Chapter 194: Over the Line! Cornered! Tell Me—Which Bank on Earth Makes More Money Than I Do?
January 30, afternoon — Wembley Stadium, London.
Matchday 24 of the Premier League.
The Bayswater Chinese hosted Tottenham Hotspur at home.
Harry Redknapp's side lined up in a 4-4-2 formation with a double pivot in midfield.
The central midfield pairing? Tom Huddlestone—formerly of the Bayswater Chinese—and Wilson Palacios.
On the flanks were Niko Kranjčar and David Bentley.
In central defense, it was Michael Dawson partnered with Ledley King.
Tottenham had been in solid form lately, and much of that success was thanks to their center-back duo.
Especially Ledley King.
If not for injuries, his career would've reached far greater heights.
Up front, Redknapp went with the classic "one tall, one quick" combo—Peter Crouch and Jermain Defoe.
It was a very British setup: defend deep and counter hard.
Especially down the wings.
Compared to a well-organized and mostly healthy Spurs, Yang Cheng's Bayswater Chinese were riddled with injuries.
Gareth Bale, Luka Modrić, Thiago Silva—all out.
Not to mention Andy Carroll, who had been exiled from the squad by Yang Cheng.
The impact was significant.
In recent days, thanks to some intentional leaks, it was common knowledge in England—and even around the world—that Andy Carroll had made up his mind to force a move to Chelsea.
It had inevitably shaken the dressing room.
And yet, when the whistle blew, the Bayswater Chinese played their usual attacking football—aggressive and proactive.
Just one minute in, Walcott broke free up front and found himself one-on-one.
But the flag went up—offside.
Still, the burst of speed from the "Little Tiger" earned a wave of thunderous applause across Wembley.
Tottenham, for their part, weren't content to just sit back and take it.
The North Londoners focused their attacks around long balls to Crouch, building their offense around the towering Englishman.
Defoe's pace served as Spurs' secret weapon.
In the 10th minute, Crouch knocked down a long pass for Spurs' first shot of the match.
In the 21st, it was the same formula—Crouch flicked it on, Defoe burst into the box, but Matić made a critical sliding challenge to clear.
Spurs tried a quick corner to catch the Bayswater Chinese off guard.
But they hadn't counted on Kompany rushing up to intercept and starting a fast break.
He sent the ball out wide to Marcelo.
Marcelo quickly found Hazard down the left.
The Belgian surged into the box.
With Lewandowski making a near-post run, Hazard pulled the ball back sharply to the top of the box.
And there was Aaron Ramsey, arriving late and unmarked.
He struck it first time—low and hard toward the bottom-right corner.
Spurs keeper Gomes made a brilliant diving save, barely getting a hand to it.
But the ball spilled to the right side of the box.
Walcott raced in.
He faked a shot, tricking Michael Dawson into committing, pulled the ball back, and squared it across the box.
Lewandowski was there—dead center.
A calm tap-in.
Gomes hadn't even stood up yet when the ball flew past him.
Wembley erupted.
...
Up 1–0, the Bayswater Chinese kept up the pressure.
Tottenham stuck to their plan—hold the line, wait to counter.
In the 41st minute, Spurs had a throw-in on the right.
Huddlestone launched another long ball into the box.
Crouch climbed above Kompany and flicked it behind him.
Defoe darted forward, caught up to it near the right side of the box, and finished calmly, beating Neuer at the near post.
1–1.
Back to square one.
But before anyone could even digest the equalizer—before Sky Sports could finish the replay—the Bayswater Chinese struck again.
Right off the kickoff, Lewandowski passed directly to Hazard instead of playing it back.
The Belgian drove forward.
He tried to return it to Lewandowski, but Ledley King intercepted.
The ball bounced loose.
Ramsey arrived in full stride, picking it up and driving straight between Palacios and Huddlestone.
The Welshman tore down the left channel.
Lewandowski and the others dragged defenders wide, opening space for Ramsey to keep going.
