Chapter 36
Maps and GPS were useless in the souks. It took Katie forty-five minutes to find the place she was looking for, ostensibly just around the corner. Not bad, really—yesterday it probably would have taken her twice as long. Katie was beginning to get a feel for how the medina worked, and how best to navigate its senseless grid of lanes and alleyways. She still got lost—but, when she did, she had a much better sense of just how lost she was and the best way to get un-lost.
Mattar was the name of a store. She’d been in it. One of dozens since being left at the dumpster by Ahmadi. As she stepped to the front of the building, she couldn’t quite remember who she’d talked to there—only that they’d said what everyone else did when she showed them the picture of Jaspar Wills: “I’ve never seen this man.”
The store specialized in men’s clothing, and was considerably more substantial than others in this section of the medina. Instead of having their entire inventory crammed into an eight-by-twenty stall, Mattar operated out of an actual two-story building, complete with functioning door and roof. If she remembered correctly—and she sure hoped she did—the business was one of the few that made an attempt at providing an air-conditioned environment for their customers.
When she opened the door, a late-middle-aged man and woman, sitting shoulder to shoulder behind a counter at the far end of the store, looked up from where they were eating lunch from ceramic containers. What happened next occurred in triple time. The woman spoke harshly to the man; the man retorted, jumped up from his meal, threw down his utensils and napkin, rounded the counter, sped down the narrow space toward Katie, placed his hands on her shoulders, and pushed.
The next thing Katie knew, she’d been unceremoniously shoved out of the store and into the street, nearly landing on her ass, suffering the stares of surprised passersby.
“What the fuck?” she cried out, immediately hoping that none of the passersby understood English.
Without thinking about what she was doing, Katie raced back to the door, which had been forcefully slammed shut following her expulsion. Intending to burst back in, she grabbed the knob and pushed. The door didn’t budge. She’d been locked out.
Anyone else would have been pissed off. Katie Edwards, however, was infused with exhilaration. There was only one reason the couple would have acted as they had. She was right—these people knew something about Jaspar Wills. And soon, she would know it too.
Wearing a sleeveless mauve silk blouse and a floor-length skirt with oversized floral print, her hair pulled back into a Grace Kelly bun, Katie knew she looked good. But looks could be deceiving. Beneath the chic outfit, she was a wet rag. She’d spent over six hours in the souks, waiting for the owners of Mattar Menswear to finally decide she was gone and reopen for business. After all, how long could they afford to leave their doors shuttered just to keep out one pesky American journalist?
As it turned out, longer than she could last in the sweltering, congested, gritty street, with nothing to sustain her except her fledgling belief that whoever was behind the locked door knew something that would blow the lid off this story.
When it was obvious that they’d either snuck out the back or simply refused to open the doors if there was even a hint of her within spitting distance, Katie gave up for the night. It was a tough call—she only had two days left before she was on a plane back to Boston, a flight she could not miss. But it was a smart one. She’d try again tomorrow, refreshed—and with a full supply of necessities for a long-term vigil, if required.
She battled her way out of Jemaa el Fna, past Koutoubia Mosque, down Avenue Houman El Fetouaki, and risked life and limb to cross Bab Jedid roundabout, finally reaching the relatively quiet neighborhood of Hivernage, where Hotel Es Saadi was located. Feeling entirely wrung out, the twenty minute walk had taken her nearly twice as long as it should have.
Twenty acres of luscious gardens surrounded the resort. By the time Katie reached the blessedly cool grand lobby, she felt surprisingly resuscitated. A quick dip in the hotel pool, followed by a brisk shower, gave heft to a second wind. She put on her best going-out outfit, the one she’d packed “just in case”—as any smart traveler does—and headed out to find alcohol and dinner, in that order.
As she made her way to the complex’s main building, down gently-curving pathways lined with palm trees, orange trees, bougainvillea, and Marrakech roses, all delicately lit by ground-level lanterns, Katie knew she wouldn’t be leaving the hotel grounds. The setting was simply too wonderful.
