Philip Kerr 2 страница

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.

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.

The trouble, when it came, was from an unexpected quarter.

Dynamo defended well and they had one player, a centre back named Andre Sholokhov, who I made a note of for the future, but the star of the match was our own twenty‑ four‑ year‑ old Arab Israeli left‑ winger, Soltani Boumediene, who had started his career at Haifa and, like Denis Abayev, was a Muslim, albeit a fairly relaxed and secular one.

Soltani’s goal, the only goal of the match, was scored just before the last minute, a brilliant swerving, dipping free kick from an almost impossible angle and something I’d seen him try in training but rarely pull off. It was what happened next that caused all the problems. Soltani ran towards the television camera and gave a four‑ finger salute in celebration that meant nothing to me or to almost anyone else in the stadium and, at the time, passed without incident. It was only when we came off the pitch at full time that the situation grew unpleasant.

We were in the players’ tunnel on our way to the team dressing room when several members of the local OMON anti‑ riot police arrested Soltani and bundled him roughly into a police van. Volodya, our diminutive Russian minder, spoke to one of the policemen and was informed that the four‑ finger salute Soltani had made on camera was what was called a ‘4Rabia’ – the symbol of those supporting deposed Egyptian President Mohammed Morsi and the Muslim Brotherhood, which is a banned organisation in Russia. Volodya also told us that the police had orders to take Soltani back to the Angleterre Hotel – where we were staying – to collect his things, and then drive him straight to Pulkovo International Airport from where he was to be deported immediately.

Viktor accompanied us back to the hotel and spent the next thirty minutes on the telephone to the Colonel General of Police at the Ministry of Internal Affairs in Moscow while the team waited in the lobby. The Muslim Brotherhood, so the Colonel General claimed, had approved of previous Chechen Muslim attacks in Russia, although it later transpired there was no real evidence to support this allegation. But it couldn’t be denied that Soltani’s Twitter account listed the following tweet: Standing in love and soldierly Islamic brotherhood with friends and family in Tahrir Square #R4BIA and #Anticoup. All of which meant that Vik’s conversation with the Colonel General was to no avail and the deportation would go ahead as ordered.

As soon as we heard the news, the players and staff gathered outside the front of the hotel and watched as, handcuffed, Soltani Boumediene was driven away to the airport. No one said anything very much but the mood was subdued and several of the players told me they were in favour of us all following Soltani back to London on the next available plane. In view of what happened next, it might have been better if we had.

The press had got hold of the story by now and by some fluke this included BBC World, which hadn’t had a scoop in two decades. Somehow they managed to persuade Bekim Develi to be interviewed about what had happened and Bekim proceeded to give the lucky reporter an even bigger story than the one he thought he was reporting.

Bekim was the only Russian in our team and took what had happened to Soltani very personally:

‘As a Russian citizen, ’ he said, ‘I feel deeply ashamed by what’s happened here at the Nyenskans Stadium this afternoon. Soltani Boumediene is a friend of mine and has nothing to do with the Muslim Brotherhood. He does not support terrorism. He is one of the most democratically minded players I’ve ever met. How else could he have played for an Israeli football team for as long as he did? The Israelis never found cause to deport the man when he was with Haifa FC. But the Russian authorities think they know better than the Israelis. Of course this is merely typical of modern life in Russia: no one has rights and people can be arrested without trial as a result of a single phone call. And why does this happen? Because of one man who is above the law, who does what he likes, and who is accountable to no one. Everyone knows who this man is. He is Vladimir Putin, the President of Russia. He is of course just a man but I for one am fed up of Vladimir Putin behaving like he is the tsar or perhaps God himself. ’

Bekim also announced that he was joining the Other Russia, an umbrella coalition of Putin’s political opponents. He even suggested that Dynamo St Petersburg was affiliated with the Russian FSB – the secret police – just as Dynamo Moscow had once been a front for the old KGB.

