False Nine (34 page)

‘Provided you could agree to waive his medical I can guarantee that I can bring him to Shanghai, sir. And to have his signature on a contract by the end of the week.’

‘You interest me a lot, Mr Manson. And the other player?’

‘His identical twin brother. Not famous like Jérôme. But he’s an excellent footballer. Which is why I’m offering them both to you as a two for one.’

‘Hmm.’

‘I’m right in thinking that twins are considered to be a sign of good luck and good fortune in China, aren’t I?’

‘You are. They are especially prized in sport. A lot of Chinese people even touch them for luck.’

‘Then their image rights ought to be worth quite a lot to you.’

‘That’s true. In fact, I know just the brand I could interest in using them. Identical twins, you say?’

‘Like two peas in a pod, sir.’

‘There’s a brand of cigarette called Gemini. Made by Shanghai Tobacco. Which I own. We could use them to sell Gemini Cigarettes. Or Twopenny. That’s an internet company I also own. Much cheaper than Tencent, our main business rival.’

‘You could use them for anything you like. I happen to think Jérôme’s Maoism is only skin-deep.’

‘Obviously I have to ask. What’s wrong with Jérôme Dumas if you want me to waive his medical? I assume that this is the real reason that PSG want to be rid of him. And why he isn’t going to Barcelona.’

‘It’s not that Jérôme’s not good enough for Barcelona. He is. I think you’ll find that he’s actually playing at the very top of his game. I advise you to take a look at the first round cup tie PSG played with Barcelona in September last year. Jérôme Dumas was the man of the match. But since then it’s been discovered that he has a VSD. A hole in his heart. And now he’s finding it difficult to get cleared to play by the club’s insurers.’

‘I know what that’s like.’

‘By the way, the other twin, Philippe – he’s fine. There’s nothing at all wrong with him.’

‘VSD is much more common than people realise. It’s ridiculous that people think you’re going to die because of a tiny defect like a hole in the heart. There are almost three million people in China who have this condition. And who are living perfectly normal lives.’

‘I’m glad you think so.’

‘But is it because I told you that I have a hole in my own heart that you think you can bring me a player who isn’t good enough for Barcelona? Perhaps you calculated that this would make me weak?’

‘Not weak, sir. Understanding. Sympathetic, perhaps. And I owe you, remember? After my stupid mistake last month which you were generous enough to overlook, temporarily? We agreed that we should find some service I could perform for you in order to make amends for my error. I would humbly suggest that this is it. In spite of his condition, which as you say is a minor one, Jérôme Dumas is still a top player. It’s also my impression that in any team he and his twin would make two thirds of a very formidable attack. Enough to win the Chinese Super League, perhaps. But if you disagree then it may be that I have to fly to China and look for another team owner who can give these young men a chance. Who could overlook such an inconvenient thing as a minor heart defect.’

‘Hmm. And this has only just come to light?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘What’s wrong with doctors in France and Spain?’

‘I don’t think it’s the doctors who are at fault, sir. It’s the insurance companies they advise.’

The Chinese billionaire paused and looked thoughtful. That’s the other good thing about Skype. You know when it’s time to shut up and let silence be your friend.

Then I said, ‘When we met, you said you thought it was probably Shanghai Taishan FC who stitched me up, didn’t you?’

‘Yes. It was. I have had very good information to this effect.’

‘It would be good to get some payback, wouldn’t it? To stick it to those bastards. I’d like to get a piece of that myself.’

‘It would be brilliant,’ said Mr Jia. ‘You really think this could work, Mr Manson?’

‘Yes, I do.’

‘I’m not asking for your optimism, Mr Manson. I want your honest, hard-headed opinion as a professional football manager. No sentiment, now. What does your own experience tell you?’

‘It’s not without some risk, sir. I should think the chances of something serious happening to the boy are perhaps five hundred to one. But a one in five hundred chance is probably just too high for a European medical insurer to take the chance. The payouts are too big when things go pear-shaped.’

‘Take my word for it, Mr Manson. Five hundred to one? Those are very tempting odds for a Chinaman. That’s a good bet. Anything else is a sure thing, and they don’t exist. A player can score a hat-trick in one game and in the next break his leg in a way that finishes his career forever. How do you insure against something like that? You can’t. Not yet. In a few years’ time we may be able to measure bone density and estimate the probability of a player fracturing a limb in a tackle, and then where will we be? All sport contains risk. That’s why we enjoy watching it.’

