"Boss, how do you know there are so many things in Pepe's transfer?" Allen asked on the walk back to the hotel, curiosity bouncing in his stride like a kid who'd found a loose coin under the sofa.
Arthur smiled, the kind of smile that suggested he'd just won a private joke. "I guessed."
"Guessed?" Allen stopped and looked at him as if Arthur had just told him the moon was made of cheddar. "You guessed?"
"Yes." Arthur's grin widened. He tossed a casual look at Allen as if the answer were obvious. "A few months back, when I heard Real Madrid had signed that Portuguese defender, I dug into his record. It's funny — Porto bought him from Marítimo in 2004 for €2.3 million, and the down payment was only €900,000. Yet this year Real Madrid shelled out €30 million, even though the player was seriously injured in the latter half of last season. The numbers don't line up. If Calderón and Mijatović didn't make a tidy profit somewhere along the line, I don't believe it."
Allen blinked. "Wow." He ran a hand through his hair and tried to process it. "So you suspected someone was skimming? I mean, €2.3 million to €30 million — that's… a jump."
"It's not just a jump. It's a leap off a cliff into private islands." Arthur chuckled softly. He had that tone that made light of something like a man who'd watched a storm approach and was amused by the theatrics. "I thought about poking Mendes to see if he'd spill anything. I didn't expect him to be so gullible."
Allen's head tilted, curiosity sharpening. "Gullible? Mendes? But the man's slick. He's been flipping contracts like pancakes for years. How did you get one over on him?"
Arthur shrugged as if it were the easiest thing in the world. "It's not about slickness. It's about pressure and timing. You put someone in a corner and the glossy finish comes off. Mendes smelled pressure, and his hands started to sweat. People make mistakes when they sweat."
Before Allen could push that line of thought further, Simeone — who'd been traveling with them and listening more than speaking — cut in with a blunt, amused edge. "That's different," he said. "After all, our boss runs a black market shop." He grinned, the kind of grin that never quite reached his eyes. "Buying low and selling high? That's not corruption if you own the shop. It's just good business."
Arthur rolled his eyes at Simeone's joke, but he didn't bother to argue. The nickname — "black market boss" — had already been plastered across Europe as a kind of exotic, half-compliment that Arthur wore like armor. Let them call him that, he thought. If people believed he was a ruthless dealer, the first bids when he sold a talent would start higher. Perception was currency.
Allen wasn't finished, though. The earlier scene with Mendes had gnawed at him. "By the way," he said, more seriously now, "why did Mendes freak out like that? Even if there's something fishy about Pepe's transfer, it shouldn't… I mean, he just took a slightly bigger commission, right? Plenty of agents do that when the transfer fee is huge."
Simeone's laugh was quick and a little cruel. "You're reckless and young; you don't understand the depth of the pond." He glanced at Allen with a mockingly paternal expression. "If the boss is right, Mendes isn't just 'an agent who takes a larger cut.' He could be a central figure in a scheme. That's a different story."
Allen absorbed that, brows knitting. He looked between Arthur and Simeone, trying to follow the chess moves in their conversation. A few minutes earlier, Mendes had gone from polished professional to a man who wouldn't lift a cup of coffee until Arthur had done so first. It had been a complete collapse of composure in the space of one remark.
Arthur took the moment to lean forward, making sure Allen understood the stakes without sounding like he was trying to terrify anyone. "Listen," he said in a calm voice, "Mendes used to be the dominant agent in continental Europe. For a long time, he moved things no one questioned. But two years ago, a new player arrived on the scene — Raiola. With our help, Raiola shoved his way in and started taking bites out of Mendes' territory."
Allen's eyes widened. "Raiola? Really? He's the one causing the trouble?"
"Exactly." Arthur tapped his index finger against his knee for emphasis. "Raiola's got clients who are now global stars — and he's got appetite. Mendes isn't used to being challenged. Losing power makes men reckless. If Mendes is tied up in a dodgy transfer and the story comes out, he won't just lose a bit of face; the police will want a long talk. That kind of attention doesn't discriminate: whether you're the man extracting the commissions or the man signing the checks, everyone gets questioned."
Simeone nodded, folding his arms, like a man who loved the dramatic turn of the conversation. "Before, Mendes was the only major mover in the continental market. Then Raiola came, backed by our boss — and suddenly Mendes' comfortable monopoly got eaten by someone hungrier. If Mendes gets dragged into this scandal, Raiola could pick the bones from what's left."
