The Ghosts of Anatolia (48 page)

“Papa, you did your best, which is all any of us can do for those we love. Ara knew that you loved him. He knew he came from a strong, good family. He made his own choices, and we must leave the rest in God’s hands.”

April 16, 1997, a month later

The door opened and Leo Wang glanced up from a report on his desk. “How was your weekend?”

“Super. My cousin launched his boat and we spent most of our time at his cottage in Vermillion,” Jim Butler said.

“Vermillion, huh? Did you have dinner at
Chez Francois
?”

“No, not this time. It was opening day on Saturday and we spent most of the weekend at the yacht club. Guess who else was there?”

“Chuck Noble? He’s got a boat down there.”

Butler laughed. “No, Hailey Stevens, that FBI receptionist you told me about. She was with some banker who owns a sixty-foot yacht. They were all over each other.”

“That figures. So what’s going on with the Bedford explosives case?”

“I flew to Boston and New York the past two days to interview four of the men listed in Zakian’s notebook. It was maddening as hell. None of them were willing to tell me anything. Every one of them has become a respectable citizen with a decent job and a family.”

“Just a waste of time, huh?”

“Yeah, and it’s damned frustrating. I know that cache belonged to Gevork Zakian, but I don’t have enough evidence to get a warrant. If I could just search his office..”

“At least you found Lazar Sarkesian before he died.”

Butler’s eyes widened with surprise. “Sarkesian died?”

“Yeah, he passed away last Thursday. Didn’t you see the Argentine Federal Police report?”

“Hell no! I haven’t had time to go through my mail.” Butler contemplated the news for a moment. Suddenly, he turned and headed out the door. “I’ll see you later, Leo.”

“I thought we were driving to Columbus to interview Zakian’s old associate.”

Butler stepped into the hall. “We’ll talk to him when I get back.”

“Where are you going?”

“Buenos Aires. I’ll be back in a few days.”

Buenos Aires

Jim Butler wasn’t sure what he would find in Buenos Aires, but he suspected there were clues yet uncovered in Sarkesian’s condominium. Using his considerable charms, which would have been a surprise to Leo Wang, Butler ingratiated himself with Lazar Sarkesian’s companion, Maria, and, after a few hours of sympathetic listening, dinner in an expensive restaurant, and the prospect of an American boyfriend, Maria invited the federal agent to help her pack up the last of her benefactor’s belongings—yes, Sarkesian had left her everything he had, but Butler hoped there would be some surprises for the U.S. government as well.

Jim tossed a pair of socks into a cardboard box and grabbed several of the shirts that were hanging in the closet. “I’ll be damned,” he muttered, face-to-face with a small wall safe. He jiggled the dial. “Maria! Look at this.”

Maria hurried into the bedroom. “What is it?”

“Did you know about the safe in the back wall of this closet?”

“No,” she muttered in surprise. “Is it open?”

“It’s locked. Okay with you if I force it open?”

“Yes! Oh, how exciting. I love surprise.”

“Did Lazar have any tools?”

“Check the closet off the kitchen. He kept some things in there.”

Butler found what he needed in the closet. He knelt on the floor and pressed the drill bit against the safe. With Maria peering over his shoulder, he drilled slowly into the lock. After fifteen minutes of ear-splitting screeches, the door clanked open.

Jim peered inside.

“What is it?” Maria asked excitedly.

“Just some envelopes. Let’s open them on the bed.”

Jim pulled on a pair of latex gloves, and tearing open the first envelope, pulled out a stack of yellowed papers. He opened the two remaining envelopes. Each contained a jumble of documents of different sizes. Some were printed, but most were handwritten. A few were written in English, but most were in other languages—including one that was written in Arabic.

“Just a lot of old papers?” Maria fumed. Getting up from the bed, she clomped out of the room. The television blared on in the living room a moment later.

Jim chuckled to himself. Keeping the piles separate, he shuffled slowly through the papers, taking time to read the documents written in English. One three-page letter, addressed to “Commander Sarkesian,” detailed plans for a bomb attack on the Turkish Consulate in Los Angeles. The plan called for three men to hide a timed explosive device near the front entrance on the evening of April 23, 1981, with the bomb set to explode at ten the following morning. But it was the closing and signature at the bottom of the page that caught his eye. “In the name of our lost fathers, mothers, sons and daughters, Gevork Zakian.”

