Traveling (continued)
It had not been very long after we had finalized the deal with
Papadimitriou that we left Greece. Although we did waste some hours trying to see if there was anyone else worth pursuing in the surrounding area of Athens. Ultimately, our Greek translator convinced us that we should be pleased we found one teenager that suited our purpose, and that we shouldn’t try and fill our whole team within one country.
“It might look suspicious,” he had said, giving us a look that implied that we were already far too suspicious and that if he were one of us, he wouldn’t hang around long... especially with that strange black car following us around the city.
So after a brief conversation with our driver, who indicated that we had our choice of transportation, the sea was considered the best option. (Neither Fleming or I had a particularly desire to take the jet until our eyes had at least returned to single vision.)
You do have to wonder about our common sense though, taking a cruise when neither of us was feeling particularly balanced.
Cruising across the Ionian and Adriatic Sea on the way to Italy is not the worst way to pass a night, however. It was a relatively smooth passage in the private yacht that had met us at the dock. It didn’t hurt that the yacht had nicer rooms than most places I’ve lived.
Italy.
Rome.
Another strange youth team coach telling our translator (a youngish fellow of poor complexion, but quickly found and highly recommended by our captain - “the cleverest son of my niece”) that none of this batch of players could produce much of anything worthwhile… though there was a player he knew of, his elder brother’s wife’s nephew, who might be interested. He told us the directions and we were on our way.
Alessandro di Chiara was a tall lanky lad of 18 or so. According to the translator, the kid had been playing with the Italian international youth sides until a year or so ago before he was kicked off the squad.
“They said that he wasn’t learning to tackle and that he had failed a mental aptitude test. But he says that’s all a lie,” continued the translator. “He says the coach had a personal vendetta against him because he thinks
Alesandro… shall we say… ‘kissed’… his 16-year old daughter.”
“Did he?” asked Fleming.
“No,” said
Di Chiara, after the translator relayed the question. The kid made a face like he’d rather stick his face in a pile of dung.
“So where has he been playing then?” I asked, trying not to giggle.
After this was relayed to the kid and he had answered, the translator shrugged and said, “He says he can’t get on a club anywhere since the head coach has a lot of cousins who were in scouting.”
“Does he sound honest?” said Fleming.
“Maybe,” said the translator.
“Guess we’d better talk to the youth coach that sent him packing. Tell him we might be back later today,” Fleming said with a sigh.
It didn’t take long to get to the facility and with some explanation our translator got us in to see the Italian coach. He looked like a former player, still fairly fit and athletic. After the translator told him the basics the coach said (in English), “
di Chiara? I will tell you two myself, he’s a no good player who isn’t worth a glance. You better off talking to one of our player’s in training here; there are a couple of very good ones still looking for club contracts who’d like playing in a first team squad in America.”
(I didn’t bother to correct his assumption about who we were scouting for.)
So we wandered around the facility a bit and saw a bunch of highly focused, disciplined Italian players. “As you can see,” said the coach, “any of these player is worth a bit of a gamble.”
“We’ll think about it,” said Fleming.
Back at the car after a moment, and the two of us were deep in thought.
“So where does that leave us? None of those players suit our purposes, each is a dedicated Italian locked into a fast track to the international side.
di Chiara is much more our style, but we don’t know if he’s actually any good,” said Fleming.
“That’s true,” I said. “Somebody’s lying to us.”
“But who?”
I considered for a moment. “I think it’s the coach.”
Fleming gave me a look, “Why him? What’s the coach got to lie about?”
“Did you happen to see the photograph he had on his desk?”
“Er… no.”
“I think it was his daughter.”
“And?”
I paused. “I’m trying to think of a polite way of saying ‘oink’ but I’m drawing a blank.”
Fleming brought his eyebrows together. “Ah… so the coach thinks the kid snogged his daughter, confronts him, and the kid says that the daughter in question is uglier than snot… So goodbye kid. Yeah, I could see that. Rough.”
I nodded.
“Well,” Fleming said. “Maybe I need to go talk to him again.” He asked the driver to open the back and reached into his bag in the trunk. He pulled something out and tucked it into the small of his back.
He walked back into the building and was gone for a few minutes. I waited next the car. A few minutes later and he was back, trying not to crack a smile.
“So?” I said.
“Oh, the coach was lying. He told me that the kid has really good talent and could be a class act one day. He said he and the kid had a falling out for personal reasons. He said he was really sorry and he'd never do it again, and wouldn't I like to meet his daughter.” He paused. "She has a wonderful personality, I'm told."
We headed back to
di Chiara's place and concluded the arrangements. Another Qatari passport handed over. The translator stayed behind to make sure the details were clear.
On our way back to the car I gave Fleming a hard look. “A lobbyist, eh?” I asked.
He smiled a bit and climbed into the car. I got in next to him.
He was quiet for a moment then turned to me and said, “It might not have been the fullest of descriptions…. driver, we’d better get out of here.”
“Here?” asked the driver.
“Italy,” Fleming and I said in unison.
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