Set Free (15 page)

Exploring the
souks
of Marrakech is like a tumble backwards in time. In hidden
fondouks
and courtyards, traditional craft makers and trades thrive in ways that have barely changed since Andalusian refugees first introduced them over a thousand years ago. Within the ramparts of the
medina
, peddlers and purchasers haggle over everything from hand-knotted, vegetable-dyed carpets and rugs, to exotic edibles, spices, nuts, herbs, olives and local sweets. Endless varieties of argan oil products compete with leather goods, ranging from satchels and belts to the distinctive pointed-toe
babouche
slippers worn by most men, and jewelry made of silver and semi-precious stones. There’s marquetry of cedar, thuya, oak, and earthenware ceramics, from the gaudy and touristy to the extravagant pieces created at pottery centers in Safi, Fez, Meknes and Salé. Casks of perfume smelling of musk, orange flower, patchouli, and amber sit alongside precious—and not-so-precious—works of art. The bounty is endless. But as Katie Edwards trudged through the constricted passageways, the ground worn smooth by millions before her, her body broiling and growing sluggish, feet ablaze with blisters, shirt soaked through with sweat, her focus was on the one item proving almost impossible to find: information.

After young Ahmadi had abandoned her, Katie was left with only two options. The first was to find the restaurant where she’d first met him and drag him back to the
medina
to help her. But that, she knew, was a fool’s errand, only for those who had time to waste getting hopelessly lost. Even if she did happen to locate the restaurant, she couldn’t count on Ahmadi being there.

The second option, no less difficult but with some potential for success—slight as it might be—was to canvass the businesses nearest the dumpster where Jaspar Wells’ personal belongings had been found. With any luck, she’d find someone who saw or knew something.

So far, option two was proving fruitless.

Exhausted and hot and growing increasingly irritable and dejected, Katie found a store that sold bottled water—she’d run out an hour earlier—made her purchase, and squeezed into the shade of a nearby alcove. She hoped that hydration and a few minutes of rest would revive her before she tackled the next parade of stores.

After downing several gulps of water in the ersatz coolness, Katie was surprised to realize that she was enjoying herself. The sights and sounds and smells of the bustling marketplace were nothing short of intoxicating. For the first time since arriving in the African city, she was allowing its charms to wash over her instead of actively resisting them.

This place, at first blush, was aggressive, frantic, perilous, overwhelming, moving at hysterical speed. If you allowed it to, it would crush you down and grind you into powder, like a stone pestle against a dry, brittle, hot pepper. But Katie was beginning to see that there was undeniable beauty here, too. Placid, tawny shades harmonizing with effervescent hues. Ancient tranquility awash in modern vitality. Bins overflowing with spices. Carts laden down with heavy bolts of woven fabric. Tapestries hanging from wires strung twenty feet overhead. Riotously colored scarves, tunics, and headpieces. Aggressive aromas of something old mixed with something zesty, piquant, sickly sweet. The swirl of languages, arguments and haggling, laughter and harassment and persistence, was heady, sometimes gruff, sometimes humorous, always intense. But, my God, Katie thought to herself, spending time in the
souks
of Marrakech, one couldn’t help but feel alive-with-an-exclamation-point.

With her mind let loose, like a flower floating aimlessly down a fragrant rosewater river, now a part of her environment instead of battling against it, Katie suddenly found her eureka. She knew what to do next.

Like the peddlers around her, each an expert in the wares they sold and how to put them into the hands of others, journalists were also professional tradespeople. They collected information—reams and reams of it. Most of it left unused. The best bits were repackaged for public consumption, hung out with a big For Sale sign. But smart reporters, like Katie, didn’t forget about the stuff that never got used. Because every so often—like right now—that was the stuff that put you on the right path, the perfect yellow brick road leading straight to Oz.

Pulling her iPhone from her pants pocket, Katie was grateful to see that her heavenly slice of shade was also a free Wi-Fi spot. She connected and accessed her iCloud account, where she’d stored all her files relating to Jaspar, Jenn, and Mikki Wills. Sweaty fingers and the small screen hindered her search, but soon enough she found what she was looking for: background information on Qasim Al-Harthi. The young man imprisoned for his role in the Marrakech café bombing. The man whose release Jaspar’s kidnappers had demanded in return for setting him free.

Her heart beating double time, Katie scrolled through the digital article looking for the exact trinket of information she hoped she was remembering correctly.

Finally, there it was. A stray strand among the facts that had been patch worked together in an effort to identify Al-Harthi’s closest friends, known associates, and relatives. Details were sparse, which was probably why she and the news station—and the police, for that matter—hadn’t focused on this data when investigating the kidnapping. But one name on the list had stuck in Katie’s mind. Until now, it had meant nothing to her. For all anyone knew, it could have referred to anyone or anything.

Katie’s face lit up as she read the name on the screen.

Heat and fatigue long forgotten, excitement bubbled up in Katie. Quite possibly, she was the only person in the world to figure this out. There’d be no stopping her now.

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 okay 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?”