Hand of God (5 page)

We were flying to Paris to have lunch with Kojo Ironsi who, as well as being the agent and manager of Prometheus Adenuga, was the owner of the famous King Shark Football Academy in Accra, Ghana. Vik already owned a stake in King Shark, but Kojo – who was rumoured to be short of cash – was looking to sell him a bigger share and I was along to help City’s billionaire club-owner evaluate just how much the academy might be worth. Or at least that’s what I thought. I had player reports from an independent African-based coach, which I was supposed to bring into play if Vik decided that Kojo was asking too much.

All of the players who had come through the King Shark Academy – including Prometheus and several other big names – had a contractual relationship with KSA which meant that they and the football clubs who acquired them paid a percentage of their transfer fees and wages to KSA. Kojo claimed to be a philanthropist and that what he did was to the advantage of talented young Africans who might otherwise struggle to find opportunities to play for the top clubs, but from the outside it looked like these players were indentured to Kojo and KSA for the whole of their professional lives.

‘How much is too much to pay?’ I asked Vik somewhere over the English Channel.

‘Whatever he’s asking is too much,’ said Phil. ‘That’s a given here. It’ll be like trying to buy a carpet from a Moroccan snake.’

‘There are good players on that list, though,’ said Vik. ‘Wouldn’t you agree, Scott?’

‘Certainly. Several of the top Africans now playing in Europe seem to have come through KSA. At least that’s what Kojo claims.’

‘According to my lawyers all of those contracts are watertight,’ said Vik. ‘And you can’t argue with all of the juicy fees from top clubs that continue to be paid into KSA’s Swiss bank accounts. I already own a twenty-five per cent stake in KSA. My guess is he’ll want me to take more equity, up to forty-nine per cent of the company. For which I might be prepared to pay him ten million euros. Of course, he’ll ask twice that. Maybe more.’

‘Then it beats me why you need me along,’ I said.

‘I don’t want to wake up one morning and find myself accused of part-owning a company that’s trafficking in children. You might ask him about that.’

‘I can easily do that. I have quite a few doubts there myself.’

‘Assuming I’m satisfied and I do decide I want to buy an increased share, I’ll need you to help Kojo see sense, from the perspective of someone who knows players and their real value on the market. And one player in particular: our young friend Prometheus. We should use the boy’s on-going disciplinary problems as a stick with which to beat Kojo down. Understood?’

‘I think so. You want me to tell this guy that Prometheus has been disappointing, so far.’

‘Which is true,’ said Phil. ‘Frankly, he’s a pain in the arse. I’ve spent more time dealing with that stupid bloody car of his than I care to remember.’

Almost as soon as Prometheus had arrived in London he had spent four hundred grand on a Mercedes McLaren SLR, but there was just one problem, which the Met had quickly identified: the Nigerian didn’t actually have a driving licence. This hadn’t been a problem in Monaco where he only ever drove from one end of the mile-long principality to the other, and rarely faster than thirty miles per hour – frankly, it isn’t possible to go much faster than that in Monaco. But things were different in London. Prometheus was already facing losing a licence he didn’t yet have, and the confiscation of his car, which was something of a record at any London football club.

‘He’s a good player though,’ said Vik. ‘I’m sure Scott can get the best out of him.’

‘I wish I shared your confidence, Vik.’

‘How are things with him and Bekim?’ he asked.

‘Not much better than since we were in Russia. Prometheus has kept his mouth shut in training. But several times he’s re-tweeted some Catholic bishop of Nigeria who’s publicly thanked the country’s president, Goodluck Jonathan, for making a law against homosexuality. Which doesn’t help the situation.’

‘As long as Bekim doesn’t follow Prometheus on Twitter then I can’t see what the problem is,’ said Vik. ‘You can only be offended by someone tweeting something if you’re following them, right?’

‘The problem, Vik,’ said Phil, ‘is that whatever Prometheus re-tweets gets picked up by the tabloids. Which, like anyone else, Bekim does read. Not to mention Christoph Bündchen. And of course they haven’t forgotten what happened to the German boy in Brazil. The newspapers are trying to stir up trouble like they always do.’

‘
Is
he gay?’ Phil was asking me, but it was Vik who answered him.

‘Of course he’s gay,’ he said. ‘Not only that but he’s living with a man.’

