The Ghosts of Anatolia (46 page)

Butler patted the angst-ridden woman on the shoulder. “Mrs. Zakian, thank you for your help. If you really didn’t know about the contents of the storage locker, or how they were used, then you haven’t committed any crimes.”

Lucy looked up. “I’ve told you everything I know.”

“Then there’s nothing to worry about. I’ll be back later today. I’d appreciate it if you could stay home until I get here.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“Thank you.” Butler motioned to Wang and the two men stepped outside.

Wang slammed his door and started the car. “Do you think she knew?” he asked Butler.

“No, I don’t think so. Why would she protect him and risk going to prison after he dumped her for another woman?”

“Good point. Let’s go. I’ve got a basketball game tonight.”

Jim Butler stood at a table strewn with old pamphlets, maps, books and folders. Faded jeans, tee shirts and other articles of clothing that’d already been catalogued by the clerk were stacked on a nearby table. Butler, his hands covered with latex gloves, paged slowly through a small spiral notebook. He glanced over his shoulder when the door opened behind him and Wang stepped into the evidence room.

“Leo, take a look at this,” Butler said, holding up a dog-eared notebook. “There must be eighty names, addresses and phone numbers written in here. All but a couple of them end in ‘ian’ or ‘yan.’ ”

Wang peered over Butler’s shoulder. “See any names you recognize?”

“No, and after all these years, most of the addresses and phone numbers are likely to be dead ends, but at least they provide us with some leads to follow up.”

“Did you find Zakian’s name on anything?”

“Hell yes, in at least a dozen places. It’s his stuff all right. Once the analyst is finished with it, I’m driving back over to Lucy Zakian’s house. I want to see if she remembers any of these people.”

The next morning Agent Butler was on the phone when Leo Wang knocked softly and slipped inside the office.

Butler took the telephone receiver away from his ear. “Just a minute. I’m on hold with the FBI.”

Wang frowned and slumped into a chair.

Several moments passed before Butler bolted to attention. “Yes, I’m still here.” He hurriedly jotted a note. “Buenos Aires?” he whispered with surprise. “Do you have an address?” He scribbled a bit more on his pad. “Okay, I guess that’s plenty for now. Can you e-mail me his photo and copies of those documents?” Butler sat back in his seat. “Thanks a lot, Rich. I appreciate your help.” He nodded at Leo. “Don’t worry, I’ll keep you posted. Have a great day.”

Butler hung up the phone and swiveled around to face Wang. “The chief put me in touch with the head of the FBI Counterterrorism Division in Washington—a guy named Rich Fox—and I just spent the last two hours on the phone with him.”

“What’s up?”

“I took those names and addresses to Lucy Zakian last night. She’d never heard of most of them, but there were a couple she thought she recognized from the late seventies and early eighties.” Butler shuffled through his notes. “One in particular, a man named Lazar Sarkesian, spent a lot of time around their house and the convenience store where her husband worked. I faxed the list to Fox this morning. He came back with information on several of them, including Sarkesian. It turns out he was chief lieutenant to one of the founders of ASALA, an Armenian named Hagop Hagopian, who was aligned early on with the PLO. Sarkesian worked as a recruiter for ASALA, and he was apparently damned good at it. One of his recruits, a chap from California named Monte Melkonian, eventually became the leader of one of the offshoots of ASALA when the organization split following the Israeli invasion of Lebanon in 1983. Anyway, Fox and his predecessors at the FBI have been tracking Sarkesian for years, and they suspect he was a major player in the Armenian terror organizations here. Sarkesian moved from Beirut to Paris, but spent a lot of time in major cities throughout the U.S. Eventually he settled in
Buenos Aires, and apparently he’s lived there quietly since ’93. Fox gave me his last-known address.”

“Do you plan to question him?”

“Absolutely. I’m flying to Buenos Aires tonight. There’s no rest for the weary. I want to get on top of these new leads. I can’t take the chance that Lucy Zakian has second thoughts about cooperating and sends Sarkesian and the others into hiding.”

“Good luck. Call me when you get back.”

“I will. See you next week.”

Butler stepped through the doors outside of baggage claim at the Buenos Aires International Airport and scanned more than a dozen signs behind the barrier. He spotted the one he was looking for, and made his way through the crowd of waiting people toward a dark-haired young man.

