The Ghosts of Anatolia

by Steven E. Wilson

  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.”

  CHAPTER 61

  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.”

  “No, I want him to wonder if I even got the message. Maybe he’ll have the guy call me again. Have the department trace all incoming calls to my house. I’m going to get that bastard good.”

  “I do have news that’ll make your day.”

  “What’s that?”

  “George Liralian walked into the Pittsburgh FBI headquarters this morning.”

  “Really?”

  “Absolutely. He said he was tired of running.”

  “That’s wonderful news! I want to interview him as soon as I get back.”

  “I guess you haven’t checked your e-mail. How about even better news?”

  “What could be better than that?”

  “Dave Saunders from the lab found several hairs inside the old coat from the storage locker, and he got a clear DNA profile.”

  “I’ll be damned,” Butler muttered. “The worm has turned. Do me a favor: ask the prosecutor to subpoena a mouth smear from Zakian so we can get his DNA profile. Also, ask him if we can offer Liralian immunity in return for his cooperation. Oh, man, you’ve made my day!”

  “I’ll call you back after I call the prosecutor.”

  “Thanks. I’ll have my cell.”

  “When are you coming back to work?”

  “A week from Monday. I’m going sailing in Vermillion tomorrow, and then I’m driving up to Niagara Falls to visit my old roommate. I’ll be there until Saturday.”

  ”Take your gun. Those ASALA guys are freakin’ crazy.”

  “Don’t worry, I will.”

  “Hey, ha
ve a good time.”

  “Thanks, Leo, talk to you later.”

  CHAPTER 62

  February 12, 1999

  Cleveland Heights, Ohio

  Sirak smiled happily at the cheery faces gathered around the dining room table. Keri sat at the end of the table beside David and his wife. Michael was seated on the opposite side of the table next to his wife. Sirak’s great-grandchildren were intermingled with the others.

  Keri glanced out the picture window at a man in a hooded parka trudging through the wind-driven snow. He stood up and tapped his wine glass with a spoon. “I’d like to toast Sarah and Cathy for preparing this delicious feast for Papa. Thank you both.”

  Everyone lifted their glasses in salute and shouted a chorus of appreciation.

  Keri raised his glass again. “Papa, thank you for spending your ninety-first birthday with us. I know you don’t care for large gatherings, but we all wanted to celebrate with you this year. Let’s sing Happy Birthday and then we’ll move into the living room to open your presents.”

  Everyone joined in saluting the patriarch of the family with a rousing song, as Sirak nodded and smiled cheerfully.

  After they’d finished, Sirak struggled up from his chair and steadied himself with a hand on the table. “Thank you all for this wonderful birthday celebration. While you were singing, I felt a powerful sense of déjà vu and I realized it came from when I was a young boy in Anatolia and my mama and papa and all my brothers and sisters celebrated my birthday around our dinner table. If my memory serves me correctly, that was the last time we were all together before the Great War erupted and my brother, Alek, left for service in the army.

  “Being here today with my son, my grandsons, and all my great-grandchildren is the greatest gift I could ever receive. My biggest regret in life is that we didn’t have more celebrations over the years. I’m solely to blame for that. But I want you all to know that I love you all with all my heart.” Teary eyed, Sirak scanned across the adoring faces. “We must also thank God, for He alone made it possible for us all to be here together today. I praise Him for his goodness and mercy.”

  “Hey, Papa Sirak,” young Troy blurted out, “thank you for having Papa Keri, too, or none of us would be here today.”

  The group erupted into laughter and David punched him on the shoulder.

  “Okay, everyone,” Keri said, “let’s move into the living room. You boys bring in some firewood from the back porch. David, you’re in charge of gathering the gifts while I help Papa Sirak.”

  The family gathered in the living room around the crackling fire. Cathy helped Sirak open his gifts, while Sarah brought in drinks and cake. Sirak got a new television, a cane, a clock radio, and several smaller gifts. Once the gifts were opened, most of the children and adults filed outside to play in the snow, while Keri sat beside the fire with his father.

  “Can I get you anything, Papa?”

  “No thank you, Son. Perhaps a glass of port later, but I’m fine right now.”

  Keri took a sip of wine and set his glass on the end table. He grabbed a couple of logs and stoked the fire. “Papa, Agent Butler called me yesterday.”

  “Who?” Sirak asked with a vacant expression.

  “The investigator who came to your house last year to ask questions about Ara. Remember? He’s from the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms and Explosives.”

  “Oh, yes, I remember now. How’s he doing?”

  “He’s fine. He finally found George Liralian.” Keri braced himself for an eruption of anger, but Sirak, his weary old eyes drooping nearly shut, merely waited for Keri’s explanation. “George has agreed to testify for the government at Gevork Zakian’s trial. He told Agent Butler that Zakian recruited Ara and him to ASALA, along with several other young men and then sent them to Beirut for training. Some of them carried out attacks on Turks here in the United States.”

  “I told you George Liralian knew what happened to Ara.”

  “Yes, you did, Papa. Agent Butler said that with George’s testimony and DNA evidence they found in that storage locker in Bedford, he was confident Zakian would be convicted. He expects him to be sent to prison for a long time.”

  “What are the charges?”

