To put that belief in practice, Dorian raised the necessary capital in the form of a public stock offering.
Though the speculative nature of the venture made institutional investors wary, the public offering of a space exploration company ignited the imaginations of many. By making the initial public offering affordable - ten dollars a share for non-voting preferred stock - Templar Enterprises secured underwriters and raised three point five billion dollars from mostly small, individual investors. The stock doubled in value within the first full week of NASDAQ trading, and quadrupled in price over the next six months.
Despite the initial infusion of capital, Templar’s cash needs soon ballooned. With no short-term promise of profits, and knowing that technology licensing would not raise much money for several years, Templar turned to shameless merchandising as an additional revenue source. Critics complained the commercialism went too far as books, videos, and even toys were hawked to promote the company and the mission.
Surprisingly, especially to marketing insiders, the commercial blitz lasted longer, and was far more profitable, than expected. Product licensing became hugely lucrative, especially after the orbiter's design and colors were finalized; a year after Dorian’s hardcover book “Colonize” hit the shelves, the paperback version was still on the New York Times bestseller list, generating royalties for the company.
While he continued to be the ‘face’ of the company, the research and development continued. Engineers and support staff were hired, manufacturing facilities were constructed, and the Thomas Dorian Space Center was built in the New Mexico desert. Several months later, the first orbiter was constructed.
However, just as the program was finally coming together, in the midst of Templar's growing accomplishments, few noticed that Sinclair Dorian had all but vanished from public life.
***
Hands planted firmly on her hips, Shannon Kiel stood in the open doorway, the only barrier between the FBI agents in the hallway and Sinclair Dorian's bedroom. Her face was set in an intimidating scowl. She had answered the front door abruptly, escorted Agents Lowell and Ramirez through the house without a word, and now stared at them with a look normally reserved for vermin. Sinclair Dorian had agreed to see the agents, and that was the only reason they were allowed onto the property without a court order.
“You have fifteen minutes,” she told the men flatly. “Mr. Dorian is a busy man.”
The agents replied with curt nods.
With a final disapproving twist of her lip, Shannon pushed through the agents, conspicuously leaving the bedroom door wide open. She stomped down the hallway and turned the corner. When the agents were sure she was gone, they stepped inside the room and shut the door.
The bedroom was large and spacious. The heavy curtains were drawn back. Sunlight streamed in from the large picture window. Sinclair Dorian was sitting up against the headboard of his king-size bed. A quilt was pulled up over his waist. His hands rested comfortably in his lap. He wore a T-shirt and an expression of complete exhaustion. White clumps of hair stuck out from the sides of his head.
“I'm sorry,” he said, plucking the front of his shirt with gnarled fingers. “My gout has been acting up. Haven't been in a mood for getting dressed.”
“That's all right,” the first agent replied, masking his surprise. This old man looked nothing like the vibrant man he had seen so often on television. With a shock, he realized why Dorian had become a recluse; the man was sick, probably dying. “Thank you for seeing us, Mr. Dorian. We spoke on the phone earlier. I'm Special Agent Lowell. This is Special Agent Ramirez.”
Dorian shot up a hand as the men approached the bed. The agents froze. Dorian smacked his lips, then raised a thin, spindly arm and pointed across the room. “Sit over there.”
The agents turned to the hard-backed antique rockers set against the opposite wall. They sat down, and after an awkward moment of silence, Lowell glanced over at the massive wall-mounted television that faced the bed. “Nice set for the Sunday game. Are you a sports fan, Mr. Dorian?”
“Only if I have money riding on it,” Dorian replied. He was studying the agents carefully. “I trust you won't arrest an old man for placing a few friendly bets?”
“I think we can let it slide.”
“No.” Dorian suddenly frowned. “No, I don't watch sports. Waste of time. Today's athletes are temperamental assholes. It's all about money and nothing about the game.”
That brought a smile to Lowell's lips. Besides being more physically frail than he imagined, Dorian's personality was completely different than he expected. He imagined Dorian would be smoother, more salesman-like.
Reluctantly, he turned to business. “Are you aware of our current situation?”
“Are you aware of ours?” Dorian shot back.
The agents exchanged glances. “What do you mean?” Lowell asked.
Dorian rubbed his eye with one hand. “Gentlemen, do you really know why you are here?” He let the question hang as he shifted against his pillows and squinted against the bright sunlight.
Lowell glanced around. From the moment he walked into the room, he felt that something was out of the ordinary. It took him about two seconds to work it out. This wasn't Dorian's bedroom - at least not his regular bedroom. There were no personal belongings on the dressers or nightstand. No bottles or books. There was nothing to indicate that this room was regularly used. The room even smelled too clean.
Dorian looked back at the agents. “You need to understand what Templar Enterprises is all about.”
“Perhaps you could tell us, Mr. Dorian,” Ramirez prompted gently.
Dorian sighed again. “You've heard of NASA?”
“Of course.”