At the edge of the box, he feinted to stop in front of Ledley King—then exploded forward again, bursting into the left side of the area.
King couldn't risk a challenge now.
Ramsey seized the moment and struck with his left.
A powerful drive—past Gomes again.
2–1!
That was the halftime score.
But when the second half began, the Bayswater Chinese resumed their onslaught.
In the 53rd minute, a sequence of one-touch passes in midfield pulled Spurs' defense out of shape.
Piszczek lofted a pass over the top into the right channel.
Walcott streaked past left-back Héctor and broke the offside trap.
Alone at the edge of the box, he carried the ball in and coolly slotted past the onrushing Gomes.
3–1!
Just six minutes later, another attack down the right.
Walcott dropped deep, held off Héctor, and slipped a pass through just before falling.
Piszczek sprinted into space, hit the byline, and delivered a low cross.
Lewandowski was perfectly positioned in the middle and finished clinically.
A brace for the Polish striker.
4–1!
But celebrations were cut short.
Walcott was down and not getting up.
He'd tangled with Héctor, and it looked like he'd picked up a knock.
Yang Cheng had no choice but to make his first substitution.
Di María came on for Walcott.
Just seven minutes after entering the pitch, Ramsey fed Di María a through ball, giving him a one-on-one chance.
But the Argentine had just come on, still rusty.
His shot went just wide of the post.
Late in the match, the Bayswater Chinese had a golden counterattack.
They outnumbered Spurs in the final third, but a miscommunication ruined it.
Lewandowski took a heavy touch, and Gomes pounced on the loose ball.
A missed hat trick.
In the end, the Bayswater Chinese defeated Tottenham 4–1 at home, thanks to Lewandowski's double.
...
"Judging by the situation, Walcott will definitely be out for a while."
As the final whistle blew, up in the Wembley stands sat Andy Carroll, watching the London derby alongside his agent, Mark Curtis.
The Bayswater Chinese had just thrashed Spurs 4–1 at home.
But what really pleased them was Walcott's injury.
In the dead of winter, injuries are never minor.
And with Walcott out, the Bayswater Chinese's attacking options were even more depleted.
"He got so much praise for letting Lambert leave. Now he's paying the price," Mark Curtis said with no small amount of irony.
Andy Carroll, however, remained silent, his face serious.
He was still young—he'd never experienced anything like this before.
But since both his parents and agent had signed off on it, he didn't have much to say. All he could do was go along with the plan.
"Think about it, Andy. How many strikers do the Bayswater Chinese have left?"
Before Carroll could answer, Mark Curtis answered himself.
"Gareth Bale is injured, now Walcott's down, Lambert's gone, and Harry Kane is only 16. Right now, they've only got Lewandowski."
"Di María's carrying a knock, Hazard is still green. How long do you think they can hold out like this?"
Injuries from the extreme weather weren't unique to the Bayswater Chinese.
All of the Premier League was under strain.
Spurs, for example, were missing Bassong and Robbie Keane due to injury.
"Trust me, Andy. Now's the time to leave. Go to Chelsea. You'll have better chances to grow, to thrive—even become a top star like Drogba. £90,000 a week!"
The salary a club is willing to offer says everything about how much they value a player.
Andy Carroll agreed—Chelsea wouldn't offer that kind of money without serious belief in him.
Meanwhile, his current wages at the Bayswater Chinese were pitiful by comparison.
Of course, when he'd first arrived from Newcastle, he was thrilled with the contract.
But stacked up against Chelsea's offer? There was no contest.
Sure, it had only been six months.
But Carroll wasn't the same player he was six months ago.
"Even if, worst case, the Chelsea deal falls through—think about it, Andy. With the situation at the Bayswater Chinese, we'd still have the upper hand to negotiate."
"A better salary. More playing time."
"I'm telling you, Andy, you're better than that Polish guy."
At the mention of Lewandowski, a flicker of cold fire flashed in Carroll's eyes.
He believed that too.
He didn't think he was worse than Lewandowski. So why did Yang Cheng trust the Pole so much more?
