Hand of God

by Philip Kerr

  ‘He was going to sign for Barcelona but I persuaded him to come to us instead,’ said Viktor. ‘He’s a little headstrong, but that’s only to be expected of a prodigious talent like his.’

  ‘Let’s hope he’s not such a handful when he comes to London.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t doubt Prometheus’ll need a good player liaison officer to advise him of what’s what and to keep him out of trouble. The boy’s agent, Kojo Ironsi, has a number of suggestions on that front.’

  ‘I think it’s best that the club appoints someone, not his agent. We want someone who’s going to be responsible to the club, not to the player; otherwise we’ll never be able to control him. I’ve seen this kind of thing before. Headstrong kids who think they know it all. Liaison officers who side with the players, who lie for them and cover up their shortcomings.’

  ‘You’re probably right, Scott. But it could be worse, you know... The boy’s English is actually quite good.’

  ‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve been reading his tweets ahead of Nigeria’s match in Group F with Argentina.’

  I wasn’t entirely in agreement with Viktor about this being a good thing; sometimes it’s actually better for the team if a player with a big ego can’t make himself easily understood. So far I’d resisted the temptation to bring up the fate of the mythological Prometheus. Punished by Zeus for the crime of stealing fire and giving it to men, he was chained to a rock where his liver was eaten daily by an eagle only to be regenerated at night because, of course, Prometheus was an immortal. What a fucking punishment.

  ‘Look, Viktor, since you’ve met him it might help if you could persuade the boy to stop tweeting about how talented he is. That will keep the British press off his back when he comes to England.’

  ‘What’s he said?’

  ‘Something about Lionel Messi. He said that when they meet on the football field it will be like Nadal versus Federer, but that he expects to come off best.’

  ‘That’s not so bad, is it?’

  ‘Vik. Messi has earned his chops. The man’s a phenomenon. Prometheus needs to learn a little humility if he’s going to survive life in England.’ I glanced at the TV. ‘Hang on. I think this is us now.’

  London City were drawn to meet the Greek side Olympiacos in Piraeus, for the away leg of the play-off round, towards the end of August. I gave Viktor the news.

  ‘I don’t know, is that good?’ asked Viktor. ‘Us against the Greeks?’

  ‘Yes, I think so, although of course it will be very hot in Piraeus.’

  ‘Are they a good team?’

  ‘I don’t really know much about them,’ I said. ‘Except that Fulham just bought their leading striker for twelve million.’

  ‘So that’s to our advantage then.’

  ‘I suppose it is. But I imagine I’ll have to go to Greece sometime soon and check them out. Compile a dossier.’

  Louise had kept quiet throughout my conversation with Viktor but when our Skype call was over, she said: ‘You’re on your own for that particular trip, I think, my darling. I’ve been to Athens. There was a general strike and the whole city was in turmoil. Riots on the streets, graffiti everywhere, the rubbish not collected, a vicious right-wing, Molotov cocktails in bookshops. I swore then I wasn’t ever going back.’

  ‘I think it used to be worse than it is now,’ I said. ‘From what I’ve read in the newspapers it seems to be a little better since the votes in the Greek parliament about the national debt.’

  ‘Hmm. I’m not convinced. Just remember, the Greeks have a word for it: chaos.’

  After the draw was over, Louise and I went to lunch with Bastian Hoehling, an old friend who manages the Berlin side, Hertha BSC. Hertha isn’t yet as successful a club as Dortmund and Bayern Munich, but it’s only a matter of time and money, of which there is plenty in Berlin. The recently renovated stadium was the venue for the 1936 Olympic Games. Seating seventy-five thousand, it is one of the most impressive in Europe. With people moving to Berlin all the time – especially young people – the club itself, recently promoted to the Bundesliga, is well supported. The English Premier League is without peer, and Spain may have the best two clubs in the world, but for anyone who knows anything about football the future looks decidedly German.

  We met Bastian and his wife, Jutta, in the ‘restaurant sphere’ at the top of the old TV tower, and when we we’d finished talking about the spectacular view of the city and surrounding Prussian countryside, the excellent weather we’d been enjoying, and the World Cup, the subject turned to the Champions League and City’s draw against Olympiacos.

