Terminal Value (16 page)

Dylan frowned and looked at his watch. “Fine. Call Michelle back and have her tell Art that'll work, since I have to go to Hyperfōn for an emergency meeting.”

“Okay.”

Dylan paused, biting his lip. Did he really want to draw Art's attention to Hyperfōn right now? “You know what? Don't tell Art that. Just tell him I'll meet him at seven.” He rushed out of the office. What the hell could be so important that Art wanted a private meeting?

* * *

May 6, 3:30 p.m. Boston

Dylan jumped into a taxi at Logan Airport, and within twenty minutes he arrived at the Hyperfōn offices. He pulled out his cell phone and hit the speed-dial number for Matt Smith.

“Hello, this is Matt.”

“Matt, it's Dylan.”

“Where are you?”

“Three stories below you. Can you meet me in the lobby? We should probably talk privately for a few minutes before I come up.”

“I'll be right down.”

Dylan walked into the lobby of the building and took a seat in one of the chairs. Moments later, Matt appeared and took the chair next to him.

“Christ, am I glad you're here.” The normally cool Matt looked paralyzed with fear.

“How bad is it?”

“Real bad. After I told Joe you were flying up to see him, he abruptly ended our meeting. Our team is holed up in the workroom. They're scouring the Internet and making some calls to try and figure out how LC could have possibly pulled this off. It's like they knew everything we were doing for Hyperfōn all along.”

“Any ideas?”

“No. None. We're all stumped.”

“Does Rob know?” Dylan asked.

“Yeah, I told him as soon as I saw the news. He's been in constant contact with me. He's doing some research from his end. Wants you to call him when we're finished here.”

Dylan ran his fingers through his hair and let out a sigh. “Well, I guess it's time to face the music. Any advice for me before I meet with Joe?”

Matt stood up, looked at him and shrugged. “Bring a heat shield?”

Dylan smiled. Matt was very talented, and this wasn't his fault. “Okay. Let me see what I can do. In the meantime, start thinking about how Hyperfōn can respond. Maybe there's a way to turn this situation around to their advantage.”

“I'm already on it,” said Matt, but he didn't sound confident.

They went up to Hyperfōn's office, and as they emerged from the elevator, Matt turned right and returned to the workroom, while Dylan turned left, hurrying toward Joe's office. Joe's secretary was expecting him and showed him in.

Joe's usual warm and friendly demeanor was absent. He was grim. “I'd offer you a drink,” he said, “but this isn't going to take long.”

Not a good start, thought Dylan. “Listen, Joe—”

“It's over, Dylan,” he interrupted. “It's a hard decision because I consider you a friend. But I can't afford to be sentimental. My board is furious, and they want blood. Your blood. They're demanding we terminate our contract with you. And, if we don't, the venture capitalists say they'll pull our funding.” Joe wiped his face. “And frankly, I agree. How the hell did your team miss the Gazi project?”

“Honestly, Joe, I have no idea. We did exhaustive research on LC. It doesn't make any sense. But I have the team looking into it right now. We'll figure this out.”

Joe shook his head. “Don't waste your time. It doesn't matter anymore. With their resources, LC is going to crush us.”

“We don't know it's over yet, Joe. Hell, there may be a way to use LC's move to our advantage.”

Joe regarded him thoughtfully. “Listen to me carefully, Dylan. You're good with people. You could talk a teetotaler into having a drink with you. But it only works when you've got the goods. This is a goddamn catastrophe for an outfit the size of Hyperfōn. We could be out of business within three months. I have to let you go.”

Dylan thought quickly. There had to be a way to recover this. “Joe, give us two weeks. I promise you we'll come back with a new strategy for your company.”

“Sorry, Dylan. I can't do that. And I hate to do this to you, but I can't pay you what we already owe you. As far as we're concerned, you didn't deliver what you promised.”

“But Joe—”

Joe stood up. “It's over, Dylan.”

“It's not over, damn it! Look, Joe, we did our job right. We made sure the market was wide-open for you. Somebody's fucking with us.”