Why was it always his job to go up for headers and create chances for Lewandowski to finish?
He was the England international. A homegrown player.
And he was still beneath a Polish striker?
"Let's go. Yang Cheng's waiting for me," Curtis said.
Carroll said nothing.
He stood up and followed his agent out of Wembley.
He had no intention of going to Brent. He'd head back to his rented flat and wait for an update.
...
The Brent Training Centre wasn't far from Wembley—just four kilometers by car.
But with the match just finished, traffic was heavy.
Some fans, driving their own cars, were tailing the team bus to Brent, causing congestion.
Curtis and Carroll grabbed a bite to eat at Brent Cross before Curtis drove alone to the training center.
By then, darkness had fallen.
It was winter, after all—early nightfall.
But Brent was brightly lit as always.
Most people only saw the 90 minutes on the pitch, but behind the scenes, hundreds of staff were working tirelessly.
Curtis was used to this.
He told the gate security his name and appointment, then drove through to the ground-level car park.
The Bayswater Chinese had an underground parking lot—but only for players and staff.
He got out, walked in, and was immediately greeted by a club employee.
After confirming his identity and appointment, he was taken to a small, well-lit meeting room.
"Boss is still in a meeting. Please wait here."
Curtis didn't mind.
He'd barely sat down when his phone rang.
This line of work meant endless phone calls.
Players. Coaches. Reporters.
That's where all the info came from.
This time it was a journalist.
He had news.
The Bayswater Chinese had just signed a striker from Ligue 2 side Tours for £1.5 million.
A 23-year-old French forward named Olivier Giroud.
Curtis frowned the moment he heard the name.
Never heard of him.
"What's his background?" he asked, instinctively sensing a potential threat.
"Our paper looked into it. Top scorer in Ligue 2 this season. Best-performing player so far."
"He's never played for any national team, not even at youth level. Never played for a big club. In fact, no one had really heard of him before now."
Curtis relaxed.
A guy like that? No threat to Andy Carroll.
"£1.5 million, you're sure?"
"Absolutely. Tours are a small club. They bought Giroud in '08 for €150,000. They've just made ten times that. No doubt about it."
"And how's he rated?"
"We're still checking with French contacts, but even the major outlets don't know much. Just that he's tall—1.93m, left-footed, classic target man."
"Hmm." Curtis nodded.
If the reporters didn't know much, then the player likely wasn't anything special.
Or maybe it was just that small-club players didn't get attention.
Either way, it wasn't a threat.
"Alright. Got it. Thanks. I'll take you out for dinner next time."
He hung up, a smirk on his face.
So this is your move, Yang Cheng? he thought to himself.
Trying to pressure us with a bargain-bin signing?
If you wanted to intimidate us, at least go for someone real.
Suárez from Ajax. Agüero from Atlético. David Villa from Valencia.
That would've made us pause.
But this unknown nobody?
Yang Cheng might have a great reputation, but Curtis had learned at the feet of Sam Allardyce.
He didn't buy into any of the mystique about Yang Cheng's so-called eye for talent.
That was all PR nonsense.
In this game, only what's on the contract counts.
...
Yang Cheng was a punctual man.
He entered the meeting room right on time.
In fact, Curtis had only been waiting five minutes—just long enough to take a few more calls.
Chief Talent Officer Mike Rigg and assistant coach Brian Kidd entered with him.
Only one person was missing: Sporting Director Dan Ashworth.
That immediately made Mark Curtis think of the French striker.
Dan was probably still in France and hadn't made it back in time.
After all, it was already the evening of January 30.
There was only one day left before the transfer window closed.
Even for a no-name signing, the paperwork still had to be done, the formalities handled—it wasn't easy.
Curtis quickly pieced it together in his mind, but outwardly kept his cool, wearing the same smug expression.
In this transfer, he held the upper hand.
Whether the deal went through or not, he wouldn't lose.
Yang Cheng didn't seem fazed. After sitting down with Mike Rigg and Brian Kidd, he stared directly at Curtis.
