The Start-Up Part 6

"I think the information is going to come out regardless. The difference is, I can give it to you now and give you a head start to tell your father and be a heroic son, or at least a powerful one. As much fun as it is to have me wrapped around your finger, I bet having Ted on your leash would suit you even more."

T. J. considered this carefully. As annoying as it was, she was right. He wanted this. He wanted his father to respect him one way or another.

"Okay," he said. "I'll destroy the tapes. There's only one hard copy. I'll mail it to you and you can do whatever you want with it. And the digital version is on my laptop in my car. We can erase it after you tell me what you've got."

Patty's thin lips spread into a satisfied smile. "Very good," she said, sticking out her hand to shake on it.

T. J. thought the handshake a little unnecessary but did it anyway.

"Okay, spill."

"So," Patty sat up in her chair. "It turns out Gibly is stealing peoples'

information. Well, not really stealing it, but apparently when you download any of the applications onto your phone, it installs a chip that tracks everything you do on your phone, including all the websites you visit and, through your GPS, everywhere you go."

"Lots of software tracks where you go. How do you think Google knows what ads to feed you? It drops cookies and follows where you go.

You're going to have to do a little better than that, Patty."

"Yes, but Google doesn't keep a database that records everywhere you've been and everything you've seen, organizing it by the unique ID number on the back of your phone."

"Gibly does that?"

"Yep! Did you seriously take Adam Dory to a strip club after your party?"

"How did you know that?" T. J. sat forward in his chair. "No way."

"And that's not all. Apparently Lloyd's has been receiving ma.s.sive payments from some random bank account for the past year for an unspecified service."

"You mean . . . " He started to put it together. "There's no way they'd be selling that information."

"Three-point-eight billion says they are," Patty shot back, pleased with her wit.

"Patty, this is ma.s.sive. I mean, that's a huge f.u.c.king deal. You better be right about this. How did you find all this out?"

"Adam Dory was in my room the other day blabbing on about starting a company and told his sister, my roommate, about Gibly, and she hacked into the site and found the database. Then she hacked into Lloyd's bank accounts and found the secret deposits."

"But that's . . . how is that possible? It's maybe the most sophisticated software on the planet. There's no way some freshman could hack in."

"She's a total nerd. Like, beyond nerd. Imagine if a computer and an iPhone had a baby-that's Amelia."

"And she and her brother told you about it?"

"They thought I was asleep."

T. J. laughed. "You little b.i.t.c.h. You're even more of a troublemaker than I gave you credit for."

Patty smiled, knowing this was a compliment.

"Alright, my dear, let's go destroy those tapes. Are you in charge of your own trust fund? Might want to call tomorrow and make sure whatever of it is invested in Gibly gets sold, p.r.o.nto." Even though Patty didn't have full access to her trust fund until her thirty-fifth birthday, Patty had a.s.sumed investment decision rights on her eighteenth birthday. Since she knew nothing about investing, she just signed whatever her father sent her and let him handle it. She made a mental note to go back and check what she'd signed to make sure none of it had gone to Gibly.

"Thanks, T. J. I actually hadn't thought of that."

"No worries." He stuck out his hand. "I think we'll make a good team, you and I."

Chapter 11.

Family Decisions.

Where Patty dressed up on Sundays for three-course family dinners prepared by the live-in cook, the Dorii put on sweat pants and snuck food out of the dining hall for their Sunday movie night tradition.

They were working through AMC's list of the top one hundred films of all time. Amelia plopped down on the mattress Adam had set up as a couch in his dorm room and pulled her tray of dining hall chow mein onto her lap.

Adam's a.s.signed freshman roommate, an aspiring nuclear physicist from the Ukraine who spoke broken English and had a penchant for heavy metal music, had had a mental breakdown in the fall and never came back after winter break. Adam considered saying something, but it was so convenient having a double dorm room all to himself that he eventually decided just to wait and see if the University figured it out. They hadn't, or had chosen not to do anything about it, so he'd pulled the mattress off his roommate's bed and made a makes.h.i.+ft sofa, on which he now joined his sister.

"What are we watching tonight?" Amelia asked between bites of greasy Chinese noodles.

"The G.o.dfather, Part II," he answered as he inserted the disc into Amelia's laptop, which she'd brought over with a cable to connect to a thirty-six-inch monitor Adam had "borrowed" from the Gates Building.

Amelia scrunched her nose in disapproval. She'd hated The G.o.dfather, Part I, with all its violence and betrayal, and had hoped they could remove the sequel from their list of must-sees. But Adam couldn't wait to see the next one. He was totally enthralled by the strength of loyalty and the strategy of the family.

