Illustration by Gary Baseman

Fiction

The Narcissus Blooms in Budapest

The instructions were clear. I was to leave my resume taped under a mailbox at Ramona and Hamilton in Palo Alto. Deep Pockets would meet me at the Sand Hill address.

THE FOG HUNG LOW, like the valuation of a medical devices company, over Sand Hill Road. I wondered whether Deep Pockets would find me hiding here in this little corner of the parking lot, tucked behind the Porsches and BMWs. My own car is a domestic make of the non-four-wheel-drive variety, which, of course, would stand out in Silicon Valley like a profit line on an income statement. So I had borrowed a friend's Volvo — a discreet choice, not too flashy, but moneyed enough to fit in here in the heart of venture capital. A woman approached from the rear. I slid down behind the wheel so as not to draw attention. The Funny Nose and Glasses began to itch.

All this for a job. The last time I was in the market (What was that? Ten years ago?) I found my job the old-fashioned way. A headhunter called and told me about the company and the position. I did a little research, called some friends for background, interviewed, and — boom — got the job.

But that was before these go-go Web days. This Brave New Wired World has given rise to Stealth Companies, companies seemingly so hot that even the mere mention of their concept is treated like a state secret. They're riddles wrapped around enigmas shrouded in, well, extremely healthy first-round financings. Implicit in the mystery is that the idea is a surefire winner and that if it weren't kept hush-hush, others would race to its come-hither business model and win the market. So today executive recruiting has all the high drama and suspense of a John Le Carre novel.

I slid up from behind the wheel and thought back to how I had found myself in this position, hunkered down in a dark parking lot in a ridiculous disguise. It was not more than a week ago when I had met my friend Frank for drinks. Frank had joined a startup a little over six months ago, and, I'd heard, had already become caught up in all the Internet hoo-hah. He hunched over his glass and leaned closer to me. I could smell the zinfandel on his breath.

"A guy I know is looking for a marketing person," he said, so softly that I almost couldn't hear him above the din at the bar.

"Really," I said, in my best noncommittal tone. "What's the company do?"

Frank looked quickly over both shoulders before whispering, "All I can tell you is that it's an e-commerce play."

"Okay, so what is it? Business-to-business?" I asked.

Frank shook his head.

"Business-to-consumer?"

"I've already told you too much," he said, as he quickly dived below the table and back up again. I noticed a small bead of sweat hanging precariously from under his nose. "If you want to know more, leave an x in blue chalk on the men's room mirror at Buck's." He paused. "Hey, is that Steve Jurvetson?" he said, pointing to the door. I wheeled around, saw no one, and turned back. Frank was gone.

I'm not sure why, but I was intrigued. The next day I found myself driving to Buck's with a pool chalk in my hand. I did as I was told, marking the lower right-hand corner of the mirror. Not 30 minutes later, there was a message on my voice mail. The altered voice sounded like Darth Vader or a witness interviewed on one of those television news shows. Still, the instructions were clear. I was to leave my resume taped under a mailbox at Ramona and Hamilton in Palo Alto. Deep Pockets, who was to be my handler, would meet me at the Sand Hill Road address in a week. I was to talk to no one about the meeting.

Sure enough, one week later at the appointed time I noticed headlights flicking on and off in a distant corner of the parking lot. I stepped out of the Volvo and approached the car. A rear window lowered and I heard a voice call out, "How much wood would a woodchuck chuck if a woodchuck could chuck wood?" For a moment I was thrown off and couldn't recall the response I was supposed to give. But as soon as I responded ("The narcissus blooms in Budapest"), a man jumped out of the driver's seat and ushered me into the back seat of the car.

In the brief instant when the light was on in the car, I made out two people in the back seat with me. The one nearest me introduced himself as Deep Pockets.

"Who's the other guy?" I asked as I noticed a briefcase handcuffed to the guy's left wrist.

"CEO. That's all you need to know."

"What's in the briefcase? Nuclear launch codes?" I said, suppressing a chuckle.

"HTML," Deep Pockets said gravely. "Let's go," he said to the driver.

We sped out of the parking lot onto Sand Hill Road. We stopped at a green light, waited for it to turn yellow, and continued through as cars honked all around us. No one ran the red light after us. We zipped through side streets, made indiscriminate U-turns, sped up, slowed down, and violated enough traffic laws to keep the local police in clover, had they been around to catch us. But no one was catching us, no one was following us, and as we pulled into a Buick dealership, Deep Pockets looked visibly relieved. "No other VC would ever be in here," he said.

He shifted toward me. "So you're interested in our little company?"

"I'm interested in finding out what it does."

"E-commerce. Lots of clicks. Plenty of stickiness. Robust, dynamic, and scalable." He paused and looked me in the eye. "So, are you in?"

"Um, well, what's the job?"

"Can't tell you."

"How about where it's located."

"No can do."

"Can you tell me who else is on the team?"

"That's on a need-to-know basis."

"But I need to know."

"No, you don't."

"Will you sell things?"

"Maybe."

"Make things?"

"Maybe."

"Make money?"

"Maybe."

"Go public?"

"Definitely. Q4. Money in the bank."

The CEO leaned toward Deep Pockets and whispered just loud enough for me to hear, "Oo-tay any-may estions-quay."

"On't-day orry-way," Deep Pockets replied, as he reached into the seat pocket in front of him. He pulled out a stack of papers and handed them to me. "Maybe this will help. Here's the business plan."

I riffled through the pages, but they were all blank.

"There's nothing on them," I said.

"Oh, there's something on them, all right. The invisible ink makes it hard to read. But I assure you the numbers are impressive."

I looked quizzically at Deep Pockets. Not even a hint of concern on his face. None of this struck him as out of the ordinary.

"So, are you in?" he asked again.

I looked away for a moment and thought of all the concepts built on little more than a wing and a dot-com. I thought about the wacky valuations of Internet firms, of financial ratios thrown on their heads. I thought about the late nights and personal sacrifices, all for the sake of an uncertain concept in a turbulent marketplace. And the right decision quickly became clear. I turned back to Deep Pockets. "Can I start Monday?"