Hand of God

32

When I arrived back at the Grande Bretagne I found Vik having a meeting in the royal suite dining room with Phil Hobday, Kojo Ironsi, Gustave Haak, Cooper Lybrand and some more Greeks I didn’t recognise. I went into the bedroom, closed the door, picked up the telephone and called Anna Loverdos who sounded more English than Greek.

‘I’m so glad you called me back,’ she said. ‘And I’m so, so sorry about what happened to Bekim Develi. How is his poor wife?’

‘Not good.’

‘If there’s anything I can do for you and your players while you’re in Athens, Mr Manson — anything at all — then please don’t hesitate to get in touch.’

‘Well, there is something,’ I said. ‘But I hardly like to talk about it on the telephone. I was wondering if we might meet up sometime and have a drink.’

‘Of course. And I was going to suggest that myself. Where are you staying?’

‘At the Grande Bretagne.’

‘The Federation is just a ten-minute drive from there. Shall we say six o’clock tonight?’

‘See you then.’

I went into the media room and switched on the widescreen TV, looking for some football. There was a repeat of a UEFA Europa League play-off match from the previous evening, between Saint-Étienne and Stuttgart.

The door opened and Kojo came in, flicking the air with his fly-whisk like an African dictator.

‘Oh, good,’ he said, ‘you’re watching the match.’ He helped himself to a beer from the minibar and sat down.

‘What are they talking about in there?’ I asked.

‘Money, my friend, what else? It’s all those people ever talk about. Don’t get me wrong. I like money as much as the next guy. But to me it’s a means to an end and not an end in itself. I swear, all these fellows talk about is what they can buy and what they can sell and how much profit there is. It’s like hanging out with the International Monetary Fund. Numbers, numbers, numbers. It’s making me crazy, Scott.’

‘That’s why the rich stay rich, Kojo. Because they’re interested in that shit. All those little fractions they’re fond of add up and mean something — usually that the rest of us have been fucked over while we were looking the other way.’

‘Maybe.’ Kojo drank some of his beer. ‘Anyway, I only came here today to watch the game. They don’t get this channel on the boat.’

‘It must be the only thing you can’t get on that boat.’

‘And I’ve got a client who’s playing for Saint-Étienne, Kgalema Mandingoane: the South African boy who plays in goal.’

‘I suppose he’s one from your academy.’

‘That’s right.’

‘You’re as bad as the guys next door. Just watch the fucking game, will you?’

I grinned, but we both knew I meant it.

My phone rang; it was Bill Wakeman from the Gambling Commission and for a moment I left the room. We talked for a while, but I didn’t have much to tell him.

‘Is it possible that Bekim Develi was nobbled?’ he asked.

‘I suppose it’s possible,’ I admitted. ‘We won’t know for sure until the pathologists end their strike and someone can give him a post-mortem. But from what I saw, it looked like natural causes. Frankly, it reminded me of what happened to Fabrice Muamba back in 2012. Besides, we were very strict about what the team ate before the match. Our team nutritionist made sure of that.’

I told him about the food-poisoning incident involving Hertha. ‘But it’s hard to see how anyone could have nobbled Bekim and not everyone else,’ I added. ‘If anything he was twice as particular as anyone else about what he ate while he was here.’

‘What about the other players?’ he asked. ‘Could one of them have intended to throw the match?’

‘It would be stupid of me to say that couldn’t happen, since it obviously does happen. But now you’re asking me which of my players is bent enough to throw a football game.’

‘And?’

‘I can’t think of one.’

‘Really? Some of them you hardly know at all. Prometheus has just arrived at London City.’

‘He may be a lot of things,’ I said. ‘But a cheat, I’m sure he isn’t.’

‘He’s African, isn’t he? Nigerian? Half the phishing scams in the world originate in Nigeria. They’re all dodgy. And from what I’ve read about him, he’s dodgier than most.’

‘I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that, Mr Wakeman.’

‘I’m sorry if I misspoke, Mr Manson. I certainly didn’t mean to offend you. But you know, one particular punter in Russia — someone nicknamed the Russian bear — made a killing on this game. They won’t say how much, but the bookies reckon that game might have cost them as much as twenty million pounds.’

‘My heart bleeds for them. Look, I’d like to help. But I don’t see what I can do from here. Right now all I really care about is that I get my team back to London as soon as.’

I ended the call and went back into the media room.

‘You know, you really should think about buying this boy, Scott. You’re going to need another goalkeeper now that Didier Cassell isn’t coming back to the game. I happen to know Mandingo — that’s what the French call him...’

I went to the fridge and helped myself to a Coke.

‘I’m glad I’ve got this opportunity to be alone with you, Scott. There’s something else I want to talk to you about. It’s about Prometheus.’

I sighed. ‘Why is it that every time I hear that boy’s name I want to rip someone’s fucking liver out?’

‘It was Prometheus who hung that evil eye trinket on the door handle of Bekim’s bungalow. The night before he died.’

‘I might have known he’d have something to do with it.’

‘The boy meant it as a stupid joke. Only now he’s worried sick that it actually worked. And I do mean sick.’

‘Come on, Kojo. That sort of thing. It’s bollocks.’

‘Not to him. He’s African, Scott. You’d be surprised how many of them still believe in this stuff.’

‘In fucking witchcraft, you mean? The next thing you’ll be telling me is that he believes in fairies and fucking voodoo dolls. Bekim Develi had a heart attack, Kojo. Like Fabrice Muamba. Sudden Adult Death Syndrome. That’s the medical description of something that the ancient Greeks used to say: “Those whom the gods love die young.” It’s sad, but that’s just how it is.’

‘The question is, what are we going to do about it? The boy won’t eat. He can’t sleep. He really thinks Bekim’s death is down to him.’

‘Why didn’t he tell me himself? This morning, at the training session?’

‘He wanted to, but he lost his nerve.’

‘If he ever had any. I might have respected him even a little if he’d had the guts to tell me himself.’

‘In front of all the others? It’s bad enough he thinks he killed Bekim without some of the others thinking it, too. He’s not the only superstitious idiot in your team.’

‘You’ve got that right, anyway.’

‘You’re going to talk him out of this mindset he’s got himself into, aren’t you? Before the return match against Olympiacos. I mean, it’s not the sort of thing you can leave to a man like Simon Page. I doubt that he can even spell psychology.’

‘Oh, he can spell it. But his idea of a mental function is getting pissed at the Christmas party.’ I nodded. ‘I’ll speak to him, okay?’

‘Thanks, Scott. He respects you. He needs guidance, that’s all.’

‘I’ll speak to him.’

Just at this moment, Mandingo — Kojo’s client — pulled off a spectacular top-drawer save. Even I was impressed.

Kojo grinned. ‘See what I mean? Mandingo’s just twenty-two and already he’s been picked for his country.’

‘If he really is twenty-two, that’s remarkable on its own.’

‘I’m telling you, Scott, that boy is the next David James.’

I didn’t know if that was good or bad but I shrugged and said I’d think about it; and fortunately for me, Phil put his head around the door soon afterwards and asked me to dinner on the boat. Frankly, I was relieved to find an excuse to leave the room.

‘Eight thirty,’ said Phil. ‘There’ll be a tender at Marina Zea at eight to pick people up.’

‘People?’

‘I think there are some girls who are coming aboard.’

I might have said I was busy, except I wanted to ask him and Vik if we could buy Hörst Daxenberger as a replacement for Bekim Develi.

‘I’ll be there,’ I said.

My phone rang again and this time it was a Greek number I didn’t recognise.

‘Mr Manson?’

‘Yes?’

‘My name is Dr Eva Pyromaglou.’