Joe shook his head. “I'm sorry, Dylan. I hate to say I told you so, but I saw this coming. This is the sort of thing that happens when you sell your company but think you're still in control. I warned you, but you could only smell the dollars you'd get if you went with Mantric. You were smart kids once, and MobiCelus was a great company. You killed it when you went with Mantric. I sincerely hope you get the message.”

“Listen to me, Joe. You have to give me a little time. I'll figure it out.” Dylan's mind went into overdrive, thinking back to the very beginning with Joe and Hyperfōn.

Joe shook his head. He walked over to the door and opened it. “You've got other things to do, Dylan. I'm sorry about Tony. Go bury your friend. Under the circumstances, I think it's better if I don't go to the funeral.”

Dylan walked down the hall to the workroom, where he motioned for Matt to come out into the hallway.

Matt took one look at Dylan. “It's over, isn't it? I might as well pack my bags now.”

“It's not over,” Dylan said, his eyes flashing with anger. “Not yet.”

“So what do I tell them?” Matt said, nodding towards the team.

Dylan paused for a moment. He didn't want his people making a scene at the client site. “Wrap it up and get everyone back to the office. Then I want you and the team to find out what the hell happened. That's your one and only priority.”

“How?”

“I don't know, Matt,” Dylan said sharply, “But the last time I checked, this was your damn project. Why don't you figure it out?”

Matt blanched. Dylan had never spoken to him like that before.

Dylan looked at his watch. It was almost five o'clock. “Shit! I've got to go. Look, I'm sorry, but call me the minute you find anything, no matter how small, no matter what time.”

“Okay. I'll do my best, Dylan.”

Dylan said nothing. He turned and walked back to the elevator.

* * *

May 6, 6:30 p.m. Boston

Dylan raced home, took a quick shower, and changed clothes for his meeting with Art. It was six-thirty when he left his house for the drive to Radius. He would be a few minutes late, but he decided not to call Art. He checked his voice-mail. Nothing.

Damn LC! How was it possible all these things were happening to him? He felt pressured from all sides. Tony's death. Hyperfōn. What was next? He seemed cursed with bad luck.

Dylan frowned. Bad luck? What if it wasn't luck at all? What if this latest disaster was just one more link in the chain of problems forged since they had come to Mantric? What if someone was driving these things?

Radius was the hottest bar and restaurant in the neighborhood for business executives who could afford its prices. Dylan looked over the sea of suits and saw Art seated alone at a corner table near the back of the bar. Art waved him over.

As he sat down, Dylan saw that he was already finishing off a glass of red wine. He wondered how many glasses Art had finished by this time.

“Hello, Dylan. Thanks for meeting with me. Do you want something to drink?”

“Sure, I'll have whatever you're drinking.”

Art caught the attention of the waiter. “Bring my friend here a glass of the 1989 Chateau Palmer Bordeaux. And another for me.” The waiter nodded and disappeared. “It's an excellent vintage,” Art said, raising the nearly empty glass and gently spinning the stem between his thumb and index finger.

He certainly did seem to know his wine. “Thanks,” Dylan replied. “So, Art,” he said tentatively. “How are the plans for the funeral?”

“Everything's set. We've got a charter bringing up whoever wants to come from New York. It'll be a big turnout, I think. Tony was well liked. I understand you're doing the eulogy?”

“Yeah. Mr. Caruso asked me.”

Art nodded.

“How are you doing, Art?”

“Aside from Tony's death, I'm good. Why wouldn't I be? Our numbers are great, the market is great, and our stock is kicking ass. How could I be anything but great right now?”

Dylan noted a slight slur in Art's words. “That's good to hear.”

The waiter reappeared with their two glasses of wine.

Art raised his glass and said, “Here's to the greatest stock ride ever.”

Dylan and Art clinked glasses. “Amen to that,” Dylan said before they both took a sip. Dylan put his glass down. “So what did you want to talk about?”

Art set his glass down in front of him. A blank look wandered across his face, and for a moment he said nothing. He took another sip of his wine. “Actually, I wanted to talk to you about Hyperfōn.”

