The Ugly Game: The Qatari Plot to Buy the World Cup

by Heidi Blake

  At last, the FIFA president appeared at the side of the auditorium and crossed the floor, wearing a jet-black suit, a chrome-coloured tie and a theatrically sombre expression. Blatter squared himself with both hands on the podium and told the journalists he wanted to address them alone, like this, and not as he usually did from a dais flanked by his officials. He began with the sorrowful tone of a father whose children have strayed.

  ‘I regret what has happened. In the last few days and weeks, great damage to the image of FIFA but especially also a lot of disappointment to football fans,’ he said. But a new dawn beckoned. The scandals of the past were behind; the FIFA family was ready to reunite and sally forth to the sunlit uplands of another four years under his leadership. ‘What we have to do is in the congress to get a unity in solidarity and to look forward for the next four years. Will not be an easy task, but together we can do it . . . We go together for the good of the game, and . . . for the fans of football and for the perception of the game in our society.’

  Eventually, Blatter turned to the matter of the moment. The allegations The Sunday Times had sent to the House of Commons about Qatar buying World Cup votes. The journalists’ pens were poised above their pads, ready for the big announcement – but Blatter’s words confounded them all. ‘We were happy . . . that we have not received any evidence whatsoever from The Sunday Times or from any announced whistleblower with regards to allegations made,’ he said. ‘Therefore, what shall we do?’ The president paused for emphasis, scanning the room with an indomitable stare. ‘Nothing,’ he said, with a clench of the jaw. ‘The World Cup 2022 is not touched by that.’

  Even for Blatter, this was a breath-taking piece of duplicity. The evidence The Sunday Times had sent to the House of Commons came from the package of undercover tapes which FIFA had been sitting on since last October. The newspaper had put its whistleblower in touch with FIFA, and she had been ready to testify on the basis of conditions of anonymity and legal protection, which the organisation was in the middle of negotiating. Now, Blatter was dismissing her evidence out of hand and extinguishing any possibility of a proper investigation into the allegations that Qatar had rigged the ballot with massive bribes.

  ‘I believe that the decision taken for the World Cup in 2022 was done exactly in the same pattern and in the same way as the 2018 tournament,’ he told the press conference. ‘There was no problem for FIFA or the Exco to act in this direction. I say, as I said in the beginning, there is no issue for the 2022 World Cup.’ There was bewilderment among the assembled journalists. Only a week ago, Blatter had been talking about a re-vote. Now, suddenly, he was telling them the tournament in Qatar was set in stone. What had changed?

  The FIFA president had maintained his studied tone of sombre dignity thus far, but when the time came for the journalists to ask questions the mask quickly slipped. Confronted with the suggestion that FIFA was in the grip of a crisis, Blatter scowled and snapped off his translation headset.

  ‘Crisis? What is a crisis?’ He waved his hand irately. ‘If somebody of you would describe to me what is a crisis then I would answer. Football is not in a crisis . . . We are not in a crisis, we are only in some difficulties,’ he said, adding firmly: ‘These difficulties will be solved inside our family.’

  Next Tariq Panja from Bloomberg wanted to hear Blatter’s thoughts on Valcke’s email, which ‘seems to allege that Qatar bought the World Cup’. Did the president think his secretary general’s comments were appropriate? Blatter stonewalled him.

  ‘I do not answer this question.’ There was a cacophony at the back of the hall. Matt Scott from the Guardian had become enraged.

  ‘You must answer that question!’ he was shouting repeatedly. ‘You are the person who is responsible!’ Scott was quickly silenced by a spin doctor, but Blatter bit back. He raised his arm and wagged his finger censoriously.

  ‘Listen gentlemen. I accepted to have a press conference with you alone here. I respect you. Please respect me, and please respect the procedure of the press conference . . . Don’t intervene. We are not in a bazaar here, we are in FIFA house and we are in front of a very important congress, so please.’

