THE BORMAN FACTOR
Robert Lalonde
Copyright © 2016 Robert Lalonde
All rights reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by photocopying or any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage or retrieval systems, without permission in writing from both the copyright owner and the publisher of the book.
All characters are fictional. Any similarity to any actual person is purely coincidental.
Clear Path Publishing
ISBN: 978-0-9940754-3-7
This one's for you,
whoever you are.
Chapter 1
Vasily Orlov was in a good mood. He was always in a good mood when he was on a job. Vasily was an independent contractor and he took great pride in his work.
He also loved the money. But truth be told, he'd probably still do the odd job simply because he loved his work so much. He firmly believed that the world would be a better place if more people took pride in what they did.
Vasily was a specialist. People called him in to deal with particularly difficult problems and he made the problems go away. It was a skill that not many people had. He fancied himself a magician of sorts; a special kind of magician who could make problems disappear permanently.
Today's problem was standing just a few yards in front of him.
Terry Reynolds was walking back to his car after a lunch meeting with a friend. Terry was a car buff from as far back as he could remember. He couldn't afford a true high-end sports car so he went all in for a Dodge Charger SRT. It might not be the most expensive car, but it was one of the fastest production sedans ever made.
The black Charger had a supercharged 6.2L HEMI V8 SRT Hellcat Engine that put out 707 HP and 650 lb-ft of Torque. It was equipped with dark bronze forged aluminum wheels and was finished with black Nappa leather seats to complement the exterior.
Terry couldn't keep from smiling every time he approached the car. He was wearing such a smile when he noticed the admiring look on the face of the man that was walking toward him.
"Is that an SRT?"
"Yeah." Terry's smile widened a bit.
"I hear they're hard to hang onto when you open them up."
"It's got spirit, I'll say that." Terry's Irish accent was always a bit more prominent when he was excited or enthusiastic about something.
The man bent at the waist to take a look inside at the car's dash. Terry's attention was drawn to a small area on the hood that looked like it was lightly scratched. Some careless passerby had probably rubbed the hood with their hand. When will people realize how soft automotive paint is? Oh well, he would have to buff it out later.
Had he not looked away for a moment, he might have caught the glint of light that reflected off the metal as the knife was thrust upward into his chest. The four inch blade drove up just under the rib cage on it's way to it's intended target. Before the look of shock had fully registered on Terry's face, Vasily had stabbed him two more times, puncturing both lungs before driving the blade through the reporter's heart a second time.
Terry Reynolds wore a puzzled look on his face as the realization of what just happened slowly sunk in. He hadn't felt a sharp, hot pain, as you would expect from being stabbed in the heart and lungs. It had felt less intense and much more subtle than that.
With every moment he became shorter of breath. Blood sprayed from his mouth with every exhalation. Terry realized he must be in shock and was probably dying.
Vasily guided his victim's body down to a seated position against the front wheel. He looked around to make sure no suspicious eyes were turned his way before he removed the reporter's watch and wallet. He stuffed the items in his pockets and straightened his jacket as he casually moved away from the body.
Vasily couldn't help smiling a bit as he replayed the act in his mind. One more magical performance by the master. He kept walking to the far end of the parking lot where his car was parked. He made one final check of his sleeves and the front of his shirt to make sure there wasn't any telltale blood stains. There weren't. Just another day at the office for the magician.
Chapter 2
Later that day, 3pm
The afternoon programming on all the local stations was interrupted by a late-breaking news story. Joe Fontana and Sue Hardy of the award-winning City News team came on in front of a large red banner that said Breaking Story:
Joe: "In the third stabbing death of the year, Terry Reynolds, an award winning reporter with the Toronto Times, was found dead today in the parking lot of the Pacific Mall in Markham."
Sue: "What a tragedy Joe. I'm sure most of our viewers will remember how Terry Reynolds risked his life by going into a burning building to save a child last year."
Joe: "Yes he did. The building was an inferno before the fire department even arrived. Toronto Times reporter Terry Reynolds was the first on the scene. He showed total disregard for his life and ran into the building when a mother realized her 4 year old son was trapped inside."
Sue: "Do we have any details about the murder yet?"
Joe: "Details are sketchy at this point in time Sue, but it appears the reporter was being robbed as he returned to his car. That's all we know right now, but we will keep you posted as new information comes in over the next couple of days.
Chapter 3
Attorney James Turkell rode the elevator up to the penthouse floor of the Executive Suites Hotel. He never knew what to expect when he was called to one of these meetings. He turned left off the elevator and walked down a hall that led to the private office of the hotel's owner.
