Philip Kerr - False Nine

The kid nodded. ‘Yeah. I seen him once or twice. He was a good player when he was with Monaco. But since he joined PSG he seems to have lost his mojo.’

‘More importantly, did he ever see you?’

‘No. The fact is, I didn’t like to show him my skills.’

‘Why the hell not?’

‘Come on. You’ve met those guys in the club. That’s why. Like I told you, my mum told me to keep away from them because they’re into drugs and lots of bad stuff. I figured that probably included Jérôme Dumas. On account of the fact that they sold him drugs. I don’t take drugs. He used to come out of that club room down there with a spliff still in his mouth.’

‘A bit of weed and some blow.’ I shrugged. ‘It’s not the crime of the century. Even in football.’

‘Maybe so. But he also got a gun off them. And that’s not cool.’

‘Do you know that or did someone tell you?’

‘Someone told me. But I know it, too.’

‘How do you know it?’

‘Look, I’m here on this pitch a lot. Sometimes all day. I see things happening around here. I keep away from those guys and they leave me alone but in return I’m supposed to use this burner if the cops show up.’ He took out an old mobile telephone and showed it to me. ‘Not that they’d hear it ringing, given that their music is so loud.’

‘Yeah, I noticed.’

He shrugged. ‘You didn’t look like a cop.’

‘I’m not. I work in football. I used to manage a club in London, but right now I’m freelancing. Keep telling me about the gun.’

‘Only that Dumas wasn’t the first guy who came around here looking for a gun. And whenever those guys sell a gun they hand it over in a cream-coloured enamelware lunch box. To hide the fact that it’s a gun. But everyone around here knows what’s in those boxes. It isn’t some guy’s baguette. And I didn’t come all the way from the Lebanon to get shot here in Paris.’

‘Good point.’ I looked for my watch and then remembered where it was.

‘Want to go and get a cup of coffee?’

‘Sure.’

‘What’s your name, son?’

‘John Ben Zakkai.’

‘And by the way, what was the name of the guy who was shot here? The one you were talking about earlier?’

‘Mathieu Soulié.’

As soon as I was back the Plaza I called Mandel.

‘How good are your connections with the police?’ I asked.

‘Good.’

‘I need you to find out all you can about a murder that took place a few weeks ago. The victim was called Soulié, Mathieu Soulié.’

‘Might I ask why?’

‘It’s probably nothing.’

Then I changed my clothes and went out to lunch.

Paolo Gentile had flown in from Italy aboard his own private jet for our meeting at Arpège, which is possibly the best restaurant in France if you’re a vegetarian like he was. The French aren’t much given to vegetarianism but when they do it, it’s the best. A stone’s throw from Invalides, the place in the Rue de Varenne is nothing much to look at — certainly not from the outside — and there are few clues as to the eye-watering expense of the tasting menu which, at 365 euros a person, is a lot for a few bags of leeks and potatoes. But Gentile, a vegetarian who always ate there when he was in Paris, was an advert for his diet; in his handmade Brioni suits he looked more like a prosperous Geneva banker than someone who worked in football — although maybe a word like ‘work’ was stretching it. And he was less principled than he could have been. Anyway, he’d done well for someone who’d once owned a nightclub on the Via Valtellina in Milan.

He was returning to hibernation after a busy January buying and selling several household name players, including a couple of record winter break deals with clubs as far afield as Glasgow and Istanbul; Davey Conn’s move from Rangers to Chelsea for twenty million pounds was reported to be the biggest deal in the Glasgow club’s history, but the most lucrative deal struck by Gentile had been the sale of Lazio’s star striker, Carlos Amatriain, to Manchester City for forty-two million quid. It was small wonder he could afford to own a private jet.

As he sat down at the table he put both his phones on mute, and from time to time when each rang, he checked to see who was calling but I’m flattered to say he didn’t speak to any of them while he was lunching with me.

‘You know I should be skiing in Cortina with my family,’ he said. ‘Instead of which I’m here with you, Scott.’

‘You’re protecting your investment in the former PSG number nine. There may not have been a transfer fee for Jérôme Dumas, but there will be. Eventually. Provided I can find the stupid bastard. And of course until then you’re taking ten per cent of everything he makes, Paolo. Anyway, while I was waiting for you to turn up, I calculated that you earned more than ten million quid off your commission on transfer fees in January, so you can afford to delay your holiday a little.’

‘Tell me something. Are you still with that red-headed stronza ?’

‘If you mean Tempest O’Brien, then the answer is yes, she still represents me.’

‘In spite of her dropping you in it with the Chinese like that? You should get rid of her right now before she does you some real damage. If she’d exercised a bit of due diligence that would never have happened.’

‘And you’d know all about due diligence, you old crook.’

‘I’d never have let you go there on your own like that. To Shanghai? Fuck off. It’s the wild west out there, my friend. There’s no way you should ever have been in Shanghai. You should be with me, Scott. If you were you’d have a new club by now. I’m amazed you’re still out of work. A man with your talents, your languages, it’s a crime that you’re not managing a top team. Don’t forget there’s no transfer window for managers. I happen to know a top English club that’s desperate to drop their manager. I could find you a new job, just like that.’

He snapped his fingers, which only succeeded in summoning the waiter.

We ordered, quickly.

‘Let’s just stick to the matter in hand, shall we?’ I said after the waiter had gone. ‘Jérôme Dumas.’

‘How much are they paying you to find him?’

‘Enough.’

‘I’ll give you a fifty thousand euro cash bonus on top of whatever they’re paying you if you can find him. Save the boy from himself if needs be. Just get him back to Barcelona before the end of March. Will you do that for me?’

‘Of course. But that Qatari guy already offered me a finder’s fee if I can find the boy in time for him to play in el clásico .’

‘Oh, I’m not worried about the match. If he plays he plays. No, I own half the economic rights in that boy and I just negotiated a deal worth twenty million pounds for him to be the new global ambassador for the fashion house Cesare da Varano.’

‘Doesn’t you owning his economic rights contravene FIFA regulations on agents?’

‘But you’re not going to tell them, are you, Scott? You dislike those bastards at FIFA almost as much as I do. No, the people at da Varano want him to start on a new advertising campaign that can be ready for Milan Fashion Week in September. That boy’s going to be worth more off the pitch than he is on it. Especially since he started to become the mouthpiece of anti-capitalist agitation. Danny Cohn-Bendit in a Cesare da Varano suit. Russell Brand in a pair of football boots. That’s why he has to be found. I’ve got a lot of other deals in the pipeline. A big cosmetics company want to make a cologne with his name on it.’

‘Makes sense, I suppose. They did an Aramis, didn’t they? So why not Dumas.’