“I’ve never heard of her, either. What is this about?”
“How about an Armenian woman named Louise Cazian?”
Mrs. Zakian shook her head and brushed a strand of hair back from her forehead. “No,” she stammered, before erupting into a coughing fit. “Ex...excuse me.”
Butler made a note on his pad and glared menacingly at the shaken woman. “But you have been to the Bedford Self-Serve Mini Storage Facility just off the freeway in Bedford Heights. Isn’t that right?”
She looked down at her hands. “No, I’ve never been there.”
Butler held up the composite sketch. “Mrs. Zakian, I think you’ve visited that storage facility. Perhaps you’ve forgotten? Take a look at this drawing our artist made with help from the manager.”
Lucy Zakian stared at the drawing. She looked at Agent Butler and wiped her hands on her dress.
“This is your handwriting on this rental agreement, isn’t it, Mrs. Zakian?”
The woman peered at the photocopy for several moments and then looked back down. “It may be, but I don’t remember.”
“Mrs. Zakian, Agent Wang and I are investigating a storage locker in the Bedford Self-Serve Mini Storage Facility that was filled with guns, ammunition, blasting caps and dynamite. It’s located across the street from a day-care center and school that care for over a hundred small kids. We’re certain that dynamite was stolen from a drill operator in Michigan. So several felonies have been committed and someone will likely spend a very long time in prison. We’d prefer not to add obstruction of justice to the other charges, so let me ask you this question one more time. Have you ever been to the Bedford Self-Serve Mini Storage Facility?”
Lucy Zakian stared fearfully into Agent Butler’s blue eyes. She glanced at Agent Wang, and then looked at her hands. “I’ve been there.”
Butler reached out and rested his hand reassuringly on the woman’s arm. “Mrs. Zakian, are you the woman who paid the rent for that storage locker all those years?”
Mrs. Zakian sat pensively for several moments and then nodded. “I rented a storage unit for my former husband, but I didn’t know anything about what was stored there.”
“I understand, ma’am. What’s your former husband’s name?”
“Gevork Zakian.”
“Do you know why he had the dynamite and guns?”
“I have no idea what he’d be doing with guns and explosives. I’m shocked.”
“Where is he now?”
“In Miami.”
“Did your husband have a nickname, ma’am?”
“Some people call him Moose.”
Butler glanced at Wang and smiled ever so slightly. “Did Mr. Zakian own an Open Pantry convenience store in Cleveland?”
“Yes, many years ago.”
“What does your ex-husband do now, Mrs. Zakian?” Agent Wang interjected.
“He’s the chairman of ANCA.”
“ANCA?” Butler repeated. “What’s that?”
“The Armenian National Committee of America.”
Butler jotted the moniker on his pad and underlined it twice. He looked up. “Do you have your ex-husband’s phone number and address?”
“Yes, but I haven’t spoken to him in years—ever since he remarried.”
“He’s remarried?” Butler asked. “Is that why you stopped paying the rent on the storage locker?”
Lucy took a deep breath and dabbed at her eyes. “Well, he stopped sending me money and I got tired of spending my settlement. I’m not rich, you know.”
“I understand. Mrs. Zakian, we’d like you to call your husband and ask him about the storage locker and its contents while we record the conversation. It’s the only way to prove you knew nothing about what he stored there. Will you do that for us?”
Lucy stared at the agent.
“Mrs. Zakian?”
“I’ll get his number.” The beleaguered woman got up from her chair and shuffled into the kitchen. Returning with a small phone book, she sat down and lifted the phone receiver to dial.
“Just a moment, ma’am,” Wang said. He retrieved a small recorder from his pocket and attached a microphone to the phone receiver. “Okay, go ahead.”
The woman dialed, and the sound of the phone ringing reverberated from the recorder.
“Hello,” a woman answered.
“This is Lucy. Is Gevork there?”
“Yeah. Hold on and I’ll get him.”
“Okay, thank you.”
“Lucy,” a deep male voice said a moment later. “What’s up?”
“Listen, Gevork, the police were here earlier today. Like, they were asking me questions about that storage locker in Bedford. Why didn’t you tell me what was in there?”
