Philip Kerr - Hand of God

I tossed the Greek papers aside and, for a while, read The Times I’d downloaded onto my iPad. There were plenty of column inches about City’s plight in Athens. And now that UEFA had agreed for us to play our home match against Olympiacos at the ground of Panathinaikos, the story held even more interest that it had before.

‘Will you need me this afternoon, sir?’ asked Charlie.

‘I’m afraid so. I thought I’d go and see my opposite number. Hristos Trikoupis. To discuss next week’s match. I don’t suppose you’d know where I could find him this afternoon.’

‘You could always ring him up and ask,’ suggested Charlie.

‘I’d prefer him not to know I was coming.’

‘Olympiacos have a match on Sunday evening. Against Aris. Right now he’s probably at their training centre, in Rentis. You’ll find it’s very different from Apilion. Those red bastards have much more money.’

‘You’re not a fan, then, of Olympiacos.’

‘No, sir. I’ve been always been Panathinaikos. Ever since I was a kid.’

‘I envy you that, Charlie. You lose that devotion to just one team when you enter the world of professional football. Once you start playing for money you’re a gun for hire and it’s never the same again. Sometimes I think it would be nice just to follow a team; to be able to go and watch a game and be like everyone else, you know?’

‘Right now it looks like it’s us being followed, sir.’

I turned around in my seat.

‘That silver Skoda Octavia,’ he said. ‘It was parked outside the hotel when I arrived this morning. And I’ve been around the block twice just to make sure.’

‘Fucking journalists,’ I said. ‘When there’s a piece of shit around there’s always one of them there to peck at it.’

‘More like cops,’ said Charlie.

I turned around again.

‘How do you work that out?’

‘Because no one else in Athens wants to drive the same shitty car as the Hellenic Police. And because there are just two of them.’

‘If they’re cops, why the fuck are they following me?’

‘Without wanting to alarm you, it’s probably for your protection, sir. Now that it’s been announced in the newspapers that you’re playing the next leg against those red malakes in our stadium, there will be plenty of them who think you’ve made common cause with their most mortal enemies: the Greens. You might actually be in danger of being attacked yourself.’

‘That’s a comforting thought.’

Ten or fifteen minutes later we saw Mount Hymettus. The only clouds in the otherwise blue sky were collected on the undulating summit as if to shield the gods from the importunate eyes of men. I could have wished for such privacy; the press were also in full force outside the training ground and Charlie was obliged to slow the car to a crawl as we approached the gate.

The training session was already in progress; and Simon Page’s voice carried across the playing fields like a Yorkshire zephyr. No matter how many times I heard him explaining the purpose of a particular training exercise he always made me smile; this was no exception:

‘It was Edson Arantes do Nascimento, more usefully known to us as Pelé, who first described football as the beautiful game. Now in Brazilian football the sole of the foot is used to control the ball much more often than in England. Like this. Left to right. To left, to right. If it feels odd to you that’s good; that’s why we’re practising this. You can pass with the sole, you can dribble with the sole, you can check the ball with the sole. Most of what you see from Cristiano Ronaldo involves the sole of the boot. That boy can do more with the underneath of his foot than a fucking chimpanzee. So what I want to see now is you passing the ball from one sole to another, left to right to left. Slowly at first with one leg planted on the floor, and then, running on the spot, left to right to left. Nice and wide. Okay. Off you go. Don’t look at the fucking ball, Gary. Keep your heads up. If this was a fucking game you’d be looking for someone to pass to. Even a greedy bugger like you, Jimmy.’

Seeing me, Simon walked over to the touchline and with arms folded watched our players as they continued with their technical training.

‘If you can get Gary Ferguson to play like a Brazilian I’ll eat your England cap,’ I said. ‘He’s got the ball skills of Douglas fucking Bader.’

‘Aye, but he’s got the best eye for the ball of any centre back I’ve seen. Not to mention shin bones like a couple of crowbars. Gary could take the legs off a bloody dining table.’

‘He’s certainly a fearsome-looking figure. Especially with his plate out. He always gives a new meaning to the phrase “man marking”.’

For a moment we were silent as we watched the players.

‘Prometheus is probably the most gifted player on the park right now,’ said Simon. ‘Everything he does comes naturally.’

‘Including being a cunt.’

‘True. Although he’s not been nearly so arrogant of late. Maybe it was Bekim’s death. Or maybe it’s just this place.’ Simon took a deep euphoric breath of air and nodded. ‘Smashing here, isn’t it?’

‘Apparently this training ground is named after a Greek poet.’

‘Aye, well, that’s easy to understand. If I had to look at that view every day I might write a poem myself.’

‘I think I’d like to read a poem by you,’ I said, wondering how many rhymes you could get for ‘fuck’ and ‘cunt’ which were, after all, the most frequent words in Simon’s Yorkshire vocabulary. ‘What’s the mood like without Bekim?’

‘Aye, well, that’s a question.’

He went back on the pitch for a minute, organised another exercise and then came back.

‘Now that we’ve lost our team Jesus,’ I said, ‘the other disciples are going to need inspiration.’

‘You what, boss?’

‘All teams need their own Jesus. Someone who can turn water into fucking wine, cure lepers and the blind, and raise the team from the dead when we’re having a mare. Bekim was ours. So, who’s the new team Jesus? That’s the real question, Simon. Gary is a good captain, but he’s not an inspiring figure. He’s a discipline. And as last lines of defence go, he’s the best. But he’s not someone who can look you in the eye and persuade you that he’s the answer to your prayers.’

Simon hummed and hawed an answer but in truth I already knew the answer to my own question. Before the pre-season window closed on 31 August I was going to have to persuade Vik to pay top money for the Hertha team captain, Hörst Daxenberger. With his long blond hair, blue eyes and beard, Daxenberger was the nearest thing to Jesus I’d seen outside a crappy Hollywood movie. But to get him to come to City we were going to have to beat Olympiacos and qualify for Champions League; if we could do that, it’d be the one thing we could offer him that Hertha couldn’t.

After the session was over I gathered the team and the playing staff around me in the warm sunshine and spoke to them.

‘I know you all miss your families so let me say right away that Vik’s lawyers haven’t given up trying to persuade the police to change their minds about keeping us here in Athens. But unless a miracle happens it looks like we’re remaining here for now. And let’s face it, things could be a lot worse. The lads from Panathinaikos couldn’t be more helpful and let’s make sure they always know how grateful we are to them. Meanwhile, the sun’s shining, the food is good and there’s a nice beach at the hotel. I suggest you get a nice tan, download a book, use the gym and lay off the duty-free because we have the small matter of a Champions League match next week. Not to mention a three-goal deficit.