The end of my adventure was not particularly interesting, even if it did result in an affair of State.

In order to dispose of the 463 kilos of hash I still had, I contacted the Tunisians being surveilled by the Central Bureau for Illicit Drug Traffic Control, explaining that I’d been given their number by the friend of a friend of my supposed son, who was hiding some hash in his bedroom which I absolutely had to get rid of. I loaded all my product into a van I’d rented through the commercial vehicle-sharing service, Utilib, using the card of a dead Chinese man . . .

This time it was a whining, old, badly dressed Godmother who ventured forth onto the streets. “My son . . . you know, his papa was killed by the Armed Islamic Group of Algeria . . . I’m raising him all on my own and he won’t listen to me . . . not to anything I say!”

I was so persuasive those guys were seriously worried for me.

“I don’t care if he kills me, but as long as I’m alive, he is not going to prison for doing drugs. Before all this, he used to be a good student, he was kind . . . So, take it, take the lot, I don’t want to see it in our home anymore!”

They didn’t waste any time hanging around, and left with my hash, their car loaded up to the point that the under-carriage was almost dragging along the ground. With a huge sense of relief, I watched them disappear.

A week later, I was summoned by the examining magistrate, who wanted to speak to the Benabdelaziz’s driver. He was in the corridor, seated and handcuffed, waiting for me, his accredited translator.

“I know it was you who took our product . . .”

“Me? But what would I do with it? I have done my own research, though. I’ve listened to a lot of dealers. It took some time, but I know now who picked it up . . . And I think they should pay for what they’ve done because I was very fond of Khadija. It’s the Tunisians. I’ve got their name, their address, their phone number . . . I can give you everything.”

Et voilà.

There was some fallout with the dealers-informants-police. Some deaths. Some cops in the slammer. A big fat scandal. I’d had a good nose: those guys were indeed hybrid dealers bred by the Central Bureau for Drug Control.

The rest of the story is all there in the papers; there’s no need for me to go over it again.

No clean policing without dirty policing, they say. Well then, let’s give these state-sanctioned dealer-bureaucrats a taste of their own laws.

Mambo

And what now?