‘To be fair,’ I said, ‘Harry Koenig is just a flatmate. A German player from QPR reserves that the liaison officer fixed up for Christoph to live with, so that he wouldn’t get lonely.’

‘Maybe so. But actually Harry is gay, too.’

‘How do you know that?’ I asked.

‘Because I had them drone-hacked.’

‘Drone-hacked? What’s that?’

‘I own a military drone company,’ said Vik, matter-of-factly. ‘The smallest ones are about the size of a pigeon. You just have a drone follow someone around, sit on their window ledge, record what you want. They can recharge themselves on telephone lines.’ Vik was unapologetic about this. ‘I’ve drone-hacked all our players. I’m not paying the kind of money I pay to our players without knowing everything about them I can. Relax, Scott, it’s not illegal.’

‘Well, if it isn’t, it sounds like it ought to be.’

I wondered if I’d been drone-hacked; it made phone-hacking sound very old-fashioned.

‘I’ve also had them all given psychiatric evaluations. Did you know that three of our players are psychopaths?’

‘Which ones?’ I asked.

‘That would be telling. Don’t look so shocked, gentlemen. Psychopaths can be useful, especially in sport. It doesn’t mean they’re going to kill someone.’ He chuckled. ‘At least not right away.’

I wondered if he was unconsciously referring to our helicopter pilot, who was circling our improbably small landing site like a bee considering the charms of an unusual yellow flower with an H-shaped stigma. I closed my eyes and waited for us to put down.

‘Cheer up, Scott,’ said Vik. ‘It might never happen.’

‘I sincerely hope not.’

A small fleet of black Range Rovers was waiting on the helipad to take us into the centre of the city. Twenty minutes later we were speeding up the Champs-Élysées. It all looked very different from the last time I’d been there in May 2013 when, as a guest of David Beckham, I’d visited Paris to see PSG’s win over Lyon, which secured them their first French title since 1994. The day after there had been a riot as the celebrations turned ugly and I’d hurried back to the George V Hotel to escape the sting of tear gas. Shops were looted, cars burnt out and passers-by threatened with violence, with thirty people injured, including three police officers. Whoever thinks English fans don’t know how to behave should have been there to see it. There’s nothing the French can learn from us when it comes to having a riot, which is probably why there are always so many police in Paris. Paris has more cops than Nazi Germany.

The restaurant was Taillevent, in rue Lamennais. It was a rather cool austere room of light oak and beige-painted walls, and catered to those who wouldn’t dream of spending anything less than one hundred and fifty euros on lunch. They greeted Vik as if he had climbed down from a golden elephant with a diamond on its forehead. Kojo Ironsi was already there as was Vik’s other guest, an American hedge fund manager called Cooper Lybrand.

I liked Kojo more than I expected to; I liked Cooper Lybrand not at all. Kojo talked about his boys and his clients. Cooper only talked about the chimps and muppets he’d taken advantage of in one business deal after another. But both of them were after the same thing: Vik’s cash.

Kojo was smartly dressed and politely spoken, with a well-deserved reputation for looking after his KSA clients. He had an easy laugh and hands as big as shovels; once a goalkeeper for Inter Milan and an African Footballer of the Year it was easy to see why players had confidence in him. It was said there was nothing he wouldn’t do for some of his bigger-name clients on the grounds that if they couldn’t play they couldn’t pay. Rumour was he’d once taken the rap for a very famous striker in the English Premier League who’d almost been caught in possession of cocaine.

It wasn’t long before he’d introduced the subject of the developing feud between Bekim Develi and his own client, Prometheus.

‘Why don’t you sort those two out?’ he asked Vik. ‘Speak to your friend, Bekim. They ought to shake hands and make up, don’t you agree? For the sake of the team.’

‘Certainly they should. But I leave that kind of thing to Scott here. He is the manager, after all.’

‘I should have thought the solution to the problem was obvious,’ said Kojo. ‘I mean how you can get them to shake hands.’

‘I’m glad you think so,’ I said. ‘Right now they just want to shake each other by the throat. But I welcome any suggestions you might have for how we might establish diplomatic relations.’

‘Easy. Sell Christoph Bündchen. Buy another striker.’

I smiled and shook my head. ‘I don’t think so, Mr Ironsi. Christoph is a very talented young footballer. One of our best players. With an extremely bright future.’

Kojo was a tall man with a bald head and an easy smile. He shrugged. ‘Well then, can
you
speak to Bekim Develi? Reason with him so that good sense can prevail.’

