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The Qatari Job, Part VII: The Cup Runneth Over
February 7, 2012
Have you read?
Part One: Bridge Over Troubled Waters
Part Two: Going To The Source
Part Three: A Dish Served Cold
Part Four: Tevez Under Wraps
Part Five: One Hump Or Two?
Part Six: The Best Laid Plans Of Mice And Man City
الوظيفة القطري
The entire plan seemed to be unraveling before his eyes. The door had just been slammed shut behind him, and Bridgey was facing a nightmare in a tiny office somewhere in the depths of Sheikh Mansour’s ‘summer’ palace in Qatar. Desperately, he tried to sort the jumbled ball of emotions bouncing around in his mind and regain control of himself.
First, he had been in the training facility with the rest of the Exiles. Sparky was running them through their paces one last time, ahead of the so-called friendly with Mancini and City. They were still ragged, and no wonder; half of them hadn’t seen action in months, and none of them had practiced together under Hughes’ guidance for two years. If the rust wasn’t enough, the entire group was listening to instruction from George and Brad, who were in charge of the real job they were here to do, codenamed The Qatari Job. Tiny, nearly invisible earbuds were receiving wireless communication from the American actors, who were posing as activists for Amnesty International, the benefactors of the charity match about to take place.
In that guise, they were guests of Mansour. In reality, it was their intent to relive one of their most famous movie capers in real life, lifting the UAE royal of a hefty portion of his fortune, and his official Chairman’s FA Cup replica in the bargain. The duo had been contracted by Bridgey to plan the heist. He and Carlos Tevez had recruited the rest of the rejects whom Khaldoon Al Mubarak and Roberto Mancini had cast aside with such callous indifference.
Outside the training facility, one of the portable stadiums tirelessly promoted and endlessly discussed during the successful Qatari bid for the 2022 World Cup, had gone up in less than three days. Much to Bridgey’s amazement, the other Exiles, and the rest of the world, in fact, it looked as solid as the new Wembley Stadium, and, in its own unique style, easily as beautiful. Whereas most modern stadia were massive bowls, despite containing rectangular pitches, the Qatari design followed the shape of the playing surface, albeit more rounded at the corners. It rose high and straight, rather than inclining outward, combining the columnar style of ancient Roman architecture with the sweeping curves of desert sand dunes. The entire façade was wrapped in ribbons, coloured to represent all the flags of the various Arab nations.
It was spectacular, in turn demanding a spectacular match for the 40,000 roaring fans who now occupied it. The Exiles planned to do their part and more. Then, with less than half an hour until kickoff, an emissary had come from the palace and summoned Bridgey. Sparky, Carlos and the rest had protested vehemently. When the messenger insisted, the entire side had to pry Bellamy from his screaming, huddled body. The diminutive Welshman had gone absolutely berserk in the blink of an eye, startling everyone, especially the poor servant. Thankfully, Sparky had taken temporarily custody of Bellamy’s golf clubs for the duration of training.
While the training staff made sure the fellow was none the worse for wear, Brad came over Bridgey’s earpiece, telling him to go with the messenger. He reassured Bridgey that he and George were prepared for this contingency. It would be safe, they said, so long as he removed the earpiece and microphone pinned inside his collar, in case he was searched. Other than that, everything was in hand, nothing to worry about. If Bridgey had known what, or more appropriately, who was waiting for him in the palace, he’d have done more than worry. He’d have soiled his pants.
Still, he had followed the visibly unnerved palace errand boy, who continually looked over his shoulder with wide eyes, less, it seemed to Bridgey, to check that he was following than to be certain he wasn’t about to leap on his back like a wild animal. Finally, the frightened man opened a tall set of double doors and Bridgey found himself stepping back into the immense room containing the Sheikh’s prized Cup.
The trophy still held a central place in the massive hall, posited under a domed skylight. At the far end of the room, the Sheikh was being served breakfast in the company of a woman, and Khaldoon Al Mubarak. As he walked past the trophy, his steps echoing on the polished marble floor, Bridgey marveled at the detail of its gleaming silver surface. For all he knew, it was the original, but that was supposedly in hallowed Wembley, in the FA’s possession, and only trotted out on special occasions.
Leaving the replica behind, he focused on the Sheikh’s companion. One shake of her rich brown tresses brought him to a complete halt. “Vanessa?” His breath left him as he uttered her name, and he thought it would never come back.
At the sound of his voice, the Frenchwoman looked up. Her eyes were as deep and brown as they had ever been. Under the table, her hand sought Mansour’s wrist. With that one motion any hope he had withered and burned. His heart hardened and he turned his gaze from her to the Sheikh, unaware of the momentary look of sadness in her eyes. A look that was quickly suppressed.
“Why am I here?” Bridgey asked, his voice all steel.
The Sheikh looked up at him momentarily, patted his lips with his napkin, then looked back down, resuming his meal. Bridgey’s mouth formed a syllable but before he could give sound to it, Mubarak spoke.
“You have been lent out to Sunderland FC for the remainder of the season,” he said. “Your agent has agreed terms with the club. You will pack immediately.”
“No!” Bridgey refused. “I am playing this match. You have kept me off the pitch for two years; you will not deny me today!”
Mubarak laughed. Waving his hand in dismissal, he said, “You will have all the matches you wish with the Irishman, O’Neill, in the Stadium of Light. For two years, you have rejected every opportunity we gave you to move on –”
“With struggling clubs in foreign leagues or the Championship?” It was Bridgey’s turn to laugh in disgust. “Please.”
Mubarak shrugged. “You cannot blame us if they were the only ones willing to pay ₤90,000 per week for a panty-waist coward.” The City president’s gaze darted to Vanessa and past her to the Sheikh, realising that he may have inadvertently offended them, but neither acknowledged his remark.
Bridgey, though, curled his fists and took a purposeful step forward.
“That,” Mubarak advised with a wicked smile, “would be ill-advised.”
He gestured behind Bridgey with his butter knife, where the sound of shuffling feet reached the footballer’s ears. Two very large men, muscular chests and arms making every effort to escape from their suits, stood at either of his shoulders. He hadn’t heard them come in.
Mubarak continued. “Since you don’t seem willing to cooperate, your things will be collected for you. These men will escort you to a safe place until they arrive, and then you will be driven to the airport. That is all. Leave us.”
The last two sentences were directed more towards Bridgey’s new minders, who wordlessly picked up the still protesting Englishman and, turning, carried him by the arms, feet pedaling uselessly a foot from the floor, across the long room, through the doors and down the outer hall.
As they did, the Sheikh put down his silverware, lightly dabbed at his face once more, then rose and held out a hand to his companion. “Shall we, my dear? The match awaits.”
Smiling she took his hand, standing to join him. Mansour looked sternly at Mubarak. “Your words did not go unnoticed, Khaldoon. I am displeased. We will discuss it later.”
Mubarak bowed respectfully and cursed himself.
In another part of the palace, Bridgey was cursing everyone in sight. None of those he passed even glanced in his direction, however, obviously aware of the identity of his escort. Finally, they deposited him in front of a nondescript door, opened it and shoved him inside. Then they turned, arms crossed, and stood guard.
Unprepared to suddenly be back in possession of his own motor control, Bridgey sprawled onto the floor. Picking himself up and dusting off, he suddenly realised that he wasn’t alone. There was another man in the room, leaning against a small bureau against the far wall. Bridgey looked into a pair of dark, nearly black eyes, housed under arching eyebrows and a shaved pate and over a sneering grin and menacingly trimmed van dyke. The man was holding an emery board, apparently having been disturbed while trimming his nails. Nigel de Jong was the last man Bridgey wished to disturb at any time.