I let him think some more.

‘Frankly, sir, I think the Dumas twins could become an important figurehead for any Chinese team. Especially Nine Dragons. Perhaps the best thing to do would be for you to meet with them and me, and then, if you are in agreement, we could make a contract for one year. We can see how things work out.’

‘You mean suck it and see.’

‘Something like that. And of course Shanghai Taishan wouldn’t be expecting something like this. Not at this stage of the European season. All of the best players have contracts in Europe until the end of our season. So, just imagine if the Dumas brothers came and you beat Shanghai Taishan. Can you imagine it?’

‘Just to see the look on Xu Yi Ning’s face. I’d give a million dollars for a moment like that.’

I guessed that Xu Yi Ning was probably the owner of Shanghai Taishan FC and a bitter business rival of Mr Jia’s.

‘Then it sounds like we have a deal. Because I can’t believe it’s money that’s going to stop this from happening. After all, a million dollars is four weeks’ pay for these boys.’

‘Yes, we have a deal.’

‘I’m delighted to hear it, sir.’

‘Might I ask what’s in this for you, Mr Manson? Are you representing these twins as an agent? Will you take a cut of their fee? Where’s your interest here? I’d like to know, please.’

‘I’m not getting a penny from either of them, sir. They have a football agent, but he’s out of the loop on this one. The fact is, it was me who uncovered the fact that Jérôme has a VSD. And I’m feeling a bit guilty about it.’

‘All this is to your credit. In China we say that the selfless can be fearless.’

‘Yes, well there’s all that and the fact that, like I said before, I owe you a big favour.’

‘It’s good of you to recognise that. And if we pull this off you’ll find that I’m not ungrateful, Mr Manson.’ He grinned. ‘Because you’re absolutely right, of course. I hate those bastards at Shanghai Taishan. I’ve kept quiet about what happened to me and you. But you’re right – we should have our revenge. And I will love it if we beat them. Love it.’

I grinned as I recognised an echo of what Kevin Keegan had said about Manchester United when he was still the Newcastle United manager, back in 1996.

‘What?’ he asked.

‘I just realised something, sir.’

‘What’s that?’

‘How much you love your football. You’re the real deal, sir. And no mistake.’

‘Coming from a man like you, Mr Manson, I take that as a real compliment.’

As soon as the Skype call was over I switched on the television to watch the Sky News report on Viktor Sokolnikov’s death. The whole of his five hundred acre country estate in Hythe had been closed off by police while government nuclear scientists searched poor Viktor’s house for radioactive material, although this seemed merely a precaution as the TV journalist had already reported a rumour that the Ukrainian billionaire had been found hacked to death with a sword – a
kindjal
, which is used for bear-hunting in Russia.

I composed an email to Viktor’s wife and grown-up daughter, but didn’t send it – I wasn’t sure if an email was appropriate in the circumstances; later on I wrote a letter and sent that instead – and then went down to breakfast with Charles Rivel, from PSG.

33

After breakfast I went shopping, bought some presents for Louise at Galeries Lafayette – I was feeling guilty, of course – carried them back to the Bristol Hotel and then took the Metro out to Sevran-Beaudottes to meet with the mother of John Ben Zakkai, who was the fifteen-year-old footballing wunderkind I’d first seen playing keepy-uppy on the artificial pitch near the Alain Savary Sports Centre. Since I’d met him I’d been keeping in touch with him on What’sApp and we’d become friends. I was now about to become his patron and benefactor.

I’d been thinking deeply about what Mr Jia had said, how the selfless can be fearless. I’d decided to make this my maxim in all my dealings with Madame Zakkai and her son. The truth was I might have gained something for myself if I’d obeyed my instinct, which was to take the boy and his mother to La Masia – in English, it means ‘the farmhouse’, which is the name often used to describe the youth academy for FC Barcelona – and there to introduce young John to Jordi Roura and Aureli Altimira who would undoubtedly have seen what I had seen in the boy: a prodigious footballing talent.

But there was a small part of me that would have been brokering this introduction in order to make it up to FCB for the disappointment I’d seen in Jacint’s face when I’d told him that Jérôme Dumas would not be coming to the club after all. Because that was what I’d planned to do ever since the moment I’d seen John Ben Zakkai play football and felt my heart skip a beat. Was that what it had been like when Bob Bishop went to Belfast and discovered a fifteen-year-old genius named George Best – a boy whose local club Glentoran had previously rejected as too small and light?