  ‘You know, when the World Cup is over, Hertha has a preseason tour of Greece,’ said Bastian. ‘A match against Panathinaikos, Aris Thessaloniki and Olympiacos. The club owners thought it would be good for German–Greek relations. For a while back there, Germany was very unpopular in Greece. It was as if they blamed us for all their economic ills. Our tour is hopefully a way of reminding Greeks of the good things Germany has done for Greece. Hence the name of our peninsular competition: the Schliemann Cup. Heinrich Schliemann was the German who found the famous gold mask of Agamemnon, which you can see in the National Archaeological Museum, in Athens. One of our club sponsors is launching a new product in Greece and this competition will help to oil the wheels. A fakelaki, I think they’d call it. Or maybe a miza.’

  ‘I don’t think it can be fakelaki,’ said Louise, who spoke a little Greek. ‘That’s an envelope for a doctor to take care of a patient.’

  ‘Miza then,’ said Bastian. ‘Either way, it’s a means for Germany to help put some money into Greek football. Panathinaikos and Aris FC are both supporter-owned clubs, which is also something that Germans believe in strongly.’

  ‘You mean,’ said Louise, ‘that there are no Viktor Sokolnikovs and Roman Abramovich figures in German football?’

  Bastian smiled. ‘No. Nor any sheikhs either. We have German clubs, owned by Germans and run by Germans. You see, all German clubs are required to have at least fifty-one per cent of their shares owned by the supporters. Which helps to keep the price of tickets down.’

  ‘But doesn’t that mean less money to spend on new players?’ she asked.

  ‘German football believes in academies,’ said Bastian. ‘In developing youngsters, not buying the latest golden boy.’

  ‘And that’s why you do better in the World Cup,’ she said.

  ‘I think so. We prefer to invest money in our future, not in player agents. And all club managers are accountable to their members, not to the whims of some dodgy oligarch.’ He smiled. ‘Which means that in a year or two’s time, when Scott here has been fired by his current master, he’ll be managing a German club.’

  ‘I’ve no complaints.’

  This wasn’t exactly true, of course. I didn’t much care for the way Prometheus had been bought without any consultation with me, or, for that matter, Bekim Develi. That would certainly never have happened at a German football club.

  ‘You should come with us for the Olympiacos game, Scott. You could do your homework for the Champions League game as Hertha’s guest. We’d love to have you along. Who knows? We might even share a few ideas.’

  ‘That’s not a bad idea. Maybe I’ll do that. Just as soon as we’ve finished our own pre-season tour of Russia.’

  ‘Russia? Wow.’

  ‘We have matches against Lokomotiv Moscow, Zenit St Petersburg and Dynamo St Petersburg. It sounds odd, but I think I’ll only really start to relax when I have all of our team safely back from Rio.’

  ‘I know exactly how you feel, Scott. And it’s the same for me. Even so, I thought we were taking a risk going to Greece. But Russia? Christ.’

  I shrugged. ‘What can go wrong with the Russians?’

  ‘You mean apart from all the crazy racists who support the teams?’

  ‘I mean apart from all the crazy racists who support the teams.’

  ‘Look out that window. What you see down there used to be the communist GDR.’
He grinned. ‘We’re in East Berlin, Scott. This question you asked – what can go wrong with the Russians? – we used to ask ourselves this question every day. And every day we would come up with the same answer. Anything. Anything is possible with the Russians.’

  ‘I think it will be all right. Viktor Sokolnikov has arranged the tour. If he can’t ensure a trouble-free pre-season tour of Russia, then I don’t know who can.’

  ‘I hope you’re right. But Russia is not a democracy. It only pretends to be. The country is ruled by a dictator who was schooled in dictatorship and advanced by dictatorship. So just remember this: in a dictatorship anything can happen, and usually does.’

  Sometimes, with the benefit of hindsight, good advice can seem more like prophecy.

  2

  From the very beginning things went badly for us in Russia.