Bridgey backed up towards the door, and reaching behind him, tested the knob. It was locked. De Jong laughed quietly. Tucking away the emery board, he pushed away from the desk and punched a fist into the other hand. “Might as well get on with it,” he said.
Bridgey was trapped. The door was locked, there didn’t appear to be another exit, and Nigel Freaking De Jong was about to beat him to a bloody pulp. He couldn’t see a way out; it had all come to naught. Well, if this was it, he wasn’t going to take it as meekly as he had taken everything over the last two years. He wasn’t going to swallow it like he had Vanessa and JT’s betrayal, his place on the England squad, or his treatment at City. This time, he was going to go down fighting.
Summoning every bit of courage in his body, he screamed like a banshee, and launched himself at De Jong.
الوظيفة القطري
The match went on without Bridgey. Surprisingly, it went very well in the early going for the Exiles. They were incensed that one of their own had been ripped away from them, viewing it as just another example of their former club’s cruelty, and their emotions put them in the ascendancy.
Bellamy was a man possessed, although that was not all that unusual. Yet he had an equal partner in Carlos Tevez. The Argentine, who had stewed in the Buenos Aires heat while his City mates toiled through the English winter, unleashed six months of pent-up anger and frustration. Combining with the Welshman, he had pegged the Exiles to a two-goal lead in the first half-hour.
Yet, City gave as good as they got. By half-time they had hit back to halve the deficit. A rather confused Mario Balotelli, who seemingly couldn’t suss out why everyone on the pitch was exhibiting nastier attitudes than him, managed to be standing at just the right place in the box for a David Silva set-piece to carom off his hind-quarters and bounce past a confused Shay Given.
If 2-1 score wasn’t sufficient entertainment for the excited crowd, all hell broke loose as the teams headed into the clubhouse. Vincent Kompany said something to Bellamy, who offered a snappy retort. A laugh from the Belgian had the pair nose to chest, Bellamy not having the stature to reach higher. Yet it was Wright-Phillips, coming out of nowhere, who set off the fuse. Pulling his mate out of the way, he shoved Kompany in the chest, with the far larger defender responding in kind. Suddenly the two were rolling around on the turf.
When the donnybrook was finally subdued, mutual red cards were issued to the combatants, and Bellamy was shown a yellow. The tattooed scrapper didn’t seem to mind, as he was laughing and hugging a still furious SWP, merrily dragging him into the tunnel.
Inside the dressing room, Wright-Phillips anger suddenly transformed into pure joy. High-fiving Bellamy, he shouted, “Howzat fer acting, mate?”
“I love it, I love it, but let’s keep our minds on the job, eh?” the Welshman smiled back. “It’s all coming together.” Stripping off his kit and throwing it into a nearby hamper, he stamped on the floor three times. There was a ripping sound, as carpet squares separated, then Jô’s head and shoulders appeared.
The Brazilian, formerly a City forward and now Mansour’s chief eunuch, climbed out of the hidden tunnel. He had a bundle of silks in his hand. “You lads ready?”
The pair nodded.
“Excellent,” Jô answered. “Get these on, then.” He tossed the multi-coloured fabrics towards the two diminutive players.
The pair held up the clothing. “They’re dresses! What’s this, then? You don’t expect us to wear these, do you?”
Jô laughed. “Of course I do. How else do you expect to get through the palace undetected?”
Bellamy and SWP looked over the dresses dubiously.
“Come on, we don’t have all day!”
“These are a bit more revealing than what the women in the street wear,” Wright-Phillips said doubtfully.
“It’s good to be the Sheikh,” Jô explained with a chuckle. “Don’t worry, the Haj will cover your faces.”
“A lot more will have to be covered up before anyone believes Bellamy’s a bird,” Wright-Philips jibed, getting a poke in the ribs from the Welshman for his effort.
Sparky walked over and barked out, “Quit dawdling, you two, and get to it. Time’s wasting.” The pair nodded and quickly did as ordered. The gaffer turned to Tevez. “You’ll have ten minutes or so, before you get yourself sent off. You’ve done great so far, but leave everything you’ve got on the pitch, yeah?”
Tevez nodded.
“Right,” Sparky rose his voice to include the rest of the squad, while Jô, Bellamy and SWP slipped into the tunnel. “Everyone else’s job is to go out there and play the match of your life. Make sure everyone’s eyes are on you, and don’t give them a moment to wonder where the others have gone!”
A loud enthusiastic shout went up from the remaining players, and Carlos slipped the armband back on, and led them out onto the pitch for the second half. As they headed out, Hughes let it be known to the press liaison that he’d decided not to risk using Bellamy in the second half, with the circumstances surrounding his caution meaning the match official wasn’t likely to tolerate any further unruliness. The man didn’t even blink as the Welsh-born coach shoveled on the manure.
Out on the pitch, Tevez immediately channeled the energy that had driven him through the first forty-five minutes. Yet, without Bellamy to feed him, and the City defence surrounding him with a three or four-man escort from the restart, the Argentine dynamo was getting nowhere. Worse, with his mates constantly trying to get him the ball, City was picking off pass after pass to devastating effect at the opposite end. Shay was besieged and, in Carlos’ allotted ten minutes, Mancini’s minions had turned the match on end, with goals from Aguero and Dzeko.
George’s calm, matter-of-fact voice sounded in his ear. “Sorry Carlos, but it’s time.”
Tevez stopped and looked up to the sky in frustration. After a short moment, he came to a decision — then played on. Sparky began gesturing at him from the coach’s box. Carlos simply ignored him. He gathered in two more touches, but both were smothered.
George’s voice re-entered his ear. “Carlos, what are you doing? We can get the money without you, but if you want that Cup you need to get your ass over here!”
Carlos ground his teeth, but played on.
George’s voice had lost its calm and taken on a hard edge. Sparky was screaming at him. His teammates weren’t sure whether to give him the ball or not. An additional ten minutes dragged by while Tevez balanced revenge and a stubborn refusal to accept defeat on a knife’s edge.
George’s voice was replaced by Kia’s. “Carlos, amigo. que pasa? You are ruining everything, mano. Come on now, leave the game. Bamos!”
Defying his trusted advisor, Carlos played on. Another five minutes ran down.
Finally, with City in possession for a moment, he jogged over to Ade and Roque Santa Cruz.
“Do you two want all that money?” The pair nodded as one.
“Of course we do, Charlie,” Ade assured him.
“Well, you need me to get it for you,” he lied, “and I’m not leaving this pitch until the score is level . Do you understand me?”
The pair exchanged serious glances, then nodded at Tevez once more.
“Bien,” he nodded back. “Let’s get to work,”
Turning, he looked around for the ball, noting that Adam Johnson and Silva were working it back and forth on one flank, as the Exiles desperately held their shape, barring City’s path to goal. Carlos darted over, coming on the young Englishman from behind just as he accepted another pass and nicked it cleanly off his boot.
With possession, Carlos quickly slotted the ball over to Stephen Ireland, who sent it up the pitch to Santa Cruz. The Paraguayan sold a dummy to his mark, and before cover could arrive, crossed to Ade. The Togolese shook off the attentions of Micah Richards and danced towards the box. All the while, Tevez was streaking straight down the middle of the pitch. He ran straight onto Ade’s return cross, catching Joe Hart sliding the wrong way, and poking the ball into the open corner before his shadows could converge on him.
Yelling in triumph, he sprinted to the corner, tearing his shirt from his body and waving it madly over his head. When he reached the flag, he threw his kit over a camera lens and, having revealed a tee-shirt underneath which read F— City, he ripped the stick from the ground. Turning again, he ran to the stands and hurtled it into the tenth row like a javelin.
Purged of emotion, he turned to find the official brandishing a red card.
“Are you all happy now?” he muttered into the concealed mike.