The Egyptian Bar was in the Palace building. With its thickly upholstered chairs, wood-paneled walls and ceiling, elegant background music courtesy of a tuxedoed piano player, and languorous paintings by the likes of Sir Arthur Alma Thadema, Edwin Long, and Alexandre Cabanel, it was the perfect place to sit back, have a strong drink, and leisurely consider which of the property’s several restaurants to choose for dinner.
The lounge was half full, with a few groups of four or six, several couples, and even a spattering of singles like herself. Finding a good corner spot, Katie could observe the room’s goings on while maintaining her privacy. After being served an unstinting dirty martini, Katie settled in with her iPad. She intended to rehash her progress, make notes on what she’d learned today, and strategize for tomorrow.
Katie was unsure of how much time had passed when her server returned, offering a refreshed drink and a small plate of appetizers. Enjoying the pleasant environment, Katie accepted the appetizers—thinking she’d forgo dinner and order something more substantial from room service later on if need be—and requested a half-bottle of Laurent Perrier Brut champagne. Scant minutes later, she was surprised when, instead of the half bottle, a full one arrived.
“I’m sorry, but before you open that,” she interrupted the waiter as he prepared to do just that, “I don’t think that’s the bottle I ordered.”
“You are correct, madam,” he answered with a discrete smile and a nod toward the bar. “The bottle is compliments of the gentleman. He’s asked for permission to speak with you.”
Katie’s eyes moved to the dimly-lit, dark-paneled bar, behind which two white-coated bartenders busied themselves. Only one man sat there, half-turned on his stool in order to gauge her reaction to his gift and request. Impossible to be sure given the distance, Katie judged the man, an Arabian, to be about her age. He was sharply-dressed in a smart blue suit, Arctic-white shirt, no tie. His dress shoes were shiny and black, as was his hair—worn just long enough to curl over the top of his collar. She’d always found dark-featured men attractive; this one was exceptionally so.
Katie performed a hasty self-evaluation. Had her day in the scorching sun—and her generous martini—dulled her senses and impaired her decision-making abilities? How bad of an idea was this, anyway? Could she afford the distraction? Perhaps a distraction was exactly the thing she needed to get her through another day in Marrakech.
She nodded to the server.
Although he surely must have seen the approval, the man gallantly waited until the waiter returned with verbal confirmation before making his way over.
Standing over her, his smile a row of pearls glittering in the bar’s dusky light, he inquired: “English or French?”
Without skipping a beat, Katie replied, “Arabic.”
He stepped back, surprised.
“Okay,” she quickly relented with a laugh, “you got me. I’m American. I only speak English. Is it that obvious?”
“Not obvious,” he said, in a deep, softly-accented voice. “It’s simply that I cannot imagine a world where a beautiful woman such as yourself would have knowledge of more than one language.”
Katie gave him an “oh, really?” kind of look. “Why exactly do you think a beautiful woman couldn’t learn more than one language?”
“She would have no time. All of it would surely be spent fighting off fools such as myself.”
They both grinned. He indicated the seat next to her; she confirmed it was ok
ay for him to sit in it.
“My name is Tarek. Yours?”
“Katie. Katie Edwards.”
Katie liked meeting men when she was away from home. Somehow it freed her to act in whatever way happened to suit her that night: silly, serious, mysterious, sensual. As Tarek poured the champagne left behind by the waiter, she pretended to search for something in her handbag, all the while surreptitiously admiring the man. His strong, steady hands, lightly dusted with dark hair. The long legs and narrow waist. His cologne: a thick, musky scent she’d come to learn most Arabian men favored.
They toasted and drank.
After a tick of silence, he began: “May I ask what brings you to Marrakech?”
“I’m a writer.”
“I see. So you’re writing about Marrakech, then? Or perhaps all of Morocco?”
“Yes.” It seemed as good a story as any, seeing as the truth was not an option.
“You do this alone?”
