False Nine (7 page)

My seat was almost on the touchline and very close to the dugout of the FCB
técnico
Luis Enrique Martínez Garcia. At this level the pitch at the Nou seemed vast and with this number of people cheering on their team it was almost laughable that anything the manager might say during the course of the match would ever be heard by anyone other than the fourth official or the other manager. Really it’s just for the benefit of the fans, or the TV cameras; when you see José Mourinho performing in his technical area think Laurence Olivier in
Richard III
; and certainly his theatrics are sometimes worthy of an Oscar or a Golden Globe. In spite of the fact that he looks a bit like Roy Keane, I like and admire Luis Enrique who’s probably the fittest guy in football management having competed in several marathons and ironman challenges. And not just me: back in 2004, Pelé named him as one of the top living footballers.

The match kicked off at nine – only in Spain could a match be played at a time when many Englishmen are very sensibly thinking about going to bed – and straight away there was Messi, right in front of me and looking smaller and frankly much less happy than the doll wearing the number ten shirt I’d seen at Barcelona Airport. His twinkle-toes were working better than his smile, however, and he reminded me of Gene Kelly tap-dancing his way through
Singing in the Rain
, or Fred Astaire in
Top Hat
.

A lot is made of the rivalry that exists between FCB’s Messi and Cristiano Ronaldo at Real Madrid. And I’m sometimes asked, who is the better player? Which one would you have wanted to come to a club that you were managing? The truth is they’re very different players. The taller more muscular Ronaldo is a consummate athlete, while the five-foot-six-inch Messi is more like an artist. Ronaldo seems more arrogant, too, and I can take or leave his strutting
torero
act that he puts on when he scores a goal. It’s like he expects the ears and the tail of the bull he has vanquished to be given to him. Me, on the rare occasions I ever scored a goal, I always looked around to thank the guy who’d passed me the fucking ball. It just seemed like good manners. You pays your money, you take your choice.

Reading the match programme I half-expected to see Barca‘s newest striker, Jérôme Dumas – reportedly now on loan from PSG – among the reserves at least, but there was no sign of him as yet. I was, however, delighted to see a match with Barca’s leading three scorers – Messi, Neymar and Suarez – leading their attack. It was all shaping up to be an exciting evening, as it’s not often you get a chance to see three of the best players in the world in action at the same time.

The game started with Villarreal in possession but Messi’s skilful moves managed to put Barca back in command and Villarreal showed quickly that ultimately they lacked the balance, intensity and speed of the Barca team at its best. But Barca too were misfiring. Suarez had three early goal-scoring chances with only one on target – a point-blank salvo turned away by Villarreal keeper Asenjo after just thirteen minutes. Number 16, Dos Santos, missed three scoring chances, again saved by Asenjo. With such chances coming, the Barca supporters waited patiently for a goal, but after half an hour of play, things did not go their way. Villarreal’s Gaspar unleashed a left-footed blast that looked destined for the other side of the field until Tcherychev deflected the ball past Barca keeper: 0–1 to Villarreal.

The goal had a predictably unsettling effect on the Barca players. Their energy disappeared, the team looked demoralised. The crowd fell silent. And the responsibility to get Barca back in the game fell again to Messi. One minute before half time he seized his chance. His searching pass found Rafinha in the area whose shot was saved by Asenjo, but the rebound fell to Neymar who banged it in without a moment’s hesitation.

Having equalised, Barca returned in the second half transformed. They pressured and threatened, proving why very few other teams cause so much disarray in opposing teams on and off the ball, both in defence and attack.

Nevertheless, Piqué’s defensive mistake allowed Villarreal’s Giovani to take advantage and assist Vietto’s strike, to make it 1–2 to Villarreal in the fifty-first minute. Camp Nou went silent again as if the crowd realised that the Yellow Submarine wasn’t going to go down easily. Just as the silence was becoming even more uneasy, both Suarez and Messi were denied before Rafinha scored the equaliser. 2–2. The cheering
culers
had just taken their seats when, in the fifty-fifth minute, Lio Messi let fly with a beautiful curving shot from outside the penalty area. With little or no room for the strike it seemed like the kind of goal that perhaps only Messi could have envisaged, let alone scored. 3–2 to Barcelona.

