Philip Kerr - Hand of God

I knew Bekim’s reputation as a ladies’ man. Before meeting his current girlfriend and the mother of his child, Alex, he’d had a string of glamorous girlfriends, including the Storm supermodel Tomyris, and the singer Hattie Shepsut. In an interview with GQ magazine he’d admitted to sleeping with a thousand women, which, if it was true, meant he was basing his opinion of his friend Valentina on a fairly significant statistical sample and was perhaps something that needed to be taken seriously.

He took out his iPhone again. ‘Here,’ he said. ‘I’ve got a picture of her on my phone.’

He swiped his way through several photographs until he found the one he was looking for.

‘There. What do you think?’

‘I’m going to watch a football match, not check out the local hookers.’

‘She’s not a hooker. Believe me, you won’t forgive yourself if you don’t at least take her out to dinner. I wouldn’t recommend her to you if I didn’t think you’d find her the most delightful company. She’s very sophisticated, very well read. And she knows about art. Every time I see her I learn something new.’

‘If she’s so sophisticated, how come she knows a sod like you?’

‘Does it matter? Look at her, man. She’s properly fit. A face to launch a thousand ships, eh?’ Bekim grinned. ‘Sometimes I read this phrase in the newspapers. Writers talk about a country’s best-kept secret. Well, she’s Attica’s best kept secret.’

‘Attica?’

‘The historical region that encompasses Athens.’

‘I see. So, when I’m in Attica, I’m going to look up Helen of Troy, is that it?’

Bekim grinned. ‘That’s right. It couldn’t do you any harm, could it?’

‘No, I suppose not.’

‘Life is more than just football, Scott. Even for you. You have to remember that.’

‘You’re right. I forget that sometimes. But with two games a week — three if we get through the play-offs for the Champions League — there’s not much time for life.’

‘In this game of ours, it’s easy to forget everything else.’

‘Yes. It is.’

‘I’ll tell her you’re coming, shall I? And that you’re staying at the Grande Bretagne on Syntagma Square. The rooftop bar and restaurant has the best view in all of Athens. Take her there before you go to Spondi and put the bill on my tab.’

‘Why not?’

I agreed just to humour him, as if he really was a child, and then forgot all about it.

‘But be careful, Scott,’ he added, ‘and I don’t mean with lovely Valentina. There are two teams in Attica. Olympiacos and Panathinaikos, and they are bitter rivals. They hate each other. They are eternal enemies, Greeks say. Sometimes when these two sides play they don’t even finish the game because the crowd violence is so bad. When you go to Olympiacos, keep away from Gate 7, okay? Those are the real hard-core fans. Very violent. Like Glasgow Rangers and Celtic. Only worse.’ Bekim grinned. ‘You raise your eyebrows. I can see you don’t believe me. Yes, I know you’re part Scottish and you think that nothing could be as bad as the Old Firm. But what you have to remember is that half of all the men in Greece under the age of thirty are unemployed; and where there is such mass unemployment, you’re always going to have bad hooligans. Same as Weimar Germany. Same as South America. There is also match fixing because there is a football mafia. To be an honest sportsman is difficult in Greece, Scott. And if you are interviewed by a newspaper just remember to keep your mouth shut. Because the people who talk about this kind of thing get hurt. Just be careful, is all. Please be careful, Scott.’

There was real concern in Bekim’s voice and, after he’d gone, I wondered if this might actually have been the real reason that he’d come to see me. That would have been typical. In many ways he was a very secretive man, as I later discovered.

I flew to Athens the night before Hertha’s match with Olympiacos. It was past 1 a.m. when a taxi dropped me in front of the Grande Bretagne Hotel, which was every bit as impressive as Bekim had told me it would be. The huge marble-floored lobby was spacious, elegant and above all, wonderfully cool; outside, in Syntagma Square, the temperature was still in the mid-twenties. The people inside the hotel were well-dressed and looked prosperous and it was easy to forget that Greece was a country with 26 per cent unemployment and a debt that amounted to 175 per cent of its total economy; or that Syntagma Square had seen some of the worst riots in Europe as the Greek parliament voted on austerity measures that would, it was hoped, satisfy the European central bank and, in particular, the Germans who were contributing most of the money that was needed to bail them out. All that seemed like a long way off as I walked towards the front desk.

The receptionist on duty checked me in and then handed me an envelope that had been in my pigeonhole. Inside the envelope was a handwritten message on scented stationery:

Bekim told me what time you were arriving in Athens and since I was in the vicinity of your hotel I thought I would stop by and say hello. I am in Alexander’s Bar, behind the front desk. I shall wait until 2.15 a.m. Valentina (00.55)

PS, If you’re too tired from your journey, I shall quite understand, but please send this note back via the bellboy.

I went up to my room with the porter and pondered my next move. I wasn’t particularly tired: Athens is two hours ahead of London time and having scorned the plastic in-flight meal, I was now hungry for something more substantial than a handful of peanuts from the minibar. Greeks tend to eat quite late in the evening and I was sure I could still get some dinner, but I felt less certain about eating on my own; an attractive dining companion would surely be a pleasant alternative to my iPad. So I cleaned my teeth, changed my shirt and went back downstairs to find her.

In spite of what Bekim had said I still suspected that I was about to meet a hooker. For one thing there was his own priapic reputation to consider, for another there was her nationality. I don’t know why so many Russian women become hookers but they do; I think they feel it’s the only thing that will get them out of Russia. After our pre-season tour I never wanted to see the country again either. I’ve never minded the company of prostitutes — after you’ve been in the nick for something you didn’t do, you learn never to judge anyone — it’s just sleeping with them I object to. It doesn’t make me better than Bekim — or any of the other guys in football who succumb to all the temptations made possible by a hundred grand a week. I was just older and perhaps a little wiser and, truth be told, just a little less pussy-hungry than I used to be. You get older, your sleep matters more than what’s laughingly called your libido.

Alexander’s Bar looked like something out of an old Hollywood movie. The marble counter was about thirty feet long, with proper bar stools for some serious, lost weekend drinking, and more bottles than a bonded warehouse. Behind the bar was a tapestry of a man in a chariot I assumed was Alexander the Great; some attendants were carrying a Greek urn beside his chariot that looked a lot like the FA Cup which probably explained why everyone looked so happy.

It wasn’t hard to spot Valentina: she was the one in the grey armchair with legs up to her armpits, coated tweed minidress and Louboutin high heels. Louboutins are easy to identify; I only knew the minidress was a three-grand Balmain because I liked to shop online and it was a rare month when I didn’t buy something for Louise on Net-a-Porter. The blonde hair held in a loose chignon gave Valentina a regal air. If she was a hooker she wasn’t the kind who was about to give a discount for cash.