The Ghosts of Anatolia (51 page)

Butler wrote a note on the back of his pad. “The Cleveland Skating Club? Did you mention anything to him about me or this investigation?”

“No, we were only there an hour, and I didn’t even speak to him. As soon as he saw me with Papa, he ducked into the back.”

“He hid from you?”

Keri glanced at Sirak and smiled. “I think so. He and Papa don’t get along very well.”

Butler nodded. “Thanks for the tip. Please let me know if you hear from him.”

Sirak showed the agents out. He returned to the living room and found Keri jotting down a note. “Why didn’t you tell me you saw George Liralian?” he asked irritably.

Keri tucked the notepad into his shirt pocket. “Why? So you could peg him with your cane again? Papa, is there anything else you should tell
me about? I can’t believe you kept the truth about Faruk Pasha to yourself.”

“Like I told Agent Butler, I agonized over telling you about your aunt Flora and Dr. Pasha, but I decided nothing good would come of it. But now you know our darkest family secret. If there are anymore, I don’t know about them.”

“Papa, I’d like to meet Dr. Pasha and his family someday.”

“Maybe we’ll go together someday. I haven’t talked to him since he left Cleveland, so I’m not sure the phone number he gave me is still correct. I’m sure we could reach him through the hospital where he worked. Son, I realize now I should’ve told you and Ara everything about Anatolia and Syria, and what happened to our family, including my discovery about your aunt Flora and Faruk Pasha. I convinced myself that hiding the truth would somehow insulate you and your brother from the hatred and extremism that grew out of the events that transpired all those years ago, but in the end I guess I really only protected myself.”

“Protected yourself from what, Papa?”

“Protected myself from having to relive all that in my thoughts and words. Make sure you and the boys share what happened with your grandchildren while they’re still young. Don’t leave it for someone else to come along and use Anatolia to stir hatred in their hearts.”

Keri patted his father’s knee. “We already talked to them. The children know what happened, and they understand that the evil men who were responsible died a long time ago.”

“Tell them about Dr. Pasha and his family, too.”

“I will.”

“Are we still going fishing next Sunday?”

“I’m planning on it.”

“I’ll pick you up around ten-thirty Saturday morning. I’ve got to go now.”

Sirak hugged Keri to his chest. “I love you, Son.”

“I love you, too, Papa. We’ll see you Saturday.”

May 15, 1998
Washington DC

The jet touched down gently on the tarmac. Butler glanced out the window at the airplanes lined up outside the Washington National Airport terminal. “Well, this should be interesting.”

“Damned interesting,” Wang agreed. “I’m sure Zakian’s been expecting us to show up ever since he heard from his wife.”

“Yeah, and now he’s had six months to work on his story. At least we can turn up the heat a bit. Maybe he’ll make a mistake.”

The agents disembarked and wove through the crowded terminal. Walking out into bright sunshine, Butler made a beeline for a man sitting on the hood of a Town Car bearing the ATF insignia.

“Are you waiting for Butler and Wang?”

“Yes, sir!” the clean-cut, young black man replied. “The name is Jefferson, sir. Let me help you with your bag.”

“I’ll keep it with me, if you don’t mind. We’ve got a few things to review during the drive.”

Jefferson opened the rear door. “No problem, sir.”

Wang and Butler climbed into the car and slammed the door. Jefferson jogged around the back end and ducked into the driver’s seat.

“We’re headed to 1711 N Street, Northwest,” Butler called out. “But could you drive past the Lincoln Memorial on the way?”

“Absolutely, sir, would you like me to take a little drive around the city, too?”

“No, thank you, just the Lincoln Memorial. I make a point of seeing it whenever I’m in Washington.”

Jefferson smiled at Butler in the rearview mirror. “It’s my favorite, too. We sure could use old Abe in the White House right now.”

“You can say that again.”

Wang and Butler were lost in their own thoughts as they passed the Lincoln Memorial; then Wang said, “We still don’t have anything to tie Gevork Zakian directly to the dynamite and guns, and we probably never will.”

“Yeah, one step forward and two steps back. It’s so damned frustrating. The FBI isn’t even working the case anymore. We should’ve talked to this joker a year ago.”

“What for?” Wang replied frustratedly. “He won’t give us a damned thing.”