  The president’s answers became increasingly fevered. ‘There are devils in the world but we have to fight against these devils,’ he frothed. The ‘survival of FIFA is at stake’. Without him at the helm, the organisation would suffer ‘irreversible damage’, and even ‘disappear into a black hole’.

  Another journalist at the back began shouting that Blatter had refused to answer important questions about corruption in FIFA and the world deserved answers. The spin doctor ordered silence, but again Blatter barked retorts into his microphone, drowning out the unamplified journalist who was still thundering at the back.

  ‘I have asked for respect. I have only asked for respect, nothing more. I have been respectful to you,’ he snarled.

  ‘Have the respect to answer questions! You do not answer questions!’ the journalist shouted. The spin doctor ordered silence and passed the microphone to another member of the pack. But he had chosen badly.

  ‘This is a press conference and I thought it was for asking questions,’ the new inquisitor said. ‘There are so many more people here who want to ask questions, and it’s not about respect!’

  ‘I have answered the questions, and now I thank you for attendance,’ said Blatter, snatching up his black leather folder and preparing to leave the podium.

  ‘But you have said this is about ethics . . .’

  ‘Thank you,’ Blatter said emphatically, turning to go.

  ‘. . . and this is about FIFA . . .’ The reporter’s microphone was shut off, but he carried on almost inaudibly: ‘Warner has come up with new allegations . . .’ Blatter had left the podium and taken a few steps towards the door, but he turned back and grabbed the microphone.

  ‘Listen, listen,’ he hissed. ‘I will not go into discussions individually with people – they like to create problems.’ Gripping the top of his upturned folder, he balanced on the podium and hunched forwards with his eyes narrowed. ‘I just want to tell you one thing,’ he said, but one of the reporters close to the front was now emitting a loud, hollow laugh. Blatter shot him a piercing stare. ‘Yeah, you can laugh,’ he spat, with a dismissive flick of the wrist. ‘That’s also an attitude. Elegance is also an attitude! Respect is also an attitude!’ He jabbed his hand angrily between clauses. ‘Yeah, sure. I think that something I have learned in my life . . . when I was in a press conference and it was said it was finished, then I said, thank you.’ He spun sideways and bolted towards the door. There was a smattering of sarcastic applause.

  The press conference had been a PR disaster, but Blatter didn’t much care about that sort of thing. The world’s media could think what they liked – the fact was he was adored by the children of the FIFA family and with Bin Hammam gone they would re-elect him unopposed in two days’ time, come what may. That little bun-fight at the end notwithstanding, he had delivered the main message he needed to get across. The World Cup was staying in Qatar, and that was final.

  Bin Hammam was already heading home to Doha, but Blatter’s remarks gave him cause for relief when they reached him. At least that part of the deal had been honoured, he thought. At least the Qatar World Cup was in the clear.

  The disgraced Qatari football boss had demanded that the ethics committee provide him with its reasoned decision in time for him to lodge an appeal ahead of the FIFA congress. Their failure to do so meant he was barred from entry, and there was therefore no point remaining in Zurich. Before he took off, he released a statement vowing to clear his name. ‘I am very sad and disappointed over what has happened in the last days. I will never accept how my name and my reputation have been damaged. I will fight for my rights. I thank all the people who have supported me during the last weeks and will support me further. Good days bring you happiness, bad days bring you experience.’

  The presidential election went ahead at the congress on 1 June. It was
a cool, drizzly morning in Zurich. Blatter stood up and opened the day’s proceedings with his customary platitudes about unity in the FIFA ‘family’. There was a faint nod to the choppy waters buffeting the organisation from all sides. ‘The FIFA ship must be brought back on the right route,’ he said. ‘And I am the captain. And I can only do it with your help.’

  Jérôme Valcke appeared next, to take a roll call of member associations from Afghanistan through to Zimbabwe. After ten minutes of anaesthetic tedium, he announced that ‘The two hundred and eight member associations are all present, Mr President,’ and the room filled with relieved applause.