Butler took two hours to go through the remaining documents. Finally, he slid them back in the folders in exactly the same order he’d discovered them. He found Maria lying on the couch in the living room.

He held up the envelopes. “Mind if I take these papers back to America?”

She smiled. “Did you find a treasure map?”

“Nope. These are just some notes, written in Armenian or Arabic.”

“Take what you want, I don’t need it.”

Three weeks later

Agent Wang looked up from a transcript and sighed. “It’s amazing how little information we got out of all those documents from Buenos Aires.”

Butler nodded. “Yeah, I was damned disappointed when I got these transcripts back. There’s nothing linked to the Bedford case, but at least they tie Gevork Zakian to ASALA.”

“Maybe it’s time to pay him a visit.”

“I think you’re right. How about a trip later this week?”

“Sure. Thursday would work best for me.”

“Okay, let’s do it.” Butler reached across the table and grabbed one of the files. “Did you see this? Look at that underlined name.”

“Hovsep Kazerian,” Wang read aloud. “I don’t think that name came up when the old man was giving us the list of his relatives. Was he holding out on us?”

“It looks that way. I think we should pay him another visit, too.”

Wang glanced at his watch. “How about if we go now? I’m free until three.”

“I’ll meet you in the lobby in fifteen minutes.”

“See you downstairs.”

Keri raked mulch around the base of the maple tree in the center of the yard and walked back to the porch. Sirak was sitting on the steps with a cup of coffee.

“Thank you, Son.”

“No problem, Papa. Do you want me to mulch the trees in the backyard, too?”

“No, just leave them. I’ll pay the boy next door to do them next week.”

Keri turned at the squeal of brakes. A white sedan pulled to a stop in front of the house. Agents Butler and Wang climbed out of the car and walked up the driveway.

“Good morning,” Butler greeted them cordially. He shook Sirak’s hand. “How’ve you been, Dr. Kazerian?”

“Good morning, Agent Butler. I’ve been a bit under the weather, but this warm-up has been a big help.”

Butler smiled. “Yes, indeed, it looks like winter is finally over. I hate to bother you, sir, but Agent Wang and I want to ask you and your son a few more questions.”

“Of course. Let’s go inside where we can all sit down.” He hobbled up the steps and opened the door for Keri and the two agents. The four men sat in the living room.

“Well, Mr. Butler,” Sirak said, “how can we help you?”

Butler dated the first page on his legal pad. “Mr. Kazerian,” he asked Keri, “where do you work?”

“At Third National Bank in Cleveland. I’m a loan officer.”

“And you have two sons?”

“Yes, Michael and David.”

“What do they do?”

“Michael is a stockbroker at Lehman, and David owns a SeaRay boat dealership in Cleveland.”

Butler nodded and wrote down the information. He looked up at Sirak. “Dr. Kazerian, the last time we talked, I believe you told me you didn’t know a man named Lazar Sarkesian.”

“That’s right, I don’t know him.”

“You never heard that name before?”

Sirak shook his head. “No, not that I remember.”

“Well, sir, Lazar Sarkesian was a prominent member of ASALA. I think I told you I met with him in Buenos Aires.”

Sirak glanced at Keri. “And he said he knew me?”

“No, sir, but he had lots of documents, and two of those documents referred to your son, Ara.”

“I’d be interested to learn more about those documents, but I don’t understand the point you’re trying to make.”

“Sir, those same documents indicated that Hovsep Kazerian had a prominent role in several ASALA terrorist attacks in Europe and the United States.”

“Hovsep Kazerian?” Sirak asked with frown.

“Yes, sir.”

“I never heard of him.”

“You’re sure.”

“I’m positive. I’ve never heard of Hovsep Kazerian.” Sirak glanced at Keri. “The Kazerian surname is very common among our people, Agent Butler. I never heard of him. You have my word.”

Butler glanced at Agent Wang. Wang shrugged his shoulders.

Butler rubbed his forehead thoughtfully. “Dr. Kazerian, this is important. Do you have any other relatives—living or dead—you haven’t told me about? I know about your two sons, your two grandsons and their families, and I’m not referring to your wife, your parents or your brothers and sisters you already told me about. Are there any others?”

Sirak sighed. “I told you about my Uncle Bedros and his family.”

“That’s right. I mean besides them.”