Sergei Mogilevich's office was a well-appointed and tastefully decorated corner unit that offered a view of the surrounding subdivision of residential homes. He enjoyed looking out at the three hundred plus homes because he was a major partner in the corporation that had developed the tract of land. Part of Sergei's profit from the development was the 5 star hotel his office was housed in.
The development plan had worked out beautifully. Land values for the surrounding lots doubled as soon as the ground was broken for the luxury hotel. Sergei liked nothing more than a good plan perfectly executed, especially when there was a lot of money involved. Sergei loved money.
The double doors to the posh office opened into a waiting room that was furnished with upscale club chairs and two-seater sofas like you would find in any high-end office worth the description. There were two doors at the far end of the waiting room. The one on the left led to Sergei's office and the one on the right was Mark Fenton's office.
Mark was a CGA and the VP of Sergei's investment company. He also doubled as general assistant, receptionist and whatever need Sergei might have at the time. "Go right in James, Mr. Mogilevich is expecting you."
Sergei rose and walked around his desk hand extended. "Good morning James."
"Good morning Sergei. You look well."
"I'm fine, thank you."
Sergei returned to sit behind the highly detailed walnut desk. "I hope you have good news for me today James."
"I wish I did Serge. We're sitting at twenty one for and twenty three against as of yesterday. We need to sway at least two more councillors for the motion to pass - and that wouldn't leave us any margin for error."
Jesus Christ James. I thought we'd have this nailed down by now. Hasn't Corbett been working on some of these people?"
"He has. But we've come across some unexpected opposition. Tim Wilson. He's been putting a lot of pressure on people through his committees. He's in a position to hold up a lot of business in red tape and make life difficult for the other councillors. People would rather keep him happy and since he's against this project, some of them are voting along with him."
"We'
ve got too much time and too much money invested in this to let that asshole mess this up. Doesn't anyone have a way to get Wilson to move on this?"
"Apparently not Serge. Mayor Corbett's very frustrated. He says he's met with Wilson and the others many times and he doesn't have a big enough carrot to waive in front of them right now."
"Alright. I want a list of all the councillors who are voting against this James. There's got to be a way to get a few of them to move. Goddamned idiots. This project would bring in an extra twenty million dollars a year in property taxes alone for this city."
"I know Serge, but we're dealing with some hard line conservatives that live in a dream world. Idealists are rarely concerned with what it costs to maintain their ideals."
"Fucking idiots. Get me that list and light a torch under Corbett's ass. Time is money and this is costing us plenty." Sergei stood up indicating the meeting was over.
"I'll get that list over to you later today Serge. I can tell you that Wilson isn't going to move on this. We're going to have to find a way to get to some of the others."
"Get that list to me before the end of the day. We're going to push this deal through one way or the other."
Chapter 4
Stan Novak was at Julia Piermont Reynold's house trying to piece together what her husband, Terry Reynolds had been doing the last week or two of his life. It had been a couple of weeks since his death. Terry hadn't been up to anything out of the ordinary as far as Novak could tell.
Stan was going through Terry's call history on his cell phone looking for any suspect calls. "Do you know who Mark Fenton is?"
"We know a Mark Fenton from our church groups. Did he call Terry?"
"Yes, he called him at 10am the day before Terry was killed."
"Terry didn't mention it. It was probably something to do with church. They rely on a lot of us volunteers to get things done."
"Do you have his address? I should go see him to see if he might have some information that could help us figure out what happened to Terry."
"I'll get it out of the phone book for you." Julia got the phone book and found the address. "Here it is. He's at 44 Fairway Heights Dr. In Markham."
"Could you call him and see if it's OK if I drop by after dinner and ask him a few questions about Terry? It may not turn up anything but we need to check any leads we have. We sure don't have many."
7pm
Novak turned right off Steele Avenue onto Fairway Heights Drive. As he drove past the Bayview Golf and Country Club he wondered how people could get so involved in striking a small ball with a club. It was a pointless question, but he couldn't help thinking about it every time he drove by a golf course, especially when there were players on the greens.
Most of the homes on Fairway Heights Drive were of a two storey design and priced well over a million dollars. One way to keep the riffraff out Stan mused. He parked in front of number forty four, the home of Mark Fenton. Fenton was a chartered accountant and one of the last people to talk to Terry Reynolds the day he was killed.
Mark Fenton answered the door. "I'm Detective Stan Novak. Julia Reynolds called earlier to see if I could talk to you for a minute."
"Yes detective, please come in."
