8.1 State Identity

Samvel Salazar clenched his fists and shot out his eyeballs, sweat on his face. He got nervous on certain things but not while performing on stage. He phoned the Hrazdan Police to report that a person of American origin had gone missing and believed to be abducted by the Blue Beret. Then he called the Blue Beret Headquarters.

“He was seized at gunpoint,” he spoke.

“Mr Salazar, we’re seriously looking into it,” said Hurik Mouradian, head of the militia at the monitor desk, “I will send a special unit to find him and investigate how it happened.”

Salazar drove to the Vosktikanutyan HQ down at the foothill of Tsaghkadzor with Grigor in his car and met with the police chief. He spent hours at the police station making calls to Yerevan, to the Ministry of Territorial Administration and the KGB Headquarters, to other bureaus and foreign offices. At this point he made no rush to call the American Embassy in Moscow because he hadn’t had a word with Howard Turner in New York. It was too early and there were things he could not mention to an outside party.

Then came the head of the militia, stopped by at the police station on a GAZ-67, to inform Salazar that the Blue Beret was not involved. “They are Russians,” he said in front of the police chief, “dressed like Blue Beret.”

“You are a pro-Russian faction. Call the KGB and Border Troops in Tiflis,” insisted Salazar.

“I have done that,” said Mouradian.

“Mr Salazar,” the police chief intervened, “he is not just a writer.”

“He’s a writer!” snapped Salazar.

“He is more than a writer,” chief suggested, “I do agree they are Russians. If they are Russians, we must be cautious of how we approach. I will do everything I can to find him or his whereabouts and these people behind the kidnapping. I have already posted a unit to interview folks at the railway station.”

“Why are the Blue Berets following him?”

“Blue Berets follow any person or a foreigner if there is a signal from the KGB or the Border Patrol,” said Mouradian, “I would know for sure if Blue Beret had a role in this abduction.”

“And would you tell?”

“Of course, with reason of a violation or offense or suspected as a spy, we inform the authorities and they inform the public.”

Meanwhile, Vosktikanutyan police called at Hotel Zamanak and claimed Tyler’s suitcase and belongings he left behind.

It was getting late. Salazar returned to Rusadan Ski Resort and placed a long-distance call to New York. On his first attempt, he was able to talk to Howard Turner who just opened his workshop that Friday morning.

“This is unprecedented,” said Turner, a tall thin guy wearing round rim glasses and ragged clothing, sixty-eight years old and utterly bald, “but you know we cannot discuss this over the phone.”

“This is your guy!” uttered Salazar, “You told me that he’s after a rutile ore shipment destined to America.”

“I didn’t say that,” proclaimed Turner, “I said he is a journalist interested to find out about a rutile ore cargo stuck in Armenia.”

 “Alright, I get it,” said Salazar, “If you won’t call the embassy, I will.”

“Don’t worry, Mr Salazar. I will take care of that and don’t call the embassy.”

“I have to,” and Salazar dropped the line. Then he responded to a call from Giorgi in Ayrum.

Howard Turner looked around at his dark office.  Emmon, his helper, had not shown up. It was ten-fifteen in the morning. Down the hallway to the small entrance on Water Street, there was no ventilation or a window. He got a pile of woodwork equipment and leathers, furniture pieces still to be mended. In his craft of mending leather products, massive use of chemicals and dyes gave a stink in here but he couldn’t absorb it. Besides, Turner & Sons did restoration on old books and binding at his shop. He dropped his eyes on the table glowering through his thick pair of spectacles looking for a telephone number that he placed under the glass sheet among a tangle of notes. He scribbled on a piece of paper and when Emmon came in, he said speaking softly, “I am going to the Dumbo to send a telegram. If someone called, tell them to call back after an hour.”

Howard Turner picked his umbrella and stepped out heading west to cross the Roman arch under the Manhattan Bridge. A sunny day in Brooklyn and he normally moved around on foot. He reached Front Street and made an entrance to the Post Office where he took a call from a booth.