"I know, I know. I didn't complain on Casablanca week, though," he said as he punched his sister lovingly on the arm.

Amelia rolled her eyes. "Fine, fine."

It didn't matter anyway. Thirty minutes in, she was sound asleep, half a bite of chocolate pudding still left on her spoon.

When he realized she was sleeping, Adam laughed, moved the tray from her lap, and gently placed a pillow behind her head. He was deeply engrossed in the movie when an e-mail notification popped up on Amelia's screen. The mail icon bounced up and down in the corner, its cheerfulness the ant.i.thesis of the drama unfolding onscreen.

Adam leaned forward to click the icon so it would stop bouncing, but when he saw the subject line and sender-"Nice Meeting You!" from Tom Fenway-his interest was piqued. He paused the movie and opened the e-mail.

Dear Amelia, You'll have to forgive my tactics, but I called a few friends at Stanford and got them to track down your e-mail address (luckily there are only two women named Amelia in your freshman cla.s.s, and the other is from France), but I wanted to follow up with you about your awesome invention.

As I mentioned, I'm launching an incubator for start-up companies and I'd love to have you join. I know you're anti-business, and I total y get that. Trust me, I was completely anti-business when I started out.

But I think together we could create something that allows you to do even more of what you love to do, and have a lot of fun doing it.

I'm including my contact information just in case you scratched it out of your notebook. I've also attached a Word doc.u.ment that provides more detail about the incubator. Please give it some thought and let me know if you have any questions or want to talk more.

All the best, Tom Tom Fenway Fenway Ventures, LLC 2800 Sand Hill Rd Palo Alto, CA 94025 (650) 326-9251.

[email protected] Adam's jaw dropped. What was this e-mail, and why hadn't Amelia told him about Tom Fenway? He quickly googled Fenway Ventures and got over sixty thousand articles mentioning "Tom Fenway," the second of which was a Wikipedia entry.

"s.h.i.+t-this guy's got a Wikipedia page?" Adam whispered to himself.

He clicked it open.

Tom Fenway (born June 12, 1958) is a Canadian-American entrepreneur and Angel Investor. In 1984, Tom founded Kadence, a technology that allowed musicians to create and aggregate music digitally; with the expansion of the Internet, Fenway took Kadence online and created the first online music aggregator. In 1994, he sold the company to Apple for an estimated $1.8 billion (at the time, a record amount for a technology sale), and it is today credited as the original iTunes.

Today, Fenway lives in Woodside, California, and acts as an Angel Investor to small companies in Silicon Valley. Around Silicon Valley, Fenway is known for his laid-back aesthetic, notoriously wearing flip-flops to high profile meetings, and his obsession with the Grateful Dead. His wife, Margaret, pa.s.sed away in 2009 from breast cancer; Tom Fenway is a major contributor and spokesperson for several breast cancer prevention organizations.

Adam didn't need to read more. Almost two billion dollars? In 1994?

If you considered the time lag, that was, like, bigger than Gibly. And this guy was e-mailing Amelia? How had she not told him about this? Why was Tom implying that she'd turned him down?

"Are you reading my e-mails?" Amelia's voice sounded groggy, and she called out from the sofa without lifting her head or opening her eyes.

"As a matter of fact, I am, Amelia," Adam said sternly, "and I'd like to understand why you failed to mention your meeting with Tom Fenway." Amelia popped one eye open and saw her brother, totally alert and looking cross, staring at her from her computer. She sat up, "I didn't think it was worth mentioning. Why are you bringing this up? How did you know about that?"

"He e-mailed you, Amelia. Do you have any idea who this guy is? He has his own Wikipedia page."

"He does? What does it say?"

"That he's f.u.c.king loaded, Amelia. And super successful." Amelia rolled her eyes. "Give me the computer." She grabbed it and read the e-mail and the Wikipedia page. "So what? Like I told him, I'm not interested in starting a company."

"But Amelia-"

"No. End of discussion."

Adam was getting annoyed, and he was not about to give up. He s.n.a.t.c.hed the laptop from her and opened the attachment Tom had sent with the e-mail. Maybe there was something in there that could hook her.

She glared at him as he read, her arms crossed against her chest. Her brother was irritatingly persistent, but he had never been any match for her stubbornness.

"Listen to this, Amelia." Adam read from the description: "As part of the Fenway incubator, partic.i.p.ants will receive office s.p.a.ce on Sand Hill Road, a living stipend, and mentors.h.i.+p from Tom Fenway and his staff.

