Writer’s Note:  To catch up on the full story, follow the links:  Chapters 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11.

Chapter Twelve

Balls was furiously typing into his phone when the dark brown object flashed across his eyes.

When Balls regained consciousness, he was strapped to a table made of metal that felt cold to his ass and balls.  He felt hands poking and probing him and imagined the worst.

He shook his head out of the nightmare and tried to assess what had happened.  He had listened to Goodell’s plan and was about to contact M when he had been knocked cold.  The hit felt similar so he assumed it had been that loathsome PK once more.  He probably had come back from ‘disposing’ of Richardson in the depths of Wembley and had found him eavesdropping on the meeting.  Suddenly, he heard a voice.

‘He’s coming to!  Get Mr. Goodell!’

Balls heard the shuffling of feet and a door close.  It opened shortly thereafter and Goodell addressed him, ‘Good morning, Mr. Balls, I see that you are yourself again.  I hope you prefer being here to being dead.  So as to save you the trouble of asking a lot of conventional questions, I will tell you where you are and what has happened to you.  I will then put to you a proposition to which I require an unequivocal reply.  Your answer will determine your fate.’

Balls slowly opened his eyes to see a large laser pointed directly at his testicles. ‘I’m all ears.’

‘Mr. Balls,’ Goodell’s voice was amiable. ‘Occasionally one comes across human material that can at least be put to the lower forms of use.  PK is an example of what I mean – simple, unrefined clay, capable of limited exploitation.  I observed in yourself a similar utility.  It happens that I am on the brink of a certain enterprise in which your services could be of a certain minimal assistance.  I am not sure how much you heard of it, but I am positive you did not get a chance to text about it to whoever this “M” person is.’

Damned PK!  Balls knew he would need to make sure he killed him as well as Goodell when the opportunity arose.

‘I sent a letter in your name to Universal Export.  You had been offered employment in Canada.  You were flying over to explore the prospects.  You would write further details.  A clumsy letter, but it will serve for the short period I require your services. (It won’t, thought Balls, unless you included in the text one of the innocent phrases that would tell M that the letter was authentic.  By now, the Service would know he was working under enemy control.  Wheels would be turning very fast indeed.)  And, in case you think you will be traced, let me tell you that I am no longer in the least interested about your true identity nor the strength and resources of your employers.  You have utterly disappeared.’

‘So what is this, and I’m disappointed that I do not have my arms free to do air quotes, enterprise that you speak of?’

Goodell went over a simplified version of his plan. He also explained how he was able to sneak Balls into Switzerland inside the red Rolls.  They were now in Zurich, atop the Rheinfelder Bierhaus and inside one of the old rooms of the abandoned and now permanently-closed Zic Zac Rock Hotel close to the Zurich rail station. Much construction was going on and the room had been made sound-proof, so screaming was pointless.

Once he finished, he flipped a switch and the laser powered up. ‘Now, Mr. Balls, will you assist me in this enterprise or would you prefer to have me blast your testicles with this laser and then, only if you ask me nicely, your brain so I can put you out of your misery?’

‘Sure’

***

Balls had worked intensely for two days on Goodell’s plan.  He was locked in this dreadful Bob Dylan-themed room with no access to the outside world.  The window had been boarded up and sound-proofed.  Food, water, paper, instructions, and a typewriter were brought in when he was asleep.  His task was to manage the logistics of the operation.   His work output was to be slipped under the door, reviewed, and sent back under the door with further instructions.  Balls figured he had to do it in order to 1) stay alive, and 2) buy time so as to formulate his own plan.

Today was Tuesday, D-1.  The ex-players with chronic traumatic encephalopathy had been flown in to Europe, four from each of the owners’ teams, with the promise of a fabulous vacation and the best healthcare Switzerland could provide.  The offer had been too enticing to pass up.  If all they needed to do was carry a couple of bags weighing a hundred pounds total to a house in the suburbs, the answer was an easy yes, no questions asked.

Goodell himself would lead the men, with Balls behind him and PK behind Balls with a revolver at the ready.  It would be tough, but not impossible, to foil the plan, but the timing had to be just right.  Balls decided it would be best to wait until the ex-players were busy loading the bags, the FIFA party was asleep, and it was only Goodell and PK to deal with.  The owners, as expected, were not involved in the actual operation, but waited patiently at the house in Erlenbach.

As Balls was rehearsing in his head the next day’s plan, a piece of paper was slipped under the door.  Balls unfolded it carefully.  To his surprise, the note did not contain new instructions.  It only contained a single image:

to be continued…