“Maybe not, but at least he’ll know we haven’t forgotten him.”

“He hasn’t forgotten. You can bet he’s been in contact with at least half of the witnesses we’ve interviewed.”

“I’m sure. We need to find George Liralian. There’s a reason he’s been dodging us for the past year and a half. Why else would he move from one apartment to the next and not use credit cards or bank accounts? I wonder where he gets the money to live.”

“Probably from Zakian,” Wang quipped. “Maybe we should check all the registered guests staying at hotels near ANCA headquarters.”

Butler laughed. “Why don’t you do that when you have a few extra weeks to waste?

Ten minutes later, Jefferson pulled the car to a stop in front of an office building on N Street.

The two agents checked the directory in the ornate marble foyer and took the elevator to the third floor. They found Suite 301, and Wang followed Butler inside.

A middle-aged woman sitting at the reception desk looked up from her monitor. “May I help you, gentlemen?”

Butler held out his ID. “I’m agent Jim Butler from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives. This is agent Leo Wang. We’re here to see Gevork Zakian.”

The woman perused the ID and then looked up. “What’s this about?”

“It’s official business,” Butler replied. “It won’t take long.”

“Wait here, please. He’s very busy today, but I’ll see if he has time to speak to you.”

The woman stepped through a door behind the desk and reappeared a minute later. “Mr. Zakian will see you, but only for a few minutes. He’s having lunch with Congressman White in forty-five minutes.”

The woman led them into an imposing corner office. Zakian was sitting behind a large mahogany desk. He was an intense-looking man, with black hair and gold-framed glasses. He stared down at a letter he was reading.

Butler glanced past him at the collection of photographs on the wall behind the desk. He recognized Bill Clinton and Newt Gingrich, along with dozens of other luminaries.

“Ridiculous,” Zakian muttered. He folded the letter, slid it into his desk drawer and leaned back in his chair. “How can I help you, gentlemen?” he asked calmly.

Butler held out his ID. “Mr. Zakian, I’m Jim Butler, special agent with the ATF, and this is agent Leo Wang. We’d like to ask you a few questions, sir.”

“Ask away, but all I can spare is fifteen minutes.” Zakian stood up and walked to four oversized chairs arranged in a circle around a hexagonal coffee table. “Have a seat, gentlemen.”

Butler retrieved a legal pad from his briefcase. “Mr. Zakian, we’re here to ask you about dynamite and weapons that were found on September 13, 1996, in a storage locker in Bedford Heights, a locker you rented for the past twenty years.”

“I didn’t rent any locker in Ohio,” Zakian replied.

“Not directly, but you had your ex-wife, Lucy, pay the rent with money you sent to her. We’ve done our homework, Mr. Zakian, and it brought us right here to you. You’re a busy man, so let’s just cut through the semantics and get to the crux of the issue. You were an ASALA member, right?”

“No, I was not.”

Butler bent down and withdrew several papers from his briefcase. He handed them to Zakian. “Take a look at these documents. They were found in Lazar Sarkesian’s condominium in Buenos Aires after he died.”

Butler studied Zakian’s face as the latter read through the top document—a photocopy of the three-page memorandum he’d written to Commander Sarkesian decades earlier. It detailed the plan to bomb the Turkish Consulate in Los Angeles, and was signed Gevork Zakian. The director remained expressionless as he stoically read the letter.

Zakian looked up. “These are forgeries. I never even met Lazar Sarkesian.”

“But you knew who he was?” Butler asked.

“I may have heard of him, but I’ve never spoken to him, and certainly never wrote him this letter.”

“In that case, you wouldn’t have a problem with me asking your secretary for a few notes you wrote? I want to give them to our handwriting experts.”

“Ask all you want, but I never write anything.” He held up a hand-held recorder. “I dictate all my notes and letters. You’re squandering taxpayer money, gentlemen.”

“Let me tell you what I think, sir,” Butler retorted heatedly. “I think you
are
responsible for the Michigan dynamite heist and that you hid the
explosives along with those guns found in that storage locker. I also think those weapons were used to kill Kemal Arikan in Los Angeles and Orhan Gündüz in Boston in 1982.”

“Nonsense,” Zakian huffed.