  First, there was the flight to St Petersburg aboard the team’s specially chartered Aeroflot jet which left London City airport after a three-hour wait on the stand without electricity, air conditioning and water. Soon after take-off the plane developed a serious fault, which had most of us thinking we might never walk alone again. It was like being aboard a fairground ride, but, in an Ilyushin IL96, it was nothing short of hell. We dropped through the air for several thousand feet before the pilots regained control of this Russian-made Portaloo with wings and announced that we were diverting to Oslo ‘to refuel’.

  As we made our descent to Oslo Airport the plane was shuddering like an old caravan and had every one of us thinking about the Busby babes and the Munich air disaster of 1958 when twenty of the forty-four passengers died. That’s what every football team thinks about whenever there’s a problem on a plane with bad weather or turbulence.

  Which makes you wonder why Aeroflot are the official air carrier sponsors of Manchester United.

  All of this prompted Denis Abayev, the team’s nutritionist, to try and lead everyone in prayer, which did little for the confidence of all but the most religiously minded that any of us were going to survive. Denis had a fistful of degrees in sports science and prior to joining City he’d advised the British team at the London Olympics while working for the English Institute of Sport, but he knew nothing about human psychology and he scared as many people as those to whom he brought comfort. After the longest twenty minutes of my life the plane landed safely to the sound of cheers and loud applause, and my heart started again; but as soon as we were in the terminal at Oslo Airport I took Denis aside and told him never to do something like that again.

  ‘You mean pray for everyone, boss?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘At least don’t do it out loud. Short of shouting “Allahu Akbar” and waving a Koran and a Stanley knife I can’t think of anything more likely to scare the shit out of people in a plane than you praying like that, Denis.’

  ‘Seriously, boss, I wouldn’t have done it unless they were already scared shitless,’ he said. ‘I’m afraid it just seemed like the right thing to do at the time.’

  Denis was a tall, thin, intense-looking man in his late twenties with longish hair and the beginnings of a beard or, perhaps, just the end of a near-futile attempt to grow one; if you’d dribbled some milk on his stubble the cat could have licked it off. He was dark, with eyes like mahogany and a nose you could have hooked a boat with. If Zlatan had a nerdy little brother then he was probably the image of Denis Abayev.

  ‘I understand that, Denis. But if you must pray, then please do it silently. I think you’ll find that the airlines don’t much like it when people start thinking that God can do what the pilot can usually manage on his own. In fact, I’m quite sure they don’t; and neither do I. Don’t do anything religious near my players again. Understood? Not unless we’re a goal down at the Nou Camp. Got that?’

  ‘But it was the hand of God that saved us, boss. Surely you can see that.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ Bekim Develi, who was standing behind us, had overheard Denis.

  ‘It was the will of Allah,’ insisted Denis.

  ‘What?’ exclaimed Bekim. ‘I don’t believe it. He’s a fucking jihadi. A pie-head.’

  ‘Bekim,’ I said. ‘Shut the fuck up.’

  But the Russian was still pumped full of adrenalin after our narrow escape – I know I was; he pushed past me and jabbed a forefinger on Denis’s shoulder.

  ‘Listen, friend,’ he said, ‘by the same token it was the will of your Allah that put us in fear of our lives in the first place. That’s the trouble with you people; you’re quite happy for your friend Allah to take the credit when things go right, but you don’t seem to want to blame him for anything when things go wrong.’

  ‘Please don’t blaspheme like that,’ Denis said quietly. ‘And I’m not a jihadi. But I am a Muslim. So what?’

  ‘I thought you were English,’ said Bekim. ‘Denis. What kind of name is that for a pie-head?’

  ‘I am English,’ Denis explained patiently. ‘But my parents are from the Republic of Ingushetia.’

  ‘Shit, that’s all we need,’ said Bekim. ‘He’s an arabskiy – a fucking LKN.’

  I later learned that an LKN was an abbreviation and one of the derogatory terms that Russians used to describe anyone from their southern and probably Muslim republics. ‘Shut up, Bekim,’ I said.

  ‘You know, being a Muslim doesn’t make me a terrorist,’ said Denis.

  ‘That’s a matter of opinion. Listen, friend, I tell you now. I know you’re the team nutritionist. But don’t ever give me any of your halal meat. I love all animals. I don’t want to eat any animal that had its throat cut in the name of God. Fuck that. I only want meat from a humanely killed animal, okay?’