‘There are secret people in St Petersburg, ’ he told the BBC, ‘members of the FSB who are in bed with certain businessmen who need to make their dirty money as clean as possible. A football club is a very useful way of laundering dirty money, which may of course be why these crooks started Dynamo St Petersburg in the first place. To wash their ill‑ gotten gains. Money that has been embezzled and stolen from the Russian people. ’

All of which left Vik having to make several more calls in order to try to prevent Bekim Develi being arrested, too.

In Moscow – the next leg of our tour – things went from bad to worse. And this time neither racists nor Russia’s autocratic president had anything to do with it.

By now it was strongly suspected by almost everyone who knew anything about football that Christoph Bü ndchen, our young German striker, was probably gay. And in no way could Russia be described as tolerant of homosexuality, as the lead‑ up to the Sochi Olympics confirmed; it was not uncommon for Russian men to be beaten up on the streets of Moscow merely because they were suspected of being fond of flowers. All of which meant that as soon as Christoph touched the ball in the Arena Khimki, where Dynamo Moscow currently play their home games as they await the construction of the new VTB Arena, the crowd would wolf‑ whistle, make kissing noises and not a few even bared their pale, spotty backsides.

It was ugly and intimidating and while Christoph did his best to ignore it, scoring a peach of a goal that left Dynamo’s otherwise brilliant keeper, Anton Shunin, looking about as agile as a Douglas fir that someone had planted in the goalmouth, I could see from the way he didn’t even celebrate his goal that the crowd was getting to him. At the team captain Gary Ferguson’s suggestion I took Christoph off at half time and told Bekim Develi to go and shut the crowd up with another goal; he did, twice, in the space of ten minutes.

Normally, when Bekim scored a goal at Silvertown Dock, he adopted a sort of spear‑ chucker stance that put me in mind of Achilles or the Spartan King Leonidas in the film 300; sometimes he even pretended to hurl an invisible javelin at the away fans; but lately he had started biting his thumb, which left me puzzled.

‘Is that some sort of Russian insult? ’ I asked our assistant manager, Simon Page.

‘What? ’

‘Bekim biting his thumb like that. That’s the second time he’s done it today. ’

Simon, who was from Yorkshire, and as blunt as a muddy tractor tyre, shook his head.

‘I haven’t a bloody clue, ’ he confessed. ‘But there are so many fucking foreigners in our side that you’d have to be Desmond fucking Morris to know what the hell’s going on out there sometimes, what with all these quenelles and fucking R4bias and cuckold horns. And giving people the bird, is it? In my day you flicked some bastard a V‑ sign when he tackled you off the ball and most referees were clever enough to look the other way. But nothing’s missed these days; fucking telly sees everything. BBC’s the worst for that. They love to stir the PC shit‑ bowl when they get a chance. ’

‘Thank you, Professor Laurie Taylor, ’ I said. ‘I certainly wouldn’t have missed that explanation. ’

‘Bekim doesn’t bite his thumb when he scores, ’ said Ayrton Taylor, who was still recovering from his broken metatarsal and the disappointment of England’s World Cup. ‘He sucks it. Like Jack Wilshire. ’

I hadn’t seen Jack Wilshire score that many goals – certainly not for England – so I was still puzzled.

‘What the fuck for? ’ asked Simon.

‘Because of his new baby boy. It’s his way of dedicating the goal to his son. ’

‘Fucking hell, ’ muttered Simon. ‘You’d think a tattoo would be enough. I think I preferred the spear chucker he used to do. That looked a bit more becoming for a man. Sucking your thumb like that just makes you look like a twat. ’

‘I think I preferred the spear chucker, as well, ’ I said.

‘He’s stopped doing that because Prometheus said he didn’t like it, ’ explained Ayrton. ‘He said he thought it was insulting to Africans. ’

‘He said what? ’ Simon was appalled.

