the wall of water as it advanced. If he was out at sea it would be called a squall; a brief turbulent storm full of fury. A storm that arrives without warning then passes on, leaving in its wake bewildered pedestrians soaked to the skin, puddles and debris. ‘Autumn will come early this year,’ he thought.
But not for Victor Yakinchuk; he’s been dead now just over two years, isn’t that right Stan so it’s his second, no third missed autumn; his favourite time of year.
Robbed and stabbed to death in an alleyway in Casablanca.
‘What the hell were you doing there, Vic?’
His whole body seemed to slump at that moment as he grieved once more for the lost of a college buddy and good friend. He tried not to think about the funeral but the memories pushed through nevertheless and with them, tears.
Victor’s brother Tony should not have been chosen to go to Morocco to identify the body and bring it home. Tony was an accountant for crying out loud. The sight and smell of his beloved brother’s body would leave him traumatized for the rest of his life.
Everyone blamed the authorities in Casablanca for the condition of the corpse but really it wasn’t anyone’s fault except the bastard or bastards who murdered him just after nine at night, leaving his body in a darken alleyway for the heat to get to it, and the feral cats. By the time the police arrived at noon the next day, decomp was well advanced thanks to temperatures in the upper 80’s. The cats backed away when the humans arrived but not so far that they were prepared to abandon their feast. Large portions of Vic’s ears, nose, finger tips and lips were missing.
It was a closed casket of course; a decision Vic’s wife Carol refused to understand. ‘I want to say goodbye to him. I want to kiss him one last time. Please, please …’ And Vic’s five year old son Josh, asking over and over again, ‘Where is my daddy?’ Calling for him as the casket was lowered into the ground. ‘Daddy daddy come quick, you’re missing it.’
By this time Carol was hysterical and there wasn’t a dry eye to be found anywhere.
It was the worst day of Stan Munroe’s life.
Victor’s elder son, twelve-year-old Kenny did not attend the funeral. He didn’t attend because as far as he was concerned the father he adored wasn’t dead; he couldn’t be dead. It was all just a great big stupid mistake and one day soon, he would come home all shame-faced just like Kenny did once after getting lost at the fair when he was eight. He remembered how upset both his parents were when he finally made it home just after dark. He remembered too the police car in the driveway, lights flashing just like a spaceship and policemen, sort of like his Dad only in uniform talking, taking notes and trying to calm his mother.
At first Kenny didn’t realize that all the activity had something to do with him so when he offered a casual, ‘Hi guys,’ he was in for a major surprise and a lengthy gauntlet that began with tears and ended with him being grounded, forever.
‘And you just wait Dad because when you get home you’re going to be in big trouble too for going away like that and not even saying goodbye. You made Josh cry and Mum too - lots.’
Munroe turned away from the window just as the telephone rang.
Put it away and get back to work Agent Munroe of the FBI.
He picked up the phone and was greeted with the ever-cheerful voice of Ted Southerly.
‘Hey Stan, got a whopper for you this time. A major like is there something wrong with this picture? I’ve got a passport renewal request from a girl twenty-three years old, married four times with four children and still two years left on her current passport. And, here’s the kicker, the prelim says she’s been dead for three years: killed in a car crash along with another student.’
‘Is her name Sarah Winthrope Churchill?’
‘Jesus, how the hell did you know? Has someone already contacted you or … I’ll tell you what her name is Stan: Sarah Winthrope Churchill Develin Capritzo Sarquazi Rose. And I’ll tell you something else for nothing, she’s one beautiful girl with pale skin, red hair and emerald green eyes; not one bit like what a black widow ought to look like.’
‘What’s the name of her third husband?’
‘Yusuf Nessim Sarquazi. Does it ring a bell, Stan?’
‘Hang on Ted.’ Munroe dropped the phone and rushed into the room next door. He returned to his desk moments later burdened down by several photo albums. Rapidly he checked the index, found the name and reached for album number five, flicking frantically to page seventeen. He stared, open-mouthed. It was a picture of two men standing side by side, dressed all in white with tall pointed hoods reminiscent of the Ku Klux Klan but these two were definitely not from Alabama.
They were staring down dispassionately at a ram nearly lost beneath half a dozen men who were trying desperately to not only position the animal correctly but hold it still. Hold it still long enough to have its throat cut from ear to ear. Below the picture someone had written
King Hassan II of Morocco – Yusuf Nessim Sarquazi Mauphet Benghazi
Eid al-Adha 1975 - Fès
The Feast of Sacrifice
The photograph was grainy which suggested it had been taken at a distance then enlarged. The angle wasn’t right either which further suggested that it was a clandestine shot probably from someone who hoped to make a buck or two, or three.
‘Hey Stan, are you still there? Hello.’
Munroe grabbed up the phone with trembling hands. ‘Ted, when are you planning to come up to Boston?’
‘I’m flying up late this afternoon so I can spend some time with my parents. Dad’s not doing too well lately.’
‘Sorry to hear that. Look, bring the Churchill papers and the photo with you. See you when?’
‘First thing so you can buy me brunch in the canteen.’
‘Meet me at the Boston PD Central – fifth floor. I’ll be with Victor Yakinchuk’s partner Neil Perry. He’ll be buying brunch ‘cause between us we’ve answered the one question everyone has been asking.’
‘And what question is that Stan?’
‘Why Victor was in Morocco.’ Munroe stared at the image of Yusuf Sarquazi and recognized something. ‘Ted, got to go. See you tomorrow.’
He hung up without waiting for a reply, reached for the index again, found the correct album then turned to page seven. Merhot Capritzo stared back at him. Swallowing hard, he eased the page alongside the photo of Sarquazi. If he didn’t know better he would have thought that they were one and the same man. Tall, slender, fine featured with pale skin, it was all reproduced exactly but it was the widow’s peak which they shared both physically and genetically that sent a shiver through Munroe.
‘Twin brothers and Sarah Churchill
