Sibley's Secret
Page 46
I packed my Sig.”
He knew he couldn’t talk her out of it, but he’d had to try. “Alright, we’ll get you moved in and have a late lunch, it’s gonna be a long evening.”
She hefted the big suitcase onto the bed in the guestroom and unpacked, using the dresser and closet this time. Jim stood in the doorway, smiling hopefully with a soda, “I hope you’re planning on staying longer this time.”
She gave him a sideways smile, putting some clothes on hangers, “You never know. I’m kinda reconnecting with my roots. I like it here.”
He stepped forward grabbing her waist. She turned, repeating, “I really like it here.”
By the early afternoon, they were all at the farm, Jim, Kiki, Jason and Sibley, they wouldn’t stay away. They used the tractor to clear the way for trucks and the big yard forklifts that would arrive. The plan was to load two flatbeds at a time; two crates abreast for the full length then cover them completely with tarps. No crates would be moved out of the buildings before nightfall. It would be difficult working with only partial moonlight, and headlights. They figured it would take six total loads to move the shipment to the old armory building that Kiki had rented after Jim scouted locations. It was fitting for the auction to be held there. With the auction now being publicized, they needed a secure location to lock and guard the boxes.
When the first truck arrived, they decided to split up, and Jim would supervise unloading at the armory, along with some off-duty cops they were paying for guard duty. Kiki and the rest would manage the loading. If anyone wanted to hijack the loads, they’d try the only location that was publicized; it wasn’t the farm.
It was after two o’clock in the morning when the entire shipment was completed. The boxes were stored inside the giant drill hall. A century earlier, the floor of the armory had been immaculate hardwood, but the old building had been abandoned after the Second World War and given to the city for functions, as more modern venues had replaced it for most functions, other than the occasional craft fair. The building had no windows, which made it unattractive for most events, but ideal for security.
The move coincided with the campaign started around the country, advertising unknown Army shipping crates from WWI with unknown contents. It listed contact information for Carl G. Prescote, Auctioneer. It gave full contact information and a website for description of the items; albeit there was little to describe. The auction date was one week from the advertisement placement date.
It was a bit of a sham since they’d already agreed to sell to Peter Mikhailovich, but the auction had another purpose. Peter already had a bill of sale prepared by Whit Fiske and signed by all three family members.
Inquiries began coming in immediately and some of the local people wanted to preview the boxes, so dates were set for each to be there at separate times, accompanied by the Auctioneer or his staff. Most of the locally known salvage dealers were escorted by Kiki, acting as the auctioneer’s staff. She wasn’t known locally.
One day before the auction date, there was a call from someone unknown. He spoke with an Eastern European accent, “Hello, I am interested in your auction tomorrow. Would it be possible to see the merchandise today? I have very little time; I would request to view at eighteen hundred tonight, would that be possible?
It was agreed that Carl G. Prescote would meet the man who also mentioned that his appraiser would be coming also. Prescote informed the caller that there would be police on duty as security guards and not to be concerned. The man assured that it would not be a problem.
At six o’clock, right on time, two men came through the entrance where massive steel doors would normally have been closed at this time of night. Prescote greeted them with a distinct southern accent, “Good evenin’ gentlemen. Come on in.”
The lead man, clearly in charge, clicked his polished shoe heels and extended his hand, “Hello, sir, I am Mr. Yuri Yelyuk. He then introduced the man with him, his appraiser, who seemed more interested in the police guards standing along the sidewalls.
“My pleasure, Mr. Yelyuk. I’m Carl Prescote. It’s an old English name, not used much by folks here abouts.” When Yelyuk nodded curtly, Prescote continued, turning toward the huge area of green behind him, “well, that’s it. Now don’t you be taken any of it, ya hear.” He laughed at his own joke.
Neither of the visitors laughed; instead, they walked together from box to box down each neatly organized row, examining each one carfully. Prescote grew impatient, “Now they’s all the same, cain’t hardly tell one from the other. None of the writin’s legible now after so many years.” But the men continued slowly attempting to read each box.