‘Prometheus asked him to stop doing the spear chucker. He was very polite about it, to be fair. ’

‘Fuck him, ’ said Simon. ‘Who’s he? Just some Johnny‑ come‑ lately who’s yet to prove he can hack it in English football. Bekim’s the real deal. ’

But the serious trouble began not on the pitch but in the dressing room after the match; and it wasn’t the Dynamo supporters who caused it but one of our own players.

‘Those Russkies blowing kisses, and showing us their bare arses, ’ said Prometheus. ‘Do they think we’re queer or something? ’

‘Forget it, son, ’ said Gary. ‘They were just trying to needle you. To piss you off. ’

‘Makes a pleasant change from a banana, I’d have thought, ’ said Jimmy Ribbans.

‘I’m not so sure about that, ’ said Prometheus. ‘People want to call me a black bastard then that’s okay. As anyone can see, I am black. And as it happens I’m a bastard, too. At least according to my mother. What’s more I like bananas. But what I don’t like, man, are batty boys. In my country you call someone a batty boy, that’s enough to get you killed. Is it because we’re an English side that they think we’re queer? ’

‘Something like that, probably, ’ said Gary.

‘And you’re okay with that? ’

‘So who gives a fuck if they do think that? ’ said Bekim.

‘I do, ’ said Prometheus. ‘I give a very big fuck about that. In Nigeria there is a new law that says you can go to prison for fourteen years if you are married to a man. ’

‘My wife’s married to a man, ’ said Ayrton Taylor. ‘Last time I looked. ’

‘I mean one man marrying another man, ’ said Prometheus. ‘Batty boys. Sharia law means gay people are whipped on the streets for having gay sex. ’

‘And you’re okay with that? ’ asked Bekim.

‘Sure I am. It’s about the one thing that Muslims and Christians in my country can both agree on. But as it happens there are very few black Africans who are shirtlifters and bum bandits. Really, it only seems to be a problem in white countries. ’

‘I wish you wouldn’t use these words, ’ said Gary. ‘Live and let live, that’s what I say. So why don’t you zip it, sunshine, and get showered. ’

‘I’m just saying that it’s only in big cities where this problem with batty boys seems to arise. In Africa it’s not really a problem at all. ’

During this exchange nobody was looking at Christoph Bü ndchen who was trying his best to pretend that the conversation wasn’t happening, but clearly Bekim felt his acute discomfort almost as much as the young German did himself. The Russian glanced anxiously at Christoph before looking back at Prometheus.

‘Where do you get your fucking ideas from? ’ said Bekim. ‘That’s the biggest load of crap I’ve ever heard. No gay people in Africa? Of course there are gay people in Africa. ’

‘Put a sock in it, ’ I said. ‘All of you. I don’t want to hear any more talk about gays in this dressing room. D’you hear? ’

‘I’d have thought the dressing room is where the matter needs to be discussed most of all, ’ said Prometheus. ‘I don’t want to share a bath with some homo who might touch me up or give me Aids. ’

‘Shut your mouth, Prometheus, ’ I said. ‘And if you ever showboat in a match like that again I’ll take you off and fine you a week’s wages. ’

Towards the end of the match he’d played keepy‑ uppy for several seconds, making an obvious chump of the defender before passing it to Bekim who’d scored. It wasn’t such an egregious error in the light of the final outcome but I was desperately trying to change the subject.

‘I think you’re fucked up, sonny, ’ Bekim told Prometheus. ‘You might have joined an English football team. But clearly you’ve yet to join civilisation. ’

‘That goes for you, too, Bekim, ’ I said. ‘Put a sock in it. ’

‘And I think maybe you’re standing up for batty boys because you’re one yourself, ’ Prometheus told Bekim. ‘Not to mention a racist. Me, uncivilised? Fuck you, Ivan. ’

Bekim stood up. ‘What did you say? ’

‘That’s enough, ’ I said.

Prometheus stood up and faced him. ‘You heard me, batty man. ’

‘Ya toboi sit po gor loi, ’ said Bekim, speaking Russian now. He always started speaking Russian when he got angry; he wasn’t called the red devil for nothing. ‘Ti menya zayebal. Dazhe ney du mai, chto mozhesh, menjya khui nye stavit. Don’t even think you can dis me like that, you fucking animal. ’

‘Will you two bastards behave yourselves? ’ shouted Simon.