He had to admit—he despised agents.
Especially ones like Mark Curtis: arrogant and clueless.
Then again, football was a big world—there was a place for every kind of fool.
Some people played the long game, others couldn't see past their nose.
"Mark, the reason we asked you here today is to talk about Andy Carroll," Mike Rigg began.
Curtis chuckled, "I know."
He smiled at Yang Cheng. "Mr. Yang, Andy and I both have deep respect for you and your club. We never intended things to get out of hand like this."
"But with the way fans have been attacking Andy, and the media showing no kindness, he's very hurt. He doesn't deserve this treatment."
"This conduct from your club has been... disappointing."
Rigg instantly bristled.
The agent who had manipulated his client into forcing a move was now playing the victim?
Typical.
"It has nothing to do with us. We don't know how the story leaked, and frankly, we don't care. What we do know is, we've never used our fans to target players," Rigg said firmly.
And it was true—the club hadn't leaked anything.
Of course, Curtis didn't believe it.
Rigg looked ready to say more, but Yang Cheng gently tapped the table.
Rigg stopped immediately.
Curtis could feel the tension in the room spike.
After all, Yang Cheng wasn't just a world-class coach—he was the owner of the Bayswater Chinese. His presence had weight.
"Mark, I haven't had much personal contact with you before," Yang Cheng said, casually.
Curtis thought he was trying to smooth things over and was about to respond—
But Yang Cheng didn't give him the chance.
"Let me be clear. We just played a match this afternoon. Our upcoming schedule is packed. My colleagues and I have very limited time. So I don't intend to waste a single extra minute on you or Andy Carroll."
The bluntness hit Curtis like a brick.
Wait—what?
"Andy Carroll wants a transfer, doesn't he?"
Curtis nodded mechanically, still trying to grasp the situation.
"Great. Then let's keep it simple. I'll name a price. You find a club willing to pay that price, take your player, and walk. From this day on, the Bayswater Chinese will never sign any player represented by you."
Yang Cheng's tone was final.
Curtis felt a chill in his gut.
He'd had confrontations with coaches, sporting directors, club presidents—but no one had ever said anything like that to his face.
Even if they hated him inside, they'd still smile on the surface.
This guy? He'd just drawn a line in blood.
"And don't bother with small talk. No guessing games either. I'll say it outright. Our asking price is £40 million."
"£40 million? Are you out of your mind?" Curtis shot up from his seat. "Why don't you go rob a bank instead?!"
Yang Cheng raised an eyebrow. "Why bother robbing a bank? This is more profitable. Six months ago, we paid £3 million. Now we're asking for £40 million. You tell me—what bank in the world gives that kind of return?"
Curtis was speechless.
He knew something was off, but he couldn't argue with that logic.
"If you think it's too high, tough. That's the price. Not a penny less."
Yang Cheng's voice was sharp and unyielding.
If he were just a manager or a club exec, Curtis wouldn't have taken it seriously.
But Yang Cheng was both head coach and owner.
What he said was law.
For the first time, Curtis realized he might have made a grave mistake.
Though he wasn't sure what, exactly.
"That's the first thing I wanted to tell you. When you have the money, you can come collect your player."
Curtis found himself unable to meet Yang Cheng's piercing gaze.
"The second thing is this: as of today, I'm officially notifying you, on behalf of the Bayswater Chinese, that Andy Carroll is being suspended internally for missing training without permission and violating club rules."
"In other words, as long as I remain coach and owner, he won't see a single minute of game time. If he skips training again, we'll fine him according to club policy."
"So my advice to you—tell him to show up. But don't expect to see him in the matchday squad."
Yang Cheng rose from his seat.
Mike Rigg and Brian Kidd stood with him.
Both looked fired up.
Damn, that felt good.
"You wanted to play games? Let's play. He's got four and a half years left on his contract. I've got all the time in the world."
"Three million pounds? I can afford to wait."
"That's all I came to say. Now get the hell out."