“Currently, NASA's annual budget is about enough to support some heavy-lift rocket systems, a few robotic exploration missions, and several smaller programs. But it isn't enough to include a lunar program or a manned expedition to another planet. To be honest, we’re about thirty years behind where we should be.”
“Okay,” Ramirez said.
“My company is trying to close the gap. We’re going beyond what the government is willing to do. We’ve put a lot of talent and money toward making space travel affordable and accessible. We have a way to go, but we are getting there.”
Lowell raised his hand. “Sir, I don't see -”
Dorian continued without pause. “Mr. Lowell, I’ve put together a fantastic team of people with a vision for the future. I'm just the front man. I put up the money, do the television interviews, and generally charm the hell out of people. You need to take your problems up with the people who are actively involved in our day-to-day management. The only reason I agreed to speak with you today was to ask you a favor.”
Ramirez opened his mouth to reply, but Lowell silenced him with an upraised hand. The senior agent squared his shoulders and leaned forward. His wooden chair squeaked. “We're not in a position to grant favors, Mr. Dorian.”
The corners of Dorian's mouth tugged to smile. “You won't indulge an old man?”
Lowell grimaced. “What would you like us to do?”
“I know you people chomp at the bit with these sorts of things, but I would appreciate it if you could suspend your investigation until after our orbiter lands this Friday.”
Completely floored, both agents stared at the old man. Either Dorian was exceptionally naïve, or he was far more clever than he let on. What he was asking was impossible. Even if the agents wanted to delay the investigation, the matter was out of their hands.
The agents remained silent for a moment, and then Lowell asked, “How involved are you with what goes on in your company, Mr. Dorian?”
“With regards to what?”
“Would you be aware, for example, of how your company budgets its money?”
“Maybe. Name something.”
“Research and Development,” Lowell suggested with a shrug, curious whether Dorian was more than merely the figurehead he claimed to be.
“Last year we spent about one hundred million dollars on applied research and development,” Dorian recalled, rubbing the stubble under his lower lip with his finger. “This year we’ll recoup roughly two thirds of that through patent licensing and royalty income.” Then he grunted again, satisfied, and shifted again on his pillows. “Anything else you want to know?”
“Yes,” Ramirez broke in. “Why doesn't Templar try to make money?”
Dorian lifted his head a fraction. “Excuse me?”
“Where's the profit in ferrying supplies into space? You’re years away from running regular passenger traffic, and no one believes you'll ever get your costs down low enough to make it profitable. When are you going to stop throwing money away?”
Dorian looked as if he were unsure if Ramirez was asking a real question or just talking off the top of his head.
“It isn't about money.”
“Then what's it about?” Lowell shot back. He rose to his feet, shoved his hands in his pockets, and walked over to the window. He glanced back over his shoulder. “You're a businessman, Mr. Dorian. You built Templar Enterprises from the ground up and then sold it for billions. A decade later, you turn around and use those billions to buy Templar back. I find it hard to believe that anyone would just squander a fortune like that. What are you trying to do? You want to be remembered as the man who threw away more money than anyone in history?”
Dorian smiled, and then coughed lightly. “You're not too far off the mark.”
“How so?”
“Did you ever hear of me before I bought back and relaunched my company?”
“Can't say that I had.”
“And if I died five years ago, would you have known of me?”
“I doubt it,” Lowell admitted with a shrug.
“That's because, in the end, the amount of money you die with says nothing about you.” Dorian looked from one agent to the other. “Sure, the names and the money behind them are remembered. Rockefeller. Vanderbilt. But who remembers the person? When I'm dead and buried, who's going to remember me? I don’t want my name on the wall of a library or on the wing of some college engineering department. My wife and son are dead, but I still plan to leave behind a legacy. I’m not interested in ferrying rich folks to the edge of space. I want to be man who sets in motion the next phase of human exploration.” His eyes were wide and unblinking. “Can you understand that, Agent Lowell?”
Still staring out the window, the agent slowly nodded.
Dorian cleared his throat. “That was off the record, gentlemen. Now on the record: What do you want with my company?”
“We're concerned about your company's finances.” Lowell turned and crossed his arms. “We've already had a run-in with your general counsel. Frankly, sir, I’m worried that your people may be leading your organization down the wrong path.”
A smile spread across Dorian's wizened face. What began as a chuckle quickly broke into a painful coughing fit. Dorian fell forward onto his blanket, hacking. The two agents rushed over to the bed. Ramirez reached for the glass of water from the stand and tried to hand it to Dorian, but the old man violently refused assistance. He waved his arms and forced them away. The agents exchanged nervous glances as Dorian gasped for air. They certainly did not want anything to happen to him while they were alone with him. After several tense minutes, Dorian recovered and Lowell helped ease the old man back onto the pillows. The agents waited patiently until he found the strength to speak.
“I've been accused of being a shyster since the day I bought back my company,” Dorian told them in a wavering, gravelly voice. He gripped his bedding with clenched fists and swallowed several times before continuing. “If there's a problem with my company, then I assure you that our people will get to the bottom of it.” The old man carefully noted the agents' sullen expressions. “Work with us, boys.”