Should partic.i.p.ants still be enrolled in college, Fenway Ventures will also pay for education expenses, including university tuition. Equity rights to the company will be negotiated at the time of incorporation on the basis of money invested in the venture itself." Adam looked up from the computer.

"Free tuition, Amelia! This is incredible!" Amelia rolled her eyes. "We're on scholars.h.i.+p, Adam. We don't pay tuition anyway."

"But we wouldn't have to be on scholars.h.i.+p. We could be making it ourselves. Just you and me, not dependent on anyone."

"Except Tom Fenway! And some corporate ideology for what makes good software. I'm not doing it, Adam. Give it a rest." Amelia grabbed her computer back and started to shut it down. "I'm tired. If you won't be offended, I'd like to go home and go to bed." Adam looked at his sister, whose eyes were pleading with him, and, with a sigh, saw for the first time how much she hated the idea. That didn't mean he was going to give up, but he realized he wasn't going to get anywhere by pus.h.i.+ng tonight. He reached out and gave her a hug. "Of course. I still think you should give this some more thought, but I didn't mean to pressure you."

Amelia felt tears start to well up in her eyes and was glad her head was resting on Adam's shoulder so he couldn't see them. The only thing that came close to her conviction about the purity of computer programming was her love for her brother. She'd never imagined that the two might come into conflict.

Chapter 12.

The Art of the Deal.

T. J. knocked lightly and cracked open the door of his father's home office enough to stick his head in. "Hey Dad, do you have a-" T. J.

stopped short when he saw his father was on the phone.

Ted motioned his son to come in and have a seat, signaling with his hand that the call would only take a minute.

"Totally agree, John . . . The tax lawyers have been great . . . Mitch is sharp as h.e.l.l . . . They've actually expedited the sale, should be closed in three weeks. Apparently it usually takes two months for the UK government to approve corporate transactions like this; I guess they're a bit desperate for the tax revenue. Poor old England. Must be difficult to be dependent upon your former colonies . . . Yes, I'll be in London the week after next to make sure everything's running smoothly and do a few press appearances . . . I know I'm missing graduation, but T. J.'s being a real sport about it." Ted winked at his son. "Yes, yes, give my love to Jenny and the kids. Talk soon."

"Whew!" Ted turned to T. J. as he set the phone back in its cradle. There were deep bags under Ted's eyes, but they still sparkled with excitement and adrenaline. He radiated an energy that said, "I am Master of the Universe."

"What can I do for you, son?"

T. J. sat up in his chair, his hands folded carefully in his lap. "Well, Dad, I was hoping you could help me get a job with Tom Fenway's incubator."

"Didn't you meet with him last week? How did that go?"

"It was fine. I mean, I presented my credentials well, but I don't think he understands how useful I could be, in terms of adding business insight to the engineering geeks he brings in."

"Tom's a smart guy, I'm sure he knows what he's doing." T. J. ignored the sting of this rebuff. "Well, it would help me a lot if you'd call him."

Ted c.o.c.ked his head and studied his son. T. J. stared back unflinchingly.

Finally he said, "T. J., I'm not going to get you this job. I got you the meeting, which is more than most kids your age get, but that's where it stops. You have to get things yourself. Not just because it's fair and meritocratic, but also because it will be more satisfying to you in the end than if I get it for you. You're twenty-two, T. J. It's time for you to start taking responsibility for your own success."

T. J. had been expecting this. "I see it a little differently. I think I'm twenty-two now, and it's time for us to be more of a team. You do something for me, I do something for you."

Ted's face folded into a mocking half-grin, and his right eyebrow raised.

"Okay, T. J.," he said with amused patience. "What, exactly, are you going to do for me?"

T. J. smiled and said calmly, "I have some information that I think you'll find valuable. About Gibly."

Still amused, as though he were playing Go Fish with a four year old, Ted humored his son. "And what information is that, T. J.?"

"Did you know that someone hacked into Gibly last week?"

"Not possible. The security is the best on the planet." Ted didn't flinch or show an ounce of concern.

Neither did T. J. "They hacked into the user database. The one where Gibly stores the web activity and physical movements of each unique user."

"What are you talking about? Gibly doesn't do that."

"Want to bet?"

Ted's amus.e.m.e.nt sank into annoyance. His son clearly didn't have a clue what he was talking about and his presumptuousness was irritating.

Ted rolled his eyes, punched a number on speed dial and put the phone on speaker.