By now I was standing in front of Bekim gripping his wrists, and Gary Ferguson was blocking Prometheus, but it wasn’t going to stop these two powerfully built men from taking a pop at each other. Sometimes the dressing room is like that. There’s too much energy, too much testosterone, too much frustration, too much mouth, too much attitude. You can’t explain it except to say that shit happens. One minute they were shouting insults at each other, the next they were trying to punch each other in the face. I did my best to keep hold of Bekim’s wrists but he was too strong for me, and there was a loud smack as the Russian’s forearm connected with the side of the Nigerian’s face and Prometheus collapsed like an overloaded coat stand. He was up again almost immediately, grabbing at the Russian’s red beard and taking a swing himself. He missed and hit Jimmy Ribbans, who reeled away with blood pouring from his mouth before turning and flicking a hard jab square into the face of Prometheus.

I have to admit that there was a small part of me that was hoping some of this might knock some sense into the young Nigerian’s head, but I have to admit it seemed unlikely that Prometheus was going to stop being a homophobe just because someone had punched him.

‘You fucking hit me? ’ Prometheus yelled at Bekim as he was restrained for a second time. ‘You fucking hit me? ’

‘You only got what’s been coming for a long time, sonny, ’ said Bekim.

‘I’ll put the hex on you, batty man. You see if I don’t. I know a witch doctor who’ll fix your faggot arse good. I’ll have you killed. I’ll burn your fucking car. I’ll rape your fucking wife and make her suck my cock. ’

‘Fuck you, chyernozhopii. Fuck you and the chimp that gave birth to you. ’

This second exchange of insults initiated another flurry of fists and kicks.

‘Cool it, ’ I yelled again as the rest of the team and playing staff pulled the three combatants apart. ‘The next person who throws a punch is suspended. The next person who insults someone else is suspended. I mean it. I’ll suspend you both without pay and then I’ll fine you a week’s wages; and when I’m good and ready and you’ve sat on the subs bench for the whole season I’ll fucking sack you both. I’ll make sure that every club in Europe knows what a pair of twats you are so no one will buy you. I’ll make sure you never work in football again. Is that clear? ’

‘And if that’s not enough I’ll beat the living shit out of you both, ’ said Simon. ‘And I’m not talking about the handbags we just had in here. ’ There were few who would have doubted he could have done it, too. There was nothing bluff about the big Yorkshireman’s threat. When he took his glasses off and removed his upper plate he was one of the most frightening men in the game. ‘It’d be worth the sack just to beat some sense into your fucking heads. I’ve never heard the like. Call yourself team mates? I’ve seen Old Firm matches that were more cordial than what just happened in here. What a pair of cunts. ’

In spite of my terrifying experience aboard an Aeroflot Ilyushin jet, I dislike flying in helicopters even more than in Aeroflot Ilyushin jets, and this included Vik’s luxurious Sikorsky‑ 92 which, following the team’s return from Russia, left London’s Battersea Heliport one Tuesday morning in August, bound for Paris. Aboard were Viktor Sokolnikov, City chairman Phil Hobday and me.

Whenever I fly in a chopper all I can think about is not the time we’re saving but Matthew Harding, the millionaire vice‑ president of Chelsea FC who was tragically killed in a helicopter back in 1996 after an away game with Bolton Wanderers. It’s an old wives’ tale that helicopters are any less aerodynamic than an airplane – a helicopter’s blades will continue to rotate, despite a stalled engine (or so Vik told me); but it’s a fact that helicopters do more dangerous things than planes, such as take‑ off and land in closely built‑ up areas, and what’s more in parts of the world with very poor weather. To be killed in a helicopter would be bad enough, I think; but to be killed in somewhere like Bolton really would be bloody awful.

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.