The Ghosts of Anatolia

by Steven E. Wilson

  “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.”

  Agent Butler stopped writing and pondered the best way to approach his next question. “Sir, can you tell me the names of the men you recruited to ASALA from Cleveland?”

  “There were only a few—Alek Topouzian, Ara Kazerian and George Liralian.”

  Butler handed the old man a sheet of paper and a pen. “Would you mind writing them down for me?”

  Sarkesian scribbled down the names and handed the paper back to Butler.

  “Where are these men now?” Butler asked.

  “Topouzian and Kazerian were killed in Damascus in 1983. I’m not sure what happened to Liralian. He may be dead, too.”

  “I notice you only want to talk about dead men.”

  “Young man, when you get to be my age, most of the people you knew are dead.”

  Butler nodded contemplatively. “What role did these three men play in ASALA?”

  “Topouzian participated in the assassinations of Turkish Ambassador Danis Tunaligil, in Vienna and Turkish Embassy Secretary Oktar Cirit, in Beirut, and one of the simultaneous bombings in Frankfurt, Essen and Cologne—I forget which one he led. Later he became a bodyguard to Hagopian. He was killed during infighting in Beirut. Kazerian was killed in the midst of his training in Damascus. Liralian fled Damascus after he realized he’d also been targeted.”

  “What do you mean, targeted?”

  “A life-and-death struggle broke out among the leaders of ASALA shortly before they fled Beirut in the face of the 1982 Israeli invasion. Many men were lost…”

  Sarkesian spent the next half-hour detailing the events that unfolded in Beirut and Damascus in 1982 and 1983. Tears filled his eyes more than once, as he recounted the events that tore ASALA apart. Finally, he reclined on his pillows and closed his eyes. “I must rest now. Maria, water, please.”

  The young woman got up and left the room. She returned a moment later carrying a glass of water.

  Butler shuffled back through his notes. He shook his head and sighed frustratedly. “Are you sure you didn’t know Gevork Zakian, sir?”

  “I’m too tired to answer any more questions today. Maybe tomorrow.”

  Butler
nodded. “Okay, I’ll come back tomorrow.”

  “Maria, please show our guest out,” Sarkesian said. “Good evening, Mr. Butler.”

  “Good evening, sir.”

  Butler followed Maria back through the living room to the front door. She unbolted the lock and let him out without a word.

  CHAPTER 56

  March 12, 1997

  Richmond Heights, Ohio

  Keri moved his black pawn diagonally one space to Sirak’s king. “Check,” he said confidently.

  Sirak looked up from the board, smiled at his son and moved his king away from the threat.

  “Damned rook,” Keri huffed. He moved a second pawn to protect the first.

  Sirak scanned the board for several moments and moved his queen diagonally across the board. “Checkmate!”

  “Checkmate?” Keri muttered doubtfully. “Are you sure?” He scanned the board. “Damn!” He looked up sheepishly at his father and grinned. “I thought I had you.”

  “You did. All you had to do was move your knight—right here.”

  “Ahh, I totally missed it. I was concentrating on getting another queen.”

  “That’s one of life’s important lessons, Son. Never focus so completely on one goal that you miss an even better opportunity.”

  “You taught me that, Papa, and it’s served me well.”

  “Your game has improved these past few months.”

  “I didn’t play for years after Ara died. It’s starting to come back since we’ve been playing regularly.” He smiled. “I’ll beat you one of these days.”

  Sirak laughed. “I’m sure you will.”

  Sirak and Keri were putting the chess pieces away when the doorbell rang twice in rapid succession. Sirak limped to the foyer, unlocked the deadbolt and opened the door.

  Both men held up identification. “Are you Sirak Kazerian?” the taller man asked.

  “Yes, I’m Dr. Kazerian, what can I do for you?”

  “I’m Jim Butler and this is Leo Wang. We’re agents with the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives, and we’d like to ask you a few questions.”

  Sirak blinked in surprise and glanced at his son. He opened the screen door to let the men inside. “Please, come in. We can talk here in the living room. This is my son, Keri. Would you care for something to drink?”

  “No, thank you, sir,” Butler replied.

  Keri and Sirak sat on the sofa and the two agents took chairs across from them. Butler fetched a pen from his pocket and shuffled through several pages of his legal pad.

  “Dr. Kazerian,” Butler began, “how many children do you have?”

  “Keri is my only living child, but I had another son and a daughter. They both died many years ago.”

  “May I ask their names?”

  “My brother’s name was Ara and our sister was Mina,” Keri offered. “What is this about, anyway?”

  “As we said, we’re conducting an investigation. Your father’s name came up on some paperwork and we’re just making sure we do our research,” Butler said.

  Keri sat back with a frown on his face.

  “How did they die, sir?” Wang asked, in a softer tone.

  “Mina was killed in Jerusalem during the 1967 Israeli-Arab war. Ara died in Beirut in 1983, but I don’t know anything about the circumstances surrounding his death.”

  “Was Ara a member of ASALA, sir?” Butler inquired.

  Sirak’s jaw dropped. He glanced at Keri and sighed deeply. “I don’t know.”

  Butler scribbled a note and sat back in his chair. “You don’t sound convinced.”

  “I’m not certain if he was or wasn’t. I guess there’s a chance he might have been; I suspected it after he died.”

  “Dr. Kazerian,” Butler asked, “I need to ask the names of your other family members, dead or living?”

