Set Free (16 page)

“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. Tarek’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.

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
was Jaspar Wills’ true-life account of the whole thing, beginning with the day his daughter disappeared and ending on the day he returned to Boston following his own kidnapping. The book had debuted at number one on the New York Times bestseller list, and had remained there ever since.

Although the interview had been publicized as a promotion piece for Wills and his new book, everyone knew the truth. This was going to be reality TV at its best—which was why the network had committed to sixty minutes live in prime time. No book, no matter how popular, could command the same. This was all about show business, about media darling Kate Edwards doing what she did best: taking viewers by the hand and leading them into a private world. Once there, award-winning author Jaspar Wills and his beautiful wife would bare their souls for all to see.

In
Set Free
, Jaspar revealed intimate details never discussed in the interviews following his stunning return. He recounted the severity of the beatings he’d endured, his serious contemplation of suicide, and meticulously described his frequent escapes into what he termed “dreamscape reality”—a place where he spent great swaths of time in the company of his daughter. He talked about an eventual “soul-refreshing” salvation at the hands of a woman whose real identity he’d never know, and—the most provocative revelation of all—his fleeting sexual relationship with her.

Fans were dying to hear more. They were desperate to see the reaction of Jennifer Wills as her husband publicly admitted his infidelity—all on the heels of her own shocking affair with the man accused of kidnapping their daughter. This was prime time soap opera material.

On top of everything else, Katie had a few surprises up her sleeve. Only she and her producers knew when and how she’d dole them out. Every good journalist lived for moments like this. These sixty minutes were hers. This would be the show that propelled her, at light speed, from Katie Edwards, affiliate correspondent, to Kate Edwards, national anchor.

The first twenty minutes of the show were heavy on archive video and photo collages, backed by a compassionate score. Katie expertly navigated the viewing audience, with great sensitivity to the Wills, through the early days of the story: Mikki’s kidnapping, the failed retrieval attempts, the trial, the pressures on their marriage and careers, and, eventually, Jaspar’s decision to go to Morocco.

“We’ve talked before about your arrival in Marrakech. How you came to be deceived by a man pretending to be a taxicab driver,” Katie recited. “A man who conned you into getting into his car. In your book, you describe in nerve-wracking detail those horrible moments when you first begin to realize that you aren’t being taken to a hotel, but that something quite different—something unimaginable—was happening,” Katie led.

“Yes,” Jaspar responded, looking considerably healthier and more robust than the last time he’d appeared on camera with Katie, immediately following his return from Marrakech. “Even for me, a writer, someone used to expressing himself in words, I found this part of my story difficult to adequately explain in the book. There is a depth of fear to which a person plummets when you know, for certain, that you are truly, suddenly, unexpectedly, in great danger. It’s nearly impossible to describe, even now.

“You’re in a foreign country. You’re exhausted from traveling for hours. It’s hot. You can’t speak the language. And then the unthinkable happens. At first you freeze. You doubt yourself. You doubt the reality of the situation. But when it hits you, when you know it’s true, and it’s happening to you, it’s as if someone has pounded you over the head with a sledgehammer.”

Katie visibly shuddered. “I don’t even want to imagine it.” She turned to the camera, somber eyes nakedly eliciting empathy from the millions watching. “I’m sure many of us know the experience of visiting a place we’ve never been to before. We might fleetingly think: ‘what if something goes wrong?’ But for it to really happen…” Back to Jaspar. “My God, Jaspar, it’s terrifying to think about.”

“Terrifying is a good word.” He let out a half-laugh, half-moan. “You know, Katie, there’ve been times since when I’ve wondered whether it was a good thing the kidnapper knocked me out as soon as he did. At least when I was unconscious, I didn’t have to live in the terror.”

“Live in the terror,” she repeated Jaspar’s last words like a mantra. After a short pause, Katie moved on, elucidating for the audience’s benefit: “It was when you began to register suspicion, and voiced your concern to the driver, that he knocked you out?”

“That’s correct.”

“You didn’t regain consciousness until you were in the room where they first kept you?”

“Yes.”

“Jaspar, I’ve never asked you this before…” Katie allowed a dramatic two-second delay. Enough time for the cameras to catch Jaspar’s gape. “Did you ever wonder…did you…oh gosh, I don’t know how to ask this…or even if I should.” This hesitant uncertainty, Katie knew, was the kind of stuff audiences ate up—as long as you didn’t do it too often.

Other than to close his mouth, Jaspar didn’t respond one way or another. This apparent spur-of-the-moment, off-script diversion had not been part of the prep package he and Jenn had been given.

Seemingly resolved, Katie pushed on. “Have you ever wondered if your kidnapper, the taxi driver, targeted you specifically? What I mean to ask is: do you think he knew you were Jaspar Wills, bestselling author, renowned around the world? Or was this simply a twist of fate, or really bad luck?”

Jaspar nodded his understanding of the question. He hadn’t expected it, but he was comfortable answering. “You know, Katie, I’ve spent hours wondering about that exact thing. In the many months of my captivity, I can’t think of a single thing that would lead me to believe they knew who I was.” Another short laugh. “Not that I expected them to produce a book and ask for an autograph.”

With soft chuckles of their own, Katie and Jenn acknowledged the light moment—there’d been so few. Katie in particular was grateful for the reprieve. Nothing gave power and heft to drama more than a dash of counterpoint humor.

“Jaspar, as you know, I myself recently traveled to Morocco,” Katie spoke in a way that indicated a shift in direction and tone. “To Marrakech. The same city where your harrowing kidnapping ordeal began. Of course I hadn’t read your book, since it hadn’t been written yet, but thanks to our friendship, I already knew a great deal about what happened to you there. I didn’t go to Marrakech looking for that story. But,” she quirked her head to one side, “I am a reporter, after all. I
was
after a story.

“I followed your footsteps in Marrakech because I wanted to tell the story of the place, to get a sense of the environment in which you found yourself. The extreme heat, the foreign languages, the strange foods, the smells...the sheer exoticism of it all. I have to say, I’ve rarely been anywhere where I’ve felt so out of place. Everything is drastically different from here at home. I wanted to capture that, to find a story that would do justice to your magnificent work in
Set Free
.” The book’s cover image flickered on-screen.

“Thank you,” Jaspar whispered, nodding humbly.

“But I have an admission, Jaspar. I didn’t come back with that story.”

He gazed at her, uncertainty once again clouding his eyes. “Oh?”

“I came back with something entirely different.” She steadied herself, like a bomber pilot about to release her payload. “Something that will surprise you, and everyone watching us tonight.”