  A brief upset followed. David Bernstein, the chairman of the English Football Association, took the stage and made a short but assertive speech calling for a delay in the FIFA presidential election. ‘A lot of people have warned me I shouldn’t be making this speech,’ he began, ‘but FIFA is a democratic organisation.’ Or, at least, it should be. ‘The election has turned into a one-horse race. Only with a contested election will the winner have . . . a proper, credible mandate. We are faced by an unsatisfactory situation and universal criticism from governments, sponsors, media and public.’ Such impudence was simply not to be borne in the FIFA family. Bernstein could not have anticipated the savagery of the lashing his daring remarks would provoke.

  His speech was followed by a series of endorsements for Blatter and a barrage of attacks on Bernstein. A delegate from Haiti stood first to deliver a sugary five-minute ode to Blatter. Next came the head of the Congo FA, who praised Blatter and lashed out at the English. ‘He who accuses must provide evidence . . . A single candidate sometimes proves that people are satisfied with that candidate,’ he bellowed, to loud applause from the floor. The delegate from Benin declared: ‘We must be proud to belong to FIFA. We must massively express our support to President Blatter. Please applaud!’ and the hall erupted. An official from Cyprus was the next to stick his studs into Bernstein. ‘Allegations – what a beautiful English word,’ he scoffed. ‘Someone stands up says a few things . . . without a single shred of truth.’ At the end of the verbal stoning of England’s now cowering FA chairman, a vote was taken on his proposal to postpone FIFA’s presidential election. It was torpedoed with 172 votes to 17.

  Satisfied at seeing an opponent so comprehensively crushed, Blatter climbed back onto the stage to offer some more pearls of wisdom from the bridge of the FIFA ship. ‘I personally have had to face the public’s anger,’ he said. ‘But I am the captain weathering the storm!’ The nautical metaphors came thick and fast. ‘This has been a difficult period in FIFA’s history, and I have admitted it readily. Not only is our pyramid shaking but our ship has taken water.’ The solution was another four years of Blatter’s presidency. ‘This is the reason why we must put the ship back on course. We need a leader, someone who will accept his responsibility,’ he said.

  The president went onto unveil his heavily trailed programme of ‘radical’ reforms. He proposed that future World Cup hosts should be selected by FIFA’s full congress of 208 people, and not by the executive committee alone. He promised to make the ethics committee more professional and independent, with the catch that its members should be elected by the congress. Another committee would be established to examine FIFA’s corporate governance. ‘Football belongs to everyone and we are in charge,’ he shrilled. ‘I have found my voice again. If you agree with me, say it!’ The delegates applauded long and hard.

  It had been a while since anyone insulted the English, and Julio Grondona wanted to put that right. ‘We always have attacks from England which are mostly lies with the support of journalism which is more busy lying than telling the truth,’ Argentina’s executive committee member declared. ‘This upsets and disturbs the FIFA family.’ He went on: ‘It looks like England is always complaining, so please I say will you leave the FIFA family alone, and when you speak, speak with truth.’

  The day before, Grondona had given an interview to a press agency in which he called the English ‘pirates’ and added: ‘Yes, I voted for Qatar, because a vote for the US would be like a vote for England. And that is not possible.’ He revealed what the price of his vote for England would have been. ‘With the English bid I said: “Let us be brief. If you give back the Falkland Islands, which belong to us, you will get my vote.” They then became sad and left.’

  When Grondona had finished ranting, Valcke stepped up to announce it was time to adjourn to lunch. As soon as the delegates returned, the Spanish Exco member Ángel María Villar Llona was on his feet decrying FIFA’s critics and praising Blatter amid thundering applause. ‘The problem of some comments in the paper came from some people who may have lost in the World Cup elections . . . They associated us with crimes we have not committed, they insult, they attack our freedom. It’s enough!’ he declaimed. ‘Let’s talk about the main issues . . . for the last twelve years this gentleman,’ – he gestured towards Blatter – ‘has done them. He is a great president and I respect him.’ The Spaniard poured scorn on the notion of any independent investigation into the corruption allegations surrounding the ‘the football family’. ‘You are fathers,’ he said to the delegates. ‘Would you let people from the outside into your family to sort out problems?’