“Yeah, Carlos. We’re happy,” George was back online. “The game is all tied up. Now get your f—in’ ass over here.” As a happy Roque and Ade caught up to him, wrapping him in an embrace, he shouted in their ears. “If you lose this match, I’ll burn every stinking Euro!”
الوظيفة القطري
Bridgey wasn’t nearly as happy as Roque or Ade. His face was firmly planted in the wall of the tiny office. When he had sprung at De Jong, the Dutchman had been surprised but had sidestepped him adroitly, and Bridgey had hit the wall at full speed. De Jong moved in behind him, grabbed Bridgey’s right arm, and twisted it up into his back.
“What the hell are you trying to do, Bridgey?” he whispered. “George and Brad said to make it look good, but that was dangerous. Someone could get hurt.”
“W-what?” Bridgey sputtered into the wall. “You’re with us?”
“Of course, I am mate,” Nigel answered releasing his grip and stepping back. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well, you’re still with the club,” Bridgey reasoned.
“Have you noticed how little they’re playing me?” Nigel sneered. “They used me to get to this level, and now that they’re here, I’m too dangerous. How ridiculous is that?”
Bridgey tried to find a delicate way to put it, but couldn’t. “Well, not much really. You are pretty dangerous.”
Nigel shrugged. “Yes, yes, but they should still show a little loyalty. No, I’m on the way out, like you. Only, I’m not going to wait two years to get mine.”
Bridgey took the insult in stride. A truth for a truth, after all. “Well, what do we do now?”
“I get to wreck this room,” Nigel replied, “and you get to go off and help yourself to all that loot.”
“Sounds like a fair trade,” Bridgey grinned. Nigel grudgingly smiled in return, then took a step forward. “Move aside.”
Bridgey moved, and Nigel happily picked up the credenza from against the wall, staggered backwards several steps, then with a yell, charged. The wall crumpled, with the piece of furniture and the Dutchman disappearing through a massive hole.
Bridgey stepped through to see whether Nigel might have actually hurt himself this time, and found himself in a dimly lit hallway. Nigel was fine, brushing drywall dust and fragments away casually. The credenza hadn’t survived.
“Where are we?” Bridgey asked.
“Secret passage,” Nigel answered.
Bridgey raised an eyebrow, wondering how the Dutchman knew of its existence.
“What? Jô doesn’t know all the secrets of this place. His balls may be cut off, but mine aren’t, and a few of his girls like a strong man. I’ve snuck in here on more than one occasion.”
“But –”
“Oh come on, Bridgey, I may be a maniac but I’m not an idiot. I’ll just tell them I threw you through the wall, had no idea what was behind it…”
Bridgey thought for a moment, then shrugged. “Yeah, that ought to work.”
“Sure it will. Just have to make it look good.”
“Hu– Ooof!” Bridgey didn’t catch on until after Nigel had hit him in the gut. Doubling over in pain, he tried to protest but couldn’t find his voice.
“It’s okay, mate,” Nigel encouraged. “Just breathe slowly, you’ll be fine. There’s a lot more pain than damage.”
Bridgey winced, and straightened. “Gee, thanks,” he croaked, “that’s a huge comfort.”
“No worries,” Nigel smiled. “Now, just head that way, and you’ll find George, Brad and Kia waiting. Help yourself to as much cash as you can, and get back here before the end of the match. Those two gorillas are waiting.”
Bridgey nodded his thanks and began to move gingerly down the passage.
الوظيفة القطري
The referee had his arm up, eying his watch, and the whistle to his mouth. Despite being a man down, the Exiles had fought tooth and nail, refusing to give ground under a relentless City attack. They had reached the ninety minute mark still level at three.
Yawning, not for the first time, Vanessa whispered into Sheikh Mansour’s ear as they watched from his special Box. Leaning over, but not taking his eyes off the pitch, he nodded his assent. Covering her mouth again, the Frenchwoman rose, and made her way out of the stadium, as the match slipped into added time.
Unsurprisingly, given the locale, a full six minutes had been tacked on. Yet, the Exiles did not waver. Ade and Roque were playing more defence in this friendly than they had played in their entire careers.
Six minutes dragged into seven, then eight. The Exiles still hung on.
Finally, Petrov found the ball and hoofed it over the centre circle. The whistle sounded.
The match had ended at last, and City had been denied the victory. Mancini shook hands with Sparky, his predecessor, and had the good sense to not look to the owner’s box as he made his way off the pitch. Mansour stood, and with a hard look at Mubarak, strode away, with his security falling into step.
الوظيفة القطري
In the bowels of the palace, George, Brad and Bridgey sympathised with a very concerned Kia.
“We’ve moved all we have time for,” Brad told him. “We know you’re worried, but it’s time to haul ass.”
“I do not leave without Carlos,” Kia said.
“We don’t know where he is, mate,” Bridgey cautioned. “And I have to get back to Nigel, or we’re all nicked.”
“I have a very good idea where he is,” Kia insisted. “But you needn’t be troubled. I will go after him alone. Good luck to all of you.”
“Are you certain?” George asked.
“Si, amigo,” Kia replied.
“Alright, then,” George nodded. “Good luck.”
الوظيفة القطري
Sheikh Mansour strode into the trophy hall, followed by his retinue and a very subdued Khaldoon Al Mubarak, and stopped in his tracks. The case which held his FA Cup stood open and empty. He slipped back the sleeve of his jacket, revealing the security watch still on his left wrist. He turned to his guards and gestured back the way they had come.
“They can’t get far,” he said. “Fools.”
Winding through the palace, he came to the door guarded by the two gorillas. “Open it, you idiots!”
The duo sprang into action, fighting each other to get key to lock. Finally they threw open the doors, only to see Bridgey in the clutches of Nigel De Jong. The Dutchman was gripping his victim by the collar, fist cocked. Bridgey’s hands were covering his face. Nigel looked towards the Sheikh, and, with a hint of disappointment in his voice, asked, “Already?”
The Sheikh walked into the room, flicking a wrist towards De Jong. The enforcer let go of Bridgey, who stumbled backwards a step before recovering, and straightening his shirt. Mansour walked over to the hole in the wall and turned to look questioningly at Nigel, who shrugged sheepishly. The royal sized up the situation.
“Khaldoon,” the Sheikh said in a clear, cutting tone, “I am very displeased. See that Mr Bridge makes his flight and then report to me. We have much to discuss.”
الوظيفة القطري
The limo pulled up to the departure terminal, and Bridgey got out when the red cap opened the door. He waited patiently for Mubarak, who escorted him through security and to the boarding gate.
“We have been holding the flight, sirs,” the gate attendant informed them.
Mubarak turned to Bridgey, his face a thunderous cloud. “If I never see you again, Englishman, it will be too soon. Good riddance.”
Bridgey tried to think of a snappy comeback, but he was a bit new to having the upper hand, and drew a blank. A bit embarrassed, he handed the attendant his boarding pass, and stepped through the gate. George and Brad were seated together near the front of the aircraft, flying first class as always, and sipping champagne. They smiled at the sight of him, then gestured with their glasses to indicate that the rest of the party was further back.
As he pulled the curtains which divided first class from economy, a cheer greeted him from the rest of the Exiles, all completely oblivious to Mansour’s final slight. Bridgey’s seat was all the way to the rear of the plane, across the aisle from Sparky. He stowed his bag in the overhead compartment, and took his seat. A woman had the window seat, but her head was buried in a fashion magazine.
As he clicked his safety belt into place, she lowered her reading material and smiled hopefully at him. Bridgey was stunned to see Vanessa, but before he could ask why she was there, she dropped a watch that looked exactly like Sheikh Mansour’s into his lap. It was faint now, as its battery must have run down, but the alarm was beeping and the dial flashing.
