures. It’s the best of both worlds – we can use it ourselves, or beat it if it’s used against us. By the time we’re done, our entrepreneurs get their funding – and we get a first-look at the best blueprints.”

“So the government keeps the profits?” I ask.

“What profits?” Katkin teases. “We’re a 501(c)(3). Nonprofit is our middle name. That way, the politicians are happy, competitors don’t see us as a threat, and we’re still allowed to jump into the world of business. Welcome to the future. Government, Inc.”

“If you can’t beat ’em…” Charlie begins.

“Eat ’em,” Katkin jokes. Too bad he’s the only one laughing. “Now what can I help you with today?”

“It’s about my dad,” Gillian says, finally speaking up. “Marty Duckworth…”

“Duckworth was your father?” Katkin asks, sounding amused. “I really liked that guy. How’s he doing these days?”

Gillian’s gaze drops away. “Actually, he passed away recently.”

“Oh, I’m… I’m sorry,” Katkin offers. I watch closely for his reaction. Eyes wide. Chest sunk. Not overly shocked, but clearly concerned. I look over my shoulder and peek at Charlie for the confirmation. He sees it too.

If this guy’s acting, he’s getting this year’s Emmy, Charlie agrees.

“I didn’t realize…” Katkin continues.

“It’s okay,” I interrupt, turning on my inner banker. “As you might’ve guessed, we’re representing Mr. Duckworth’s estate and thought there might be a few things you could help us with. You see, when we were going through his effects, we found this…” Reaching into my jacket pocket, I pull out the nondisclosure agreement and hand it to Katkin.

Nodding to himself, Katkin fights a grin. “There it is – the one that got away…”

“Excuse me?”

“He was brilliant, but he was a real character. Purebred entrepreneur. I mean, we were once at the airport on a moving walkway and I jokingly said, ‘How long do you think it would take to walk around the world on something like this?’ He thinks about it for a second, then turns to me and says, ‘2,633.3 hours – assuming you’re using the Earth’s polar diameter and not the equatorial one.’”

Gillian wants to laugh, but can’t go through with it.

“So you remember dealing with him?” Charlie asks.

“How could I forget? He was a cold call, I tell ya. Just found our name in the phonebook. To be honest, they opened this office to cast lines to Latin America… Who would’ve ever thought someone like him would stumble in?”

Leaning forward, Gillian crosses her arms and holds her own stomach. “What did he say?” she asks, sounding pained.

“He just walked in. Laptop under one hand, rusty old clipboard in the other. We sent an intern to talk to him – we don’t take unsolicited submissions in the office. Ten minutes later, they took him to the commercialization folks. Ten minutes after that, they brought him straight to me.” Waving the NDA in front of him, Katkin added, “We used to joke that he downloaded this off some law firm’s website. But to his credit, he wouldn’t show us how it worked until we signed it.”

“It was that good?”

“Y’know how many NDAs we signed last year?” Katkin asks. “Two,” he answers. “And the other one was for the guy from-” He cuts himself off. “Let’s just say… it’s someone you’ve heard of.”

Charlie sits up straight, knowing we’re close. “So you signed it?”

“He left the paperwork with us. We hemmed… we hawed… eventually, we signed. But after the first few appointments – I’m guessing it was about eight months ago – we never heard from him again.”

“Wha?” Charlie and I say simultaneously.

“That’s exactly what we thought. We were all set to go – we had our team… it was in the budget – we even flew in our financial crimes expert from New York.”

The instant he mentions our hometown, a sharp pain swoops in between my shoulders. It’s like a vulture gnawing at the back of my neck.

“New York?” I ask.

“We actually have some friends in the New York office,” Charlie adds. “What’s his name?”

Gillian scowls, but it does the trick.

“Oh, he’s one of our best,” Katkin says as the vulture’s claws dig deeper. I stare blankly through the glass desk while his feet rest easily on the carpet. “Really nice guy,” Katkin explains. “His name’s Jim Gallo.”