“Hello, I’m Jim Butler.”

“Welcome to Buenos Aires, Mr. Butler,” the man replied in heavily-accented English. “How was your flight, sir?”

“Long,” Butler replied. “The guy in the seat next to me was snoring like a chainsaw.”

“Sorry to hear that. It’ll take about a half hour to drive to the hotel, and then you can get some rest. May I take your bag?”

“Thank you.” Butler handed the young man his suitcase and followed him out of the terminal.

Within minutes, the small sedan was weaving in and out of traffic on the expressway. Butler squinted out the window through dazzling sunlight at the aging high-rise residential buildings that were so close to the freeway he could see birds roosting on the balcony clotheslines.

The driver exited the freeway and drove along a wide, traffic-congested boulevard. Finally, he turned into a commercial district lined with boutiques, galleries, cafés and bars, where the sidewalks were
crowded with affluent Porteños—including alluring young women adorned in chic clothes that ranged from designer jeans to elegant dresses.

“What’s this area called?” Butler asked the driver.

“It’s the Recoleta District, sir. We’re only two blocks from your hotel.”

“There’s a lot going on here. Is it always this busy?”

The driver smiled at him in the rearview mirror. “Wait until tonight. It’ll be impossible to move.”

“Where would you recommend I have dinner tonight?”

“Is this your first visit to Buenos Aires, sir?”

“Yes.”

“Then, I recommend you walk along Junin Street across from the Recoleta Cemetery. You’ll find anything you like at the restaurants there, from Argentinean steak to pasta.” He pulled to a stop in front of a small hotel. “Here we are, sir. Junin Street is just two blocks down. I suggest you try a tango club after dinner. They’re all over the city.”

The driver grabbed Butler’s bag from the trunk and led him inside. An efficient young man at the reception desk checked him in. The doorman led him to a small, but pleasant, room.

Butler checked his watch. It was ten thirty in the morning. He took a quick shower, set his alarm for three in the afternoon and stretched out on the bed to nap.

Butler stepped out of the lobby and headed down the busy street. Just as the concierge told him, he found Avenida Callao four blocks south of the hotel. He turned the corner onto a narrow, tree-lined thoroughfare lined with shops, restaurants, apartments and condominiums. He scanned the numbers on the buildings until he found 257. It was a rather unattractive, but modern, three-story building, with a gated driveway that led to a first-floor parking garage.

Butler glanced up at the building and scrutinized the sliding glass windows overlooking the street before jogging up the steps. He opened the door, approached the mailboxes lining the back wall of the foyer and
found the name he wanted. Taking the stairs to the third floor, he followed the numbers to the end of the hall. He paused for a moment to gather his thoughts and knocked purposefully on the last door. There was no response, so he knocked again. The door cracked open a moment later.

“
Quién esta aqui?
” a youthful woman’s voice called out.

“My name is Jim Butler, ma’am. I’m an investigator from the United States. I’m here to speak with Mr. Sarkesian for a few minutes. Here’s my card.”

“
Un momento, por favor
,” the woman said politely. She closed the door.

Feeling rather foolish, Butler stood in the hall for five minutes before the door inched opened again.

“
Tiene documentos
?” the woman queried.

“Documents? Yes, I have documents.”

“Give them, please.”

Butler fished his I.D. out of his pocket and slipped it through the gap.

The door slammed shut again. Several more minutes passed before the chain slid back and the door swung open.

A ravishing, dark-haired beauty dressed in a tee shirt and blue jeans stood in the doorway. She held out his I.D. “Mr. Sarkesian see you. He sick, so only few questions.” She turned and walked away.

“Thank you,” Butler replied awkwardly.

He followed the shapely young woman through a brightly-lit living room and down a short hall that ended in French doors. She stepped through the doors, and led Butler into a dim bedroom. A pallid, elderly man, with an oxygen mask covering his mouth and nose, was lying in the center of a large bed that dominated the rather small room. A sheet was pulled up to his neck, and his head was propped on a stack of pillows. The air in the room was stagnant and smelled faintly of bile.

The young woman sat in a chair in the corner of the room. She glared at Butler and folded her arms across her chest.