“Amour,” she murmured, and gave him a deep kiss. Coming up for air, he stared at the watch. If it was here, and raising a ruckus, where was the Cup? He looked around, quizzically, then turned to Sparky.
“Where are Carlos and Kia?”
The Welshman shrugged, “No one’s seen them.” A bejeweled hand snaked around Bridgey’s neck, and he forgot the conspirators, immersing himself entirely in the long-missed affections of Madame Perroncel.
الوظيفة القطري
The sun was very high in the desert sky as two small figures on camels led a third beast, bearing a large chest, over the dunes. They were inexperienced with the animals, and heading away from any settlement, but they were unconcerned. In fact, they were laughing and singing.
“Do you know, Kia?” one said to the other. “These ugly animals aren’t as bad as they’re made out.”
“Si,” agreed his companion. “They’re very easy to negotiate with, if you just show them a bit of kindness.”
في النهاية
The Qatari Job, Part VII: The Cup Runneth Over by Martin Palazzotto is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
The Qatari Job, Part VI: The Best Laid Plans Of Mice & Man City
January 31, 2012
Have you read?
Part One: Bridge Over Troubled Waters
Part Two: Going To The Source
Part Three: A Dish Served Cold
Part Four: Tevez Under Wraps
Part Five: One Hump Or Two?
الوظيفة القطري
Bridgey’s heart was pumping to beat the band. It wasn’t that his conditioning was poor despite nearly two years of sitting on the City bench. Admittedly he wasn’t match fit; he had some work to do to shake off the rust and get his timing back, but he was in excellent shape. Nor was it the desert heat. The inflatable dome was fully air-conditioned, with the temperature inside probably thirty degrees cooler than outside. Still, the adrenaline coursing through his veins made it seem that his chest was on the verge of exploding. He was practicing for his first meaningful match in over a year, and his body, equally as well as his heart and mind, knew it. There was no doubt that he’d be in the starting eleven when the Exiles, as they’d now officially branded themselves, faced off against City tomorrow, and although this was meant to be a light practice, Bridgey simply couldn’t contain his enthusiasm.
He lunged into a tackle with both feet, knocking the ball out of touch even as Wright-Phillips yelped in fear and leaped over the challenge. A shrill whistle sounded and the gaffer barked out, “Easy, Wayne, easy. We can’t afford to lose anyone. Save all that energy for tomorrow, boyo!
Bridgey scrambled to his feet, laughing. Whatever happened tomorrow, whether or not they had their revenge, almost didn’t matter. He had rediscovered the joy of the game.
“Sure, Sparky, you’re the boss,” he shouted back playfully. Still laughing, he pulled Wright-Phillips into a headlock and gave him an affectionate noogie. Then he let the squirming winger loose, and ran back to the box as Robinho and Bellamy came jogging over to collect their scrimmage mate.
SWP was rubbing his scalp furiously as they trotted up, a very displeased look on his face. “What’s bloody well gotten into him?” he scowled.
Robbie laughed and slapped the little winger on the back. Bellamy smiled, too, and looking towards the retreating left back, replied, “Dunno, mate, but I like it!”
Play resumed for another five minutes, until three familiar figures strode into the practice facility. Two were tall, blonde, deeply tanned and sporting such perfect teeth that their smiles were visible from one end of the pitch to the other. The third man was much shorter, and obviously of South American descent, with his dark features and thick mane of raven hair. While he may not have challenged his companions in stature, his clothing and jewelry was every bit as exclusive as their own, and he exuded the same air of confidence.
The game broke down with their appearance, although none of them acknowledged the expectant gaze of the players. They continued talking amongst themselves until they had reached Sparky, whereupon they all greeted him with a handshake and spoke a few words. The manager nodded, then turning, put a whistle to his lips. Upon seeing everyone standing still, however, he let go of the air in his lungs and frowned.
“Crikey!” his voice barked out again. “If that’s all it takes for you lot to stop concentrating on what you should be about, we might as well pack it in now.”
There were a few sheepish grins, and one or two players tried to pick up the play once more. As they did, the gaffer gave two short blasts on his whistle.
“Too late for that, now,” he shouted. “But keep it in mind tomorrow when everything will be on the line. For now, just get your arses into the clubhouse.”
With that, he and the three new arrivals walked towards a small pre-fab structure situated at the far end of the inflatable tent which housed the entire practice facility.
The players followed them and filed into a big room with rows of lockers aligned against three walls, each with a comfortable folding chair set in front of it. The fourth wall held three doorways, one to the showers, a second to the physio room, and the last to Sparky’s office.
Tacked to the top shelf of each open locker was a paper listing the next day’s starting line-up:
G — Shay
D — Petrov Boyata Onuoha Bridgey — D
M — Wright-Phillips Ireland Tevez Bellamy — M
F — Ade Robby — F
The sheet quickly caught everyone but Bridgey and Carlos’ attention, and the murmurs rose into a full debate, as it was examined.
Just as the hullaballoo threatened to spill over, Sparky emerged from his office, followed by the well-tanned Americans, George and Brad, and Kia Joorabchian. As the manager stood in the centre of the room, the actors flanked him.
George, as always, was resplendent in a linen suit of khaki and white cotton. Brad wore a silk jacket in silver over a collared v-neck shirt with an asymmetrical blocked pattern in black and white, and slacks of grey stone-washed denim tucked into calf-length Doc Martens. The look was punctuated by a rounded cap and a black walking stick with a diamond ringed grip. Kia, in a navy Armani suit with a white shirt open at the neck, strolled over to Carlos and casually slipped him five, then sat and looked expectantly at Sparky. As it had been out on the pitch, the three men immediately commanded the attention of the players, who followed Kia’s example, settling down to listen to their boss.
“That’s more like it,” the Welshman barked approvingly. “Now, I know some of you must be thinking I’ve forgotten everything I ever knew with that lineup, but here’s the simple truth.”
He began counting off points on his fingers.
“One, I know you’re worried that one or two players, like Ade, aren’t here yet. They’ve had other obligations, but they’ll be here tonight and ready to play tomorrow.
“Two, we’ve got too many strikers. You can’t all start, and you can’t all play up front.” He looked up sharply and snapped out another order. “Stop yer grumbling.” The dissenters went silent immediately, drawing a satisfied nod from their commander.
“Three, we’ve barely any defenders. They’re like camels: nasty, ugly and the last thing anyone wants to spend good money on.” This time, he was interrupted by a chuckle or two, which also cut off dead when his reproachful glance again fell on the group.
“Four, that means a midfielder or two…” Sparky looked pointedly at his unhappy Bulgarian, “… may have to play at the back. And a forward or two will have to play in the middle of the pitch.” There, he gave Carlos an appreciative nod, which was solemnly returned.
“Five, even with those caveats…” Now, his eye caught the befuddled looks of Dedryck Boyata and Stephen Ireland, causing him to pause and rephrase. “That means special circumstances, in case anyone was wondering. Even with those, some of you will have to come off the bench. Don’t worry, though. If our plan goes as expected, you’ll all have a role to play.”
There were some murmurs and exclamations of protest, but Sparky’s bushy-browed glare quickly subdued them. When the room had quieted, he resumed his lecture.
“Don’t forget, we’re here for revenge. Sure, we want to show City what’s what on the pitch, but the real intent is to hit Mansour where it hurts. So, George and Brad are going to lay it out for you one last time, to make sure you’ve got it right. Right?” There were nods all around. “Right, then. Pay attention.”
He turned, shook the Americans’ hands, and ceded the floor. George stepped up, with an easy smile on his face.