The front door to the three bedroom ranch opened to a wide foyer that was flooded with natural light from a large skylight. Fenton asked the Detective to follow him downstairs to his home office.
They walked down the carpeted stairway to a large recreation room in the fully finished basement. Novak followed Fenton as he turned left past a bathroom to a twelve by sixteen office in the North corner of the basement. Fenton's office was finished in the same fashion as the main floor of the house. Everything was neatly placed; there was no clutter in the accountant's life.
Stan noted that Fenton was a big man. He was about 6'2", weighed around 240 lbs and had a visibly soft countenance. He wore glasses, like most accountants who spend hours looking at financial statements and income ledgers every day.
"Thanks for taking the time to see me Mr. Fenton. I'd like to ask you a few questions about Terry Reynolds if that's OK with you."
"Please Detective, call me Mark. Have a seat and tell me how I can be of help. Can I get you something to drink?"
"No thanks, I've just had coffee with Mrs. Reynolds. I was going over Terry's phone records with Julia and I noticed you placed a call to him at 10am the day before he died. Could you tell me what it was you called him about?"
"Yes. You don't think I had anything to do with his death, do you?"
"Not at all Mark. I'm just trying to figure out what happened to him. There were no witnesses so all we can do for now is follow up on any leads, see if something turns up. Terry's death does leave a lot of unanswered questions."
"I'd be glad to help in any way I can detective. What would you like to know?"
"Could you tell me a bit about the call you made to Terry Reynolds the day before he died Mr. Fenton?"
"Sure. We'd been talking about general work issues the weekend before at a church committee meeting. It was hard to have a discussion with all the distractions so we decided to meet for lunch the following week. I called Terry around 10 that morning to see if he wanted to meet for lunch around noon the next day."
"And did you meet that day?"
"Yes. We had a quick lunch at the Ming Palace restaurant."
"That's in the Pacific Mall where Terry was found dead later that afternoon?"
"Yes. I was shocked when I heard about it on the news later that day."
"About what time did you and Terry finish lunch Mark?"
"It was a quick lunch. I left about quarter to one; Terry said he was going to shop for some electronics stuff while he was there."
"And Terry was found dead about one hour later?"
"Yes. The news reports said he was robbed and stabbed when he returned to his car."
"Did Terry ever mention he knew someone who worked at the mall Mr. Fenton?"
"No he didn't and I have no idea whether or not he did know anyone who works there. We really weren't all that close."
"You said you had started discussing work issues. Could you tell me what that was about?"
"Just the usual stuff people talk about. I'd been thinking about making a change and we just started talking about careers in general, work satisfaction, you know, things like that."
"It was you that was thinking about a change, not Terry?"
"Yeah. As far as I know Terry was happy with his job. Not that he talked about it all that much, but he never said he was thinking of making a change."
"OK. Thanks for taking the time to talk to me Mr. Fenton. Here's my card. Please give me a call if you think of anything that could help us figure out what happened that day."
"Thank you detective. I will."
Chapter 5
I was on a flight to Toronto to see a long-time friend of the family and a client of my company, Trident Inc. Bill Piermont had started out at Intel Corp with my dad David back in the early '80s. He went on to create and run Onix Corp. one of the major semiconductor companies in the world.
Bill and my dad climbed the corporate ladder very quickly and both became major players in the high tech world. I was fascinated as a child by the highly secretive nature of the business. I would imagine them being involved in cloak and dagger episodes much like what I used to see in movies.
I dozed off, remembering how I used to dream of being a counter spy for the company where my dad worked. These dreams were triggered by the theft of a prototype chip that was expected to revolutionize personal computing. The chip was eventually recovered by a security firm. The praises heaped upon the security expert by my dad and Bill sealed my fate.
It was no surprise to my family that I went on to major in computer science at Stanford. After graduating as a computer engineer, I did a stint in MI, the U.S. Army Intelligence and Security Command (INSCOM), in Fort Belvoir, Virginia.
After being discharged, my dad arranged an in
terview with Stonebridge Consulting, one of the major corporate security firms at the time. I got the job and spent five years learning from the best in the business. I went on to form Trident Inc. and the rest as they say, is history.
The average person thinks that worrying about corporate espionage is a form of paranoia. Some even think it's a ploy by security experts to drum up business; until they get caught up in it personally. I've seen a lot of so-called paranoia turn out to be a major disaster that cost companies huge sums of money to fix after the fact. The cloaks might be pinstripe suits and the daggers keyboard logging scripts, but the results are exactly the same.
The Borman Factor Page 1