Hand of God (3 page)

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.

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.

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.