  Now, at long last, it was time for Blatter’s re-election. The president was applauded when he announced graciously that he would leave the room while the votes were cast. After all, this was a democracy, and it was a secret ballot. Before he left, Blatter offered a last piece of advice to the voters on how to make up their minds. ‘It is a question of trust and confidence,’ he counselled.

  Each delegate was invited to go to a booth one at a time and submit his secret vote. The results were due in ten minutes. At the end, the announcement came that 203 ballot papers had been deposited in the urns and five officials began solemnly sorting through them. The result was recorded and passed to Julio Grondona, who stood to announce the winner. Blatter was re-elected with 186 of the 203 votes cast. Victory music filled the hall and the president returned to the arena clutching a bouquet of flowers and blowing kisses.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen . . . I thank you for your trust. I thank you from the bottom of my heart,’ he said. ‘And together we will have four years, provided the Lord gives me life, the energy and the strength to continue on our path and to do our job. I’m happy that we were able to bring today into FIFA this solidarity, this unity, that enables us, with sufficient courage and a positive standpoint, to move forward . . . We are going to put FIFA’s ship back on the right course, in clear, transparent waters. We will need some time, we cannot do it from one day to the next, but our pyramid is intact because the foundation is solid, just as solid as our game. I would simply like to tell you that I am touched and honoured and I thank you. But at the same time this is a challenge for me, and I accept it. Let’s go together. Something marvellous has happened today.’

  Chapter Twenty

  I Have Seen the Ugly

  Face of Football

  Precisely six months had passed since Mohamed bin Hammam’s great triumph amid the snow fields of Zurich and his circumstances could not have been more changed. Everybody had wanted to be his friend in those months after Qatar’s improbable victory when he bestrode the football world like a colossus, jetting from handshake to handshake in the four corners of the earth as his whirlwind presidential campaign had gathered momentum.

  And now this. Bin Hammam had never been a man to lounge around his home, but here he was in Doha, excluded from the theatre of intrigue and politics in Switzerland where he belonged. He should have been there at the FIFA congress challenging Sepp Blatter to a proper contest – instead of watching him being crowned unopposed on the television. It had been a nauseating spectacle. Now he was languishing in Qatar wondering how to fill his afternoon with the temperatures reaching over 40°C, as they had done fairly consistently since the beginning of May. It was, of course, a reminder to Bin Hammam that this was the time of year that the World Cup wou
ld be played. Despite his new lowered personal circumstances, he had to keep his eye on the main prize for the sake of his country.

  Something had to be done about Jack Warner. His ‘only brother in football’ was an ally when times were good, but Warner was clearly out to save his own skin and his method of doing it was by flaying others. Bin Hammam had been furious when Warner had released the Jérôme Valcke email speculating that his countrymen had bought the right to host the World Cup. That had been unforgivable and no way to repay a friend. Now the whole of FIFA was trembling at the possibility that Warner might unleash the ‘tsunami’ of scandal he had threatened, whatever it might be.

  There were plenty of skeletons lying beneath the FIFA hilltop and the man from Trinidad was someone who knew exactly where most of them were buried, having spent the last three decades grubbing around in the dirtiest corners of football administration. Warner had been close at hand throughout Bin Hammam’s World Cup campaign and was privy to many secrets – not least the payments into his own account from the billionaire’s slush funds. He had to be silenced. The best way to do that was to give him what he wanted, and Jack only ever wanted one thing. Money.

  This one had to be a big payment. On 8 June, a week after Warner had threatened the tsunami, a message pinged on Najeeb Chirakal’s smartphone: ‘Could you please let Mr bin Hammam know that I am trying to contact him with an urgent message. I believe he has my number.’ It was from a kindly, bespectacled middle-aged woman called Joanne Mora, who acted as Warner’s assistant and described herself as the ‘chief administration officer’ in the football official’s group of private companies. It was clearly an important call. Mora had been up at 5am to send the email Chirakal.