  “Keri has two sons, Michael and David, and they both have children. My father, Mourad, and my mother, Kristina, were lost during the Great War, as were my brothers Stepannos, Alek, and Mikael. My older sister, Flora, was abducted in 1915. My younger sister, Izabella, was also killed during the Israeli-Arab conflict in 1967, along with my wife and daughter. I also had an uncle, Bedros—my father’s older brother. Bedros was killed in Istanbul at the start of the Great War. I don’t know what happened to his children—my cousins, Garo, Aren, Alis and Mairan. My mother had some brothers and sisters, but I don’t know what happened to them either. I lost track of them after I left Anatolia with my mother in 1915.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. You’ve certainly suffered more than your share of tragedy. Do you know a man named Lazar Sarkesian?”

  “Lazar Sarkesian?” Sirak repeated. “I’ve never met anyone by that name.”

  “How about Gevork Zakian?”

  “I recognize the name. Isn’t he the leader of one of the Armenian groups in Washington? I think I remember his name from some literature they handed out at church a few months back.”

  “Did you know Mr. Zakian when he lived in Cleveland?”

  “He lived in Cleveland? No; I’ve never met him—at least not that I remember.”

  Butler wrote down Sirak’s response and turned to the next page. “Sir, you mentioned that after your son’s death, you suspected he might have been a member of ASALA. What made you think that?”

  Sirak glanced at Keri.

  Keri patted him on the knee. “It’s okay, Papa.”

  “Mr. Butler, please bear with me,” Sirak said. “I’ll tell you what I know about Ara and ASALA, but I’ve never spoken about these things with Keri.”

  “Do you want me to leave, Papa?”

  “No, I want you to hear what I’ve got to say. I began to see changes in Ara when he was in his early thirties and he moved home after he lost his job. At first these changes were subtle, but with time they became unmistakable. One fall day, I think it was in 1981, I was looking for my radio in Ara’s room.” Sirak pointed back toward the hall. “Ara had a habit of taking the radio out of the kitchen to listen to ballgames. God knows where he picked that up—school, I guess. Anyway, while searching for the radio, I found some political literature about Armenia and the killings that occurred in the Ottoman Empire. I was shocked by the hatred in those pamphlets, and I confronted him about them when he got home that afternoon. We argued. I ended up telling him the history of my family, of our experiences during the war—but to him that justified a militant attitude. He said there were good people working to return our ancestral lands, to right the wrongs that had been done to us.”

  Sirak looked up at Keri. Then he glanced at agent Butler. “Ara lost his smile that day, after I told him about our family. He turned into an angry young man filled with bitterness. He started hanging around men I suspected were associated with the Armenian nationalist movement. We fought about it constantly, but nothing I said made the slightest bit of difference. The hatred was like a cancer growing in Ara’s brain, and I was helpless to do anything about it. I considered moving my sons out of Cleveland, somewhere far away from the insidious spell Ara had fallen under. But, for the second time in my life, I feared losing my position and privilege. The first time, in Jerusalem, it cost me my wife and daughter and sister. The second time, it cost me my son.”

  Tears welled in Sirak’s aged eyes. He wiped them away with his palms. “Six months later, I lost him forever. Ara told me he needed to take a three-month computer design program in France so he could get a job. I know he arrived in Paris, because I received a postcard from him shortly after he left Cleveland. But three months became six months, and then a year; and then, on a snowy winter morning in February 1983, I got a phone call from a man named Abbas. That two-minute conversation tore my heart to pieces once and for all. Abbas told me he regretted to inform me that Ara had been killed. Actually, he said Ara had been murdered. He said he’d been with Ara in Beirut, and that my son had given him my phone number. Ara asked him to call me if anything ever happened.”

  Butler looked up from his notepad and
solemnly nodded his understanding.

  “I’m sorry, Dr. Kazerian,” Agent Butler said. “Perhaps I can fill in details that’ll bring you some closure about your son. A month ago, as a part of an ongoing investigation, I traveled to Buenos Aires to interview a man named Lazar Sarkesian.”

  “Yes, you said his name before, but I’ve never heard of him,” Sirak muttered.

  “Mr. Sarkesian told me about the formation of the Armenian Secret Army for the Liberation of Armenia, also called ASALA, in Beirut. ASALA was responsible for many of the attacks on Turkish diplomats and others in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Hagop Hagopian founded the organization. He became increasingly arrogant and cavalier in carrying out these attacks, which, in the eyes of some members, began to turn world opinion against the cause.” Butler glanced back through his notes. “At some point, some of the other leaders of the organization, including a man named Monte Melkonian, plotted to rid ASALA of Hagopian and his henchmen.”

  “I’ve heard of Monte Melkonian,” Sirak said. “He’s a hero to my people.”

  “Anyway, they set their plot in motion after the Israeli invasion forced them to flee Lebanon for Syria. Several men in this faction killed some of Hagopian’s close colleagues while the leader was away in Greece. Hagopian returned to Syria a short time later. He and his henchmen rounded up as many of the conspirators as they could. Your son, Ara, was one of them. They executed him in Damascus, not Beirut.”

  “Executed!” Sirak said, his face draining of color.

  “We are sorry to tell you this, sir, but perhaps it will help knowing once and for all what happened to your son,” Wang said.

  “Sir, did Lazar Sarkesian say how my brother was killed?” Keri asked.

  “He did, but I’m not sure it’ll serve any purpose to get into the details.”

  “We want to know,” Sirak insisted, looking at Keri and then back at the agents.

  “I’m sorry to tell you that your son was tortured in a plan to force Monte Melkonian out of hiding. When that plan failed, Hagopian shot him.”

  Sirak stared open-mouthed at Agent Butler for a moment before burying his face in his hands. “My God, have you no mercy?” he muttered. “I bring my sons halfway around the world to America to escape the brutality and perils I was forced to endure, and my Ara is tortured and murdered back in Damascus?”