Set Free (14 page)

Jemaa el Fna,
hammam
-level steamy even well past dusk, was a dizzying carnival of food vendors, storytellers, snake charmers, acrobats, musicians, entertainers, and petty criminals. Katie struggled through the crowds to one end of the massive market square. She knew
calèches
congregated there, waiting for someone like her—someone who had no idea how to get to where they were going, and willing to pay a premium to do so.

The man on the phone, Mehdi Ahmadi, had asked to meet her in the
medina
. When Katie had first arrived in Marrakech, confident in her typically superb navigational skills, she’d made the newcomer’s mistake of attempting to locate an address within the old city’s writhing mess of narrow streets, twisting lanes, and goat paths. She’d gotten hopelessly lost and struggled to find her way out for hours. Today she didn’t have the luxury of wasting time. Even if the place ended up being only a short distance away, she now understood that traversing a block in the famed
medina
of Marrakech is not even remotely the same thing as traversing a block in pretty much any other city in the world.

Particularly during peak periods, drivers of the horse-drawn cabs were notorious for turning down short-haul fares in the hope of securing something longer, like the
medina
wall tours that tourists were suckers for. Money was the only key to getting what you wanted. Katie marched up to the first man in line and immediately handed over one hundred and twenty
dirham
—about twelve dollars—no bargaining attempted. Along with the money, she gave him a sheet of paper indicating the address she was looking for. He shrugged, barked something at the next guy in line, and then helped her into the cab.

As the sorry-looking pair of horses skillfully maneuvered the chaos of other carriages, speeding motorbikes and scooters, donkey-led delivery wagons, jostling locals, and overwhelmed tourists who weren’t looking where they were going, Katie sat back and pulled in a deep, calming breath, the first of the day.

In the failing light of early evening, the
calèche
appeared deceptively cheery. Its brightly-painted exterior was festooned with beaded streamers and clusters of plastic flowers, the interior made cozy by patchwork throws tacked to the walls and strewn across bench seats. The telltale light of day would reveal the artifice. The carriage was rickety and in poor repair, the inside torn and faded and filthy from scores of dusty journeys through the city’s sun-soaked streets. Still, there was something magical about the experience. A ride in the
calèche
was like floating inside a bubble. From within its unruffled, relaxing parallel universe, one could idly observe the pandemonium and tumult of the massive market square outside, all of it whizzing by as if in double time.

The driver was no slouch. With generous fare already in hand, it behooved him to deliver Katie to her destination as fast as possible. The sooner he dumped her, the sooner he could return to the
medina
and the possibility of flossing another silly American tourist. Instead of driving through the colorful circus, the
calèche
operator immediately directed his horses out of Jemaa el Fna and down the quieter perimeter road encircling the orange-red clay ramparts of the old city, only zipping back inside when nearing their destination. Within fifteen minutes the carriage shuddered to a stop.

“Is this it?” They were halfway down a narrow, poorly-lit street. Katie was not at all certain she should get out.

The driver pointed to a door in the nearest building and grunted something she couldn’t make out. Only half-turning in his seat, he returned the paper with the address on it, swiveled back, and yanked up the hood of his
djellaba
. Quite clearly their time together was over. Gathering her courage, Katie stepped out of the cab into the street. Only as the horses and carriage moved off did she wonder:
How the hell am I going to get back to the hotel
?

She’d have to think about that later. For now, she had plenty of other things to worry about.

Despite lights and reasonable foot traffic at either end, the street itself was dark and eerily noiseless. The door the driver had pointed out bore no distinguishing markings or numbers matching the address Ahmadi had given her. With no obvious alternative, Katie knocked on it—timidly at first, and then stronger.

What do I do if no one answers? Where do I go for help?
She checked her phone. No bars.
Shit.

Trying to ignore the mistake of not having done so a wee bit earlier, Katie reviewed her predicament. Was all of this pure idiocy—agreeing to meet a stranger, in a strange place, at night, without telling a soul where she was going? It wasn’t like her to allow herself to spin so far out of control. It was, she realized, a sign of how desperate she’d become. She needed to find something, anything, to make her trip to Marrakech worthwhile—to redeem herself in a plot gone bad.

