When I had sent that message two days earlier, Scotch had replied straight away: OK.

I’d followed quickly with: Contact Fleury Quick, today, 17h00. With photo.

It wasn’t a random decision, choosing the Fleury Quick halal fast food joint as the setting for the deal. Anything is possible in that tiny fast-food place, situated at the intersection between the main road into Paris and Rue des Peupliers, which runs past the biggest prison in Europe. Inmates’ families rub shoulders with their drug-dealing mates and the permanently broke Muslim prison staff. I used to eat there back when I was translating Disciplinary Committee proceedings inside the prison, and I remembered well its vipers’ nest feel: it was ugly, dirty and at the same time insanely busy.

Before showing up at my business meeting, I obviously had to change my look. Most importantly, I had to hide my white hair which stood out in a crowd of thousands.

I had great fun disguising myself. I opted for Moroccan bled chic: fake black and gold Chanel sunglasses, leopard print hijab, black khôl eyeliner, pantsuit with long tunic, gold bracelets (lots of them) and diamanté watch, orange nails and shiny nylons. I was unrecognizable. A very respectable Maghrebi business woman. The perfect chameleon.

I hailed a taxi to take me there and told him to wait for me.

I recognized my contacts as soon as I arrived.

A joy to behold.

Porsche Cayenne with tinted windows parked in a disabled parking spot and surrounded by discarded fast-food wrappers. Rap music and air-con blasting, doors open. They were fat bastards with stringy chin-strap beards minus the moustache, cropped pants, flip-flops, Fly Emirates Paris Saint Germain T-shirts accentuating rolls of lard. To top it off, a dash or two of summer-chic accessorizing: a Louis Vuitton clutch resting on the paunch along with Tony Montana mirrored sunnies.

The complete look. The new orientalism.

“Hello, I’m Madame Ben Barka. I’m the one who contacted you. I’ve got some product that comes from the bled and I heard through one of your customers that you’ve got issues with your supplier.”

The three of them looked at me as if they were hallucinating; the last thing they had expected was to have to do a deal with their mother.

“Who . . . ?”

“I told you, my name is Madame Ben Barka, and I’ve got some good quality stuff from down there to sell.”

Silence. My face is impenetrable. My eyes immobile behind my branded sunglasses.

“Oh really?” said the fat one with the PSG T-shirt at last, full of himself — Karim Moufti alias Scotch, whom I recognized by his moronic intonation.

I pulled a 100-gram sample out of my handbag.

“Here’s the photo. It’s 4,500 euros a kilo, top quality, but I’ll do you a deal if you take more than 50. I’ll do you an even better deal if you take more than that.”