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The Highly Recommended, Improving Influence of Cold Hard Cash.
Prologue
The man with the sunglasses wearing the dark pin-striped suit led me into a small private office in the non-descript strip mall, just outside of the city of W________.
I still clutched the letter I received earlier that morning in my clammy right hand, still nervous about what exactly I was doing here.
There was an empty desk, with a chair behind it. Two other chairs were on the opposite side of the desk. There were no windows, and the doors - one behind me were I had come in and one across from it behind the desk- had no visible means of opening them.
This was a bad sign.
I sat… and sweated, although it wasn’t a particularly warm day and the office was quite cool.
After a few minutes, during which I managed to crumple and un-crumple the letter in my fist a few times, another person was guided into the room, and the pin-striped fellow disappeared just as before.
He paused slightly as he came in the door, looked at me with a confused expression, saw my letter, and then nodded slightly. “You have one too, I see?” he said.
He sat down in the other chair on my right, next to me. He was quiet for a few moments, and then said, reaching his hand over, “My name is Eric Lionel Fleming. E.L.F., for short. Good friends call me Madcap.”
I shook his hand. “I’m Max Jenkins.”
“Any idea what we are doing here?”
“Not much. Only what was in-“
“The letter,” he finished. He looked at his own, considerably in better shape than mine. He looked at me with a furrowed brow. “Well, I suppose someone will tell us something eventually,” he added in a desperate voice of cheerfulness.
We sat in silence for a few minutes more. Finally, the door behind the desk opened and two men in pin-striped suits (one of them may have been the man who led us in originally, but I wouldn’t venture to guess which) came in with a briefcase each. They stood at either side of the desk. Another man entered, all in white cotton. He wore robes and a white scarf on his head. His sunglasses were silver rimmed, shining a bit above his dark, evenly cut beard.
He sat behind the desk. After a brief moment of looking at each of us in turn, he said, “Well let’s proceed then, shall we?” His English was perfect. In fact… it was a bit too perfect considering the American accents I was accustomed to. It may have been a bit clipped, as though he had been taught in a completely formal way.
Each of the men in the suits placed their briefcases on the desk, opened them, and then in a strangely choreographed movement tossed us both a small rectangular object. Fleming caught his. My bounced off my shaking hands, and landed on the floor, forcing me to bend out of the chair and pick it up.
“Congratulations,” the main the white robes said. “You are now citizens of Qatar.”
I looked at the passport in my hands. The photo was mine, the name was mine, and even the signature was mine.
Fleming recovered first. “I’m sorry, did you say Qatar?”
“Yes. You two have been selected to aid us in a certain endeavor.”
I nearly tried to make a bolt for an exit, until I remembered that there wasn’t one.
The man in the robes turned his head slightly as though he knew what I was thinking, and continued, “You each have a certain skill set that will be useful to what we are trying to achieve. Before I say anything further, let me assure you that this venture is neither illegal nor particularly dangerous. It involves football, or soccer, as you call it here.”
“Football?” I said.
“Soccer?” said Fleming.
“Yes. Certain powerful individuals of my country believe that the time has come for us to have an international team that suits the lifestyle we are used to. A very good team, to be blunt. We have had a moderate level of success, but we desire to be better. We also desire a youthful squad, one that will improve with age, rather than a cobbled together group of players who were rejected by their own countries.”
He tapped the desk a few times with his fingers. Then continued, “Now, let me make this clear that we are not really here to negotiate.” At this the two men in suits pushed two manila envelopes across the table to each of us.
I slowly opened my own. Inside I found… well, without giving up too much detail… I found letters, bank statements, transcripts of phonecalls, and photographs. Far, far too many photographs. I blanched, and tried to find my voice. I had a vague awareness of Fleming trying to do the same.