When there was no response after a full minute, she tried the doorknob. It turned. She pushed and found herself entering a miniscule alcove with barely enough lighting to see her hand in front of her. To the left was an opening with improved illumination. Gentle, rhythmic drumming, and fragrant wafts of something delicious being cooked nearby, beckoned her.

She stepped forward, placing each foot carefully in front of the other. As the space revealed itself, Katie came to realize she was in some kind of restaurant. She stopped at what might be a hostess station, and waited. Seated on a low stool nearby was an elderly man, gnarled fingers dancing across the top of a small, round drum. He was accompanied by a second, younger man, strumming a strange-looking stringed instrument. Katie’s mouth watered as the symphony of spicy aromas grew stronger.

The greeting came first in Arabic, then in French, and finally in broken English.

“I was told I’d find Mehdi Ahmadi here?” Katie responded.

Not knowing what else to do, she thrust the paper with the address on it toward the young man who’d approached her. Briefly studying it, he looked up, his smile dazzling in the dim surroundings. “This address is for the back door. I show you.”

That wasn’t the back door
?

Katie’s head swirled with unhappy thoughts as she followed the man outside and down an alley she hadn’t noticed before. It was barely wide enough to pass through without turning sideways. Once again, Katie began questioning the wisdom of what she was doing.

Trust your gut
, she advised herself.
Trust your gut
.

In a quivering voice that did little to instill confidence, her gut responded:
Keep going
.

Eventually the man came to a halt. With a shove of his shoulder, he forced open a door that, from Katie’s perspective, hadn’t been there a second ago. He shouted something to whoever was inside, then, with another of his beguiling smiles, was gone.

“Salam?” a man appeared in the doorway. By his smocked getup, Katie guessed he was a restaurant employee—probably a dishwasher or cook.

“Mehdi Ahmadi?”

He nodded. He was quite young, just out of his teens at most, very thin, and suffered from a bad case of acne. “You are she?” he asked.

“I’m Kate Edwards. You called me on the phone. You said you knew something about Jaspar Wills?”

More nodding. He shot a glance over his shoulder, as if to check whether anyone could overhear their conversation. He moved into the alley, closing in on Katie, but saying nothing. Large eyes dug into hers, as if trying to communicate telepathically.

“What is it?” Katie asked after an uncomfortable silence. “What do you know about my friend?”

He cast about nervously, then: “You have money?”

Now she understood. It was bribe time. Katie had nothing against bribery. She respected both sides of the equation. It was simple market economics. One side was looking for valuable information; the other had it to sell. But here was the rub. She had no idea what she was there to buy. Her boss, her agent, her publisher—they were all right. What story could she hope to uncover in Marrakech that Jaspar himself, the man who’d personally lived the nightmare, didn’t already have to tell?

Sure, Jaspar could share whatever transcendent, spiritual, or emotional journey he decided to create for his fans. But Katie might just have something better: cold hard facts. Sometimes left buried deep beneath softer, prettier surfaces, facts were the real glittering gold for an investigative journalist. Digging up the truth had always been Katie’s specialty. Packaged the right way, facts can sell just as well, if not better. Jaspar could recount how he’d been taken from the Marrakech airport—but who took him? Why? What was going on in their world to drive them to make such a drastic, reckless move? Where did the kidnappers take him? Where did they hold him? Where did they transport him after the kidnapping was rendered a failure? Who saw something? Who knew something? Were the kidnappers scared? Crazy? Righteous? Were they zealots, greedy, or just plain stupid? All she needed was something real, something factual, something solid, and she’d be on her way to hitting a home run.

“No,” she told him, forcing her voice to sound authoritative. She couldn’t let this guy get even a whiff of the fear she felt—never mind the nagging doubt. “I have nothing to give you—until I know what you have to give me. Then we can talk about money.”

She watched his nose quiver, his eyes continue their nervous dance.

Sensing he needed more goading, she pressed on. “On the phone, you said something about
finding
Jaspar Wills?” Obviously this couldn’t be true. Jaspar Wills was safe and sound and at home in Boston, about to scoop her with his own version of
her
story.