Sometimes the only way you can be sure that you’re doing the right thing is when your actions run against all that you hold most dear; and when you know that there are people you call good friends who might believe that what you’re doing was disloyal and an act of ungrateful treachery.

A couple of days later, and at my own expense, the three of us – Sarah Ben Zakkai, John and I – flew from Paris to Madrid,
to keep an appointment I’d made for us with Real Madrid and the manager of Cadete A.

Covering approximately 1,067 hectares of land, and a short distance from Madrid-Barajas Airport, Real Madrid City is probably the most advanced sports training facility in the world. That is no exaggeration. Designed by the architect Carlos Lamela, the Valdebebas Park complex is ten times bigger than the old Real Madrid Sports City and forty times bigger than the Santiago Bernabéu. Small wonder that it cost almost half a billion euros.

From the airport we drove straight to the facility and through three levels of security, which is perhaps why it is better known to locals as the secret city. Groups of fans stood on a roundabout just off the motorway and peered into our car as we approached the main buildings, hoping to catch a glimpse of their footballing heroes. Convinced that we belonged to the club, a few of them even waved at us. John waved back.

‘They’re going to be doing that just for you, before very long,’ I told John. ‘That is if things work out the way I think they’ll work out.’

‘This is fantastic,’ said John. ‘I can’t believe we’re actually here. This place looks amazing – like a temple to football.’

‘That’s fair,’ I said. ‘But don’t ever call this place the spiritual home of football. Nor any other except London. Got that? And specifically the Freemason’s Arms which is a pub in London’s Covent Garden district. Because that’s where the rules of football were laid down by the first football association back in 1863. If there’s one thing that bugs me it’s when ignorant stupid people talk about places like Brazil, or Spain, or Italy, as the spiritual home of football. That’s just bollocks. The game we play today is an English game, and don’t you ever forget it, son.’

‘Understood, Mr Manson.’ John grinned back at me. ‘But I still can’t believe we’re here.’

‘Nor can I,’ I said, hardly wanting to explain to the fifteen-year-old just why I felt so ambivalent about being there, in Madrid. It would hardly have been fair to have told him that for me it was like changing sides in a war, or becoming a Roman Catholic after years of worshipping in a Protestant church. Not that I was changing sides – just trying to do something that was in John’s best interests rather than my own.

‘Perhaps we’ll meet Martin Ødegaard,’ said John.

‘Don’t you want to meet Cristiano Ronaldo?’ I said. ‘Or Toni Kroos?’

‘Oh, sure, but Martin is who I dream of becoming, you know? He’s only sixteen. The youngest guy ever to play for his country. He just signed for Real. And now he’s in the reserves, and being managed by Zinedine Zidane, and making fifty thousand euros a week. I mean, that’s any kid’s dream, isn’t it?’

I had to admit all this did sound pretty good and helped to persuade me that maybe Madrid was still the best choice in spite of my reservations about what I was doing.

We parked in front of the entrance hall, which was like the lobby of a very modern hotel, where we were met by some people from the youth academy who led us to ‘the white house’ – the area reserved for the youth teams. Here were several dressing rooms, and seven pitches each with their own stand and the very same natural grass as that used on the pitch in the Santiago Bernabéu, which comes from Holland. Or so we were informed.

I wished the boy luck and then left him to get changed while Raul Serrano Quevedo from the club’s public relations department gave Madame Zakkai and me a tour of the main building.

This giant, T-shaped building is huge and contains dressing rooms, gymnasiums, classrooms, conference rooms, offices, a hydrotherapy pool and medical centre, press area, etc. on both sides of the complex. There are ten grass and AstroTurf football pitches surrounded by stands with a capacity for more than 11,000 spectators.

After our tour, Raul took us to the café-restaurant called La Cantera. He was a handsome, good-humoured man wearing a blue shirt and tie, and a blue quilted jacket, and his English was impeccable. Through the enormous windows the players’ friends and families could watch training sessions on the nearby pitches; members of the public were forbidden to watch however. Everything was brushed steel and white wood. A waiter brought us coffee, fresh orange juice and some delicious, sugar-free carrot cake.