“Alright, fellas,” he began. “You all know the drill, I’m sure. Still, we’ll go over it one more time, because it’s just like a set-piece: timing makes all the difference…”
George went through the real game-plan, noting every man’s importance. Here and there, a question was posed, as someone wondered what to do in the event something unexpected occurred. Each time, he or Brad reassured the player, and gave specific instructions on how to handle the hypothetical crisis.
“The most important thing is never to lose your cool,” Brad reminded, not for the first time, “especially in the palace or in the tunnel…”
As if on cue, there was suddenly a tapping from under the floor between him and the players. Everyone went silent. Then, the tapping came one more time. Brad smiled, then rapped out three distinct taps with his stick.
There was a ripping sound, as carpet tape gave way, and a square section lifted up when a hinged door hidden beneath was raised. A strange misshapen head emerged. The intruder wore an extravagantly uneven Afro, and his crooked, hooked nose made his face look as asymmetrical as Brad’s shirt. There was another moment of stunned silence, then a chorus of hearty welcomes as the players recognised the newcomer as a long-lost comrade.
“Jô!” came the cries. “Bloody hell, mate! Haven’t seen you in ages! Where’ve you been keeping yourself?”
The Brazilian, climbed out of the hole, extricated himself from the smothering welcome of nearly a dozen embraces, and smoothed out his rumpled robes and sash, which some belatedly noticed were in the colours of Mansour’s House.
“I retired,” he explained. “Like all of you, I couldn’t take it anymore, always on the end of the bench. For me, it lasted years, though. Whether it was Shinawatra, or Mansour after him, someone would be sold and I would think, ‘Finally, my chance has come.’ But no, every time I would be ignored, and one of you would be bought.” His expression darkened at the memory and his audience felt shame at their own indignation over treatment far less egregious than that put upon their forgotten friend.
“That was not the worst of it, however,” he continued. “When my so-called playing days came to an end, Mansour’s lackey, Khaldoon Mubarak, came to me with a job offer. I was excited, thinking I would have a cosy front-office post with the club, like the one given to Vieira. Instead, I was informed that the Sheikh had noticed my loyalty, despite my circumstances, and believed that I would be the perfect man to oversee his harem.”
Voices cried out in joyous congratulations, but the bitter man waved them off with a scowl. “Do none of you learn? Never are Mansour’s promises are as magnanimous as they seem,” he growled, “and it is always you, not he, who pays in the end. Yes, I protect his wives and concubines, gorgeous beauties each and every one, but if I thought my balls had been cut off on the substitute’s bench at City, I learned how that truly feels when I took this job.”
To a man, his audience blanched and swallowed, their throats suddenly drier than the desert outside. Remembering the ancient customs of the region, clasped hands surreptitiously crept down and covered nether regions, with each one again thinking the same thought they had silently uttered when being chosen to play ahead of the Brazilian in days past: “Better him than me.”
“I know that expression, and the thought behind it,” Jô said quietly. “You can’t hide it from me. I’ve seen it all my life.
The pain of his endless suffering was evident on his face, but then he smiled and it vanished, like a thundercloud chased away by the sun.
“I don’t hold you in contempt, however. I would feel the same, were I you. No, Mansour is the true evil, and I have come to help you gain your vengeance and with it, my own. And the best part for me, is that I know this time none of you can succeed without me there at your side.”
He looked down at a small sea of nervous, uncertain faces, then he raised his fists and shouted, “Down with Mansour!”
A rousing roar of agreement met his battle cry, and he was again smothered in a massive, boisterous embrace. When the noise subsided, George spoke again.
“Jô’s tunnel leads into the heart of the palace,” he said. “Tomorrow, while the dying moments of the match are played out, Brad, Bridgey, Carlos and myself will go through the tunnel. Shaun and Craig will be waiting for us. Together, we will lighten the Sheikh of a hefty portion of his vast wealth.”
Carlos spoke for the first time. “There is a slight change in plans,” he said. The rest looked his way. “Money is all well and good, but my vengeance requires that the Sheikh pay a higher, more personal price. I intend to relieve our host of the FA Cup.”
Jô shook his head. “That will be impossible. Even though it is out in the open, the trophy is more tightly guarded than his vault.”
“I do not care,” Carlos’ eyes blazed. “I will have it!”
The other players began squabbling with one another, some siding with Carlos, others more concerned about their share of the cash. Even Sparky couldn’t hush the sudden din. Brad and George looked at each other and smiled, and the former banged his stick on the floor three more times. Everyone froze.
“We had intended to bring up this possibility,” George informed the group. “It’s the main reason we took the job, in fact.”
“Yes,” Brad agreed. “Stealing money has been done ad nauseum. We needed a plot twist, and the FA Cup is perfect. We just wanted to be sure you guys were up to the challenge before mentioning it.”
Jô looked at the Americans. “You don’t understand. Mansour never goes anywhere without that trophy,” he explained. “There is a transmitter embedded in it. If the trophy is removed more than a kilometre’s distance from the Sheikh, an alarm sounds from an electronic bracelet that never leaves His Highness’ wrist. What you intend cannot be done.”
George’s easy grinned widened. “There’s always a way, Jô. In this case, we just require a bit of misdirection and a light touch.”
“Yes,” Brad agreed again. “And we have just the lady for the job.”
Something in the actor’s tone caused Bridgey’s head to snap up. He had a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach that he knew just who this woman was.
الوظيفة القطري
Don’t miss the exciting finale of The Qatari Job, coming Tuesday, 7 February!
The Qatari Job, Part VI: The Best Laid Plans Of Mice & Man City by Martin Palazzotto is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
The Qatari Job, Part V: One Hump Or Two?
January 27, 2012
Have you read?
Part One: Bridge Over Troubled Waters
Part Two: Going To The Source
Part Three: A Dish Served Cold
Part Four: Tevez Under Wraps
الوظيفة القطري
Blinding sun, sweltering heat, gritty, swirling, gusting wind, and no sign of relief as endless dunes of burning sand stretched from one shimmering horizon to the other. Apparently there were worse places than Inglaterra. Not for the first time, Carlos cursed the way the City regime treated him.
The current first squad, led by Mancini, were met at the airport by a horde of welcoming fans and escorted to Sheikh Mansour’s Qatari palace in a caravan of gleaming, air-conditioned limousines. Carlos and Kia, along with the rest of the City exiles, were forced to make the same journey in a more traditional, less comfortable form of caravan. Had the exiles been bused, or even trucked, across the desert, he would have taken the indignity in stride. He had been raised in the barrio after all, and his success hadn’t smoothed over all the rough edges. Not hardly. But camels? This was humiliation on a new level.
He and Kia rode at the head of the players, just behind the lead group, which included Brad, George, Sparky and Bridgey. The two actors were treating the experience as a grand adventure, but Carlos knew that Sparky and Bridgey were every bit as incensed as he and Kia. Still, they were doing their best to control their beasts, remaining both tall and proud in the saddle to set an example for the squad.
Carlos was dressed in similar fashion to the London training session, with a chequered ghutra and an ogaal wrapped around his head to shield him from the heat, rather than a toque and snood to ward off the cold. Heavy, dark sunglasses shaded his eyes, and had there been any press along to record their journey, his bushy brows and bulbous nostrils again would have been the only exposed features by which to mark him. Carlos fumed at the lack of media, both because they were never about when they might be of use and because he knew that his enemies had made sure of their absence, so that this insult could easily be denied.
Most of the other players were grumbling as well, all having difficulty keeping the temperamental beasts in line. All that is except for Bellamy. His particular dromedary was meek and cooperative. Carlos supposed that the sight of a nine iron being substituted for the standard issue riding crop had made the beast think twice about causing any mischief. The wary dromedary hadn’t stepped out of line once along the trip, leaving Bellamy to whistle a tune and give his mates stick for their poor ‘horsemanship’.