Lowell leaned in close. “I assume you’ve been briefed on this situation. It's very serious, you know.”
Dorian folded his hands across his stomach; his eyes rolled shut. “I’ve been told enough.”
“And?”
Dorian's eyes fluttered open. “As my favorite attorney would say, you two are on a 'fishing expedition.' I don't think you have anything on us. I think the reason you were sent here was to pump me for information. Am I right?”
“We did suggest that you have your counsel present during this interview,” Ramirez said quickly.
Dorian laughed by way of a grunt. “Oh, I don't think we would have had nearly as interesting a conversation if Samson Tyler were here.” Then the smile abruptly dropped from his face. He drew a ragged breath and closed his eyes. “If you don't mind, gentlemen, I'd like to get some rest.”
“One last question,” Lowell pressed.
Dorian shook his head, his eyes still closed. “I have nothing more to say.”
The agents quietly left the room. On their way down the staircase, they passed Shannon, who was carrying up a large tray of food. She offered the agents nothing but a cold glare.
“So, what do you think?” Ramirez asked as they left the house and walked off the front steps. It was warmer now than when they arrived. The sky was bright and cloudless, promising a pleasant day.
“We need to rethink our position,” Lowell muttered. “You saw the man. He’s terminally ill.”
“Whatever he’s suffering from, he’s obviously keeping his condition a secret. Besides, if anything is going on with his company, I doubt he knows about it.”
“He’s not stupid or senile, believe me. That old man knows exactly what’s going on around him.”
Ramirez shook his head. “I doubt he’s hitting too many board meetings these days.”
“Doesn't matter. Dorian is only part of the larger problem. Some street punk rips off someone for twenty bucks and we throw him in jail for a few years. But other crimes - the ones so big, you can’t even calculate the damage - they go unpunished.”
“C’mon, Andrew. Not every old rich white guy is a criminal.”
“If it were up to me, I’d have capital punishment for capital crimes. Maybe we should take Dorian’s advice about dealing with his people. Samson Tyler seems to know more than he's letting on. What do we have on that guy?”
“Not much,” Ramirez replied, reaching into his pocket and flipping open his notepad. “We had a file opened on him during that huge SEC investigation on Templar a few years back. Let’s see… He was in top ten percent in his law class. Participated in moot court and was published in the law review.” He scanned through his notes. “The article was called 'Dynamic Justice: The Rewriting of the Investment Company Act of 1940 through Judicial Intervention.' Sounds thrilling.”
“What was his undergraduate degree?” Lowell asked.
“Psychology.”
“Psych and law? That’s an odd combination.”
“Apparently, his career took off when he helped Templar beat back a huge SEC investigation. It led to his promotion to lead counsel.”
“What about his personal life? Any group activities?”
“The usual professional organizations,” Ramirez said, shaking his head. “No political affiliations. No political contributions either, which is a bit odd, considering his status.”
At the car, Lowell opened his door and looked at his partner from across the roof. “What about his finances?”
Ramirez shook his head again. “There’s no unusual spending, no large purchases and no large bank deposits in the last six months.”
“Keep digging. As of right now, Samson Tyler is my person of interest, and I’ll be damned if we don’t nail him for something.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The deadbolt lock snapped open and thumped into the door. Moments later, the doorknob twisted one way and then the other. The door opened a crack, and a figure peered inside, listening. The apartment was dim and silent.
But then, Merrick already knew the place would be empty.
She stepped inside and close
d the door. No longer dressed in rumpled street clothes, she wore a dark, expensive business suit. She looked different as well. Thanks to a wig, her hair was now long and blond, and she sported wide, dark-rimmed glasses. She clutched a small leather briefcase in her hand, her clear latex gloves barely visible.
Getting inside the building had been easier than she expected. With just a smile and an easy lie, the door attendant had let her pass without even a second glance. Had she been a common burglar, she could have hit the proverbial jackpot. All the residents in this building were wealthy, some fabulously so. However, Merrick was not a burglar by trade, and her purpose was not to steal anything.
Anything physical, at least.
She padded across the apartment, glancing around with silent approval. The decor confirmed that Samson Tyler's real life was in his work. This apartment was simply a place to visit for food and sleep. It had all the modern conveniences, but none of the charm of a truly lived-in place.
After a quick walk around the place, she climbed the spiral staircase to the loft area. Again, everything was neat and orderly. The bed against the back wall was neatly made. A lamp and several back issues of the New York State Bar Journal sat on top of a small nightstand. In the corner was a small bookshelf and desk area, which included Tyler's desktop computer.
She paused and crouched down before the small nightstand to examine a small, framed photograph of Tyler and a younger woman. Judging by Tyler’s arm around the woman’s shoulder, and the fact that she was holding his hand, Merrick figured that the woman was a girlfriend – probably a current one. She walked over to the desk and set down her briefcase. She noticed a few more photographs tacked to the wall. One picture was apparently taken on the top of the Empire State Building, where Tyler had his arm around the same girl. The other photographs were of men and women dressed in formal attire, apparently at business functions.
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