  “They charged him with a whole slew of things. The ones I remember are trafficking in firearms and explosives, committing acts of terrorism and sending followers to Beirut for weapons training to participate in acts of terror. He’s also charged with directing several of the attacks himself. Butler thinks he’ll get at least twenty years in prison.”

  Sirak pondered the news in silence. Glancing out the window, he watched Kevin hit Troy with a snowball at point-blank range. Kevin scampered off, with his brother in hot pursuit. “I hope the bastard rots in that prison,” he muttered.

  “What, Papa?”

  “I hope Zakian rots in that prison for what he did to Ara and our family.”

  “Do you want to attend the trial? Mr. Butler said we could.”

  Sirak shook his head. “No,” he whispered sullenly, “I don’t ever want to hear that bastard’s name again.”

  “Okay, Papa.”

  Sirak sighed forlornly. “Will you drive me home now?”

  “Now?” Keri asked with surprise.

  “Yes, I’m very tired.”

  “Why don’t you stay here tonight and I’ll take you home tomorrow?”

  “No, I want to go home.”

  “Sure, Papa. Give me a minute to load your presents in the car. I’ll ask David to drive his Suburban.”

  Sirak grasped Keri’s arm. “I love you, Son. Thank you for a wonderful day.”

  “I love you, too. You stay right here by the fire and I’ll go warm up the car.”

  CHAPTER 63

  March 16, 1999

  Cleveland, Ohio

  The long, black hearse slowed to make a sharp left turn and skirted a uniformed motorcycle patrolman who was holding back traffic in front of the main gate of historic Lakeview Cemetery. A pair of Lincoln Town cars and a long line of other vehicles tailed closely behind. The procession snaked along a narrow road past scores of monuments, obelisks, crypts and grave markers that were nestled in the trees in the famed Cleveland graveyard.

  The hearse braked to a stop beneath a magnificent sugar maple and the procession of cars parked along both sides of the access road. In the distance, the pointed pinnacle of the watchtower of U.S. President Garfield’s tomb was barely visible beyond a pair of mammoth spruce trees.

  Keri, David and Michael, along with a half dozen other men, gathered at the rear of the hearse beneath a dreary, cloud-covered sky. Carefully lifting the bronze casket, they proceeded across the grass and up a hill.

  An elderly bearded clergyman dressed in black vestments walked ahead of the casket clutching a gold Khatchkar cross. Reciting verses from the Bible, he led the pallbearers up the grassy slope to a freshly-dug grave before a monument emblazoned with the surname ‘Kazerian’ and topped with a larger Khatchkar cross.

  The clergyman stood in front of the open grave, raised the cross in both hands and began to recite a familiar Psalm. “The Lord is my Shepherd, I shall not want. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures. He leadeth me beside the still waters. He restoreth my soul. He leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for thou art with me.”

  The pallbearers set the coffin on a bier atop the grave and joined the throng gathered on the hillside.

  Keri glanced at the stone marker at the foot of the open grave that read “Sirak Kazerian, February 6, 1907 to February 13, 1999.” His eyes tracked to the adjacent marker engraved, “Ara Kazerian, January 4, 1948 to October 3, 1983.” Taking a deep breath, he peered up through the branches of a massive oak at the threatening sky.

  “Dear Lord,” the clergyman called out in a resonant baritone voice, “we, the friends and family of Sirak Kazerian, are gathered here to bury your loyal servant’s eart
hly body in this final resting place. We are content in the knowledge that all is well with his soul, and that he will dwell with you in heaven forever. Sirak’s son, Keri, would like to say a few words about his father’s life.”

  Keri, looking pale and haggard, stepped in front of the grave and turned to face the gathered mourners. His face was drawn with grief. He took a deep breath and sighed despairingly. “Thank you all for coming today,” he said in a near whisper. “Those of you who attended the Last Unction ceremony heard the moving eulogy delivered by Father Vasken Demirjian. He told you about Papa’s service to God, the Armenian people, his family and his patients, and how, in the end, he died peacefully in his sleep. I’d just like to say a few words about what Papa meant to me. Most of you know we weren’t always close. You see, for many years Papa’s thoughts were dominated by the events that befell our family and him in Anatolia, Jerusalem and here in Cleveland—including the death of my brother, Ara. But, by the grace of God, a miracle occurred and during the last few years Papa grew close to his grandsons, great-grandchildren, and me. In the end, Papa and I became very close, and for this I thank God.

  “When I was young, Papa taught me the difference between right and wrong and the value of hard work and perseverance. Later in life, he taught me the importance of family and respect for the history of our people. He also taught me to love this great country that sheltered and provided for us after Mama and my sister were killed in Jerusalem. We moved here with little more than we could carry on our backs, but that didn’t stop Papa from establishing a successful medical practice and helping thousands of injured and sick people. He always credited God and America for that achievement. But most importantly, Papa taught me the lesson of forgiveness he himself learned over the last few years of his life.

  “I can’t begin to find the words to express how important this lesson has been to my sons and me, but suffice it to say, it brought serenity and contentment to each of our lives. I’d like to invite a special guest to say a few words. What he has to say will bring perspective to Papa’s incredible life. Doctor Pasha,” he said with a nod.