She watched the young man’s right hand drop to his side and dig into a pocket hidden behind his smock.

“Do you have something for me?” she demanded to know.

He said nothing.

“Something worth money?”

She had to be careful here. The pocket could just as easily hold a gun or some other weapon.

It was neither.

With a barely suppressed gasp, Katie’s eyes grew wide as she beheld what young Mehdi Ahmadi had brought her.

“Be calm,” Katie urged herself, as she struggled to stay within the boundaries of a stingy slice of shade. It was the only shade to be found near the café at the southern edge of Jemaa el Fna.

Le Grand Balcon du Café Glacier was a natural place to meet. Right next to Hotel CTM, its second floor balcony was well known by tourists for providing arguably the best view of the marketplace and nearby Koutoubia Mosque. Ahmadi would know that, unlike many other places within the
medina
, Katie would have no trouble finding it.

Last night, she’d given her young informant four hundred dirhams—about forty bucks. An outlandish price, but this wasn’t just any driver’s license he’d pulled from his pocket. It belonged to Jaspar Wills. She had promised him another six hundred if he met her the next day. She wanted the rest of Jaspar’s belongings, which he claimed to have, and for him to show her exactly where he’d found them. If he actually came through, she thought, the bounty would be worth immeasurably more than that. When their negotiations were complete, Ahmadi had found her a cab and she had gratefully returned to the hotel.

Katie was excited that she’d actually found something important, something Jaspar Wills didn’t have—at least not anymore. She’d spent a restless night considering how best to use the license to her benefit, and a restless morning nervous about this meeting. Would Ahmadi show up? Did he really have more to sell her? Should she have offered a greater sum?

Through a blur of crisscrossing traffic that included beasts of burden, racing motorbikes, and scooters, Katie was relieved when she caught sight of the young Moroccan. He was standing next to a vendor stall hawking fresh orange juice and dates. Gone was his restaurant worker attire, replaced by a white hooded kaftan and a pair of woven leather sandals. Despite the heat, Katie shivered as she felt his dark eyes boring into her. Was the look predatory? Sexual? Threatening? How long had he been standing there, watching her?

He wasn’t making a move, so, collecting her gumption and regretfully abandoning the shade, she carefully navigated her way through the melee of people and animals and speeding machines.

“Mehdi, hello. Did you bring more of Jaspar’s things?” she asked when they were face to face.

“You don’t tell people, yes?” he stuttered, his eyes hard brown marbles in quaking bowls of vanilla pudding.

“Tell who what?” Katie was confused.

“About me. You don’t tell people about me.”

“Of course not,” she lied. But it wasn’t a big lie. She would eventually tell the whole world about him, along with everything else she’d discovered in Marrakech. Certainly, if she believed he was in danger from being publicly exposed, she’d change his name to “protect the innocent.” But as of right now, she was far from convinced that Mehdi Ahmadi was any kind of innocent. Especially since he had yet to tell her exactly how it was that he had come to be in possession of Jaspar Wills’ personal effects. For all she knew, he was the kidnapper. Her heart thrilled at the thought.
How great would that be?

“Follow,” was all he said before suddenly scampering away.

“Oh shit,” she muttered.

As Katie feared, the young Arab was heading into the no-man’s land of the
souks
. Fast. She needed to half-run just to keep up, all the while frantically searching for signs or anything at all that would help maintain her bearings. The likelihood was high that she’d need to find her own way back. As quickly as they passed, she recited the markers in her head:
Souk Roseaux. Rue Des Banques. Chez Chegrouni on the right. Left at Mosque Karbouch. Olive stalls. Right at Souk Smarine. Left into another alley. Left again. Right and left again. Squeezing between two cement walls. Another frickin’ nameless narrow alleyway. Really bad smell. Bunch of places selling fabric and stuff. Right at place selling something that looks like animal heads in steaming bowls… Oh, who the hell am I kidding? I’m done for.
In under two minutes she was hopelessly lost.