‘I’ll reason with Bekim if you can reason with Prometheus. To be honest with you, that’s not so easy. What’s more, the boy’s attitude to gay people is going to make him very unpopular with the media, if it hasn’t done so already. I think it would be best if he was to make some sort of statement expressing regret for any offence caused to the LGBT community.’

‘I agree,’ said Kojo. ‘I’ll call him this afternoon, before I fly to Russia. See what I can do.’

‘I’m very glad to hear it. If all that happens I’m sure I can get those two to shake hands.’

‘I’m glad that’s settled,’ said Kojo.

I wasn’t so sure it was but I was willing to give Kojo’s talents as a fixer the benefit of the doubt.

‘You’re going to Russia?’ asked Vik.

‘Yes. It’s possible that someone there might want to take a stake in King Shark, if you don’t.’

If Kojo thought this was a way of sharpening Vik’s interest, then Vik certainly didn’t show it.

‘If you’re going into partnership with Russians then you’d best be careful,’ was all the Ukrainian said. ‘Some of those redfellas are pretty tough customers.’

‘Not particularly ethical, eh?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Thanks for the tip. I certainly appreciate it.’

‘Since you mentioned ethics,’ said Vik, ‘Scott has got some reservations about the very existence of African football academies. Isn’t that right, Scott?’

I shrugged. ‘I suppose I do, really. I think we both know that there are many unlicensed football academies in Africa.’

‘In Accra alone there are at least five hundred such places,’ said Kojo, ‘most of them run by unscrupulous men with no experience of the game. Nearly all demand fees from the children’s parents who take them out of school to enable them to concentrate on football full time. The idea being that having a professional footballer in the family – at least one who plays in Europe – is the equivalent of winning the lottery. Some even sell their family homes in order to pay these fees. Or to pay for boys to come to Europe for a trial with a big club. Which of course never transpires. Yes, it’s very sad what happens.’

‘I don’t say that yours is one of these unlicensed academies,’ I said carefully. ‘But I do ask myself about the way KSA players are contractually tied to you for life.’

Kojo shook his head. ‘A certain amount of due diligence will satisfy you that the King Shark Academy is one of the best academies in Africa. The Confederation of African Football has described the KSA as a model for all football academies. We take no fees, and we offer a proper education alongside football, which is why we have almost a million applications a year from all over the continent for, perhaps, just twenty-five places. So we can afford to take only the most promising boys. But since we ask no fees it seems only fair that we should expect some return on our investment. And to be fair I don’t think you will hear complaints from anyone in the game today who is a product of KSA. Or for that matter any of the three or four academies like it. In fact, Manchester United has just bought a controlling stake in Fortune FC, one of our rival establishments in South Africa. Dutch clubs like Ajax and Feyenoord are looking to do the same in West Africa. The question is, can London City afford
not
to own a half share in King Shark? You know my price, Vik, and you know what the opportunity amounts to. The future of professional football is in Africa. Those boys are hungry for success. Hungrier than anyone in Europe. Almost by definition.’

Vik nodded. ‘Thank you for your candour, Kojo. And I’ll certainly think about what you’ve said. Listen, I’ve an idea. We have a Champions League match against Olympiacos in Piraeus on 19 August. Why don’t you and your wife come out to Greece as my guest? You can stay on
The Lady Ruslana
, in the harbour at Piraeus. I’ll give you my decision then.’

‘Thanks, I’d love to,’ said Kojo.

‘You, too, Cooper.’

‘Thanks, Vik,’ said Cooper. ‘I’d like that, too. I’ve never been to a soccer match.’

Kojo, Phil and I left Vik with Cooper Lybrand to discuss an investment in his hedge fund, which Vik’s company was considering. Like many of the people that Vik knew, Cooper was the sort of man I’d have been happy never to see again, especially since he had used the dread word: ‘soccer’. I love America. I even love Americans. But whenever they call football ‘soccer’ I want to kill them. And Cooper Lybrand was no exception to this rule.

I’d eaten far too much and I was glad to be outside.

It was a beautiful warm afternoon and Phil and I strolled up to the Champs-Élysées where he went into Louis Vuitton and bought a bag for his wife, or perhaps his girlfriend. With Phil you could never tell: he was as smooth as the Hermès silk handkerchief that was spilling out of his pocket.