Philip Kerr - Hand of God

‘You know, Scott, we’re very happy with the way you’ve handled this football club,’ said Phil. ‘You enjoy our total confidence. Doesn’t he, Vik?’

Vik laughed and lit a cigar. ‘Now you’ve really worried him.’

‘I know. That’s why I said it.’

‘You’ll have to excuse us, Louise,’ said Vik. ‘When Scott is tired and at our mercy like this we tend to take advantage. It’s rare we get a chance to get a word in edgeways. We’re rather more used to the sound of him talking up our team’s chances or playing down their inadequacies.’

‘More often the latter,’ said Phil, sourly.

Louise took my hand, squeezed it fondly and then kissed my fingertips.

‘Well, I’m kind of tired myself so, if you don’t mind, I’m going to bed. It’s been a long day.’

‘I’ll be along in a short while,’ I said.

Louise gave me a look and then grinned.

‘No, really,’ I said.

Politely, the men were standing up.

‘You’re going to talk about football,’ she said.

‘No, we’re not.’

‘Sure,’ said Louise. ‘See you later.’

But this was also the cue for Haak, Lybrand, the two Greeks and most of the ladies to take Vik’s launch and go ashore or aboard Haak’s own yacht, the Monsieur Croesus . And when the rest of the girls had also retired to wherever it was on The Lady Ruslana they had been detailed to spend the night, I was left alone with Vik, Phil and Kojo.

There was a long silence.

‘Perhaps,’ said Kojo, ‘someone might like to tell me this: if we’re not going to talk about football, what the hell are we going to talk about?’

The cognac was wearing off. Or maybe the sea air was clearing my head; it certainly needed a bit of housekeeping. My mind felt like it was playing keepy-uppy with a golf ball.

From the boat the Greek shoreline looked like another galaxy; and for those in Vik’s sphere of influence it might as well have been. Unemployment, financial crisis, striking workers — these were much further away from The Lady Ruslana than the mile or two of inky black sea that separated us from the mainland. But in spite of everything, I’d come to like the Greeks and I almost felt guilty just being aboard Vik’s floating palace.

I was getting my second wind now and for a while we discussed the forthcoming game against Olympiacos and how I intended to approach this.

‘I distrust tactics, even at the best of times,’ I said. ‘Football matches have a regular habit of making a nonsense of them. Remember the much-vaunted trivote ? The high-pressure triangle that Mourinho used at the Bernabeu? It never really worked. Jorge Valdano, the Madrid sporting director, use to call it shit on a stick, didn’t he? But I do have a strategy for the game. It’s an idea I’ve used before. I don’t have a fancy name for it — like Mou — but if I did I’d call it Football Darwinism. I’ve been looking at some of the Reds’ recent games and I’ve picked out the weakest player, their midfielder, Mariliza Mouratidis. He’s younger than the rest. And his mother’s in hospital. A Greek hospital. So I think his mind is elsewhere. I know mine would be if my mother was in a Greek hospital.’

I paused for a moment as I remembered my dad was in hospital, too; and then carried on speaking.

‘But there’s something else, I think. Most footballers want the ball. Mouratidis can’t wait to get rid of it. It’s like he doesn’t want the responsibility. So what we’re going to do is that when Mouratidis has the ball we’re going to make the tackles twice as hard and twice as quick and, if possible, from more than one of our lads. In short we’re going to gang up on him like a bunch of playground bullies and try to break him. You can see chickens doing it sometimes; they gather around the weakest chicken and peck it to death. My guess is that he’ll either cave under the pressure or, more likely, hit back. With any luck he’ll be sent off. After the first leg, we’ve got nothing to lose.’

Vik chuckled. ‘I like it.’

‘God, you’re a ruthless bastard,’ said Phil.

‘No,’ I said. ‘But I do want to win this game very badly. Call it payback for the many inconveniences we’ve suffered since arriving here.’

After this we discussed the merits of buying Hörst Daxenberger and Kgalema Mandingoane; that was good as it meant delaying our conversation about Bekim Develi’s true fate. Vik had known Bekim longer than anyone and had been fond of him. I wasn’t looking forward to telling him that his friend had been poisoned.

Buying Daxenberger was a no-brainer: he was very strong on the ball, and equally strong off it — the kind of player who acts like a talisman. Thierry Henry was a bit like that; Arsenal were always a different side when Thierry was on the pitch. It wasn’t just the fact that he was skilful — all professional footballers are skilful — it was something else. Napoleon knew the value of having generals who were lucky; and luck was what Henry had in spades. Other players rubbed off that; you didn’t need to cross yourself or recite from an imaginary Koran when he was on the pitch.

Mandingo — I didn’t like that name but I could see it was pointless arguing against it — was a harder sell which was why Kojo had uploaded some of the lad’s best saves onto his iPad, including the one I’d seen him make against Stuttgart the previous Friday night. I had to admit that I was impressed with his ability. And when I received another text from Simon to say that while he was sure that Kenny could play on Wednesday night with painkillers, he was now more or less certain that the boy’s thumb was broken, that removed any lingering doubts I had about buying the African. The need for another keeper was now acute.

When eventually it was agreed that we should buy both of these players, I sent a text to Frank Carmona offering to pay something less than the transfer fee he’d mentioned, and a noticeably delighted Kojo, flicking his fly-whisk like it was his own tail, retreated to a remote corner of the boat to call Mandingo in Saint-Étienne with the good news that he probably had a new football club.

‘He looks happy,’ said Phil.

‘I should think he bloody is,’ I said. ‘Just think how much commission he’s going to charge that poor kid. Football, eh? It’s the only legal way left to buy a black man.’

Vik nodded vaguely which seemed to tell me something. I asked, ‘Did you decide to increase your share in his King Shark academy, Vik?’

‘As a matter of fact I’ve decided to buy the whole shooting match. From now on we’ll get first look on all the academy’s players.’

‘So this deal for Mandingo — effectively it means you’ll be paying commission to yourself.’

‘I suppose it does, yes.’

‘We’ve got some news for you, Scott. News you might find a little harder to accept, at least in the beginning. But you’ll get used to the idea. Vik?’

‘Kojo is going to be our new technical director,’ said Vik. ‘He’ll be making decisions regarding any new players.’

‘His decisions? Or your decisions?’

‘We’re lucky to get him,’ said Vik. ‘He knows players better than anyone. And besides, he comes as part of the King Shark package. In a sense we’re getting his services for nothing.’

‘In the future,’ added Phil, ‘you should take all your ideas for signing new players to Kojo.’

I bit my tongue; I wasn’t quite ready to talk myself out of a job.

‘Tell me,’ said Vik. ‘What progress have you made with this murder investigation? That’s why you were on Paros, isn’t it? To search Bekim’s house?’

Trying to overcome my irritation that Kojo was now doing something any manager might reasonably have expected to be doing himself, I nodded; but I still saw no reason to tell him about Svetlana.