Some said Tangier had the smell of money and maybe it was the twenty tons of gold bullion in the bank vaults under the city. To me, in the Spring of 1950, it just smelled of wood smoke and mimosa. It had been a long haul on trains, trucks, and busses from French Morocco into Spanish Morocco at Ksar-el-Kebir, where I was strip searched and then through the mountains to Tangier. In Marrakech I'd been told that Tangier was where the action was. In Casablanca Mike Derby called it a racketeer's town, and in Port Lyautey they said it was a place where an American could get work.
—From Chapter 1, “The Barbary Coast”