Katie smirked. What he really wanted to know was if she was single—or at least here by herself.
“Yes. Do you find that strange?”
“I find it…unusual.”
They smiled more at each other. Drank more. Made more small talk. Time passed pleasurably.
After a while, accepting her second—or was it third?—refill, Katie asked, “What do you do, Tarek?”
He cocked an eyebrow—a move she found resplendently attractive—and made a rumbling noise beneath his breath. “Well, the answer to your question is somewhat…complex.”
“I’m an intelligent woman; give it a try.”
Katie was beginning to think about hinting that they move their conversation to a more private and comfortable location. Why not? They were both adults, obviously attracted to one another, and with just the right amount of champagne glow to make their status as strangers less important.
“I assist people with problems,” he told her with an enigmatic smile.
“Really? How interesting. Are you working on anyone’s problem right now?” She could hear flirtation in her voice. She hoped he did too.
His smile faltered. “As a matter of fact, I am.”
Alcohol may have dimmed her reporter’s sensitivities, but Katie knew enough to ask the follow-up question. “What is it?”
“The problem,” he responded, face grown grim, “is you.”
Katie felt her face flush and the mood change.
“So, Ms. Edwards,” Tarek murmured, “I will ask you this one more time. What are you doing in Marrakech?”
Chapter 37
“I already told you.” Katie was pissed off to hear the tremor in her voice. “I’m a writer.”
Tarek leaned back, evaluating his companion with cold eyes. “And yet, somehow, I do not believe you.”
She’d had enough. “Listen, just because you’ve paid for a few glasses of champagne, doesn’t mean I have to sit here and be talked to that way.” She made a move to collect her things.
“I think you do.”
There was something about how he said the benign words that caused Katie to stop what she was doing and stare at the man. His face was as handsome and pleasant as ever. Her eyes moved lower. Tarek had opened his jacket, revealing a trio of small knives suspended against the silk lining.
“Who are you?” she blurted out angrily. Mostly she was mad at herself. It was true that she’d never been an investigative journalist courageously reporting nail-biting stories from war-torn, third-world hellholes—a fact many of her colleagues regularly pointed out. But who cared what they thought? Katie knew that, given the opportunity, she could be just as accomplished, just as sharp, just as brave as Christiane Amanpour or Diane Sawyer. Yet here she was, covering her first international story from a foreign post, face-to-face with a potentially dangerous source, and already she could feel cold sweat pooling under her arms and at her lower back, probably staining her silk blouse.
“I’ve told you who I am,” he calmly replied. “I’ve been honest with you, Katie. Why won’t you return the favor?”
“You’re a man who ‘solves other people’s problems’ and threatens innocent women in public places with sharp knives. Yeah, that sounds like a real honest guy to me.”
“I’m sorry your opinion of me cannot be higher. I assure you, my intent is to bring you no harm. My only wish is to convince you to tell me the truth. So, let’s begin again. Why were you in the souks today? Why do you insist on harassing my friends?”
Katie’s ears perked up. Damn. She was good. She’d rattled a few bushes and now it was raining acorns. Fear and doubt fell away, replaced by burgeoning confidence. “That’s what this is about? The couple from the store? Mr. and Mrs. Mattar, or whatever their names are?”
He nodded matter-of-factly. “Yes, Katie, that is what this is about. Why are you bothering the Mattars?”
“I wasn’t bothering them. I only wanted to talk to them. But before I could, they threw me out of their store like I was some kind of thief. As far as I’m concerned, they harassed me—not the other way around.”
Tarek pursed his lips and studied his opponent. As he did so, Katie noted something she hadn’t fully realized before: when a bad man reveals his true nature, handsomeness seamlessly mutates into repulsiveness. She used the silent moment to assess her surroundings and identify the nearest source of help, should she need it to get away from this jackass.
For now, she felt relatively safe. If anything, the lounge was busier than before. No one was paying them particular attention, but getting it would not be a problem. Tarek’s knives were menacing and she was uneasy, but Katie was proud to realize that she hadn’t been reduced to a quivering mound of jelly.