Finally, after the last row, Mr. Yelyuk approached, “Tell me, Mr. Prescote, did you encounter any boxes with foreign markings? As I’m sure you can tell by my accent, we are not from the United States.”
“Well, sir, I don’t remember anything peculiar. They all look pretty much the same to me. War surplus, that’s what I think it is; American, from the great war, if you know what I mean. I guess anything foreign would stick out pretty good, and I don’t recall seeing nothing.”
The “appraiser” continued to hover back, acting exactly like a bodyguard. Yelyuk continued, “Tell me, Mr. Prescote, who is the owner of all this? It is quite unique.”
The auctioneer responded, “Well, that’s all confidential, sir. You see, most of our clients want us to sell their merchandise without them being known, if you get my drift.”
“Thank you, sir. I shall make my decision and possibly see you tomorrow at the auction.”
“Well, I surely hope you will come now; there’s some sure treasures inside them boxes. Now if you come and wanna bid, you gotta have certified funds with you.”
The two men left as they came; the one behind remaining silent. The auctioneer had never seen an appraiser walk silently behind his principal through a whole exhibit. Several minutes later, Jim Olander was reviewing the video with a Special Agent from the Detroit FBI office. The Agent said, “Okay, we got some good footage of both men, let’s send it to Quantico.”
The trap was set, once Jelavich was positively identified, they would have him. Olander would continue to be Carl G. Prescote running the auction, scheduled to start at seven o’clock the next evening. There would be twelve other potential bidders present, all police officers. The FBI and SWAT would be located outside until the starting gavel sounded. Jelavich and his guards would be overwhelmed.
Kiki knew of the plan, of course, and Peter Mikhailovich had agreed to play along as part of the final price settlement. They all agreed that Jelavich had to be captured or killed. Jim particularly wanted him out of commission, and Peter knew he couldn’t protect the shipment if Jelavich remained at large.
Auction
Kiki had wanted to be there when Jelavich was arrested, but Jim insisted that she stay home, at his place. She had nothing at stake with Jelavich; he hadn’t done anything to affect her. Jim didn’t want her anywhere around if it got violent. He was prepared and kissed her goodbye at four o’clock when the team began assembling at the Jackson police department. A cold fall wind had been blowing all day long and it started raining before he left for the station. Three hours seemed like a long time to plan the operation, but it had some complicating factors, including the number of officers from different agencies involved. Technically, the FBI could have claimed jurisdiction, but there weren’t any serious federal crimes committed other than false entry. Jim had a murderer to arrest. He left at six o’clock and others filtered out randomly. All the bidders were to be in place by no later than six-fifty, but not to arrive together. The SWAT team would remain hidden outside in an old semi-truck trailer until the Russians were confirmed inside the building. The FBI would make the identification from CCTV cameras inside the building.
Even though it was well planned, things could always go wrong. The weather would make it more difficult if gunplay broke out outside the buildin
g. The officers inside, pretending to be bidders, were told to drop to their knees if guns were displayed by the Russians and SWAT would handle them. It was planned as well as any police action could be planned. Jim waited by the rostrum at a quarter to six as people began slowly entering the building. The storm had grown stronger with the sound resonating through the curtain-less building. With increasing wind, the risk of power outage increased. If the lights failed, things would be dramatically more dangerous. There was a screening process at the entrance with the singular objective to deny entrance to anyone not on their team or the Russians. They didn’t expect any civilians to show up.
At seven o’clock, the Russians had not come. By seven fifteen, the police bidders began mingling around. Jim wasn’t prepared to actually begin the fake auction. By seven thirty, the plan ended. What had happened? Where were the Russians? He realized Peter had never shown up either.
It took almost an hour for the team to leave inconspicuously. To anyone observing, it had to look like the auction had concluded. He finally secured the fire doors and said goodnight to the police guards, totally frustrated with the failed operation.
Missing
He locked his front door feeling exhausted, cold and wet. He pulled up the