Philip Kerr - Hand of God

Vik looked pained for a moment. ‘It’s one thing stealing his pens,’ he said. ‘But that’s not what why Bekim died. As you said yourself on Sunday night, someone tainted his food with chickpeas. Perhaps as little as a couple of grams of the stuff. I can’t see how Kojo could have done that. On the day of the match Kojo was with Phil and me all day. Plus we have a team nutritionist. Everyone was very careful about what they ate before the match. On your own instructions.’

‘Yes, I didn’t understand that part myself. Until tonight, when I was in the tunnel before the match and I saw Mrs Boerescu. It turns out that she’s employed by Olympiacos to look after the kids before the match. You know? The ones who walk onto the pitch with the teams. I spoke to her just now. Nice woman. According to her it was Kojo who paid for the tea tonight. And who generously paid for the tea last week — on the night Bekim Develi died. Normally those kids don’t have any tea. On account of how everyone in Greece is short of money. But Kojo thought that was too bad and decided to take on the cost himself.’

Kojo was silent now. Painfully, he picked himself off the floor and sat down on a chair. He looked at me with tired, bloodshot eyes, and then dropped them again like I was on the way to the truth.

‘But he didn’t just pay for it. He actually provided it. Again, according to Mrs Boerescu, he phoned up a restaurant in Piraeus and ordered the food personally. Wasn’t that kind of him? Apparently he’s even thanked for his generosity in the match programme. In Greek, of course, so none of us would have noticed it. And nothing fancy, you understand. Just the sort of stuff all Greek kids like. Lots of fizzy drink, of course, but with just one dish on the menu: crisps and pitta bread and hummus . That’s right, hummus. It’s made of chickpeas. So that when the kids joined our lads in the players’ tunnel their hands were sticky with the stuff. I ask you: getting children to effectively poison a guy, how cynical is that? And when he scored a goal in the first five minutes of the game — that one all-important away goal — Bekim celebrated in the way he’d started doing only very recently: he sucked his thumb. In celebration of the birth of his baby boy, Peter. But even if he hadn’t sucked his thumb just touching his mouth and his nose would have caused him to go into hypoallergenic shock. How am I doing, Kojo? Does any of this ring a bell?’

‘Is this true, Kojo?’ asked Vik.

Kojo said nothing.

‘Maybe I should ring some more bells for you?’ I kicked him hard on the thigh. ‘How about it, Kojo?’

‘All right, all right,’ he yelled. ‘Take it easy, will you? Look, nobody intended the guy to die. It was an accident. It certainly wasn’t murder, like Scott says it was. Bekim Develi was only supposed to be unable to continue the game. If he hadn’t sucked his thumb, if this country wasn’t in such a shit state he would still be alive, and none the worse for wear. And that stupid girl wasn’t told to steal all his pens; just one. So I could verify that Semion was right about Bekim’s allergy. But even if she did steal them all it’s not like he could have taken any of those pens onto the pitch, is it? Taking the pens was just us making sure of the facts regarding his condition. Drowning herself — that was a complete overreaction. No one could have foreseen such a thing. But for that you’d all have been back in London and Bekim’s death would have been just another footballing tragedy. Another Fabrice Muamba.’

‘Except that Muamba’s still alive,’ I said.

‘Is that it?’ asked Vik.

I shrugged. ‘Jesus, what else would you like?’

Vik took a deep breath, drained his glass and went to the window of the box where he took a money clip out of his pocket. I’d seen it before and for a moment I thought he was going to pay someone off. Instead he slipped it off the wad of notes he was carrying and began to rub the piece of gold in his fingers.

‘I don’t have many friends,’ he said quietly. ‘When you’re as rich as I am friendship is something that always comes with its cap in its hand, head bowed, touching its forelock, soliciting a loan or a favour or a business deal. But Bekim Develi was my true friend, and from way back — Scott’s right about that. He never wanted anything. In fact, he was the only guy who never let me pay for anything; who even bought me presents. It was Bekim bought me this money clip. I don’t know how he got hold of this little object. It’s eighteen carat gold, Cartier, and it was a gift from President Nixon to Leonid Brezhnev in 1973 when the two leaders met in Washington. Bekim knew I loved little things like this one, objects with history in their DNA.

‘He was very thoughtful in that way. He really seemed to like me for myself, you know? That’s a rare thing for me, gentlemen. Unheard of today. And it really upsets me to hear that this is how he died and why. Not to mention what’s happened to Alex as a result. Semion Mikhailov, I can deal with that bastard in my own way. The question is, what are we going to do about you, Kojo?’

‘We hand this cunt over to the police, that’s what we’re going to do about it,’ I said. ‘It’s true, most of the evidence is must-haves, could-haves and probablies; but with his confession in front of three witnesses I don’t doubt for a minute that I can make a pretty convincing case to that copper when next I see him.’

‘I’m sure you can,’ said Kojo. ‘But the minute you do that, of course, I’ll have my lawyer release a very detailed statement about the plans Vik and that guy Gustav Haak have put into motion in this country. You think I won’t do it, Vik? Oh, I will. I can promise you that.’

Vik said nothing; he exchanged a look with Phil and then let out a sigh.

‘But let me explain what they would prefer you not to know, Scott,’ said Kojo. ‘Let me tell you about the Erytheian Islands. Your boss and Gustav Haak, they just bought a chain of islands from the Greek government, for one euro. Those were the Greek guys on the boat the other night. I know that one euro doesn’t sound like a lot of money and it isn’t, but you see Haak and Sokolnikov represent a group of international investors who already own the whole country. Quite literally. They’ve been buying up Greek sovereign national debt since 2012 and they own most of it which means they do own the country, in all but name. If they dumped all their bonds now Greece would go down the toilet. So the Greek government are just going to do what they’re told out of fear that Vik and his friends flush this country away. And what they’ve been told is this: that the Erytheian Islands, somewhere just north of Corfu, are going to be run as a tax-free zone for your boss and his friends. Eventually it will be like a Greek version of Monaco, I suppose. These things are all the rage these days. In China they call this a Freeport. In Cuba it’s a Special Economic Zone. Imagine it, Scott. You’re worth twelve billion quid, like Vik. Or twenty billion, like Haak; and you don’t pay any tax, anywhere at all. Wouldn’t that be nice? Not only that but if they have their way no one will ever know a damn thing about it until it’s all up and running. Except you and me, of course. We’ll know about it.’

Vik said nothing.

Outside there was a roar as the match ended; Panathinaikos fans were cheering the humiliation of their hated rivals. There was another very loud explosion, the sound of several air horns and in the distance a police siren. Phil glanced anxiously out of the window as something bounced off it.

‘It would seem that London City just qualified for the next round,’ he said.

That hardly seemed important now; at least not to me; not any more.