The last half-hour
s
aw Barca nervously protecting their lead, and slowly they wore the other side down. Near the end Rafinha was substituted and, feeling very cold – as the evening progressed the night grew colder and so did I, I’d forgotten must how cold Barcelona can be in winter – and irritated with what looked like an obvious attempt on the part of Barca to delay the game, I tweeted something stupid about how he was being taken off because it was his period. It was the same sort of Cranberry Juice Joke that’s in Scorsese’s film,
The Departed
. But at the time I thought no more about it.

The match finished. Villarreal had lost for the first time since November. But for Barcelona the win – which left them four points off Real Madrid at the top of La Liga – seemed typical of their lacklustre season: the flashes of brilliance were few and far between and they made it look hard work. As we would have said in England, they ’won ugly’. But they still won so most of the crowd went home happy. Frankly, I thought Villarreal – who had a goal disallowed for offside – were very unlucky not to go home with a draw.

The next day – which was no less cold – Jacint Grangel took me to lunch at the Drolma Restaurant in the Majestic Hotel – one of the best in the city. To be honest it’s a little grand for my taste. I prefer somewhere more authentically Catalan, like Cañete in the older part of town. (Whenever I’m there I think of Hemingway; I’ve no idea if he ever went to Cañete but there’s a big ibex head on the wall that makes me think he’d have liked the place.) But then again I wasn’t paying. Drolma’s chef, Nandu Jubany, is considered to be the great genius of Catalan cuisine and it’s easy to see why; I’d forgotten just how good lollipops of foie gras with white chocolate and Porto reduction can taste.

When I arrived at Drolma with Jacint there were others already seated at the table; three men, each wearing a sober blue suit with a shirt and tie. That’s the thing about Barcelona; everyone dresses well. No one would dream of turning up for lunch at a place like Drolma wearing a tracksuit and sports shoes. A lot of the time I look at players and the way they dress and think they need a good slap. There was another vice-president from Barcelona called Oriel Domench i Montaner, but I was surprised to be introduced to Charles Rivel, from Paris Saint-Germain, and a Qatari called Ahmed Wusail Abbasid bani Utbah. At least I think that’s what his name was. It’s possible the guy was just clearing his throat.

We spoke in Spanish. I can manage a bit of Catalan – which is an interesting, almost hermetic combination of French, Spanish, Italian and awkward-squad bloody-mindedness – but Spanish is easier for me. It’s easier for everyone who doesn’t speak Catalan. Catalans are very proud of their language and rightly so; under General Franco they had to fight very hard to keep their culture alive. Or so they’ll tell you. The same is true of the football club. Or so they’ll tell you. In 1936 Franco’s troops shot dead the president of the club, Josep Suñol, and to this day he is known as the ‘martyr president’. That sort of thing tends to put English opposition to the people like the Glazers and Mike Ashley in the shade. And perhaps it also explains why this club, which was founded by a group of English, Swiss and Catalans, is considered to be
més que un club
– more than a club. FC Barcelona is a way of life. Or so they’ll tell you.

This is going to be an interesting lunch, I thought, as the waiter poured the wine; I couldn’t imagine what they wanted to speak to me about. For a brief moment I wondered if it might have something to do with what had happened in Shanghai – if perhaps these three groups of people were looking to invest with Jack Kong Jia and wanted the opinion of someone who’d actually met him. By his own admission, Jia was someone who avoided publicity.

‘I believe you saw the match that PSG played against Nice,’ said Charles Rivel, from PSG. ‘At Parc des Princes.’

‘Yes. It was a bit like watching Arsenal grinding out a one–nil victory. I thought Nice deserved a draw more than you guys deserved a win.’

This was also true of the match between FCB and Villarreal but I kept that particular observation to myself.

‘I’m not sure that’s fair,’ said Rivel. ‘If Zlatan hadn’t hit the woodwork in the first fifteen minutes he might just have scored one of his best goals. The way he controlled the ball, turned and then took his shot was superb. For a big man he’s incredibly light on his feet.’

‘Nevertheless, he missed. And by his own standards that’s just not good enough. What does he say in his book? You can be a god one day and completely worthless the next. That’s especially true in this city. He took his foot off their neck. That’s how it looked to me.’

‘You’ve read his book?’ asked Jacint.