Allen's face darkened as the implications sank in. He pictured Mendes, usually composed and quick with excuses, now pale and nervous — the kind of man who might start making bad choices to protect himself. "So Mendes is cornered, and Raiola is circling," Allen said slowly. "Mendes could be chewed up if the wrong people start asking questions."
"Correct." Arthur's tone was almost clinical, and that made the truth of it stand out sharper. "And that's why Mendes looked like a rabbit in headlights. You don't just lose leverage in this business — you lose places to hide. And when that happens, men who used to laugh at risk start sweating."
Simeone snorted, amused at the metaphor. "Raiola's like that fat lucky gambler who suddenly found a golden table. He's got more chips than most." He shook his head and spread his hands. "Look at his players now — each one a potential star. The market loves that kind of portfolio. Mendes used to be the one with the biggest stack. Now he's scrambling."
Allen's curiosity was insatiable. "But why go after Mendes specifically? If there's smoke around Pepe's transfer, why isn't everyone implicated? Aren't there other people involved?"
Arthur's eyes softened briefly with a hint of a smile — like a man who enjoyed lecturing but never with malice. "Because not everyone sits in the center of the web. Mendes does. He has the relationships at the right places — at Porto, in Madrid, in the corridors where the cheques are signed. That makes him an important piece. If someone drags a line from A to B to C and it passes through him, he's going to feel the tremors."
Simeone leaned in conspiratorially. "Plus, Mendes isn't as quick as he thinks he is. When you've been used to smooth sailing, you forget how to handle storms. Now there's a new current in the market. He's paddling hard just to keep from capsizing. That makes him careless — and people who are careless give away the threads you can pull."
Allen ran a hand over his mouth, turning the ideas over. "So if Mendes is a liability, Raiola benefits. But if Mendes goes down hard, won't people look further up the chain? Won't Calderón or Mijatović be in trouble too?"
Arthur shrugged. "Possible. But the higher you go, the more careful they are. Big men have big walls around them. Agents don't. Agents make mistakes. That's why they're useful to those who know how to use them."
Simeone laughed, then shook his head and said, half in admiration, "Raiola, that fat guy, is really lucky. After getting involved with the boss, he soared to the sky! Look at the players under his command now. Any one of them is either a future genius or a famous genius!"
Allen let out a low whistle. The two older men's banter mixed amusement and cold strategy in a way that made the whole mess look like a high-stakes play rather than chaotic gossip. For a moment he imagined the transfer market as a crowded casino floor, with Arthur calmly moving among the tables, nudging outcomes to his advantage.
He realized, with a certain prickling excitement, that he was witnessing a lesson in leverage: how a whisper here, a hint there, a well-placed nudge could tilt entire clubs' decisions. Mendes had been caught in the crosshairs, and Raiola — bolstered by Arthur — had the appetite to take advantage.
Simeone's remark hung in the air like a verdict: Raiola's rise wasn't luck alone; it was timing, opportunity, and the willingness to push into places others avoided.
Allen absorbed that thought, feeling simultaneously alarmed and oddly impressed by the architecture of influence laid out before him. The transfer market wasn't just about money; it was about who controlled the stories, the timings, and the small, dirty details that never made it to the papers.
*****
The three of them drifted back to the hotel like players after a long half—voices low, shoulders relaxing now that the immediate tussle was over. Simeone and Allen peeled off to their own errands without ceremony; Arthur waved them off with one hand and walked up the carpeted corridor alone, the kind of man who preferred short company when he was thinking.
Once back in his room, Arthur closed the door, let out a slow breath, and sank into a chair by the window. For a few minutes he simply stared at the city lights, letting the evening swallow the last of the adrenaline. The match — the crowd, the tactical chess he enjoyed more than most people enjoyed their holidays — hummed in his head like a satisfied engine. After a moment's cooling down he reached for his phone, thumbed his contacts and tapped through to a name he'd been waiting to hear from: Florentino.
The line picked up in a few rings. Florentino's voice came warm and unmistakably upbeat, as if the man had just seen something he liked out on the horizon. "Good afternoon! Arthur, it's so rare! I can actually take your call!"
Arthur's smile spread easily. He let a small joke out, a friendly prod to match Florentino's good mood. "Florentino, good afternoon! You sound like someone who's stumbled into a rather happy bit of news. What's got you so cheerful, hahahaha?"
There was a short chuckle on the other end. Florentino didn't bother with pretense — the old businessman loved progress, especially if it meant a thorn could be plucked from his side. He lowered his voice slightly, conspiratorial and pleased. "Thank you for that, Arthur. Since you alerted me, things have moved quickly. My people have found some leads."
