The Qatari Job, Part III: A Dish Served Cold

by Martin Palazzotto

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.