They day wore on and the sun continued to beat down. Carlos thought they’d never reach the palace. Then, just when he was ready to give in, they crested a dune and the edifice rose up before them, perhaps two kilometres away. Outside the walls of the large compound, a huge square of ground had been platted off and leveled. Next to it, a large, inflatable tent had been erected, with large generators connected to it by thick, ribbed hoses. It had to be the air-conditioned practice pitch, which had been negotiated as part of the deal to stage the special charity match between the exiles and City’s first team.
To one side of the big tent were pitched nearly twenty smaller tents: their sleeping quarters. Sheikh Mansour had refused to welcome the banished players inside his luxurious walls. Carlos had been outraged at yet another snub when he was informed of it during the London meeting. He had been ready to pack it in, but George and Brad had brought him around, insisting that being housed outside the palace walls actually played into their plans.
Now, they rode into camp and slid awkwardly off their beasts, who having arrived, simply plopped down in the sand and brayed for water. Carlos stumbled to his tent, carrying his own gear. The kit wasn’t very heavy; but the long, herky-jerky ride had done something to his sense of balance. This must be what it is like to have sea legs, he thought.
As he was about to duck into his tent and take a nap, he heard Sparky call out to the entire group. “Stow your things and report to the mess tent. We’ll have a light lunch and get you all re-hydrated.”
الوظيفة القطري
In an opulent stateroom, done entirely in marble, with fine tapestries draped along the walls, three men stood near a bank of security monitors. Behind them, in the centre of the room, stood a trophy case of ebony and glass. Periodically, floating motes of dust revealed otherwise invisible laser beams, which, along with sensor pads and an array of strategically placed cameras, protected the case. Inside, polished to a blinding sheen, stood an official winner’s replica of the FA Cup. It went wherever the proud owner of Manchester City traveled.
Khaldoon Al Mubarak, Manchester City Chairman, bowed deeply to His Highness, Sheikh Mansour bin Zayed Sultan Al Nahyad, then turned to watch the monitors. Although it had not escaped his notice that the other man, the Italian, Mancini’s bow had barely been more than a nod, he followed his master’s example and ignored the insult. Infidel! His arrogance would one day be repaid in kind, as soon as he outlived his usefulness. These Europeans were such fools. What made the man think his own fate would be any different than his compatriots outside the walls?
“The match will be good for the club’s image.”
His master’s remark brought Mubarak back to the business at hand. “Yes, Highness,” he replied, his sour mood evident in his voice.
“You have reservations?”
“This has all come together rather quickly, and perhaps too easily, Highness.”
The Sheikh waved a dismissive hand. “That is not a difficult riddle to unravel. They simply are eager for some revenge; their pride has been hurt.”
“A vengeful man is a dangerous one, Highness.”
“Bah, what can they do?”
“We are not exactly at full strength, Highness, what with injuries and the Toures away at the Cup of Nations. We cannot afford for anyone to get hurt in a meaningless affair.”
“You think they would deliberately seek to injure their former teammates, Khaldoon?”
“They wouldn’t dare!” Mancini interjected himself into the conversation. “They all know what De Jong would do to them.”
The Sheikh nodded sagely at the manager, again ignoring his failure to show proper respect when addressing royalty, then he turned to Mubarak, spread his hands, palms up, and smiled. “There you have it. The situation is well in hand.”
Khaldoon Al Mubarak glowered at the Italian, then bowed his head to his master. “As you say, Highness. I just wish that I could be so sure. Somehow, I feel like a lamb being led to slaughter. And the smiles of those two Americans remind me of hungry jackals.”
الوظيفة القطري
Part VI: The Best Laid Plans Of Mice & Man City
The Qatari Job, Part V: One Hump Or Two? by Martin Palazzotto is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
The Qatari Job, Part IV: Tevez Under Wraps
January 24, 2012
Have you read?
Part One: Bridge Over Troubled Waters
Part Two: Going To The Source
Part Three: A Dish Served Cold
الوظيفة القطري
Grey skies, freezing rain, biting cold wind, and not the merest hint of sun behind an endless blanket of cloud. Si, Carlos was freezing his cojones off in Inglaterra again. At least this time, no accursed official, warming his toes in a cozy Wembley office, was going to tell him he couldn’t wear a snood. Carlos was sporting an immense black neck wrap matched by an equally impressive wool hat topped with a pom that could easily double as a number 3 FIFA issue practice ball. Only his fiery eyes and bulbous nostrils stuck out from underneath the garments to verify that the man everyone had come to see was in fact present. While the Argentine truly was cold, especially considering that he had just jetted in from balmy Buenos Aires, he was also having a little stick with the gaggle of reporters in the stand, not that he’d ever give them the satisfaction of admitting it.
With the others who had gathered for the ‘impromptu’ training session, he trotted halfheartedly through Sparky’s training drills and a ten minute five-on five scrimmage, smug n the knowledge that he wouldn’t have to hear anything from the Welshman about not going full-bore in practice. Not that the exertion mightn’t have warmed his bones somewhat. The January afternoon at Loftus Road drew a heavy puff of steamy air with every breath and had everyone holding hands under armpits and dancing on the balls of their feet in an effort to stay warm.
Bellamy was down from Liverpool, which hadn’t made his new club too happy. They hadn’t realised just how far he was prepared to take the codicil in his contract which guaranteed him every opportunity to exact retribution from City. As it turned out, the lawyers couldn’t guarantee it didn’t mean loaning him out on a one-match basis to anyone who asked. So, whether the new Anfield Americans liked it or not, here he was, laughing and joking with everyone. Wright-Phillips was showing the Welshman around his new digs. The pair looked like reunited twins, both thin and wiry, with matching grins stretched from ear to ear.
Roque was there, too, and having chosen machismo over the good sense his madre gave him by eschewing the garments Carlos had happily donned, his fashion model looks were somewhat altered by an extremely chalky pallor and nearly blue lips. With his luck though, his appearance would probably land him on the next Laurel K Hamilton cover. Robinho had apparently shown the most wisdom of any of them, sending an RSVP, but promising to be ready and available in Qatar, when the time came.
The media watched everyone go through their paces, filling nearly one whole stand. With such attention, it was no surprise that the American co-conspirators which Bridgey had recruited had put in an appearance. Brad even joined in the scrimmage for a few moments. Carlos was impressed that the American actually showed a bit of skill. Afterwards, the press almost crushed him and George, leaving the real players to get inside and get something warm in them.
The whole thing had been staged like the typical publicity stunt. and the cynical hacks would later write it up as a pathetic photo-op. That was all well and good, however, as it gave the group a chance to get together for a surreptitious planning session. Kia, always one to milk every drop from an opportunity, pointed out that the media exposure could only help push through Carlos’ sale. So, he forewent his usual surly approach, and answered the endless questions about Paris in the press room after he had showered.
Yes, he was eager to get back on the pitch. Yes, Paris would be a place his family might like, and, yes, of course the club would offer him a new challenge. It would be nice to play with Pastore, his compatriot, as well. No, he hadn’t ruled out Inter or Milan, that was up to City. No, he had no idea why negotiations with PSG had broken down, he had no qualms about playing for another Arab owner, none at all. This one was from Qatar, remember, not the UAE. He smiled slyly at the reporters,when he reminded them that those were two different countries, after all, and so, two different men. What was that last? A smile, a gracious laugh, and no, he hadn’t missed the English weather one bit.
In private, he had railed at his agent. “Why are you trying to send me to another one of these sheikhs, Kia? He will be just like the other; he will smile and promise the world, then shrug and say there is nothing he can do after I have signed the contract. They are all the same!”