Without another word, Yang Cheng turned and walked out.
Rigg and Kidd followed him.
Curtis was left standing there, stunned, his legs trembling slightly.
For the first time, he realized he had seriously underestimated Yang Cheng—and the Bayswater Chinese.
Wasn't this the same club everyone said would sell any player for the right price?
Since when had they become so ruthless?
Then something dawned on Curtis—something terrifying.
His heart sank.
...
"No way. No way in hell. You've made such a mess, how do I go back now?"
In Andy Carroll's apartment, chaos had erupted after hearing Curtis's update—and the news that Olivier Giroud had officially signed for the Bayswater Chinese.
"Mark, I told you," Carroll said, panicked. "Yang Cheng is everything at that club. If he says I'm done, then I'm done. I'm only 20! If I don't get playing time, my career's over!"
He was starting to panic for real.
This was his future.
Even his family was in full-on crisis mode.
"Mark, you said this would be fine. Now look what's happened!" Carroll's father shouted.
Mark Curtis stood frozen, completely at a loss.
For the first time, he realized—
He had no idea what to do next.
"We never should've listened to him. Just six months after joining a new club, pulling something like this—what will other clubs think? A promising future, ruined for nothing."
Andy Carroll's mother was crying, clearly distraught.
His father glared at Mark Curtis. "Mark, get in touch with Chelsea right now. Find out what their position is. You promised us—they were going to sign Andy no matter what."
"Now that the Bayswater Chinese have named their price, it's your job to convince Chelsea."
His father's tone turned stern. "Andy is about to break into the national team. We can't afford a single mistake at a moment like this. I don't care how you do it—just get the deal done."
"If my son's future is ruined, you'll regret it. Good luck finding another player who'll trust you."
Curtis had already seen this coming back at the Brent Training Centre.
Did Yang Cheng suspend Andy Carroll purely as punishment?
No. It was also revenge—aimed squarely at him.
With things having escalated this far, the tabloids would be all over it by morning.
The Bayswater Chinese didn't need to leak anything. Inevitably, someone inside would whisper to the media. And when the story got out, how could Curtis possibly continue working in English football?
The only way to salvage his reputation?
Find a club willing to meet the asking price for Andy Carroll.
If he could do that, fine—he'd be hated, but at least respected. Still in business.
After all, in this industry, what agent didn't have a reputation?
But if he failed here, he'd be done.
Totally finished.
Curtis was so frustrated he wanted to slap himself.
How had he been so blinded by greed that he didn't take the Bayswater Chinese seriously?
And more importantly—he'd crossed a line.
He had underestimated his opponent.
And now he was at the edge of the cliff, with nowhere left to go.
Time was running out.
Andy Carroll's transfer had to be completed before the window closed.
...
When Ron Gourlay received Mark Curtis's call, he was at Stamford Bridge.
Chelsea had just played away at Burnley in a 5:30 PM kickoff.
Anelka and Terry had scored, sealing a 2–1 victory.
It was a massive relief for the whole club.
So Gourlay was in a good mood.
When Curtis asked to meet, Gourlay didn't refuse.
The two met shortly after in the CEO's office at Stamford Bridge.
Curtis selectively recounted his meeting with Yang Cheng, carefully omitting the harsher parts.
But when he got to the £40 million asking price, Gourlay slammed the desk.
"Has he gone mad? Forty million pounds?!"
He shook his head in disbelief. "Chelsea will never pay that for Andy Carroll. You do realize Ajax are only asking €30 million for Luis Suárez, right?"
"Atlético want about the same for Agüero."
"And you think we'll pay this much for Andy Carroll?"
Gourlay didn't say it out loud, but he was thinking: Are you out of your mind?
Curtis didn't dare mention that Yang Cheng had imposed a ban on Carroll—because he knew that would only make Chelsea back off completely.
Clubs often played political games when fighting over players.
When things went south, it was always the agent or the player who took the fall.