‘I try to read all of the books about football, although sometimes I ask myself why. And while I start them all, there’s hardly ever one I finish. Including Zlatan’s book. In my opinion his wasn’t a good book. I think he’s a good player. Just not much of a writer. No worse than the others, perhaps. Like most of these books there were few insights into the game. But it was a shrink’s casebook.’

‘It’s true,’ said Oriel. ‘They ought to have called that book
The Ego has Landed
.’

‘Perhaps he should have hired Roddy Doyle to write it,’ said Jacint.

‘I think Henning Mankell would have been more appropriate,’ said Rivel. ‘They’re both Swedes, after all.’

‘We could use Kurt Wallander now, perhaps,’ murmured Ahmed. ‘Given the situation.’

‘I don’t think Ibra was very fair about Guardiola,’ said Oriel.

‘We’re not here to talk about Ibra,’ said Rivel, ‘but someone else. Another PSG player.’

‘Wouldn’t it be better to have Mr Manson sign a confidentiality agreement first?’ said Ahmed.

‘I don’t think we need to worry about that with a man like Scott,’ said Jacint. ‘His word is good enough for me.’

‘Can we depend on you to treat this matter with confidence?’ asked Rivel.

‘Of course. You have my word on it. In case you hadn’t noticed, gentlemen, I’ve been rather keen to avoid the press of late.’

‘Is that working?’ said Jacint.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Have you checked your Twitter account?’

‘Not today.’

‘It seems you made a tweet about Rafinha that has some of your female followers in a rage.’

‘I did?’ I shrugged, not really knowing to what Jacint was referring. ‘I’ll check it later.’

‘What we’re here to talk about – well, right now, it’s probably the best kept secret in football,’ said Oriel.

‘Now I really am intrigued,’ I admitted.

‘First of all, we should say that we think you’re a talented young manager,’ said Rivel. ‘In spite of recent events in China. Which could have happened to anyone, really.’

The Qatari nodded. ‘It’s very difficult to know what’s happening when you’re in Shanghai.’ He laughed. ‘At least in Qatar there are only two million people. That makes things a lot simpler. Unless it’s something to do with religion. And Sharia law. And women’s rights. And the 2022 World Cup. Then things can get very complicated.’

I smiled, liking him for that.

‘Your reputation as a young manager and coach is one thing,’ said Jacint. ‘But it seems you have also gained something of a reputation as a problem solver. It’s now a well-known fact that it was you and not the Metropolitan Police who solved the mystery regarding the death of João Zarco.’

‘And the death of Bekim Develi,’ added Oriel.

‘I’m sure that you know I can’t comment about that.’

‘You can’t,’ said Rivel. ‘But the Athens police can. They’ve dropped some very broad hints that you were of great assistance to them in their inquiries.’

‘It’s your skills as a private detective that we need now,’ said Jacint.

‘And for which we are prepared to pay,’ said Ahmed.

‘Whisky, Tango, Foxtrot,’ I heard myself murmur.
What the fuck?

‘Handsomely,’ added the Qatari.

‘Really, gentlemen, I have no skills as a detective,’ I insisted. ‘As usual, this is just the press exaggerating what happened. Anyone would think I was Sherlock Holmes in a tracksuit. Hercule Poirot with a stopwatch. The Kurt Wallander of the touchline. I’m not. I’m a coach. A manager. And right now it’s a football club I need, not an interesting case. Give me a squad of players and I’ll be as happy as Larry. But don’t ask me to play the copper.’

‘Nevertheless, you understand football and footballers,’ said Rivel. ‘In a way that perhaps the police do not.’

‘There’s no perhaps about it,’ said Jacint. ‘I can’t speak for how things are in Paris, but it’s quite impossible to be objective about football here in Barcelona. There’s too much emotion involved.’

‘I think the same is probably true in Paris,’ said Rivel. ‘Besides, the French police aren’t exactly known for their closed mouths. Just look at what happened to Francois Hollande. And before him to Dominique Strauss-Kahn. This story would be on the front of
L’Equipe
in no time.’

‘Gentlemen, you’re wasting your time. I’ve really no interest in crime. I don’t even like the goddamn books. All those stupid boring detectives with their drinking problems and their failed marriages. It’s all so very predictable. My idea of a good case is one made by Louis Vuitton.’

‘Please, Mr Manson,’ said Ahmed. ‘At least hear us out.’