Much to Katie’s relief, Ahmadi stopped just shy of her point of no return. He looked at her expectantly. Wiping perspiration from her eyes, she was glad for her choice of lightweight cotton clothing and running shoes. She returned the stare.

“It’s here,” he said.

“What’s here?”

Ahmadi dug into his pockets and pulled out a wallet, a set of keys, and a pair of sunglasses. He handed them to her like they were hot potatoes.

Searching the wallet, she asked, “Did all of these things belong to Jaspar?” She didn’t need his answer. The wallet, although without a single dollar bill or credit card, contained several pieces of identification. The keys and sunglasses could have been anyone’s, but the wallet—or at least its contents—definitely belonged to Jaspar Wills. Every piece represented a precious visual aid for her upcoming breaking news story. “How did you get these?”

“It’s here,” he repeated.

Katie studied the area. Then she understood. She approached a dumpster shoved up against a corrugated metal wall. “You found these things here? In the garbage?”

He nodded. “In the suitcase.”

“Suitcase? You found these in a suitcase? Jaspar’s suitcase? Where is it?”

His reply was two nods and a shrug.

“How big was this suitcase?”

With his hands, Ahmadi made a shape of about twenty-four inches wide by eighteen inches tall. Katie nodded her understanding. Jaspar’s carry-on bag had been tossed into this dumpster. According to his story, the kidnapper, pretending to be a taxi driver, had abducted him right from the airport. He’d still have had all of his luggage with him. Ahmadi had found the carry-on, but where was the rest?

“Was there a bigger suitcase too?” Katie asked.

Ahmadi’s narrow shoulders bounced up and down and he looked away, watching a passing family bickering about whatever it is that Moroccan families bicker about. He was a rotten liar. Katie figured he probably wouldn’t cop to having found anything he’d already used or sold, like Jaspar’s clothing and whatever other valuables he may have found in either piece of luggage. She couldn’t fault the guy. He was merely trying to capitalize on an unexpected payday as best he could.

Slowly tracing a circle around the immediate area with a reporter’s eye, Katie took in every bit of detail. They were in a passageway that was probably used solely as back alley access for various
souk
stalls and stores, and maybe as a shortcut for locals with an impeccable sense of direction. Although not yet 10:00 a.m., the temperature was already hovering in the eighties. At either end of the alley, Katie could see buyers, sellers, and innumerable varieties of con men, all of them zipping back and forth in hard pursuit of commerce, getting as much done as possible before the even more punishing heat of afternoon.

“More money now.” Ahmadi was getting jittery again, hopping from foot to foot as if standing on a bed of burning coals.

Katie mindlessly pulled out the promised sum. Even the bills were limp and damp. As she handed them to the young man, her mind was elsewhere, busily trying to imagine what must have transpired in this exact spot on the day of the kidnapping. Jaspar had said that when he finally figured out something was fishy, he was already in the car. When he confronted the driver, he’d been hit and fell unconscious, still in the car. Which meant he had no way of knowing what happened next.

No. Way.

Katie felt a physical jolt. Exhilaration. Everything she was seeing now, everything Ahmadi was showing her and telling her—this entire part of the story—was hers, only hers.

Although much of the
souk
area was off limits to large motorized vehicles, she’d seen delivery trucks and even a small minibus squeeze down nearby streets. The fake taxi could have made it to this spot, or at least close by. The kidnappers would have wanted to drive Jaspar as near to where they planned to stash him as possible. Then what?

Jaspar had told her, and everyone who’d watched them on TV, that when he woke up he’d already been moved to the room where he was initially imprisoned. Since Jaspar was not moving under his own power, it meant the taxi driver/kidnapper would have had to carry him. Could he have managed that on his own, or did he have an accomplice waiting here to help him? Either way, he wouldn’t have wanted the extra burden of a suitcase and carry-on. He would have disposed of them. In this dumpster.

Voices in Katie’s head began to shriek. It wasn’t definite…but there was a very good chance that Jaspar had been held somewhere near here!

“Ahmadi,” she asked, not bothering to disguise her excitement, “which of these businesses use this dumpster?”

But she was too late. The young man had taken his money and run.