‘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.