Arthur's eyes lit up at the response; this was precisely the tone he wanted to hear. He had called for one reason: to find out whether Florentino had acted on the small shove Arthur had given him months earlier. If Florentino had moved, Arthur would prod. If not, Arthur would press. Simple, direct, surgical.
"Ah?" Arthur said, playing the congratulatory part with relish. "Then you have my congratulations!"
There was a soft, almost reluctant guard in Florentino's next words. "Thank you, but it's too early to celebrate. We've found situations — threads, if you like — but nothing conclusive yet. You know how the presidential term works at the club; if you can't topple a man in one decisive move, you can't always dismantle him during his term."
The caution in Florentino's voice was textbook: hopeful but careful not to promise a hanging until the noose was tied. Arthur had expected the hedging. He had expected the slow, methodical approach of a man used to playing political chess in a place where reputations were as valuable as trophies.
"But I am grateful to you. Your tip put us on the right path," Florentino added, and then turned the polite question back toward Arthur. "Enough about my problems. Why did you call? Do you need my help with anything?"
Arthur felt a grin tug at the corner of his mouth. The truth was he didn't need Florentino in the immediate, transactional sense — he had other levers — but their relationship could be useful in ways both obvious and quietly structural. He chose his next phrase with the sort of casual mischief he reserved for good friends who loved the danger of a scheme.
"Florentino, I don't need your help," Arthur said, letting the words hang for a beat before continuing. "On the contrary — I think you might need my help! Hahaha."
Florentino's intelligence showed immediately; a slight sharpening of tone told Arthur the man had picked up on the subtext. "You don't need my help? Do you have new information on the matter?"
Arthur didn't toy with suspense. He lowered his voice, padding each syllable like a man easing a heavy box into place. "Let me ask you first: have your people checked Real Madrid's transfers this summer?"
A pause on the line. Then, short and certain, Florentino answered: "Checked. I mentioned earlier that we haven't found anything conclusive, and that refers to this. You asked me previously to look into Calderón's personal expenditures, and we did. There are irregularities, there are things that look suspicious, but not enough to bring him down on that alone. If there were culpable irregularities in the transfers themselves, however… if the transactions were manipulated — that sort of evidence would be hard to ignore."
Arthur's pulse picked up, not from worry but from the satisfaction of a plan moving in the right direction. He pressed gently, "And what about Mijatović? Have you checked his involvement?"
Florentino's reply was immediate, but his tone carried the slight frustration of a man working against a slow clock. "Checked. No progress for the time being. We've got eyes on the transfers and on the people that touched them, but the paper trail is stubborn."
Hearing that, Arthur allowed a private, familiar smirk to surface — the kind of half-smile only he allowed himself when the pieces slid close to the places he'd arranged them to fall. Months ago he'd nudged Florentino: check the scouting trips, the slush funds, the personal accounts that didn't line up with public statements. It was the sort of information a man like Florentino knew how to use; a whisper in the ear of a well-placed ally could become a searchlight.
"You're lucky," Arthur said softly into the receiver, not hiding the satisfaction in his voice. The phrasing was part compliment, part measured gloat. He didn't need to explain how or why he had obtained the knowledge he had — the hint was more useful than a full confession.
Florentino's response carried a mixture of gratitude and anticipation. He respected not only results but also the method — the quiet, strategic hand that nudged events rather than shouting them into existence. Arthur had no intention of taking credit; he preferred leverage.
Arthur let the silence hang long enough for the man on the other end to feel it, then continued in a tone that mixed levity and business: "The purpose of my call is to help you move this matter forward quickly…"
*****
"Start with the player contracts! Check the transfers of Higuaín, Van Nistelrooy, and Pepe. I believe you will gain something!" Arthur said directly, leaning back slightly in his chair, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as if he had already solved the puzzle in his head. His eyes, sharp and calculating, scanned the room even though he knew Florentino was at the other end of the line, his voice carrying through the phone clearly.
On the other side, Florentino paused thoughtfully, a quiet hum in the background suggesting he was leaning back as well, considering each word. "Arthur, I've tried what you suggested, but it's difficult. The player contracts are almost all managed by Bucero, Mijatović's assistant. Getting direct access for my people… it's still tricky." There was a faint tension in his voice, a hint that even someone as experienced as him felt the weight of the obstacles Arthur laid before him.
Arthur's lips curved into a small, knowing smile. It wasn't a broad grin—it was a "I see everything" kind of expression, the sort that made people lean in and pay attention. "Then start from other channels," he said calmly, his voice carrying both reassurance and subtle authority, like a chess master nudging an opponent into seeing the next move.