  ‘Why would I do that? I’m not a bloody fanatic.’

  ‘That’s what you say now. But it was your lot who killed all those kids in Beslan.’

  ‘Those were Ossetians,’ said Denis.

  ‘Fuck that.’

  ‘That’s enough, Bekim,’ I said. ‘If you say another fucking word I’ll send you back to London.’

  ‘You think I still want to go anywhere after that fucking flight?’ Bekim placed a big hand on his own chest and shook his head. ‘Jesus, I may never get on a plane again, boss. I used to think Denis Bergkamp was a pussy because he wouldn’t fly. Now I’m not so sure.’

  I’d never believed very much in fining players; you have to do it, sometimes, but it always feels a bit wet, like you’re stopping a boy’s pocket money. It’s always better to work on the assumption that they want to play and to be part of the team and that if they don’t behave and treat other people with respect, you’ll take that away. Sending a man home from a training session or a match is usually a more effective punishment of last resort. That and the threat of a punch in the mouth.

  I took a firm hold of the Russian’s shoulders and looked him in the eye. He was a big man, with a red beard like a shovel, and a temper to match, which was why he was nicknamed the red devil. I’d seen him nut players in the mouth for doing less than I was doing now; but then I was quite prepared to nut him back.

  ‘Just cool it, will you?’ I said. ‘You’re still up in the air with my fucking stomach. You need to shut your mouth and calm down, Bekim. We’ve all had a very frightening experience and none of us is thinking straight yet. But you know something? I’m glad we went through that. It’s only shit like this that makes us stronger, as a team. That means you, that means me and it means him. Yes, Denis, too. You understand me, Bekim?’

  Bekim nodded.

  ‘Now, I think you owe this man an apology.’

  Bekim nodded again and, looking a little tearful, perhaps as he recognised what he had come close to losing, he shook hands with Denis and embraced him; and then, still holding Denis in his arms, the big man started to cry.

  Feeling pretty satisfied with this outcome I left them to it.

  3

  Prometheus joined the team in St Petersburg. He was a tall, muscular boy with a big smile, a shaven head, a nose as long and wide as a Zulu’s
shield and more diamond studs in his ears than the Queen of Sheba. He dressed like a star of gangsta rap and seemed to own more baseball caps than Babe Ruth – not an uncommon look among the lads at London City. But unlike some of our other players he showed no signs of fatigue after his World Cup; he worked hard in training, did exactly what he was told and behaved himself impeccably. He even stopped tweeting; and when he called me sir I almost forgot about my earlier reservations concerning his attitude to discipline. Besides, after the first match, I had a more pressing matter to worry about.

  Dynamo St Petersburg are a relatively new team and the creation of its co-owners, Semion Mikhailov and Pushkin Kompaniya, a Russian energy giant that does everything from manufacturing huge power turbines to exporting oil and gas and, very probably, large quantities of cash. The Nyenskans Stadium, on the banks of the Neva River, is close to the Lakhta Center, the tallest skyscraper in Europe. It has a capacity of fifty thousand which, until Dynamo’s older rivals, Zenit’s, new stadium is finished, makes it the largest in the city. All of which makes St Petersburg sound sophisticated and modern. In reality, the roads are badly potholed, the people shockingly threadbare and all but the best hotels – of which there are perhaps three or four – are verminous.

  No less verminous are a hard core of football hooligans who carry Nazi flags, give Hitler salutes, throw bananas at black players and generally cause mayhem whenever and wherever they can. Since Bekim Develi had left Dynamo St Petersburg in difficult circumstances just six months earlier I’d taken the decision not to play him in this, our first match, for fear that his presence would inflame the home fans. Plus, I figured his adductor muscles probably needed a few more days’ rest. But I hardly wanted to rest our black players; that would have been giving in to intimidation, which is just what these racist bastards want. Perhaps because it was supposed to be a friendly match there were fewer monkey chants than usual and, at my request, our black players, of whom there are several, refused to be provoked. Predictably a banana was thrown onto the pitch but Gary Ferguson picked it up and ate it, which, if you’ve seen the condition of most fresh fruit in Russia, was brave.