"Hello. Petrosian?" I asked as pleasantly as I could. Her expression shifted at my words. There was interest in her eyes and something else. Her face tightened.

"American?"

"Yes," I said, and then repeated it in Armenian. She spoke quickly, too fast for me to understand. I interrupted with the Armenian word for slower. She repeated herself again as if she were talking to a dull child. I caught about half the words. Something about a plane and mountains. I smiled.

"I look for Tamara Petrosian," I said, excited that I was at the right place. I saw anger in her face. I was missing something again. I quickly raised...