Sirak stared into Agent Butler’s probing blue eyes. He glanced again at Keri and sighed uncomfortably. “There is one more,” he said in a near whisper.

Butler sat back in his chair. “Okay, what’s his name?”

“Mr. Butler,” Sirak replied anxiously, “this is something I’ve never discussed with anyone, even my son.”

Keri reached out and rested his hand on his father’s knee. “It’s okay, Papa. Whatever it is, it’s okay.”

Sirak closed his eyes. His tongue flicked across his suddenly parched lips. “I have a nephew living in Los Angeles. His name is Faruk Pasha.”

“Faruk Pasha?” Butler asked with surprise.

Sirak nodded. “Yes, Faruk Pasha.”

Agent Butler leaned forward in his chair. “Dr. Kazerian, I’m confused; isn’t Faruk Pasha a Turkish or Arabic name?”

“Yes,” Sirak whispered. “It’s Turkish.”

Butler jotted the name on his pad and looked up. “Can you explain, sir?”

“It’s a very long story.”

“We’ve got plenty of time.”

Sirak shifted in his chair and folded his hands across his knee. “I may have told you I moved my sons to Cleveland in 1971 to take a position at Euclid Community Hospital. I was appointed to the medical board after four years on the staff at the hospital. Seven of my colleagues and I oversaw the professional affairs of the medical staff. We board members, along with the executive director, Mr. Anderson, were involved in the recruitment of new staff, reviewing staff privileges, and occasionally, in disciplining other staff doctors.”

“How long did you hold that position, sir?” Butler asked.

“Almost six years. After I was on the board for three years, we received an application for the head of the department of rehabilitative medicine from a senior internist who’d held a similar position in Buffalo, New York. That physician’s name was Faruk Pasha.”

Butler glanced up from his pad. “Did you say Buffalo?”

“Yes. The chief of staff at that time was a man named Preston Miller—a well-respected, but exceedingly arrogant, cardiologist. Well, Dr. Miller brought Dr. Pasha’s appointment before the board, and I hit the ceiling.”

Butler frowned. “You opposed your own nephew’s appointment?”

“I steadfastly opposed the appointment of any Turk to the hospital staff. I had successfully blocked an applicant for a radiology position three years earlier, even before I joined the board. They probably offered me the board position to try to temper my cantankerousness, but I was adamant about that issue.”

“Even though he was your nephew?” Butler asked confusedly.

“I had no idea about Dr. Pasha’s background, except that he was a Turk, and that was enough for me. But, despite my vehement objections, Dr. Miller insisted on going forward with the appointment. The position had been open for four years without any other qualified applicants. I argued, I cajoled, I even threatened to resign from the staff, but to no avail. Dr. Pasha was hired when the majority of other medical board members supported his appointment.”

“Okay,” Butler said, “so what happened then?”

“After Dr. Pasha arrived at the hospital, my response was to completely deny his very existence. I never spoke to him; I never even looked at him. If he came into a room where I was sitting, I got up and left immediately. Fortunately, he wasn’t a surgeon, so our contact was somewhat limited, or I shudder to think what might’ve happened. He didn’t harbor any affection for me, either. We were two physicians working on the same hospital staff who never so much as nodded to one another when we passed in the hall. Dr. Pasha turned out to be a highly competent physician, who got high marks from colleagues and patients alike. Irony of ironies, he had actually preceded me by about five years at the American University Medical School in Beirut. But nothing could temper my feelings about a Turk being appointed to the medical staff at my beloved hospital.”

“So Dr. Pasha came to Euclid in 1978?”

“Yes, or was it 1979? I can’t remember. It was sometime in the late 1970s. Anyway, within a year of his arrival, Dr. Pasha and Dr. Miller had a major disagreement about how the Rehabilitative Medicine Department should be run, and especially about departmental support Dr. Pasha
claimed he’d been promised during his recruitment. Dr. Pasha, like many of the Turks I’ve known, was the argumentative sort. He was prone to loud outbursts that offended Dr. Miller’s old-school gentlemanly nature. Within weeks of Pasha’s one-year anniversary at the hospital, their disagreement deteriorated into open hostility, culminating in Dr. Pasha mailing a letter to all the members of the medical board and the board of directors of the hospital. In that letter, Dr. Pasha claimed Dr. Miller was dishonest and, therefore, unfit to serve as the chief of medical staff at the hospital.”