"Other channels?" Florentino echoed, his curiosity piqued, as if Arthur's suggestion opened a doorway he hadn't noticed before.
"Yes," Arthur replied, letting the word stretch slightly, adding gravity. He could almost hear Florentino's mind ticking, searching for connections, thinking about possibilities. "Real Madrid has a secretary who joined just last year. Her father and mother both worked for the club. Perhaps she knows some of the secrets."
Florentino repeated the words slowly, as though tasting them, letting the information settle. "A secretary? Both parents worked for Real Madrid? That's… precise. Who are you talking about?"
Arthur's smile deepened just a touch, subtle but deliberate. He liked the effect his words had—the way they made Florentino pause, consider, weigh options. "Cristina," he said slowly, emphasizing the name as though it were a key unlocking a door.
Recognition sparked in Florentino's voice immediately. "Ah! I know. The daughter of the club director when Mendoza was president. I've seen her!" There was a flicker of interest, a momentary spark that suggested Florentino's mind was already connecting dots, calculating what Arthur's suggestion might yield.
"That's right," Arthur said, voice smooth, deliberate. "As far as I know, this lady is facing—or will soon face—some difficulties. If you can lend her a hand, Florentino, you might gain something unexpected."
Florentino fell silent for a heartbeat, processing the suggestion. His mind, trained for decades in the politics of football management, flicked through scenarios. He remembered the Champions League final they had watched together, remembered Arthur's advice from that day, and the subtle, almost imperceptible benefits he had already reaped. Yet he couldn't shake a flicker of surprise—how could Arthur, from England, know about Cristina, a low-profile staff member at Real Madrid?
Arthur broke the silence with a soft chuckle, warm and slightly teasing, yet still underlined with seriousness. "Florentino, you see… timing and observation can yield unexpected results."
Florentino's tone softened, a warm smile detectable even across the phone line. "Arthur, your methods… they never cease to amaze me. If what you're suggesting works, and you can get some key evidence from Cristina, I suspect we'll see significant changes at Real Madrid soon enough."
Arthur waved off the praise lightly with a small, dismissive hand gesture, even though Florentino couldn't see it. "Hahaha, don't be so formal. We are friends, Florentino. Friends help each other—that's all there is to it." His tone was playful, almost casual, but carried the weight of someone used to influence and results.
Florentino chuckled in return, warmth and amusement threading through his voice. "Of course. And speaking of help… last time, you asked me for a favor. I've not forgotten. You've done a great deal for me, Arthur. Now, it's my turn. How can I repay you?"
Arthur didn't hesitate. There was no dramatic pause—he was precise, efficient, and understood leverage perfectly. "Florentino, I am indeed in a little trouble. Perhaps you can help me—just a bit. Hahaha."
Florentino's voice brightened immediately, genuine eagerness now apparent. "No problem! Tell me! You said before, as long as it's not arms trafficking, I can help. Money, influence, connections—whatever can be solved reasonably, I'm at your disposal."
Arthur leaned closer to the receiver, lowering his voice slightly, turning the conversation into something conspiratorial, intimate, and electric all at once. "Cristiano. You know him, of course?"
There was a brief pause on the other end. Then, firm and deliberate: "Of course I know Cristiano! I may not be the chairman of Real Madrid now, but I follow football closely. Why? Are you… planning something?"
Arthur laughed softly, rich and clear, the humor laced with that familiar mischievous glint that could make even the most seasoned executive pause. "Florentino, Leeds United wants to bring in Cristiano. I may need your help with this deal."
The reaction was instantaneous, audible even through the phone. Florentino's breath hitched, the surprise subtle but unmistakable. "Uh… Arthur, I have to remind you—Cristiano is not a Real Madrid player. Even if I were chairman again, I… I'm not sure how I could assist. Do you need funds? Are you asking me to lend money?"
Arthur laughed again, this time a little louder, the sound carrying both amusement and a hint of cunning. "Hahaha, Florentino, don't forget—Leeds United is the top bidder this summer. Do you really think I'm short on money?"
Florentino's confusion deepened, audible in the slight catch of his voice. "Not short on money? Then… how exactly do you need me to help? Convince Ferguson? Come on, Arthur. That old stubborn man won't let Cristiano go to anyone!"
Arthur's grin sharpened, the light in his eyes that of a strategist who sees every piece on the board, every possible outcome. He leaned closer to the receiver, voice dropping to a slow, deliberate, conspiratorial whisper, each word measured. "It's very simple, Florentino. After you pry Calderón away, just cooperate with me… to act out a scene."