On the surface, clubs still maintained friendly relations—like when Real Madrid poached Figo from Barcelona. The agent took the heat.
Same when Chelsea took Ashley Cole—his agent bore the brunt of Arsenal's fury and was suspended.
Smart agents always knew where the lines were.
Curtis had crossed one.
He had underestimated both the Bayswater Chinese and Yang Cheng.
Now there was no turning back.
The only thing that mattered now was figuring out how to solve the problem.
Andy Carroll had to go to Chelsea.
But Gourlay was firm.
"There's no way we're paying that much. Do they think we're idiots who just throw money at anything?"
Curtis begged and pleaded, wearing his voice out, but Gourlay stood his ground.
"£25 million is the absolute max."
Nothing more.
£40 million?
"Tell Yang Cheng to go rob a bank."
Curtis nearly broke down.
He already did.
And Yang Cheng said even robbing a bank wouldn't be as profitable as selling Carroll.
"Mr. Gourlay, we really don't have time. Please, at least ask Mr. Abramovich—surely for him, £15 million more is pocket change."
Gourlay looked at Curtis like he was staring at a lunatic.
How had this guy survived in English football?
Yes, Abramovich was rich.
But rich didn't mean stupid.
"Mark, I don't know what you said to the Bayswater Chinese, but I can assure you—we will not meet their demands."
With that, Gourlay stood up, signaling that the meeting was over.
Now Curtis really panicked.
If Gourlay walked out of that room, and Carroll didn't join Chelsea before midnight on February 1, he was finished.
That thought sent Curtis into a frenzy.
Desperate, he slammed his hand on the desk, startling Gourlay.
"Fine! You want to play dirty? Don't blame me when I do the same!"
Gourlay's eyes narrowed. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"Oh, nothing. I'm just a small-time agent, constantly getting jerked around by big clubs like yours. But if you back me into a corner—don't expect me to go down alone."
"Are you threatening me?" Gourlay asked, voice cold.
"Not a threat," Curtis said, voice shaking with emotion. "Just a fact. If I'm out of options, I'll go straight to the Bayswater Chinese. Or the press. I'll tell them everything—the full story of Andy Carroll's transfer. Every detail."
"I'm sure they'd love to hear it."
"This job? I can walk away. I'll quit being an agent. But whatever fallout comes? Not my problem anymore."
"And last I checked, UEFA and FIFA have clear rules about illegal contact with players. And about encouraging a player to force a move."
Suspension from transfers.
How long depended on the severity.
If it blew up in the media, Chelsea would suffer.
In the hypercompetitive Premier League, being banned from transfers for a single summer and winter window could do real damage.
And that would be the lightest punishment.
If they dug deeper? Youth teams weren't off limits either.
And if the Bayswater Chinese decided to apply pressure of their own, Chelsea would be in even deeper trouble.
"What kind of evidence are you hiding?" Ron Gourlay asked, suddenly sounding like a guilty man.
If this blew up, as Chelsea's CEO, he'd be the first one the club would push forward as the scapegoat.
And once his reputation was ruined, not just football—any industry in Europe would become difficult for him.
"That's none of your business," Mark Curtis replied coldly. "Bottom line is, if Andy Carroll transfers to Chelsea before the window closes, all's well. If not…"
He didn't finish his sentence. He simply gave Gourlay a threatening glare and stormed out of the office.
Curtis didn't know where he'd found the courage.
In the freezing winter weather, with temperatures below zero, his back was drenched in sweat as he stepped out of Stamford Bridge.
Ron Gourlay stood frozen in place.
For all his savvy, he couldn't figure out what leverage Curtis might be holding.
Try as he might, he couldn't recall any one detail that could have given the agent a real advantage.
And now, he was filled with regret.
He should have brought a legal advisor.
With a lawyer present, he would've known exactly what was safe to say and do.
But in trying to keep the meeting secret, he'd skipped protocol.
Now he wasn't even sure if Curtis actually had anything on him.
If Curtis had no real evidence and just stirred up a media frenzy, the damage might be minimal.