Why had negotiations broken down, the press wanted to know? Because, if he was going to play for someone he could not trust, he would name the price and take not a Euro less, that was why! They thought he was desperate to play, and truth be told, he was chomping at the bit. But Kia had a firm hold on the reins. In the end, Carlos would be in for a lot of hay, as the Americans liked to say. If they paid his price, he would play for the Qataris, and, as Kia smugly pointed out, if not, they would at least draw a few more Euros out of the Milanese.
As Carlos stepped off the daïs, Bridgey was there to shake his hand, put an arm around, and pose for a few more shots. “See you tonight,” he whispered conspiratorially out of the corner of his mouth as the flash bulbs went off.
الوظيفة القطري
Part Five: One Hump Or Two?
Part VI: The Best Laid Plans Of Mice & Man City
The Qatari Job, Part IV: Tevez Under Wraps by Martin Palazzotto is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
The Qatari Job, Part III: A Dish Served Cold
January 20, 2012
Have you read?
Part One: Bridge Over Troubled Waters
Part Two: Going To The Source
الوظيفة القطري
Outside, the Capital Federal section of Cuidad Autonoma de Buenos Aires was in full swing, very much in parallel with UEFA’s winter transfer market. Under the hot January sun, pedestrians were scurrying, horns were blaring, cars were flying and cabbies were leaning out of windows hurl abuse, without slowing, as they passed along the Avenida Rivadavia. None of that was apparent to one of the city’s most well known citizens, however. With his business manager, he was sequestered inside the regal and well insulated confines of Confiteria las Violetas. The only sounds which fell on their ears were the hushed murmurs of their fellow patrons, the dulcet tones of piped-in Spanish guitar, and the clinking of bone white china and sterling silver dinnerware, and, although the room was lit as brilliantly as a cloudless summer’s day, its vaulted ceilings, supported by gleaming Corinthian columns, and its marble tile and hardwood wainscoting, contrasted by white and red overlaid table linens, provided the duo a peaceful elegance that was completely at odds with the chaotic hustle and bustle just outside the venerable cafe’s doors.
The calm of Las Violetas had been the perfect sanctuary for the Porténo in question during the past several months, since he had fled Manchester’s grey skies and the Machiavellian machinations of its nouveau riche football club, nestled in the newly christened Etihad Campus. Now, however, matters were coming to a head and he had a decision to make. Before the window closed, he expected that he would finally be sold by the club and could begin to pick up the shards of a career that had shattered like a toppled Swarovski figurine. Yet, before the expected transaction crystallised, another opportunity had presented itself. It was an opportunity for revenge.
Now, he and his advisor were meeting to make a critical choice. He felt not once, but twice betrayed by his Qatari overlords and their Italian taskmaster. The need for retribution tore away at his soul like a ravenous beast, but he knew that to enter into this venture put his future, and that of his family, at risk. He cared greatly for his wife and children, and had exacted much from his many erstwhile employers in their name. Yet, he put much stake in his pride as a man, as well. Could he continue to ply his trade on a global stage if he failed to exact a measure of vengeance from those who had so wronged him?
He listened again to the plan laid out by his advisor, thoughtfully rubbing the stubble dotting his cheek with the back of his fingers, then running his thumb over the burn which marred his neck, stretching the scar tissue to its limit.
“Yo no se, Kia,” he hedged, not for the first time. “Bridgey and I are hermanos in our suffering at the hands of City, but everything he touches seems cursed. I fear to enter into any pact with him.”
“Normally, I would agree with you, Carlos,” Kia nodded, “but while he may have started the ball rolling, he is no longer the principal in this plot. The Americanos have taken over.”
“The Americans?” Carlos sneered. “Bah! They are actors. What do they know of this?”
“Si, they are actors,” Kia conceded, “but they have dabbled in plots like this more than once and not been caught.
Carlos raised a doubting eyebrow. He scanned the daily that Kia had brought him, containing the ‘exclusive’ report on the friendly that had been scheduled in the desert. Under a smiling picture of one of the two men whom he most hated in the world, and a headline which read “Sheikh Announces Ambitious Friendly”, ran the following article:
Reuters — In order to help promote Qatar’s ability to keep its grand promises regarding the 2022 World Cup, new Manchester City owner Sheikh Mansour, of the neighbouring United Arab Emirates, has decided to stage a massive friendly involving his current squad, managed by Roberto Mancini, and a collection of former players to be guided by deposed City boss Mark Hughes. The event will be staged on the grounds of Mansour’s Qatari palace in one of the fabled portable stadia that were much hyped during Qatar’s successful bid to stage the ‘22 tournament.
Hughes’ lineup has yet to be confirmed, but it is expected that Wayne Bridge and Carlos Tevez, the two players currently at the top of Roberto Mancini’s outgoing pile, will be involved.
The event will benefit Amnesty International, a pet project of the two Hollywood stars, George Clooney and Brad Pitt, who recently flew to the tiny Emirate and pitched the idea to Sheikh Mansour.
“Do you really think they can pull this off, Kia?“ Carlos asked doubtfully. “What they intend requires muy grande cojones, amigo.”
“Who better than the biggest stars Hollywood has to offer, then? I have been thorough in checking out their credentials,” Kia assured his client. “I would not recommend this course if I hadn’t done a complete investigation. Do you doubt me?”
Carlos’ brow rose higher in answer.
Kia’s expression saddened and his voice took on an injured tone. “You insult me, Carlos. When have I ever steered you wrong?”
“Only every step of the way, Kia,” his client laughed bitterly. “I left Corinthians because you said London was one of the greatest cities of the world. Yet, for all it’s greatness, the sun seems disinclined to visit very often; the place is grey and raining all the time. All of Inglaterra is like that. I will grant you that you rescued me from the misery of West Ham in a very creative manner, but then you talked me out of my happiness at Old Trafford for the sake of money. I was a fool to listen then, as I am now!”
Kia laughed. “You are a fool for the money, Carlos. Every step of the way, I have made you and your family richer. It has been a difficult road, si, but I know you appreciate me for that.”
Carlos had the good grace to look ashamed of himself. He reached out and placed a reassuring hand on his agent’s forearm. “You know that I do, Kia. I apologise, this is all very stressful.”
Kia waved off the apology. “I understand, amigo. Do not trouble yourself. Shall I tell Bridgey that you are in?”
“No se, amigo, no se.” Fear was etched on Carlos’ troubled face. “The match appeals to me. I would love nothing better than to show both the Italian and the Sheikh just how foolish they were to mistreat me. It is the theft which bothers me. You know that Juan Alberto is already in prison for trying such a thing. What would it do to mi madre if both her sons were to shame her so?”
Kia shook his head, sadly. “I am very sorry for Juan, as you know, although I still hold anger in my heart for the way your own brother tried to implicate you in his guilt. Still, this is a very different matter, amigo. For one thing, this affair will be well hidden, not attempted in the light of day. For another, there will be no guns; no one will be hurt — except in their wallet, of course. And that is the least that City deserves, no?”
“Si, that is the least of it,” Carlos agreed. “You are certain that we will not be caught?”
“There is always a danger when you stick your neck out,” Kia shrugged, “but in this case it is minimal. The Sheikh will not want such affairs to become public knowledge, as it will tarnish his reputation and reflect badly on his country’s efforts, whether we succeed or fail. But, si, I have every confidence that we will succeed, amigo, and that it will be both satisfying and profitable.”
Carlos looked deep into the eyes of the man who had brought his career to such heights, then he bowed his head and stared into the demitasse of espresso sitting before him. He knew that Kia’s heart was ruled by money, but not his mind. That was as astute as they come. For himself, he wanted — no, needed — vengeance but it could not come at the cost of shaming his family. That was too dear a price for him to pay.