The man continued, “Please, do not consider this a threat. Consider this an opportunity. Mr. Jenkins has a good deal of experience in scouting. Mr. Fleming has a good deal of experience in convincing people to do something that otherwise they might not have considered. When the door opens behind you, you will begin new lives, new careers, recruiting the best young players you can find to become citizens of Qatar, like yourselves. And should you have difficulty doing so,” he added, “you will have plenty of resources.”
The two men turned the briefcases to face us.
When confronted with a great deal of money, and I do mean a great, great deal of money, your sense of right and wrong is often tested to an extent that you never thought you would face. I tried to estimate how much I was being tested, but I all could do was think of how much money could be sitting there, in that room, on that desk, and I don’t think my mind can add that high.
“You will be taken care of, to be sure. You are both our men now. You report directly to me.” He paused for a moment, as if considering whether he should say what he wanted to say, “I wish to be clear on one point. We are not trying to buy international success. That… we could achieve and easily, without your help. We are trying to buy the beginning of international success; we want to earn the glory we find in the years to come.”
“Why us?” I managed to say. “I mean, why two Americans?”
He chuckled slightly. “As Americans, you have certain moral and financial flexibility. Your innovation and creativity… will be…” he chuckled again, “one might say, ‘expected.’”
He stood, the two men retrieved the manila envelopes, closed up the briefcases, and directed us to the door. (Now opened, I observed, by what had to be the original man. Or not.)
We were led to a waiting limousine. Fleming and I climbed into the back seat as the man in the robes stood on the curb. As the car started, he said, “Don’t worry about your past. It has been taken care of. You will hardly be missed,” he chuckled again, “in fact, one might say you will almost certainly be… forgotten.”
The car drove off.
After several minutes where both Fleming and I sat in stunned silence, he finally turned to me and said, “If you don’t mind me asking, what exactly did you do?”
I blushed and said, “I’d rather not talk about what was in that envelope if you don’t mind. I’d expect you’d rather not talk about your own.”
He looked embarrassed, “Oh. No, I actually meant ‘what did you do before’? What experience was he talking about that you have?”
I blinked. “Ah, I see. I was a talent agent… Acting, music, a few athletes here and there.” After a moment I added, “How about you? What experience did you have?”
“Oh,” said Fleming. “I imagine it must have had something to do with me being a lobbyist.”
For background info or to join in, you might want to go this thread.
08-10-2006, 08:19 PM
The Highly Recommended, Improving Influence of Cold Hard Cash. Post #2
Oh Lordy. Sheikh Yerbeardypants loves a bit of subterfuge, and is banging on the Qatari team bus door as it revs up in the garage. Strangely, the driver looks a little like Steve McLaren, but then, don't all coach drivers?
Looking forward to a sandy, oily, dusty ride
08-14-2006, 09:32 PM
The Highly Recommended, Improving Influence of Cold Hard Cash. Post #6
It was a jet. Can’t deny it. Won't try to. What sort, style, or make, I hadn’t a clue.
Private? I suppose that goes without saying.
Fleming and I boarded it in silence, contemplating… whatever personal matters, we happened to… need… to contemplate at that moment.
To say that the jet was surprisingly roomy, is like saying that the Grand Canyon is somewhat large. To say the jet was very lavish, would be like saying the crown jewels are a bit on the shiny side.
It was fascinating. Fleming turned to me, just inside the door to the jet, “Well, I guess we’ll travel in style, eh?” and then walked to the nearest seat, and plopped down, leant back and put his hands behind his head. He seemed to take to the idea.
I sat in the seat opposite, facing back towards the rear of the plane. It was only due to position that I managed to see two more pin-striped suit wearing (do you think they buy in bulk?) men board the plane with two medium-sized carry-on bags. They gave one to each of us, and one of them said, “Your resources” before they left the plane and the door closed.
I peeked inside the top compartment of the bag. “Well,” I said, “we won’t be in need of funds, at least.”
Fleming grinned and added with a wink, “or certain other resources, it seems,” closing his bag as he did so.