After all, everyone knew Chelsea were interested in Carroll.
Privately contacting an agent wasn't unheard of.
The key was avoiding hard proof.
Chelsea had crossed lines like this plenty of times in the past.
Why had they paid such a hefty compensation to Manchester United for Mikel?
Why had Frank Arnesen's move from Spurs to Chelsea caused such a storm?
Why had the Ashley Cole transfer turned into a media circus?
Why was agent Jonathan Barnett banned?
Ron Gourlay knew all the answers.
It all came down to a lack of compliance awareness.
Now he didn't care about anything else.
He pulled out his phone and called Roman Abramovich.
...
Knightsbridge.
Abramovich set down the phone with a heavy sigh.
Just moments earlier, he had been in a good mood after Chelsea's narrow away win at Burnley.
But now?
He slammed his Nokia flagship phone onto the table, shattering the famously durable device.
"Useless idiots!" he shouted—rare, even for him.
£40 million for a player we signed for £3 million six months ago?!
If this leaked, the press and fans would laugh him out of football.
Was he made of money?
Sometimes Abramovich really did want to crack open the skulls of his executives to see if their brains were full of straw.
Peter Kenyon—he'd paid top dollar to poach him from Manchester United.
Kenyon had promised to grow Chelsea's revenues within three years, turn a profit within five.
What happened?
Profits, my ass!
The moment he stopped throwing money around, the team's performance tanked.
And internally? One disaster after another.
Kenyon had finally left.
Now Ron Gourlay had taken over—another moron.
And he'd gotten played by a no-name agent.
In European football, everyone knew what agents were—gloves for the clubs.
They were sent to do the dirty work.
If things went wrong, the club pulled out clean, the agent took the fall.
Just like when Chelsea signed Ashley Cole.
And now Ron Gourlay had been cornered—by Mark Curtis, of all people?
This little agent had the guts to threaten Chelsea?
Did he have a death wish?
If this were Russia, Abramovich thought, he'd have had him "handled" already.
But after cooling off, Abramovich had to face a harsh reality.
Do we pay up? Or take the risk?
He spent the entire night thinking it over, but couldn't come up with a satisfying solution.
The next morning, he summoned Pini Zahavi, Piet de Visser, and others to his yacht docked at Canary Wharf.
Also attending were Ron Gourlay and Marina Granovskaia.
As they boarded, they could see Abramovich's bloodshot eyes.
After Gourlay relayed Curtis's threat, Zahavi remained silent.
He had his own tensions with Curtis—Lewandowski was Zahavi's client.
Piet de Visser let out a deep sigh. "Ron and Marina crossed the line on this one."
That defined the situation.
Chelsea was not blameless.
"If I had to guess," Piet added, "Curtis was pressured by the Bayswater Chinese. He probably provoked Yang Cheng, got outplayed, and now he's desperate. Otherwise, he wouldn't dare this kind of stunt."
Everyone nodded. That explanation made sense.
"There are only two ways to solve this," Piet continued.
Abramovich leaned forward. "Go on."
"One, make peace with the Bayswater Chinese. We buy the player, negotiate the fee. We've worked with them before—we can talk it through."
This was common in European football.
Countless transfers every year were resolved like this.
"But if we go this route, we'll definitely be seen as the side that blinked first. It'll be clear we came asking."
Piet sighed.
"Two, we don't get involved. Let the agent handle everything. We pay the £40 million, quickly finalize the transfer before it blows up. Once the deal's done, the rest becomes irrelevant."
"At worst, people say we overpaid. We look foolish."
"But once the player signs, everything else is moot."
He glanced at Abramovich and the others.
"Whichever option we choose, this situation has made one thing clear: we need proper compliance procedures."
"I've heard the Bayswater Chinese take compliance very seriously. Their front office even has a dedicated legal department. Every club decision and negotiation is legally reviewed."
"Especially for transfers and recruitment."
This level of governance was standard in the corporate world.
But in European football?
It was still a frontier of cowboys.
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