“He’s lying,” snapped Martel when the audio went silent. “It’s a complete fantasy.”

It was at this point, Gabriel would later recall—and the hidden cameras confirmed it was so—that the wind went out of Martel’s sails. He settled next to Mikhail, a curious choice, and stared at the face of Natalie, who stared at the floor. A long silence ensued, long enough so that Rousseau saw fit to replay the relevant portion of the recording, the portion regarding a certain Mohammad Bakkar, one of Morocco’s largest producers of hashish, by some accounts the largest, a man who liked to call himself the king of the Rif Mountains, the region of the country where hashish is grown and processed for export to Europe and beyond. The man who, according to René Devereaux, was Martel’s one and only supplier.

“I take it,” said Rousseau quietly, “you’ve heard the name.”

And Martel, with the smallest of nods, confirmed that he had. Then the eyes moved from Natalie to Keller, who was standing protectively behind her. Keller had deceived him, Keller had betrayed him. And yet at that moment, it seemed that Jean-Luc Martel regarded Keller as his one and only friend in the room.

“Why don’t you give us a bit of background?” suggested Rousseau. “We’re amateurs, after all. At least when it comes to the business of narcotics. Help us understand how it all works. Enlighten us as to the wicked ways of your world.”

Rousseau’s request was not as innocent as it sounded. René Devereaux had already given Keller chapter and verse on Mohammad Bakkar’s links to the network. But Rousseau wanted to get Martel talking, which would allow them to test the veracity of his words. A certain amount of deception was to be expected. Rousseau would demand absolute truth only where it mattered.

“Tell us a little about this man Mohammad Bakkar,” he was saying. “Is he short or tall? Is he thin or is he fat like me? Does he have any hair or is he bald? Does he have one wife or two? Does he smoke? Does he drink? Is he religious?”

“He’s short,” answered Martel after a moment. “And, no, he doesn’t drink. Mohammad is religious. Very religious, in fact.”

“Do you find that surprising?” asked Rousseau quickly, seizing on the fact that Martel had at last answered a question. “That a hashish producer is a religious man?”

“I didn’t say Mohammad Bakkar is a hash producer. His business is oranges.”

“Oranges?”

“Yes, oranges. So, no, I’m not surprised he’s a religious man. Oranges are a way of life in the Rif. The king has been trying for years to encourage the growers to plant other crops, but oranges are more lucrative than soybeans and radishes. Much more,” Martel added with a smile.

“Perhaps the king should try harder.”

“If you ask me, the king prefers things the way they are.”

“How so?”

“Because oranges bring several billion dollars a year into the country. They help to keep the peace.” Lowering his voice, Martel added, “Mohammad Bakkar is not the only religious man in Morocco.”

“There are many extremists in Morocco?”

“You would know better than me,” said Martel.

“ISIS has many cells in Morocco?”

“So I’m told. But the king doesn’t like to talk about that,” he added. “ISIS is bad for tourism.”

“You have a business in Morocco, do you not? A hotel in Marrakesh, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Two,” boasted Martel.

“How’s business?”

“Down.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“We’ll get by.”

“I’m sure you will. And to what do you attribute this drop in business?” asked Rousseau. “Is it ISIS?”

“The attacks on the hotels in Tunisia had a big impact on our bookings. People are afraid Morocco is next.”

“Is it safe for tourists there?”

“It’s safe,” said Martel, “until it isn’t.”

Rousseau permitted himself a smile at the astuteness of the observation. Then he pointed out that Martel’s business interests allowed him to enter and leave Morocco, a notorious drug-producing country, without raising suspicion. Martel, with a shrug, did not dispute Rousseau’s conclusion.

“Do you entertain Mohammad Bakkar at your hotel in Marrakesh?”

“Never.”

“Why not?”

“He dislikes Marrakesh. Or what’s become of Marrakesh, I should say.”

“Too many foreigners?”

“And gays,” said Martel.

“He dislikes homosexuals because of his religious beliefs?”

“I suppose.”

“Where do you generally meet with him?”

“In Casa,” said Martel, using the local shorthand for Casablanca, “or in Fez. He has a riad in the heart of the medina. He also owns several villas in the Rif and the Middle Atlas.”

“He moves around a lot?”

“Oranges are a dangerous business.”

Again Rousseau smiled. Even he was not immune to Martel’s immense charm.

“And when you meet with Monsieur Bakkar? What do you discuss?”

“Brexit. The new American president. The prospects for peace in the Middle East. The usual.”