“How much is more?” Scotch asked me, handling his sample of hash as if it were a dead octopus.

The Mouftis and their mates were born in France and knew nothing about the bled except its beaches. Moroccans raised far from their native soil, their roots exposed; hydroponic Moroccans. They could just about sprinkle their speech with the odd Arabic phrase, but carrying on an actual conversation was completely beyond them. Scotch was looking at me intently, moving his lips in sync as I spoke. You got the feeling from his eyes that were dilated by the fumes coming out of his head that it was pretty hot work in that brain of his.

“We can start at 50 for 225 which comes to 4,500 a kilo, which is the Spanish price for quality like this. Transportation to France is on me, but 50’s the minimum you’ve got to take. If you sell it at 10 for 60, that already gives you a margin of 75,000. I don’t work with a saraf so I want the money direct and if there’s a single note missing, it’s the last time I work with you. That’s the deal. You’ve got my number.”

“How much is more?” asked Scotch again, completely hypnotized.

How did he manage to look so damned stupid!

“More means more. Much more. But first let’s see if we can all work together, and then we’ll think about it.”

As I left in my taxi, I looked in the rear-view mirror. The three of them hadn’t moved, still standing there stiff as boards in their flip-flops.

The translations I did next were enough to warm the heart: it’s nice to know you’ve got a good product.

Intercept No. 7432 dated Tuesday, 3 August. Intercept taken from the telephone device of the person under surveillance originating from line no. 2126456584539, the registered owner of which is not known to the Moroccan authorities. The person using the line is Karim Moufti alias Scotch. His interlocutor is Mounir Charkani alias Lizard.

Words in Arabic translated by Madame Patience Portefeux, who has been engaged for this purpose and who hereby jointly certifies this transcript.

Scotch: On my mother’s life, I’m telling you, it’s the OG shit, totally sick. It’s got the earth in it from the bled, you can smell it, it’s so damned sick, you got grasshoppers hopping around on your head. It’s the country, man . . . (Laughter.)

Lizard: You’ve smoked too much, bro’.

Scotch: Dude, bring it on, I’m gonna work the whole year with this weird-ass godmother chick. Not even thinking if she’s a cop . . . It’s such good shit I’m gonna do it for you for 8.

Lizard: You can’t help farting above your pay-grade, man. (Laughter.) Let’s see it. I wanna show a photo like that to my cousin with the wheels.