The old man held out his feeble hand. “I’m Lazar Sarkesian,” he said breathily. “How can I help you, young man?”

“Mr. Sarkesian, I’m Jim Butler, an investigator with the United States Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. I’d like to ask you a few questions, sir.”

Sarkesian gazed at Butler for several moments. His eyes were a dull pitch-black and the whites were tinged with yellow. His gray beard was unkempt. He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “Are you here to arrest me?”

“No, Mr. Sarkesian, I’m only here to ask you some questions.”

“Okay, then, please sit down.”

Butler sat in a chair beside the bed and retrieved a notebook from his pocket. He looked up at the young woman and smiled cheerfully. She glared back with distrustful indifference.

Butler looked down at his notebook. “Mr. Sarkesian, did you know a man named Hagop Hagopian?”

Sarkesian pulled up his mask and cleared his throat. “Yes, I knew him. That was a long time ago. Hagop has been dead for many years.”

“How long ago did you know him?”

“For nearly two decades—mostly in the seventies and eighties.”

“Did you know Monte Melkonian?”

It seemed that a hint of a smile came to Sarkesian’s face. He reached toward the bed stand. “Could you hand me my water?”

Butler handed it to him. The old man took several sips and handed it back.

“Yes,” he gasped, “Monte was one of the greatest men I ever knew. He was a natural leader and the bravest fighter of his day. What’s all this about, Mr. Butler?”

“Did you recruit Melkonian to ASALA?”

Sarkesian laughed heartily. “ASALA! I haven’t heard that name for years. I introduced Monte to Hagopian in San Francisco. He was a brash young Berkeley student at the time. But I’m not sure
recruit
is the right way to describe my role in bringing them together.”

The young woman stood up with her arms folded. “You ask many questions, Mr. Butler. Lazar is sick.”

“It’s okay, Maria,” Sarkesian said. “An old man like me doesn’t get many opportunities to reminisce about his youth.”

Maria sighed and sat back down in the chair.

“And you all ended up in Beirut?”

Sarkesian smiled weakly. “Yes, I lived there for six years. Those were heady times for all of us.”

“And then, later, you moved away?”

“I lived in Paris for fifteen years. It’s my favorite city in the world. Have you been there?”

Butler smiled. “Yes, sir, it’s one of my favorites, too.” He wrote something down on his notepad and looked up again. “Mr. Sarkesian, have you ever been to Cleveland, Ohio?”

The old man’s eyes widened with surprise. “Yes, I’ve been to Cleveland a few times. That was a long time ago, too.”

“Did you know a Gevork Zakian?”

“Gevork Zakian…” the old man repeated. “No, I don’t recall that name.”

“Are you sure? Gevork Zakian’s the head of ANCA, the Armenian National Committee of America. I found your name in his notebook, and his former wife, Lucy, recalled you visiting their home and business.”

Sarkesian stared back with the steely determination of a Samurai warrior. “I’m certain, young man, that I’ve never heard his name in my life.”

Butler stared at Sarkesian. “Did you know weapons and dynamite linked to the Armenian terrorist movement were kept in a storage locker in Bedford, Ohio? Bedford’s a small town just outside of Cleveland.”

“No, I know nothing about any weapons or dynamite, but I hope that they were put to good use. Young man, let me tell you what I know about what you refer to as the ‘Armenian terrorist movement.’ Like the men you’ve mentioned, and tens of thousands of Armenians just like us,
we suffered when the Ottomans butchered our parents and stole our land when we were children. If the ancestral homeland your people lived on for thousands of years were taken from you, wouldn’t you do everything in your power to reclaim it? Of course you would. I can see it in your eyes. This was our purpose—our glorious dream. Shortly after Hagop Hagopian founded ASALA, I joined the organization in Beirut. I came to know many men in cities throughout the United States through my work, including a few in Cleveland, and I introduced some of them to Hagop. These young men shared our viewpoints about the plight of our people. Yes, we made mistakes, some that I deeply regret, and a few innocent people died unnecessarily, but our actions raised awareness in the world. Finally, others came to understand the scope of the atrocities committed against my people. For this, I have no misgivings. I’m an old man now, and my remaining days are few, but when my time on this earth is finished, I’ll greet my maker with the satisfaction of knowing I made a difference for my people.”