Hand of God

5

In spite of my terrifying experience aboard an Aeroflot Ilyushin jet, I dislike flying in helicopters even more than in Aeroflot Ilyushin jets, and this included Vik’s luxurious Sikorsky-92 which, following the team’s return from Russia, left London’s Battersea Heliport one Tuesday morning in August, bound for Paris. Aboard were Viktor Sokolnikov, City chairman Phil Hobday and me.

Whenever I fly in a chopper all I can think about is not the time we’re saving but Matthew Harding, the millionaire vice-president of Chelsea FC who was tragically killed in a helicopter back in 1996 after an away game with Bolton Wanderers. It’s an old wives’ tale that helicopters are any less aerodynamic than an airplane — a helicopter’s blades will continue to rotate, despite a stalled engine (or so Vik told me); but it’s a fact that helicopters do more dangerous things than planes, such as take-off and land in closely built-up areas, and what’s more in parts of the world with very poor weather. To be killed in a helicopter would be bad enough, I think; but to be killed in somewhere like Bolton really would be bloody awful.

We were flying to Paris to have lunch with Kojo Ironsi who, as well as being the agent and manager of Prometheus Adenuga, was the owner of the famous King Shark Football Academy in Accra, Ghana. Vik already owned a stake in King Shark, but Kojo — who was rumoured to be short of cash — was looking to sell him a bigger share and I was along to help City’s billionaire club-owner evaluate just how much the academy might be worth. Or at least that’s what I thought. I had player reports from an independent African-based coach, which I was supposed to bring into play if Vik decided that Kojo was asking too much.

All of the players who had come through the King Shark Academy — including Prometheus and several other big names — had a contractual relationship with KSA which meant that they and the football clubs who acquired them paid a percentage of their transfer fees and wages to KSA. Kojo claimed to be a philanthropist and that what he did was to the advantage of talented young Africans who might otherwise struggle to find opportunities to play for the top clubs, but from the outside it looked like these players were indentured to Kojo and KSA for the whole of their professional lives.

‘How much is too much to pay?’ I asked Vik somewhere over the English Channel.

‘Whatever he’s asking is too much,’ said Phil. ‘That’s a given here. It’ll be like trying to buy a carpet from a Moroccan snake.’

‘There are good players on that list, though,’ said Vik. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Scott?’

‘Certainly. Several of the top Africans now playing in Europe seem to have come through KSA. At least that’s what Kojo claims.’

‘According to my lawyers all of those contracts are watertight,’ said Vik. ‘And you can’t argue with all of the juicy fees from top clubs that continue to be paid into KSA’s Swiss bank accounts. I already own a twenty-five per cent stake in KSA. My guess is he’ll want me to take more equity, up to forty-nine per cent of the company. For which I might be prepared to pay him ten million euros. Of course, he’ll ask twice that. Maybe more.’

‘Then it beats me why you need me along,’ I said.

‘I don’t want to wake up one morning and find myself accused of part-owning a company that’s trafficking in children. You might ask him about that.’

‘I can easily do that. I have quite a few doubts there myself.’

‘Assuming I’m satisfied and I do decide I want to buy an increased share, I’ll need you to help Kojo see sense, from the perspective of someone who knows players and their real value on the market. And one player in particular: our young friend Prometheus. We should use the boy’s on-going disciplinary problems as a stick with which to beat Kojo down. Understood?’

‘I think so. You want me to tell this guy that Prometheus has been disappointing, so far.’

‘Which is true,’ said Phil. ‘Frankly, he’s a pain in the arse. I’ve spent more time dealing with that stupid bloody car of his than I care to remember.’

Almost as soon as Prometheus had arrived in London he had spent four hundred grand on a Mercedes McLaren SLR, but there was just one problem, which the Met had quickly identified: the Nigerian didn’t actually have a driving licence. This hadn’t been a problem in Monaco where he only ever drove from one end of the mile-long principality to the other, and rarely faster than thirty miles per hour — frankly, it isn’t possible to go much faster than that in Monaco. But things were different in London. Prometheus was already facing losing a licence he didn’t yet have, and the confiscation of his car, which was something of a record at any London football club.

‘He’s a good player though,’ said Vik. ‘I’m sure Scott can get the best out of him.’

‘I wish I shared your confidence, Vik.’

‘How are things with him and Bekim?’ he asked.

‘Not much better than since we were in Russia. Prometheus has kept his mouth shut in training. But several times he’s re-tweeted some Catholic bishop of Nigeria who’s publicly thanked the country’s president, Goodluck Jonathan, for making a law against homosexuality. Which doesn’t help the situation.’

‘As long as Bekim doesn’t follow Prometheus on Twitter then I can’t see what the problem is,’ said Vik. ‘You can only be offended by someone tweeting something if you’re following them, right?’

‘The problem, Vik,’ said Phil, ‘is that whatever Prometheus re-tweets gets picked up by the tabloids. Which, like anyone else, Bekim does read. Not to mention Christoph Bündchen. And of course they haven’t forgotten what happened to the German boy in Brazil. The newspapers are trying to stir up trouble like they always do.’

‘Is he gay?’ Phil was asking me, but it was Vik who answered him.

‘Of course he’s gay,’ he said. ‘Not only that but he’s living with a man.’

‘To be fair,’ I said, ‘Harry Koenig is just a flatmate. A German player from QPR reserves that the liaison officer fixed up for Christoph to live with, so that he wouldn’t get lonely.’

‘Maybe so. But actually Harry is gay, too.’

‘How do you know that?’ I asked.

‘Because I had them drone-hacked.’

‘Drone-hacked? What’s that?’

‘I own a military drone company,’ said Vik, matter-of-factly. ‘The smallest ones are about the size of a pigeon. You just have a drone follow someone around, sit on their window ledge, record what you want. They can recharge themselves on telephone lines.’ Vik was unapologetic about this. ‘I’ve drone-hacked all our players. I’m not paying the kind of money I pay to our players without knowing everything about them I can. Relax, Scott, it’s not illegal.’

‘Well, if it isn’t, it sounds like it ought to be.’

I wondered if I’d been drone-hacked; it made phone-hacking sound very old-fashioned.

‘I’ve also had them all given psychiatric evaluations. Did you know that three of our players are psychopaths?’

‘Which ones?’ I asked.

‘That would be telling. Don’t look so shocked, gentlemen. Psychopaths can be useful, especially in sport. It doesn’t mean they’re going to kill someone.’ He chuckled. ‘At least not right away.’

I wondered if he was unconsciously referring to our helicopter pilot, who was circling our improbably small landing site like a bee considering the charms of an unusual yellow flower with an H-shaped stigma. I closed my eyes and waited for us to put down.

‘Cheer up, Scott,’ said Vik. ‘It might never happen.’

‘I sincerely hope not.’