“Oh, Lucy.”
“What? I’m scared to death.”
“Oh, man.”
“There were enough explosives in that room to blow up the whole damned block. Jesus...I mean, this is insane. You have five kids...”
“Lucy, please, please, please. Not over the phone… I’ll fly there in the morning. Okay?”
“Okay. You’d better not let me down.”
“I’ll be there. Don’t say anything to anyone. I’ll call you when I get to the airport.”
The phone line clicked to a dial tone and Lucy hung up the phone.
“You did great,” Butler reassured her. He got up from his chair. “When he gets here tomorrow, I’d like you to meet him here. We’ll set up a listening device. Okay?”
Lucy didn’t look up. She stared at the floor and nodded submissively.
“Thank you. We’ll be back at seven in the morning. Don’t speak to anyone about our being here, especially to your former husband. The best thing to do is just not answer the phone if it rings.” He handed her a card. “You call me if you need to talk to someone. Okay?”
Lucy nodded and the agents slipped out the door.
The next day, Butler and Wang were set up in a surveillance van in front of Lucy Zakian’s house. Around the time Lucy had told them to expect Gevork’s arrival, a taxi slowed to a stop and a slender, middle-aged man, dressed in a dark suit and tie, emerged and hustled up the walk to the front door.
The sound of the doorbell resounded from the digital recorder. Butler glanced at the technician and nodded approvingly.
“Lucy,” a husky voice said a moment later.
“Did you hear from the police?”
“Not yet. Have they spoken to you since yesterday?”
“No.”
“Why are you so upset?”
“Because I’m the one that’s going to get shafted.”
“Listen, Lucy, I didn’t know what was in that storage locker.”
“Then who put it in there? You have to know that.”
“Yeah, yeah. Somebody asked me to rent that locker. They were some of the guys from overseas. And they told me to forget about it.”
“You didn’t know they stored dynamite and guns?”
Gevork sighed. “I didn’t know any of that.”
“Remember those FBI agents that came here many, many years ago?”
“Listen, I had FBI guys come in so many different times to talk to me. It never came to anything. Lucy, whatever happens, just keep your cool. They’re going to go after you, and they’ll try to use you to get to me. Do you hear me?”
“You’re paranoid. Why would they want to get to you?”
“Why do you think? Because I’m the head of the Armenian National Committee.”
“Well, at least you’ve got important friends to protect you.”
“All you did was rent a storage locker. That’s all you did. Now, here’s the money I owe you for the past few months. Does that cover it?”
“Yes, I guess it does.”
“Well, I’ve got to go now. I have a reception back in Washington this evening. Take care of yourself, Lucy. Let me know if you need anything. Okay?”
“Yeah, sure.”
“I’ll call you next week.”
Wang waited ten minutes before he drove up the street and parked in front of the house. The agents jumped out of the van and walked up the sidewalk. Butler knocked on the door and Lucy opened it.
“Did you hear?” she asked. “He said he didn’t know, either.”
“We heard,” Butler replied. “You did very well and we appreciate your cooperation. Before I forget, do you have anything here that belongs to your husband, like boxes, photographs, papers, or letters?”
“Yes, now that you mention it, there are two boxes of old clothes, papers and such in the basement.”
“How long have these things been here?”
“At least ten or fifteen years. He left them when we split up.”
“Is that all you have?”
“That’s it. After twenty years of marriage to that bastard all I have is two cardboard boxes of rubbish.” She dabbed her eyes with a handkerchief, and retreating into the living room, sat in a chair.
“Please don’t touch any of his stuff, okay?” Butler said. “We’ll get a warrant, but it’s important for you not to move the boxes or even look inside them until I get back. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir, I understand.”
“It’s also important for you not to tell anyone we’ve spoken today. Okay?”
“Yes, yes. I just hope you don’t think I had anything to do with this. I swear, I didn’t know what was in the storage unit; I just paid the bill like Moose told me to.”
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.”
CHAPTER 54
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.”
CHAPTER 55
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.”
The Ghosts of Anatolia Page 36