Dylan stared back at him.
How the hell had Art found out?
he wondered. “What about them?” Dylan said, cautiously.

“I know this is a bad time for both of us.” Art's eyes narrowed, and he glared at Dylan. He put his glass down and gripped the stem. “But I want to know what happened and how you're going to get us the fucking money they owe us.”

Dylan felt his heart pounding. How had Art heard about this? And how did he know about the money? “How did you find out? I just found out about it myself.”

Art's demeanor changed. “That's a bunch of crap coming from the boy wonder who demands to have access to board information and company financial records.” Art's tone darkened with a mixture of wine and anger. “Tell me something, Dylan,” he continued, his voice dripping sarcasm. “How is it you only found out about it today? What the hell was Matt Smith doing?” His voice rose slightly.

Dylan moved forward, looking around the room, trying to control the conversation. “Art, no one on the team saw this coming. We studied LC a year ago when we first took on Hyperfōn at MobiCelus. We didn't find any evidence that they, or anyone else, were going to launch a business like this.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?”

“No. I'm just answering your question.”

“You're not answering it very well. I bought your company because you were supposed to be the best mobile computing consulting firm out there, and your clients made the deal attractive. I even gave you and your buddies the roles you wanted and 100,000 extra shares of stock. Do you have any idea what will happen to us if your division falters?”

“Art, I guarantee you it won't. Even if we lose Hyperfōn—”

“Jesus, Dylan,” Art said loudly, ignoring the turned heads of the people nearby. “How do you think the market will react when they hear about this?”

“Probably not well,” Dylan admitted.

“Not well? Christ, they'll
crucify
us. They'll say we fumbled the ball, that we bought a mobile computing firm to expand into a hot sector and the firm turned out to be a fucking disaster. And now, here we are, a public company with people scrutinizing our performance.” His anger boiled over. “I understand Hyperfōn owes us close to one million dollars. Is that right?”

Dylan took a big gulp of his wine and grimaced. “Yeah, that's about right.”

“For your sake and the firm's, you better recover those fees.”

“That could be difficult,” he said, staring at the table.

“What do you mean, ‘difficult'?” Art demanded.

“I met with Joe Ferrano this afternoon. He told me he and his board have decided not to pay us.” Dylan looked up at Art. “His venture capitalists are all up in arms, Art. I tried my best, but he wouldn't budge.”

Art bit his lip and shook his head slowly. “Dylan, you know you've put this firm at risk, don't you?”

Dylan was startled. It was bad, but not that bad. “I'm sorry you feel that way, but—”

“I'm afraid ‘sorry' is not good enough. You know what you have to do. Just fix it.”

His words hit like a blow to the face. “I'm taking this one step at a time, Art. I've got the whole team looking into it. I don't believe we were at fault. We're going to find out what happened.”

“You do that. And you should consider this conversation to be an official warning. Do you understand? This is business; I can't give you any breaks just because this is a tough time for you. You're slipping, Dylan. Not getting the job done. I am not happy with your performance. And we'd better not lose any more mobile computing clients.”

Christ
, Dylan thought,
he's threatening me?
“Art, I'm doing my job. And my division is in fine shape.”

“Now, maybe, but—”

“I promise you this won't happen again.”

“Okay. You've been warned, then. That's it. This conversation is over. We won't discuss this again.”

Art sat back and said nothing more, silent, staring at Dylan. Dylan nodded, stood up, and walked out of the restaurant.

* * *

May 6, 9:00 p.m. Boston

Dylan walked slowly down High Street and then turned west on Summer Street. The sky dimmed as the sun set. He looked up at the thick clouds that overran downtown Boston. He had no idea where he was going. He just needed to walk.

Art's fury about the loss of Hyperfōn and the money could be understandable, except that he didn't take into account the fact that Mantric's revenues were way over plan or that the company's stock was higher than anyone had expected and its market value now approached two billion dollars. Dylan was baffled by Art's behavior over one account. He turned these items over and over in his mind, now confronted with a mixture of emotions, in particular confusion and fear.