I considered that for a moment, but figured I’d let it pass.
“So,” I said, “What do you know about soccer?”
He blinked a few times. “The ball is round. The game last 90 minutes.”
“Well, that is one more thing than me then.”
We sat for a little while before the pilot, who was thankfully not wearing a pin-striped suit, though he probably did when he was off duty, came back and said in a far-too-pleasant tone, “Destination?”
I looked at Fleming. He looked at me. The ability of either one of us to make decisions at the time would maybe have gotten either one of us to the john.
“Pardon?” I tried.
“Would you care to state your destination?” said the pilot again.
Fleming and I exchanged glances again. He shrugged, “You’re the ‘scout’.” He said. I heard him pronounce the quotation marks.
The pilot turned to me and waited patiently. Like a statue. Stone-like. Marble. Marble statue.
“Greece.” I said.
08-15-2006, 12:32 AM
The Highly Recommended, Improving Influence of Cold Hard Cash. Post #7
The Greek man who was sitting on the bench at the unremarkable training ground was possibly the hairiest man I’ve ever seen. Bigfoot hairy. Sasquatch hairy. Robin Williams hairy.
It was distracting. The translator we’d hired was nodding his head knowingly, giving Fleming and I looks every once in a while, but not actually translating any of the patter for us.
The hairy man, still talking, was gesturing at some of the youngsters out on the soccer field… mainly shaking his head, and occasionally spitting. He would point at himself every once in a while and then grin broadly at the translator (who just kept nodding and giving Fleming and I a look like “there really isn’t anything useful here for me to tell you”).
Then suddenly the hairy man got real thoughtful. It was very amusing seeing this man in deep thought, like some wild bear suddenly thinking about all the good places to crap in the woods. He said something about “Georgey Snuffulupagous” or something like that and tapped his chin a couple of times…
The translator was suddenly interested. He rapidly asked a sequence of questions, somehow forcing the man to answer in short clear sentences. This went on for a good 5 minutes or more. It pays to have good help, or should I say - if you pay enough money you can get good help.
The translator shook the hairy man’s hand, and turned to us. “He says best player is not here. Plays for a team across town.”
Fleming grimaced and muttered to me, “How many times do we have to ask this guy not to shout?”
I shook my head. The jet plane had an excellent liquor selection. Odd that. I sympathized with him. So did my throbbing temples.
However badly we felt, we at least looked sharp. When we landed we found that not only did we have our <cough> “resource bags” but a new set up of luggage as well. Full, thankfully, with some clean clothes. We looked fairly spiffy in our new suits. (No pin-stripes. Basic blue for me and black for Fleming. White shirts with a European style collar flair.) We looked a bit like wealthy businessmen. Or Mafia men. Or out-of-work porn stars.
The translator walked us out of the training grounds back to our waiting limousine. He was positively giddy. “The man says Giorgos Papadimitriou is the best teenage player in town. Says he is quick, clever, scores goals, and has… I think you would say… a very swelled head.”
“Pompous?” I asked.
“Probably,” replied the translator.
“Greedy?” asked Fleming.
“Almost certainly,” said the translator grinning like a man who knows he’s going to get paid an obscenely large amount of money.
As we were leaving, the hairy man jumped out of his seat… well, rolled, at any rate, and starting shouting at us. Fleming and I turned to the translator and gave him a questioning look.
“He says we never said which club we were scouting for. He says he should know so he can tell his bosses.”
Fleming chuckled. “Tell him the Atlanta Braves,” he said.
The kid was there alright, on the field where the hairy man had directed us.
We watched him practice for a few minutes. He certainly seemed fast. He certainly seemed skilled. He certainly seemed willing to throw himself on the ground and scream like a girl if anybody came within 10 feet of him.
“I like him,” said Fleming. “What’s his name again?”
The Highly Recommended, Improving Influence of Cold Hard Cash. 
will be good this i can feel it
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