He pondered the situation for a long time. So long, that Kia was tempted to offer more encouragement. Yet, the businessman knew that he had given all the advice that he could to his friend and client. Anything else he said would be going past the point of sale. Therefore, he just sat motionless, while the footballer wrestled with his inner demons.
Finally, Carlos looked up. There was a fiery determination in his eyes. He picked up the demitasse, downed the hot liquid in a single gulp, and replaced the tiny cup in its saucer with enough force for the porcelain to echo throughout the cafe.
As startled faces swung to face him, he nodded at Kia. “Call Bridgey,” he said. “Tell him we’re in.”
الوظيفة القطري
Part Four: Tevez Under Wraps
Part Five: One Hump Or Two?
Part VI: The Best Laid Plans Of Mice & Man City
The Qatari Job, Part III: A Dish Served Cold by Martin Palazzotto is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 Unported License.
The Totem
December 19, 2011
— 2 Comments
by Jude Ellery
Sit down, child, and I will tell you the history of the tribe.
Long ago, a people settled on the bank of a wide river. On the whole they lived a good life and thrived. There was ample game, roots and berries in the wood, and fresh water aplenty. The soil was good for tilling and growing and the winters were not too harsh or long. Still, the people were unhappy. Another, smaller, tribe lived on the opposite bank, but no matter how the people tried, their neighbours always seemed to have more and better. When traders came up the river, they would always stop on the far bank first, and the neighbours would have first choice of the best wares.
One day, a long-boat came up the river, its bow strangely marked. On board was a master gardener from a far off land. He brought with him a tree of magical wood. The neighbours were enchanted with it and bargained furiously. After many days of haggling, they finally agreed to meet the gardener’s exorbitant price.
The neighbours were extremely proud of the tree. They carved it lovingly, creating a strong totem to represent their village, painting it in a brilliant red. When they were through, they raised the totem up and faced it across the river where it would always see and be seen by the people on the other bank.
Of course, the people were consumed with jealousy. Every morning when they awoke and emerged from the longhouse, the totem was gazing at them mockingly from the far bank. A few of the people crossed the river to see the totem up close. When they returned, they confirmed that the totem was indeed majestic and hid a strong enchantment. The news only made the elders of the people more envious and, soon, the people were forbidden from crossing the river to gaze upon the totem.
A year passed, and then another, but the jealousy of the people did not. Finally, a plot was hatched. The people’s finest warriors would row across the river in the dead of night and ‘liberate’ the totem from the overly proud neighbours, bringing it to the near shore, where it would be truly loved and admired
The next morning, the people gazed in wonder upon their prize. The elders cried out with joy; this thing was so beautiful, so perfect. The totem was laid gently on a row of wooden horses and the people’s best craftsmen were summoned. With only a few minor alterations, the totem would represent their tribe forever.
Needless to say, the neighbours were enraged at the theft of their dearly bought totem. They rowed across the river in force, but they were few and the people were many. The neighbours were easily repelled and fled back across the river, shaking their fists at the people and cursing the totem.
The craftsman set to work on the tree, day and night. Chisels large and small worked in unison, re-shaping the neighbour’s carving and adding the tribe’s unique markings. As the craftsmen worked on the tree they told stories: epic tales of heroes, filled with fearsome villains and happy endings. Some of the children overheard these stories. Every night, after the campfire rituals, the boys would recount these stories to the others with much exaggeration and repetition. Neither the craftsmen nor the boys ever tired of their stories, such was the allure of the totem
The village was filled with a magical spirit; life was the best it had ever been. Then, as the carving neared completion, one of the craftsmen found a knot, right at the heart of the tree. Refusing to panic, he pointed it out to the chief and the senior craftsman. Both agreed that the blemish could be removed with little difficulty and that the tree would remain the most beautiful thing they had ever set eyes upon.
Thus, the craftsman adapted the design, carving a hole in the middle of the tree where the knot had been, working a new pattern. Everyone agreed that the imperfection was in fact a blessing. It was, they believed, representative of the tribe’s own imperfection, no matter how they strived for honour and obeisance to the Spirits. Only the Spirits were faultless.
When the craftsmen were done, the elders came forth and added finishing touches. A beautiful set of wooden wings, carved by the first members of the people to settle by the river, was bound onto the wood with strong hemp rope, and bright turquoise gemstones were embedded as eyes. Where the totem had once been red, the elders painted it a vibrant blue and white which reflected the limitless sky. It’s fearsome visage would surely strike doubt in the hearts of any invaders and infuse the fighting spirit of their own warriors.
Finally, the chief took from his robe a small ivory knife, and carved a second hole in the tree. This would be its mouth. The warriors who had brought the totem across the river were tasked with raising it. As one, they lifted the creation high, placing it into a neat hole that had been dug in the middle of the camp.
But the tree did not fit.
Mysteriously, the tree had grown thicker despite their whittling away at the neighbour’s original carving. Unperturbed, the craftsmen busied themselves, enlarging the hole to accommodate the tree’s girth. After a short while, the hole was ample and the tree stood proudly in the clearing. Now, it mocked the neighbours across the wide water, and not the people.
For a year, the people’s lives were bliss. Men and women of the village brought offerings to the totem and prayed for the continued growth of the village. As far as anyone knew, the totem was pleased, because the settlement thrived. Traders now docked on their side of the river first and emissaries from far off tribes came to visit them, instead of the neighbours.
With the anniversary of the totem’s raising nigh, the chief declared a commemorative feast. On the morning of the special day, a longboat docked at the village and the master gardener disembarked. All the village took his arrival as further confirmation of their new status. The gardener was given a special seat of honour for the feast. He thanked them graciously but said nothing more about the purpose of his visit.
The feast took place in the square in front of the longhouse, with tables set on three sides, facing the totem. To commence the festivities, the chief and his wife laid a special offering at the feet of the totem and sang it a song of praise. To everyone’s surprise, the totem answered.
Speaking in a sonorous rumble, using simple, halting phrases, the totem pole thanked the tribe for all they had done in making it look so beautiful, but then it reminded them it had not asked them to do so. It thanked the boys and girls for the lavish gifts they had placed at its feet throughout the year, but, again, it stressed that it had not requested any such favours. It thanked the tribe’s elders for worshipping it every night, but noted that it had never sought a position of such responsibility.
The people were stunned at what they heard, but the totem had not finished.
It thanked them for painting it in their sacred colours, but reminded them that the winds would chip away at that paint over time. It thanked them for giving it wings, but wondered at what purpose they served if he remained anchored to the ground. Finally, it thanked the tribe leader for giving it a mouth. Though it had taken it many moons to learn the speech of the people, it hoped that they would understand that it hadn’t meant to lead them on. All it really longed for, it said, was to return to its own forest, to be with its own kind. The totem pole then asked the people to free it from its hole in the ground, that it might return home with the gardener.
The chief was furious. He decried the totem pole as work of evil spirits. He ripped down its wings and scraped off the blue paint. Some of the tribe lamented the traditional methods they had used in the totem pole’s construction and erection, and concluded its base must have rotted in the short time that it had been immersed in the ground. Others declared the totem pole was representative not only of the tribe, but also of the nature of decay, and that it was bound to turn sour in time. Some desperately attempted to restore the totem pole to its former glory, but the love and spirit no longer existed to achieve such wonder. Others argued that it should be burned to the ground, but the gardener pleaded that he had never meant for the tree to leave its home permanently. It was only meant to travel for a time, he said, to gather support for the poor tribes in its homeland.
The tribe could not reach a consensus. Their squabbling was a disappointing contrast to the euphoria of the previous year. Across the river, the neighbours laughed at the people believing they had gotten exactly what they deserved. Rather than themselves, however, the people blamed the totem pole.
All the forlorn totem could do was remind them that he had asked for none of this.