“You were at their shop earlier today,” Tarek stated.
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“I wanted to show them a picture of my friend, a man named Jaspar Wills. About a year ago, he was kidnapped. His captors held him somewhere in the medina.” She stopped there for a brief moment, her mind spinning with prospects. She decided on a tack. “I know it was the Mattars’ shop. On the second floor.”
“How do you know this?”
Katie froze her face, hoping to disguise the lie. “What does that matter? I just know.”
“Are you with the American police?”
“No. Believe it or not, I was honest with you, Tarek. I am a writer. But I’m not writing about Marrakech. I’m writing a book about the kidnapping.”
“I see.”
More silence. Katie resisted taking another swig of champagne. But, goddamn, she needed it.
“What is your interest in the Mattars?”
“Like I told you, I’m not the police. I’m not here to accuse anyone of anything—including the Mattars. I just want information. Inside information. For my story. I want to talk to your friends about what they know. What they saw.”
“This will be impossible.”
Katie felt her stomach drop. Great. Now what? Should she push her luck and threaten the knife-happy louse with going to the police? If she did, would she survive the night? What would Christiane do?
Tarek relieved her of having to make a decision. “I have a proposal for you, Kate Edwards.”
“What kind of proposal?”
“Your friend was not held at the Mattars’ store for long.”
Katie thrilled at the admission. She’d taken a chance and proven her instincts right. Her eyes narrowed as she considered her next move. “Yes, that’s true,” Katie agreed. “He was moved. To somewhere in the Atlas Mountains.”
“I will take you there.”
A kaleidoscope of butterflies invaded Katie’s belly.
Tarek leaned across the table, his lips nearly grazing her cheek. He whispered into her ear: “But only if you promise to leave the Mattars alone.”
If Katie knew one thing for sure, it was that any good story must have momentum to survive. Once a story stopped moving forward, try as you might to drum up interest, it was pretty much dead. Tar
ek’s offer not only kept her story alive, but took it in a whole new, exciting direction.
Was it wise to team up with a blade-wielding stranger who’d plied her with liquor for the sole purpose of manipulating her? Probably not. But Katie knew she had only two days left. She needed to up the ante. The scariest ride at any amusement park is usually the fastest one, but it’s also the most satisfying, the one everyone talks about for weeks afterwards. It was time, Katie decided, to get on that ride, close her eyes, and prepare to scream.
Chapter 38
All was perfect. Bright lights cast everything in their path into unnaturally stark relief, sharper and more vivid than real life. Cameras were positioned around the space like a posse of mechanical aliens, glaring eyes demanding attention, challenging their subjects to entertain, inform, educate, titillate. Katie Edwards was suffused with that warm feeling you get when you know you’re well prepared to deliver all of that and more. She was glad to be home, glad to be back in front of an audience—her people; people who trusted her to bring them unfiltered, unfettered truth.
She had smiled warmly when Jaspar and Jennifer Wills were escorted into the studio. She was already in her spot, reviewing her notes, when they’d arrived. She stood, flattening imaginary creases in her tight, steel-blue skirt. They shook hands. Techs seated the couple and outfitted them with microphones, while makeup people touched up their pale faces and straightened their hair. Katie remembered the long, bordering-on-groveling phone call it took to convince the Wills to appear on her show.
She’d begun with an apology. It covered the wide gamut of issues—all apparently her fault—that had driven the wedge into their friendship. She told them about abandoning her book the instant she’d heard that Jaspar had changed his mind and was releasing his own. Then, after skillfully taking the two on a trip down memory lane, reminding them of all they’d been through together, Katie suggested one last public appearance as a trio. The same trio the public had pretty much come to see as a family unit. It would be a reunion. One that would be a distinct and definite closure to the saga that had played out for the past year. Closure for them, the people of Boston, the entire country.
Set Free Page 15