“What about that Winchester rifle with carving on the stock that was found in the storage locker? You bought it from your employee, Brad Stout.”

“It was stolen from my store a few months later.”

“What a coincidence. I think all of those guns belonged to you, sir.”

Zakian stood up. “Sounds like you’ve worked up quite a tale of fiction there, gentlemen—right out of a made-for-TV movie. Look, I can’t be late for my luncheon with Congressman White. So, help yourself out, and have a good day.” He walked to his desk and shuffled through a stack of papers on the bookshelf.

Wang stood up and headed to the door, but Butler stepped over to the desk.

“Mr. Zakian, why was Ara Kazerian murdered in Damascus?”

Zakian scowled up at Butler. “Who?”

“Ara Kazerian. He lived in Richmond Heights before he was sent to Beirut for training.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about. I don’t know anyone named Ara Kazerian.”

“He never came to your Open Pantry store?”

“Thousands of people came into my store, Agent Butler.”

“Including George Liralian?”

Zakian shook his head. “Never heard of him, either.”

“You haven’t talked to him in the past two years?”

“Listen carefully, Mr. Butler; I never heard of him.”

Butler stared down into Zakian’s eyes for several moments. “You never called him?”

Zakian shook his head. “No, I never even heard of him.”

Butler turned and walked to the door. “Thank you, Mr. Zakian. We’ll be in touch.”

Butler turned his car into the ATF parking lot and parked along the side of the building.

“Let’s have another look at those guns from the Bedford storage locker,” he said as they walked into the building. “We’re missing something.”

Wang patted Butler on the back. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

They took the elevator down to the basement. The evidence room clerk retrieved several boxes and carted them to an inspection table in a side room. Butler and Wang opened the boxes and pulled out the rifles, machine guns and a shotgun.

Methodically examining an Uzi machine gun, Butler handed it to Wang.

Wang ran his fingers down the barrel. “Maybe he’s telling the truth.”

“About what?”

“Maybe Zakian’s role really was merely to rent the storage locker.”

Butler picked up the intricately-carved rifle. “What about this? He buys the rifle, it gets stolen and just happens to end up in the storage locker with all these other weapons? And what about the letter to Lazar Sarkesian? No, he not only built this cache, he planned some of the killings. Hell, that arrogant bastard probably carried out attacks himself.”

“Maybe, but how do we prove it?”

“I don’t have a clue.” Butler opened a smaller box and pulled out a plastic bag. “What’s this?”

“That’s the old trench coat that was in the locker with everything else.”

“Did we send for evidence processing?”

“Absolutely. I gave it to Nick Kennedy myself.”

“Let’s take it back to the lab and ask Dave Saunders to look it over. He’s top notch.”

“For what?” Wang asked skeptically.

“Just to make sure Kennedy didn’t miss anything.”

“Whatever,” Wang muttered with frustration.

“You go on home. I’ll take it down.”

“Okay, have a great weekend.”

“I’ll see you Monday.”

May 30, 1998
Westlake, Ohio

When Jim Butler returned to his home in Westlake, Ohio, he walked past the answering machine a few times before noticing the light was on. Sighing in anticipation of a solicitation call, he punched the button.

“You have one message,” said the mechanical female voice. “Butler,” a husky voice hissed, “listen carefully, bastard. Unless you want to screw up that promotion you’ve got coming or even get your ass fired, stop harassing Gevork Zakian. You hear me? You don’t know who you’re messing with, asshole. I’m talking about some of the most powerful men in this country jumping down your fucking throat. Your family could get hurt, too. Do you understand? No more bullshit.” A brief silence was followed by three blasts from a gun fired in rapid succession.

Butler stared at the answering machine for a moment, then called his partner.

“ATF, Leo Wang.”

“Hey, Leo, it’s Jim.”

“Miss me already?”

“Yeah, right… Listen, when I got home there was a threatening message on my answering machine.”

“What kind of threat?”

“Some jerk threatened to hurt my family if we didn’t lay off of Zakian. He ended the message with gunshots.”

“Son of a bitch. You’d better call the chief.”

“Could you check to see if the jerk-off phoned from a traceable number? It came in between nine and eleven this morning.”

“Okay, I’ll take care of it. Should I call Zakian? He must be feeling some heat after all.”